#and at least one more. i think a dragonfly on the back of his neck?

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

More Doki Doki Battle Academy OP AU

even MOOROEEE of themmmmmahhhhhhh babyeyyy i even added some dialogues fir some extra flavourrrrr (kuma and bonney's gif there would be a sprite he would have in his dialogue scenes. i dont think it would be a gif like this, more like everytime you look back at him, bonney would be in a different spot)

Master Post for this AU

imagining the vinsmoke/strawhat beef going like this video

design stuffs and more lore:

preface: sorry this is so much writing and im not going to grammar check it cuz aint no body got time for that.

The world of this au is like pokemon with different gyms you can fight through and beat, there's a big league of pro fighters, and there are schools for teaching you to be a better fighter.

One of the schools is called the Germa 66 Private Battle Academy, it goes from grades 1-12 and its where the Vinsmoke siblings all went too (at least until sanji broke off from the family at some point) and its run by Judge Vinsmoke, their father.

i am thinking that the Vinsmoke kids would still be genetically modified and Kuma would be a cyborg in this too.

design stuffs:

Ichiji: i tried to make him as punk as he would feasably get away with living under his father's rule. Big "combat" boots, fingerless gloves, black undershirt. He likes his style and would probably go all out if he didnt have to conform to his school uniform, thus i put a little heart on his boots.

Niji: i also made him like his style. The rings on his fingers, his nikes shoes, his big headphones. Like a gamer who thinks this is what fashion is. I think he would love listening to music too so i put his heart on his headphones.

Yonji: big stakly guy. Hes a lot more hands-on than his brothers so i put lots of emphasis on that area. i put his heart on his hand wraps because i think he would really love fighting. I think that Yonji is most like his father in that enjoyment, but i think Judge wouldnt like how casual Yonji's style is.

Reiju: y2k queen. I love this design on her so much im so bummed that she would have already graduated from the academy and i cant put her in a Hit Me Baby One More Time-esque uniform outfit, shed fucking KILL THAT SHITTT. Anyway though, reiju's heart is subtle yet in plain view, the locket around her neck. i dont think she would let anyone look at the contents but i do think that absolutly it would be her mother on one side and her brothers on the other. She wouldnt like people looking at it because that would mean someone could see that her dad isnt in there and she would get it a lot of trouble with her father about it.

Power ranger fits: i made them full on power rangers. its what they deserve. Since reiju has a butterfly motif in canon, i thought it would be fun to also give her brothers a bug motif of their own. ichiji is a wasp, niji is a dragonfly, yonji is a stag beetle. If sanji stuck around, hed probably be a lady bug lol. Also the masks they wear, the eye window part, it’s like tear tracks coming out but in a way that doesnt look like thats what they are. But it’s meant to show how judge forcing his children to be these people is causing them pain.

thank you @zethsdumpster for being my Vinsmoke specialist and helping me come up with a lot of their design stuff!

Doflamingo: i tried to make him a Nasty Nasty man. Like if a used car salesman made it big. Like if Macklemore was MackleMORE. i love the idea that he likes to tan himself, but he doesnt take any of his clothes off to do so, so he just has the absolute craziest tan lines ever. i put his hearts on the gold chain around his neck, he loves his wealth but not much else. i love the idea of him having two very expensive watches on each wrist. there may be more watches up his sleeve too. i also gave him fluffy dice around his neck, like he's one of the cars that he's selling.

Rosinante: i couldnt get away much longer without putting the heart man into the heart 'game'. i couldve went off more with the hearts of his design but i didnt want him to become nearly as flashy as his brother. i wanted him to be understated and fade into the background when doflamingo is around. he is dead in this au btw sorry :/ this is his design when he passed, but doffy's design is present day him. anyway, Rosi's hearts are everywhere, its in the outline of his big huggable fluffy coat, its on his hat thats pulling him down, it would be on his shirt too if it wasnt covered by his coat in this image.

Bonney: SHEEES SO CUUTEEEE AAAAAAAA i love her. I based her design off of Avril Lavigne with her iconic necktie/tanktop/baggy pants looks. i tried to make her outfit look like she could feasibly fit in it when she ages herself up, especially her big ol shoes. the heart in her design is in her neck tie. The stereotypical visage of a dad is a man in a tie who goes to work, and she loves her dad, so her heart is in her dad tie.

Kuma: I didn't change much of him from his design in canon, but since bonney would be more in his life in this version, i wanted to give him more visual indicators of her being there. like the height chart on his leg, or the fuzzy hat she crocheted for him (she also made her own hat for herself). Also, the pattern on his shirt is one that looks like a paw, but if you took off that outer layer, if the pattern continued, the design would be a sun, and i just think that was really clever ehe ehe.

Hancock: Basically i tried to make her the baddest bitch in the universe. My program crashed like 3 times making her which is so funny. Procreate couldnt handle her. I based her design off of Medusa. at first i had her snake be made out of marble, but it eventually wound up at Obsidian. She has no visible hearts on her design and thats because it would be the scar on her back, which she tries to hide. i like the idea that this very visibly revealing outfit would be perfectly tailored and reinforced to never move a single inch to let anyone see what theyre not supposed to. I dont know how i would justify her being able to turn people into stone in this AU, so im just not going to make a decision on whether or not she can do that.

ive been working on these designs off and on ever since i made the first post on this au and im real happy i can finally put more out.

if you got to the end of this, thank you so much for reading~ i hope you enjoyed :)

[thezombieprostitute]

Dragonfly - Part 4

Summary: Steve has just about everything he could ever want in life. He's got you, a baby on the way, and a successful Family. No one would dare interfere with that. Right?

A/N: Reader is female, pregnant. No other descriptors used.

Warnings: Death threats, Implied violence, Pregnancy. Please let me know if I missed any!

Part 3 -- Part 5

Series Masterlist

Steve quietly approaches you as you're sitting on the couch, feet propped up, snacking on your favorite ice cream. You see him and smile, making him sigh, "how are you so damn gorgeous?"

You roll your eyes and chuckle. "So how was the meeting with Bucky? It felt pretty quick."

"That's because I may have figured something out," Steve hesitates. "I want you to know I'm already having everyone double check, triple check my idea but, I think I know who Dragonfly is."

That gets your attention. You set the ice cream to the side and sit up, gesturing for Steve to join you on the couch. He sits and pulls you into his lap.

"Do you remember the night we first met?"

"How could I forget?" you scoff. "Wait...what's his name? The guy who drugged Monica?"

"I think it's him."

"That would certainly explain why I was targeted."

"After he got caught, rumor has it Kent's men made an example of him. Left him permanently scarred and dropped to the bottom rung of the group. Used him as a courier. Serious cut to his income, among other things."

"And he got caught because of me," you whisper.

Steve nods. "And with Kent's estate in a kind of limbo, he can't afford to keep an eye on all of his underlings so Walker is taking advantage of the lack of oversight." You shudder at the thought of that man walking around freely and Steve holds you tight. "I promise I'll keep you and Jack safe. No matter the cost, you are my priority."

"Don't say that," you scold. "There is such a thing as too high a cost."

"Not for you and Jack," he asserts.

"I don't want to lose you," you argue. "I've made peace with the fact that your job is dangerous but this man isn't stable! Promise me you'll keep yourself safe as best you can! I know you don't always think before you act when I'm in trouble."

"Do you blame me? You're the best thing to ever happen to me. I'm allowed to go at least a little feral when it comes to protecting you."

"A little, maybe, but I need you to not rush into danger like a damn honey badger! We need you."

Steve deflates a little as he rubs your belly. You hate seeing his beautiful blue eyes so clouded but you're not backing down on this.

When he finally faces you he says, "I can't promise to not do anything stupid." You shrug and nod your acceptance of that. "But I promise I'll listen to the advice of others when it comes to getting this guy."

You hug your arms around his neck and bring him in for a kiss. "Thank you for that."

The next week is spent with focusing on the baby's arrival. It's coming up soon, just a few more weeks or so, and you're both relieved and scared.

It doesn't hurt that baby prep is also a good way to distract Steve. More than a few times Bucky and Sam have thanked you for keeping him busy so they can actually do their work and not have to worry about him personally following every lead. You're able to keep him distracted with setting up the nursery (he insists on painting and assembling everything himself) and with taking care of your physical needs. Ever since he learned how much it helps you to have him hold up your belly, alleviating a lot of the weight from your back, he's been willing to drop everything else to do it again.

For his part, Steve is also grateful for your distractions. Trying to keep his brain focused on all of the upcoming parties and meetings, your due date, security, not hunting down August himself, and more would likely leave him too frazzled to do anything. You help give him focus, directing his angry energy into productivity. He swears his admiration for you grows with each day.

He's in the middle of rearranging the nursery to your liking when Bucky knocks on the door frame, "we got the confirmation. August Walker is the guy behind the Dragonfly contract. Financials confirmed he'd wisely held onto his savings after his fall. Added to it hear and there. But then a huge chunk got spent. The amount is an exact match for the down payment on the contract."

"Do we know where he is?"

"Not yet," Bucky shakes his head. "But all soldiers have been notified that, unless he's in one of our legitimate businesses, he's shoot-on-sight. If he is in one of our legit shops, he's to be reported and either stalled or followed."

"Good call," you add. "Make sure Sam's side of things stays clean, doesn't get investigated."

"Exactly," Bucky gives you a thankful look. He knows Steve would prefer to just have the guy shot on sight. Having your backing will help temper Steve's response.

Steve grunts, "fine. Just make sure I'm kept informed of every sighting."

"Of course," he nods before heading out.

Stepping out of the rocking chair you go over and hold Steve from behind. "I'm proud of you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For not immediately storming out and burning down the city looking for him."

Steve grumbles, "only because you don't want me to."

"I can still be proud of you," you smile. "And I know you can feel little Jack moving around. He's proud of you, too."

That gets Steve to chuckle and you feel the tension in his body ease up a bit. He gently breaks your hold on him and turns around to embrace you.

"What more could I possibly ask for than my wife and child being proud of me?" he gently asks with a kiss.

Part 3 -- Part 5

Series Masterlist

Tags:

@alicedopey; @aryhyuuga; @cynic-spirit; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jamneuromain;

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @ktficworld; @leryg0; @rayofdawnworld; @rebekahdawkins;

@ronearoundblindly; @talesofadragon; @texmexdarling; @thiquefunlover63

[mrheymister]

Among the Wolves, Chapter 6: Thomas, Ask to See My Hands

<< Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 >>

"Forgiveness isn't foolish. That would be forgetting." (Read on Ao3)

Isaac knows, in theory, how to field dress a bear. He's taken apart dozens of rabbits and turkeys, even the odd deer here and there. He figured a bear would be much the same. 

It's not. Funny enough, it's much more grisly work. He huffs a quiet laugh at the thought from where he's stood holding one of the beast's heavy paws out of the way so his father can slice the skin from its abdomen.

“What's funny?” Arthur asks, glancing up from his work. 

“Nothin’” Isaac mumbles, “Just, grisly work is all. Get it? Because it's a bear?” 

Arthur snorts and shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up to suggest a smile.

“Sure,” he drawls without adding anything else. Already his gloveless hands are coated in blood. 

They work, or well, Arthur works while Isaac tries to help without getting in his way, quietly for a time. The sun beats down on them without mercy from the height of her clear blue dome. Even the birdsong has been somewhat subdued by the midday heat, and the slate-colored lake, with its dragonflies dancing around the tall green and brown reeds at its edge, is beginning to look very tempting.  

The old man, who had scampered off to collect the horses some time ago, reappears now, with a familiar black draft and an unfamiliar silvery gelding in tow. Isaac notes the absence of his horse with a raised brow, casting a quick glance around their surroundings.

“Where's Banshee?” He asks.

“That her name? Fitting,” The old man huffs. “She's up over in those trees. Won't have a thing to do with me, the nasty nag.”

Isaac can't help rolling his eyes before aiming them at said trees. It's just a copse, small but dense, situated on the other side of the water. Isaac can just discern the dark stripes of her legs through the russet trunks of the trees. With both his hands occupied, he can't raise his fingers to his mouth to whistle. He tries anyway, pinching his bottom lip between his teeth. The resulting sound is hoarse, unlikely to carry across the water. 

“Oh, so you do have her trained,” the old man comments dryly when the mustang fails to move. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hosea,” Arthur barks sharply, “help me turn this thing. Isaac, go get your horse.”

Isaac takes a moment to glare again at the old man, Hosea, before unceremoniously dropping the paw. It lands with a thump across its chest, narrowly missing Arthur, who was working at its neck. Arthur doesn't even flinch, just shifts his weight with a muttered curse to work around it as Isaac stomps off. 

Her outline becomes clearer through the trees as he approaches, and she raises her head to observe him when Isaac gets close enough for her to recognize.

“Here, girl,” he calls, feeling the old man's eyes on his back. Banshee snorts but doesn't move. 

“Banshee,” he tries again, reaching into his pocket for the last of his peppermints and holding it out in offering. “Come on.”

The mare seems to consider it for a moment before trudging out from the trees to take it. Isaac pats her head as she lips at his hand before turning to swing himself up into her saddle. As Isaac and Banshee meander back to where Arthur and Hosea are working over the bear, he catches snatches of their conversation, speaking as if he's still out of earshot.

“-saying, now is not a good time, not on top of everything else.” Hosea says.

“I know,” comes Arthur's tired reply. “Probably the worst time for it, but, look,” he pauses then, takes a breath to collect his thoughts. Isaac, unconsciously, pulls Banshee to a stop out of sight behind a big rock.

“He already knows about us. Whatever's in the paper at least, and he ain't rat–” 

“You don't know that,” Hosea hisses, cutting him off. “It ain't been but two days.”

“He won't–” Arthur tries to cut back in.

“How do you know?” Hosea keeps talking over him. “It's been years. He's hardly your boy anymore. Just think about this, please!”

“It's all I been thinkin’ about, Hosea!” Arthur snaps loudly. “You bein’ all hard ain't helpin’ no one right now. We'll figure it out, alright? Always do.”

It's only once they fall back into relative silence, Hosea with a dissatisfied grumble, that Isaac ushers Banshee out of hiding, clicking his tongue to announce his presence while schooling his face into something that hopefully won't betray his guilt over eavesdropping. 

The two men look up at him from where they're crouched over the carcass. Isaac sees they've gotten on just fine in his absence. The bear has mostly been relieved of its hide, its ribcage cracked open and cleaned out, lungs and other organs laid in a messy pile off to the side. Already, Isaac can see a couple of buzzards wheeling around in cloudless blue above them. He fights off the pout trying to play upon his features, albeit with little success. 

“Anythin’ I can help with?” he asks, cringing inwardly at the way his voice cracks to betray his age. 

Damn them, he thinks vehemently. I ain't just some kid!

The two men share a look, something unspoken passing between the two of them, before Hosea sighs and draws himself up.

“Reckon it's just the meat left,” he says. “You and Arthur can strip it without ruining it, yeah? And I'll pack it up.”

Isaac nods and dismounts, muttering a quiet plea for Banshee to stay put for all she'll listen. He crouches at Arthur's side by the carcass, drawing his knife and working the ribs free with little fanfare. Arthur shifts as if to help, and Isaac bats his hand away. 

“You've done this before,” Hosea notes as Isaac passes him the slab. The old man wraps it in a bolt of cloth and shoves it into a canvas sack he pulled from his horse. 

“Never a bear, but it's all the same, ain't it?” Isaac mutters as he works at prying the other set of ribs free. He almost cuts himself when his hands, slick with blood, slip on the bone he's gripping, but a larger set of hands, Arthur's, appear to hold it in place so Isaac can freely saw at the joint with both hands. 

“And where'd a boy like yourself learn to do this?” Hosea presses. “You seem awful young to be going after such big game on your own.”

Isaac grimaces as he pries the second slab loose. 

“I weren't goin’ after this thing, first of all, that's your fault,” he grunts as the bones come free, almost falling backward as they give with how hard he was pulling. Hosea takes them from him with a noncommittal hum, wrapping and stowing them away the same way he did the first. 

“What's it to you, anyway?” Isaac asks as he sets about cutting the flesh away from the bear's hind leg. “I can do it, so what else is there for you to know?”

“Just curious, is all,” Hosea huffs, “It's quite Impressive, quite. I must've been seventeen, eighteen when I took down my first bear, and you're what, twelve?”

“Fifteen, come the end of August, ” Isaac corrects without sparing him a glance. “And like I said, it was just luck.”

“Who taught you how to shoot?” Arthur asks suddenly, quietly from his side. “Hosea says you got him from the cliff? That's some ways.”

Isaac almost slices his hand open for how hard he startles, concentration broken at the incursion on his father's voice. He swallows hard and keeps his head down, refusing to look from the slab of meat he's working over. 

“I ain't learned from no one in particular,” he lies in a low voice. “Just, picked up a bit here, a bit there. I've been on my own a while. Had to eat somehow.”

He can't help the way his tone turns accusatory towards the end, and he doesn't look up to see the frown that settles deeper on Arthur's features, though he hears the disbelieving wheeze of Hosea’s derisive snort from where he's set across from him. 

“Not like it's any business of yours,” Isaac adds a little meanly, more towards Hosea than at Arthur. He hears the latter shift what must be uncomfortably beside him, for the man offers nothing in response. Only the soft sawing sound of his blade against flesh permeates the next few minutes. 

“I do think it's my business,” Arthur offers lowly once the rest of the meat is free and they're turning the bear to finish skinning it. “It should've been me that was teachin’ you these things.”

Now Isaac looks at him, cocks his head as he takes in the man's sullen expression. He seems genuinely put out, maybe even guilty.

“Oh yeah?” Isaac scoffs, all at once incensed. “Would that have come before or after the lessons on lyin’ and stealin'?” 

Arthur's expression twists then, his nose wrinkling up and his lips drawing back into a grimace before he turns and ducks his head to hide it. 

“Neither,” he grinds out in a gravelly voice. “Figure'd it'd've come somewhere between you learnin’ to ride a horse and watchin’ your damn mouth.”

“What's there to watch? I'm speakin’ the truth,” Isaac snips. “Besides, not like you'd've had the time to teach me much anyway. You was hardly around to begin with, and now I know it's because you was always runnin’ off to play outlaw or whatever with this feller,” He punctuates the jab with a jerk of his head in Hosea's direction. 

“I wasn't playin’ at nothin’ ‘sides keeping a roof over your heads!” Arthur bristles back as he tears the hide free, throwing it aside to draw himself up and tower over the boy. “Nice place like that, you think the rent was cheap?”

Isaac bites the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from saying something truly thoughtless, remembering the last time he let his temper rise unchecked. For all of Arthur's talk about ‘watching his mouth,’ Isaac's beginning to see where the line is with this man. So instead he sheaths his knife and shuts his eyes for a moment to breathe, balling his bloodied hands before loosening them across his lap.

“I think I’d've rather lived in a shack, if it meant you'd've stayed around. If it meant Momma would've never got shot,” he manages evenly, glancing up at length to meet his father's harsh glare. “But that ain't the way it played out. And seein’ the way it did play out, I think I'm within my rights to keep my business to myself.”

Arthur sputters, face twisting up into something even nastier than before. He shifts on his feet, but whatever reply he was about to beat back with is cut off by Hosea.

“You're ‘within your rights,’ are you?” The old man quotes with some humor. “Such fine words from someone so young! Not something you'd expect to hear from some delinquent urchin, I imagine. Wonder where it is you learned that…” He trails off thoughtfully, if a little expectantly. 

Isaac snaps his gaze over to him. His face is kind now, open and inviting where a few minutes ago he was closed off and ruminating. 

What's this geezer playing at? Isaac frowns at him, eyes narrowing.

“I ain't no ‘delinquent urchin,’” is all the reply he offers as he shifts to roll the bear's hide into a bundle that'll fit on Banshee’s back. He sets it aside and gets to his feet, spitting near the old man's feet before turning to make his way to the water. He hears Arthur and Hosea exchange words with each other in muttered voices pitched low, mindful for once of the boy within earshot, but whatever is said is short.

Isaac kneels at the lake's edge and dunks his arms in, wincing as it stings his knuckles. The water is just the wrong side of cold, enough to be biting still despite the time of year. He spends a quiet couple minutes scrubbing up his arms, watching in satisfaction as the blood and gore dissolve from his skin in rust colored rivulets that quickly dissipate in the larger blue body of water. He rinses the blade as well, shaking off the excess water before turning the point to carefully dig out the blackened grime out from under his nails.

Of course, this is the moment that Arthur and Hosea choose to join him, crouching close to him at the water's edge and swiping the water up their arms in a similar fashion. Isaac tenses, digs the knife a little too deep under his thumbnail and curses at the sudden flash of pain. Quickly, he dunks his hand back in the water, grateful now for the coolness that washes over the new injury. It's nothing too serious, thankfully, but Isaac imagines his thumb will be tender for the next day or so.

Arthur for his part says nothing, focused a little too intently on cleaning himself up. Isaac watches out of the corner of his eye as the man scratches harshly as his arms. They're covered in dark, dense hair, which, coated in coagulation as they are, has dried into a thick, tacky mat that resists removal. The water turns much darker for Arthur's ministrations than it did for Isaac, who scoffs in disgust at the sight before scooting away a bit to where the water is clear. He splashes his face and the back of his neck before cupping his hands and bringing them to his mouth for a drink, cool and crisp, then he sits back languidly to survey the scenery. 

A gentle breeze ripples across the lake, setting the reeds and wildflowers swaying. Dragonflies in greens and browns and golds flit about the water's surface, tempting the fish below to occasionally leap out after them, breaking the water into shimmering shards when they do. From the trees, Isaac hears the distinct call of a cardinal, and when he strains his eyes he can just catch a flash of red darting between the branches.

Arthur's draft and Hosea's silver gelding have taken to grazing side by side under the shade of a nearby Aspen. Two large, bloody sacks of bear meat sit nestled between the roots, tied up neatly and ready to be loaded on the horses. Banshee stands a little ways off, serving as a lookout. Her ears stay on a swivel but she seems calm and content besides.

Now that the men have cleared away from the carcass, the buzzards gliding above slowly descend on their massive wingspans to land lightly around the fallen beast, strutting about and calling to each other in shrill shrieks. The largest of them, black as a shining omen, digs its curved beak into the bear's eye socket. From there, the flock flies into a frenzy, tearing tendons and bickering over bones.

Arthur and Hosea finish washing up. They move towards clear water to fill their canteens, then go separate ways, Hosea towards the horses and Arthur towards the boy.

Isaac blinks lazily up at the sudden shade that comes from Arthur standing over him. The two regard each other for a moment, unsure, or at least unsure on Isaac's part. Isaac doesn't know what to make of him anymore, if he ever did in the first place. One moment they're hugging and crying and the next they're pissing each other off again. It's as confusing as it is annoying, especially since Isaac can hardly predict what turn his feelings will take regarding his father at any given moment. 

Yet when Arthur wordlessly leans down and offers a hand to help him up, Isaac finds it easy to take. Arthur hauls him to his feet effortlessly, though Isaac sways a bit once he's upright, feeling all at once exhausted.

“You alright?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” Isaac replies in a breath. “Just tired, is all. Slept rough last night.” As if rough can even begin to cover it. There's a dull pounding beginning at the base of his skull, beating in tandem with the rhythm of his heart. It's tolerable, for now, though Isaac knows it will only get worse until he finds some dirt to crawl onto for a rest. He knew he was pushing his luck coming all the way out here after the night he had, but he tells himself he didn't have a choice in the matter or anything that followed as he stretches his limbs over his head, trying to pull the heaviness from them.

Again, Arthur goes quiet for a time, eyes narrowing as they drag down his gangly body. 

“When'd you eat last?” he eventually asks.

Isaac cocks his head at him, suspicious. He's used to hearing these kinds of questions from Mrs. Florez before she lectures him on taking better care of himself. He's not sure why Arthur would notice.

“Some crackers this mornin’” he replies.

Arthur's eyes dart up towards the sky, as if checking where the sun is, before narrowing again on the boy. 

“That's all?” he asks tightly. “What about last night?”

“Some corned beef outta can, what's it to you?” Isaac snaps, already annoyed again.

Arthur doesn't rise to the barb. He just shakes his head, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Isaac's becoming familiar with the expression; he's seen it a few times now, usually in response to something Isaac's said or done. It looks tight, pained, even, though Isaac doesn't get why. He feels like he's missing something. He shifts his weight uneasily to his other foot.

Arthur shrugs, pulling at the strap on his shoulders to bring his bag around and rifling inside. 

“Here,” he says, producing a lump of waxy paper tied together by some twine. “Hosea says we're gonna need to ride hard if we want to get this meat back to town before it spoils.”

Curious, Isaac takes the bundle and unties it to reveal several strips of salted meat. 

Ah, now I get it, he thinks. It's pity, that expression on Arthur's Face. He feels sorry for him. 

Do I really seem so pathetic? Isaac eyes the offered food appraisingly even as shame and anger twist in his gut. Too little, too late, he wants to snarl. The man can keep his charity; Isaac's got a whole basket of bear meat just waiting for a spit, if that geezer Hosea doesn't try to con him out of it first. 

“What're you worryin’ about me for?” He gripes, moving to wrap the meat back up so he can hand it over.  “Better be fussin’ over that old coot over there. You sure he's up for the ride?”

And of course, his empty belly chooses that precise moment to let loose a long, gurgling rumble. He stares steadfastly at Arthur like he doesn't hear it, but he can feel the tips of his ears burning.

“Oh, don't you worry about him,” Arthur chuckles, stepping into his space. “Hosea's fine. He ain't half as fragile as he looks. You, on the other hand…”

His hands reach out to cover the packet held in Isaac's outstretched palms. He presses down, hard, pushing it back against Isaac's chest.

“Don't go gettin’ all proud on me now,” he chides. There's an edge to his voice again, hardly there, but there all the same. “Eat it. If you go breakin’ your neck fallin’ out the saddle, I'll never hear the end of it.”

His tone goes lighter at the end, close to teasing, but there's something dark swimming behind his eyes as they bear down on the boy. Isaac suddenly finds it hard to meet his gaze, so he looks away, studying some rocks on the ground, as he meekly shoves a strip between his teeth. It's overly salty but still somewhat soft in the middle. Spit floods his mouth, and for whatever dignity he has left, he bites back the satisfied hum that tries to claw its way up his throat, forcing himself to chew and swallow slowly before taking another piece.

“Good man,” Arthur claps him on the shoulder, sounding pleased. “Finish that and mount up. We'll see if that mustang is too much for you after all.”

With that he walks away, calling out for Hosea to see how he's getting on. Isaac keeps his eyes trained on the ground, listening as the sound of Arthur's footsteps fall further and further away before he starts shoving the meat into his mouth like an animal. His stomach only feels a little less hollow by the time it's all gone, and he crumples the paper wrapper into a ball to shove in his pocket as he kneels for another drink of water from the lake. He draws himself up, collects his forgotten rifle from the nearby ground, and goes to Banshee.

She whickers as he approaches, throwing her head up and down as if to nod in greeting. He sees that someone's already bundled the bear's hide up and tied it to the back of the saddle. He suspects it was Arthur, given Hosea's earlier comments about how nasty of a nag she is. Still, he can't help but feel slighted over Banshee allowing Arthur near, even if he knows it's childish. He climbs back up into the saddle, settling himself and taking the reins in hand while hoping for once that she minds him.

“All set, then?” Arthur calls, looking back at him as he mounts his draft. It takes some effort, Isaac notes. The thing is as tall and broad as a boulder. 

“I'm good to follow,” Isaac replies, shrugging his rifle from his shoulder to stash in it the saddle strap. He still doesn't rightly know exactly where he is.

“Follow Hosea, then,” Arthur says. “I'll take the rear.” 

Isaac turns his head to find the old man already mounted, the two heavy sacks of meat dangling from either side of his saddle. He clicks his tongue and lightly presses his legs into Banshee’s side. Dutifully, she steps forward, and Isaac steers her to fall into step behind the silver gelding. He has to fight to keep a smile off his face and play it cool, but he is equal parts thrilled and relieved at how quickly she takes his direction for once.

Hosea kicks his own horse off, turning towards the trail, and after a moment, Isaac hears the jangle of tack as Arthur gets his horse moving

They file out in a single line, and they don't talk as they pick their way slowly up the steepest part of the trail. Isaac's glad for it. The silence is good for keeping his focus on where Banshee’s stepping to avoid any loose rocks that would send them tumbling back down.

Once they level out a bit, though, Hosea turns and calls to Isaac.

“So,” he starts jovially. “Banshee, huh? How'd the nag end up with that name?”

Isaac blinks and considers the question. There'd been an older boy back at the school, Donovan Something or Other, who liked to scare the younger kids by telling ghost stories in that strange, lifting accent of his on moonless nights. The banshee story was always the most memorable to Isaac, mostly because he thought Donovan Something or Other’s wailing impressions of the creature was funny, but thinking on it now, he finds that he doesn't remember much else about it.

During his time with the Distanti, the coyotes would occasionally take to howling something up a storm at night, the racket they put up carrying clear across the plains to make it sound like there was much less distance between them than appeared. It had scared Isaac at first, since the shrieking howls reminded him of Donovan Something or Other’s broken attempts at keening, which seemed a lot less funny at that point. But when the other kids of the tribe laughed at his fearfulness and mocked him for days, he just felt silly. 

Taming a horse is a right of passage for the Distanti; Isaac had learned to ride from then quickly enough, but aside from Coyote Trails, most of the tribe kept him at a distance, never allowing him to forget for even a moment that he was an outsider. He’d thought, foolishly, that if he accomplished that task, which was usually only attempted by young men years older than him, he could finally earn their respect and acceptance. Now he wonders why they let him try at all. Maybe they'd hoped he'd get himself killed getting thrown from the horse, and they'd be relieved of the burden of caring for him. 

He's not proud of how he did it. He'd gotten the lasso around her neck and held tight, denying her air, until she collapsed from exhaustion, her sides heaving as he approached. Yet when he held her head and breathed into her nose the way he'd seen the others do, he felt a great many things. Triumphant, mostly, but for the first time in years, hopeful– excited, even, about what the next days would bring. They used to laugh at his fearfulness, so he conquered that fear, just as he conquered the task of taming a horse. It only seemed fitting, then, to name her as he did.

But presently, Isaac is just too tired to tell such a long-winded story, even with food in his belly. He doesn't think Hosea even cares all that much anyway; he's just making small talk. So Isaac just shrugs.

“I saw it in a book once,” he lies, “Thought it sounded fierce.”

“Oh, it's fierce alright,” Hosea laughs in his withered way. “You do know what a banshee is, don't you?”

“Uh, they're ghosts or somethin’, ain't they?” Isaac answers. “But they ain't real.”

“Omens of death, if Sean's ramblings are to be believed,” Hosea hums. “Not something I’d ever name anything after.”

Isaac frowns, bringing his free hand to pat Banshee’s neck. “I think it's even more fitting now, actually,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough to be heard. “The way my luck runs, I mean.”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Arthur pipes up from the back. “I would've figured the opposite, given how you're still breathin’. And now you've gone and got yourself a bear. I'd say you're alright.”

Isaac turns to throw a withering look over his shoulder.

“Sure, for now.” he says, and leaves it at that. 

The trio falls silent for a few minutes after that, until Arthur breaks the tentative quiet.

“Where'd you even get that horse, anyway? She seems half feral.”

“Probably because she is,” Isaac admits with a sigh. “I broke her last summer, down in Rio Bravo.”

“Naw,” Arthur snorts. Isaac doesn't need to turn to see his disbelief, it's colored all over that one word. 

“Scrawny thing like you?” He continues, laughing. “Reckon she must've liked you right off. Ain't no way she couldn't've just kicked you and been done with it.”

Isaac sits a little straighter, letting the insult roll off. “Maybe,” he concedes, “Might be she just likes fools named Morgan. How'd you even get the hide on her? She usually just bites most people.”

“Aw, she's just got a, what's the word?” Arthur trails off for a beat, pondering. “A rough exterior. She ain't all bad.”

“Hardly,” Hosea quips from up front. “I saw you sneaking her sugar lumps while the boy was still at the water. Thought you were trying to lose a finger.” 

Arthur scoffs at that, all mock offended. “Wasn't it you that told me the best way to someone's heart is through their stomach?” He yells. “Figured the same would go for horses.”

Isaac smiles fondly at that, stroking down her glossy mane. Up ahead, Hosea shifts in his saddle and raises a hand. They're mostly out of the foothills now, the trail opening up to a well-worn path. 

That's about all the warning Isaac gets. With a sharp cry, Hosea digs his feet in his horse's flank, and the silver steed surges forward, moving from a leisurely walk to a full-on gallop in only a handful of elegant strides. Isaac only has a moment to gape ahead all impressed before he remembers himself, then he too is shifting forward, gripping tightly with his legs as he urges Banshee onwards.

“Yah!” he hears from behind, and turns his head to catch sight of Arthur on his behemoth of a horse. For a moment it looks like he's falling behind, but the beast just needed a little extra time to get up to speed. It's a work horse, not bred for racing, but its longer strides quickly eat the earth below all the same. Soon enough, the pair are gaining ground, and all too quickly after that they are even with Isaac and Banshee.

“Hangin’ on, there?” Arthur calls with a challenge to his tone, grinning widely despite the split in his lip. 

Isaac flicks his eyes forward to where Hosea is widening a gap, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

“Didn't know we was racing!” He shouts back.

His legs were already tired from clinging to Banshee all the way out this morning. He can feel them starting to tremble now despite having had a chance to sit proper before setting her off, and he's not even pushing her hard. Wasn't planning on it, either, but as Arthur passes them, laughing like the crack of a whip, Isaac finds himself feeling bold. 

“Go, go!” He urges, refusing to be left behind.

As if feeling equally eager to rise to the challenge, Banshee snorts her assent and surges forward, rocking Isaac around on her back. He manages to stay on, just about, grimacing at first at the way he needs to constantly to shift to accommodate her gait, though it turns into a grin once they find their rhythm.

They launch past Arthur and his draft, though the man seems damned pleased about it. 

“Atta boy!” he cackles, though Isaac can't tell whether it's directed towards him or the draft horse, nor does he have the breath to turn around and find out, panting harder than the horse beneath him with the strain of staying on. 

They keep the pace for the next few miles, the world flying by in blurs of brown and green. Isaac's almost caught up to Hosea by the time the old man brings his horse back down to a trot. Isaac figures Banshee could probably go on a while longer, and it seems she wants to as well. She ignores Isaac's first pull on the reins, and he has to tug back hard before she listens, falling into step on Hosea’s right with a low neigh. Isaac for his part is grateful for the break, soaked in sweat and breathing hard as he nearly slumps back down into the saddle, swaying along with the much more gentle motions of the slower stride.

“Alright there?” Hosea asks, eyeing him critically. Infuriatingly enough, he looks like he's hardly broken a sweat, despite going the hardest of all of them. All Isaac can manage is a nod as he pushes his soaked hair out of his eyes. He wonders how he'll get on working tomorrow. No doubt his legs will be hurting something terrible.

“That was some riding, kid,” Arthur pulls up to Isaac's right then, still smiling, though it falls right off his face once he sees the boy. “Shit, are you good?”

“I'm fine,” Isaac snaps breathlessly. “Just, gimme a minute.”

“You don't look fine,” Arthur counters, brows drawing up in concern. “Hosea, slow up a little, Jesus.”

“We don't have the time,” Hosea says sharply, sparing Arthur a glance. “Gotta get this to Pearson so he can put it in the pot. The boy says he's fine, so he's fine. Let's keep moving.”

“Hold up,” Isaac squeaks. “Who said anything about a pot? I shot the thing, I'm eating it!”

“As if you could eat all of it,” Hosea says. “Besides, you've already got the pelt, as you so insisted. What are you even gonna do with it?”

“I'm gonna sell it, obviously!” Isaac sputters indignantly. “The meat too! Mister Ivory, the butcher back in town, we got an arrangement. I bring him this, he'll sell it all out of his stall, and in exchange he'll give me fresh meat every day for a while.”

He hopes so, at least. It's been a while since Isaac last spoke with the butcher, but he sees no reason why it wouldn't work out this time, as long as they make it back to town with some daylight left.

“Meat’s wasted on Pearson, anyway,” Arthur chimes in, leaning over on his horse to offer Isaac his canteen. “I'm sure he'll find a way to ruin it.”

Isaac barely hears Hosea's scoff over the sound of his own greedy gulping, though he minds himself well enough to leave some water for his father as he passes it back with a murmured thanks.

“It's food in our bellies, it doesn't need to taste good,” Hosea chides. “Besides, it's not even that bad, half the time. You're just picky, Arthur. Always was.” 

“Am not!” Arthur says petulantly, “You're the one tryin’a rob a kid.” 

“I'm doing no such thing, I'm helping,” Hosea insists. “I drew the bear out, got it into position for young Isaac here, which, by the way, should've been your job. Where the hell were you, anyway?”

Isaac perks up that, interested enough to set his agitation aside for the moment. This, he is curious to hear. Just from watching the two bickering, Isaac can tell Arthur and Hosea go way back. Isaac also has no doubt Hosea would've been torn to shreds had he not been where he was. If Arthur was supposedly such a reliable man, how was it he let Hosea go far enough away that it took several minutes to get to him once he heard the screaming?

Arthur shrinks in the saddle, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I wasn't payin’ attention,” he admits in a low rasp. “I told you this mornin’, my head wasn't on right. Barely slept all night. We should've just gone back to camp.”

“And I remember telling you this was the perfect way to take your mind off things, and I was right, wasn't I? Look how today turned out!” Hosea gloats, gesturing towards Isaac.

Isaac just looks between the two of them. Hosea, wearing a placid smile, and Arthur, looking all miserable, just glumly nods his head. 

“Tell you what,” Hosea says after a minute, once it becomes apparent Arthur has nothing else to say on the subject.“You want to sell that pelt? I'll give you twenty dollars for it right now.”

“Twenty!?” Isaac repeats in disbelief. “I could get forty for it easy!”

“Not from no one in Valentine, I'll tell you that much,” Hosea says. 

Isaac considers that. His plan was to take it to Mr. Worth, but he'd probably just turn around and sell it at a markup. Maybe Hosea's right. But Isaac's heard tell of a grizzled old Trapper up around Strawberry ways. Maybe he could make the trip out there his next day off, if he can manage to keep the pelt from getting swiped for that long, and that's a big if. The boy lets out a long suffering sigh.

“Thirty-five,” He offers reluctantly.

“Twenty-five,” comes the instant counter.

Isaac glares harshly at him, though he knows he must not look all that intimidating. 

“Thirty, and I let you keep one of those sacks. Final offer.”

Hosea cackles at that, and Isaac thinks he hears Arthur snort in amusement 

“Where'd you learn how to haggle, kid?” Hosea smiles gleefully. “Sure as hell didn't get that from your daddy. Fine, I'm feeling generous. Thirty dollars and a bag of meat.” 

He leans over and offers a weathered hand, which Isaac takes, gripping hard, meeting the old man's sharp brown eyes as he shakes once, twice, before letting go.

“Oh, to be young,” Hosea sighs wistfully, shaking out his hand.”When things like strong handshakes seemed so important. 

Isaac looks at him funny. Maybe he just got played, he doesn't know. Probably Hosea could run circles around him in terms of conning people, but then Isaac's always preferred honesty and directness to beating around the bush. What he does know is that he's content with what he's got. Thirty dollars will go a ways. He's already thinking about a new pair of boots and a bedroll to go with his dinner of grilled bear.

The acrid smell of cigarette smoke lazily drifts across his senses. He breathes in deep, savoring, and turns to find Arthur puffing on a cigarette in contemplative silence, the smoke curling around his face in silvery tendrils. As far back as Isaac can remember, he's always liked the scent. He doesn't know if Arthur prefers a particular brand, but the smell of whatever he's smoking now seems especially familiar, somehow. 

“Got your breath back, then?” Hosea asks, directing a knowing look towards him.

Isaac merely hums in reply.

“Alright. Once Arthur's done with his smoke, we need to pick up the pace again,” Hosea says. “Valentine's not far, maybe another hour or so.” 

Isaac bites back a groan, but it's a near thing. The last thing he wants is to give these men the impression that he's some weak, sniveling brat, but by god he is tired. The pounding in his head is only getting worse as the ride drags on, thundering right along with Banshee's steps. His legs are starting to feel like jelly, and his ass hurts from knocking around the saddle all day, though this he would never admit out loud. He doesn't think he has another few miles of galloping in him.

Yet he shifts said sore ass, moving back in the saddle in anticipation. It's not a question of what he has left in him. He simply must, lest he wants to get left behind, as he already has been too many times in his short life. He doesn't know what the future holds for him, what place the father he's found will have it in. Isaac suspects mostly it'll be more of how it was, with Arthur drifting in and out and Isaac left wondering and struggling. Half of him wants to save himself the trouble and cut loose completely, yet the other half, the one still holding onto a sense of childlike innocence and naivety, clings to an idea with foolish hope.

So his father still cares for him after all, at least a little. That much is clear. Maybe, just maybe, Isaac's finally found his people. Maybe Isaac can stay with Arthur and his ragtag group of lowlifes. Maybe he can overlook the killing and stealing so long as he doesn't have to be alone anymore, so long as he no longer has to wonder when he'll eat next, where he'll sleep, who'll be the next to take everything from him all over again. At the very least, it's a pretty thought.

He raises his head to the sky. The sun's already started her slow descent westward, though she still remains high for now. Isaac notes some dark clouds gathering to the south, towards where they are headed. He hopes whatever storm that may or may not come passes him by; sleeping in the mud is something he particularly loathes.

He feels some eyes on him and turns once again to see Arthur studying him, mouth working around the end of his cigarette. 

“How's about you ride with me, Isaac?” He asks steadily. “Banshee'll follow, won't she?”

Damn, do I really look to rough to keep riding?

Isaac shakes his head. “I ain't sure she'll follow.” 

“Then we'll tie her off,” Arthur's tone brooks no argument. With his mouth set in a line and his dim bluegreen eyes glaring coldly, Isaac sees the outlaw, the man the paper warned about. He figured most folks, at this point, would be scrambling to relieve themselves of their valuables under that stare. The only thing missing is a gun pointed at him. Isaac meets his gaze, holding his head high. Might be that Arthur can bully others to do his bidding with just a look and some gruff words, but Isaac refuses to be so easily cowed.

“Arthur, we don't have time for this,” Hosea warns, breaking the silent stand-off. 

“Banshee don't like being led like that, neither,” Isaac says. “I told you, I'm fine.”

And to prove it, he kicks her off without another word, lurching back before drawing his knees in to hang on. He hears an indignant yell from Arthur, and the call of Hosea getting his own horse to move, followed by the rumbling thud of hooves, but he doesn't look back, can't do much else but keep his head down and cling on, riding with all he has. 

His world becomes very narrow for a while. All he has the capacity to track is the movements of the horse beneath him, and the open road directly in front of him. He hasn't the energy for much else, as the screaming of his abused muscles drown out near everything else. It hurts, squeezing his calves against her side, pain like lightning lancing up his lower back and spine with each stride, but to let go is to go flying off, so he can hardly do anything else but grit his teeth and hold on.

He loses awareness of Arthur and Hosea, of time itself, though the sound of their horses, distant compared to pain protesting his senses, tells him they're still nearby. He thinks he can hear Arthur yelling at him, but he can't discern the words. 

It's Banshee, in the end, that stops for him. Maybe he finally pushed her too hard, or  Isaac wasn't sitting as well as he thought, or maybe he was handling the reins too roughly, but whatever it is, she's had enough. All at once she skids to a halt, in spite of the heels digging into her side to urge her onwards. She throws her head back with a loud winny, shifting dangerously towards her back legs like she wants to rear.

“Shit,” Isaac gasps, clinging to her neck. “Shit, no, Banshee, easy, easy, I'm sorry, it's alright.”

He can feel the dampness of the sweat foaming in her coat. Hell, he can smell it. Drool drips from her mouth as she works feverishly at her bit like she thinks she can spit it out. Isaac can see the whites of her eyes. She stamps her front leg and snorts, like she's still thinking about throwing him, before settling down only slightly. 

“I'm sorry,” he pants mindlessly, stroking her neck with a shaking arm while using the other to hold himself up, bracing himself against her shoulder. “You're right, I wasn't paying attention, I'm sorry. We're good, girl, it's alright.”

She starts a bit, shifting uneasily as the thunder of hoofbeats draws nearer. Arthur suddenly bursts from his periphery, wheeling around before tugging his shire so harshly to a stop that it rears, though he smoothly rides out the motion.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” he shouts as he dismounts. “You tryin’a prove something by gettin’ yourself and the horse killed!? Pay attention when I'm talkin’ to you, damn it!”

Isaac can offer nothing in reply, gasping like a dying fish the way he is. He hangs his head, sweat dripping from his dark brown hair as it falls around his face like a curtain. He regrets cutting it. Now it's no longer long enough to hide behind. 

He sees Hosea pull up now as hell, his horse's side heaving with exertion as it pants. The old man seems pale, with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and Isaac gets a moment to feel smug about it, foolish as it is. Hosea just watches them placidly.

“Get the hell off that horse,” Arthur spits, walking forward and grabbing hold of Banshee’s reins. The mare barely reacts. Isaac realizes with a pang that she's trembling.

”You' was ridin’ like shit,” he continues,  “I would've thrown you two miles back.”

“I'm fine–” Isaac tries.

“The fuck you are!” Arthur yells over him, even as he offers a hand to help Isaac down. Isaac cringes back on instinct, only realizing he's done so when Arthur's face falls, his anger fading into something more resigned, something closer to that pitying expression from earlier.

Isaac doesn't even have the energy to resent it, but for his pride, he smacks the offered hand away and swings himself off his horse, not bothering to try and smother the wince that hisses past his teeth. He must look so sad. He doesn't care anymore.

To make matters worse, he nearly falls flat on his face. As soon as he gets both feet on the ground, his shaking knees buckle, refusing to support his weight anymore. He throws out his arms to break his fall, even knowing that his arms would probably give out next, but Arthur's hand quickly snakes out to grab hold of his arm, keeping him up. Isaac keeps his gaze low.

“Hosea, can you handle the horse?” Arthur calls, sounding somewhat calmer, if not still annoyed. 

“Absolutely not,” The old man calls back. “I like having all ten of my fingers, thank you very much.”

Arthur groans. Isaac can imagine the way he's probably scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Sit,” Arthur commands sharply from somewhere above him. 

Slowly, as he can't manage much faster, Isaac manipulates his uncooperative legs back under him. He pulls his arm back, and Arthur lets him go, but Isaac doesn't feel like bothering with sitting. He flops backwards, laying his arms out on either side of his head. They're still in the middle of the road, he realizes dizzily as the dust tickles his nose. 

Again, Arthur sighs, and his shadow lands across Isaac's face as he leans over to peer down at him.

“That was real stupid, you know. Takin’ off like that.”

His voice is gentle for once. Isaac lazily drags his eyes away from the clouds to look at him, and in doing so is reminded again just how much they look alike, between that summer shade of blue peeking from beneath the rim of his hat to the familiar frown tugging at his features. 

“Maybe,” Isaac agrees once he's somewhat caught his breath. “Didn't want to slow you down, is all.” Didn't want you to leave me in the dust.

“See how well that's going,” Arthur grumbles. “If you needed so’more time, we would've taken more time. It is what it is.” 

Isaac scoffs at that.

“How long you been riding for?” Arthur asks, “I mean, when did you learn?”

“Sometime last year, give a few extra months.”

Arthur lowers himself to sit beside him on the ground, reaching into the pocket of his worn, tan jacket for another cigarette.

“Lemme guess, you taught yourself?”

“Something like that,” Isaac hums. “Ran with some Indians for a few months, but they liked to ride without a saddle, so it's different.”

“Indians, huh.” 

Arthur seems to accept that at face value. If he's surprised, he does a good job of not showing it. Isaac is grateful for it, not feeling up for the questions or the elaborating he was expecting once that part came out. 

Clearly, you need more practice,” Arthur grumbles. “Ridin’ hard like that, well, it's hard on you. Need to be strong for it.”

“You was the one racing me,” Isaac reminds him dully. 

“Yup. Clearly not the best idea I’ve had today. Forgot who I was dealing with.”

Isaac closes his eyes as the smell of smoke washes over him again. He wants to ask what that's supposed to mean, but then decides he doesn't want to hear it, as it's probably something to do with him being skinny again or whatever. Instead he simply listens to the inhale and exhale of Arthur's quiet smoking for a time before he hears the crunch of dirt as the man gets to his feet and steps away from him. He’s nearly dozed off when he hears Arthur call his name, and blinks his eyes open to find the man leaning over him again.

“Can you stand on your own yet, or do I gotta carry you?” Arthur asks.

There's nothing mocking or derisive to his tone, just a genuine concern, but the idea of being carried like a child is utterly mortifying. 

“I'll manage,” Isaac mutters as he pushes himself up. For a moment the world suddenly seems too bright, and he presses a hand to his temple as the headache crests over him before dulling down to something slightly more tolerable. Arthur helps him to his feet, and doesn't say anything when the boy continues to lean on him once he's upright. 

Isaac sees a rope tied to Banshee’s bridle, with about a dozen or so feet connecting it to the horn of Arthur's saddle. He frowns.

“It ain't that far back to town,” he protests, looking around and finding his surroundings familiar. Valentine is just at the bottom of the hill they're on.

“I don't care,” Arthur says flatly. “You’re with me. I don't wanna hear nothing else about it.” 

With that he starts dragging Isaac over towards his horse. Up close, Isaac doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to get on the thing, but he doesn't have long to ponder it long before Arthur is hefting him up, startling an embarrassed squeak from the boy as he tries to clamber on as quickly as possible.

Again, Arthur chooses to keep quiet out of consideration. With Isaac settled, he simply swings up behind him. Isaac scoots forward a bit, gripping the horn, as Arthur reaches around him to take the reins. 

“Where’re you staying?” Arthur asks once they get moving again, with Hosea in the lead and Banshee ambling behind.

“What, I ain't coming back with you?” Isaac answers, only half joking.

He gives up trying to keep his balance on the rocking draft horse, and lets himself lean back against the man behind him, eyes half closed. He feels an arm snake around his middle to help hold him in place, the point of Arthur's chin coming to rest atop his head. Isaac breathes a tired sigh.

“Didn't know that's what you wanted,” Arthur says quietly. 

“Depends on where you're at,” Isaac yawns. “I still want to keep my job at the stable, but if you're close by, why not? I've been living at the laborer camp. It's awful. Folk keep taking my things."

He hears Arthur suck in a breath at that. 

“What, those tents set up near the stable?” 

“Mhmm.”

“You ain't got nobody lookin’ out for you? You're not even fifteen.” 

Isaac shakes his head, feels Arthur's chin digging into his scalp. 

“Like I said, it's just me and Banshee. Mister Levi, the stable master, I guess you could say he looks out for me, sort of, and this lady at the camp is nice too, but I'm on my own, pretty much.” 

Arthur goes quiet. Isaac can feel his jaw working from where it's sat on top of his head.

“Listen, Isaac,” he says gently. “I would. I want to, but place we're staying, the people we run with…” he trails off, unsure.

“Well, you said you saw the paper,” he goes on in a rush. “We're wanted, all of us, and we've got plenty of folk after us. I don't want you caught up in all that. I think it's best for you to stay in town. I know it might not seem like the best, but you could be doin’ a lot worse.” 

Isaac was half expecting it, but it still hurts, somehow. He blinks furiously against the sudden burning in his eyes and nods.

“Could be doin’ a whole lot better, too,” he mutters. “And you? Will I see you again, or should I just go back to pretendin’ you're dead?”

“Isaac,” Arthur chides softly. 

He blows a long sigh. Isaac feels the arm around his middle tighten, just for a moment.

“We’re working on a way out of this,” he says vehemently, as if by believing in it hard enough he can force it to be true. “Dutch, our leader, sort of, he always sees us through. We just gotta figure out how to shake these Pinkertons and get back out west. Once we do that, I'll come back for you, I promise.”

Even as he hears them, the words ring hollow to Isaac. He swallows and nods, watching the buildings of Valentine slide into view.

“Sure,” he says tightly. 

He doesn't believe a word of it, but he's too tired and wrung out to press him further about it. For now, he plans on getting Banshee back to the stable, getting the bear meat to Mr. Ivory, and laying down for a long dirt nap. He'll wake up tomorrow and go to work and try to forget that today and the day before ever happened, even though he knows it's a useless endeavor.

Should've never gone and got my hopes up, he chastises himself. Even so, he still can't be bothered to pull away from Arthur to sit up straight, content to soak up the man's warmth in spite of the day’s dying heat for as long as he can.

Hosea turns onto the main road of Valentine just as the church bell begins to chime. Isaac squeezes his eyes shut against the noise, each banging gong feeling like an iron ball knocking around in his head. They echo oddly, too warped to count by his distorted perception. Arthur follows, nudging his horse just a little faster to close the gap between them. 

“Mister Ivory’s stall is at the end of the road, just behind the hotel,” Isaac directs. 

“Are you even sure he's gonna be out today? It's Sunday,” Hosea asks skeptically.

“Sure. He does his best business on Sundays. People like to eat good after church, or something like that.”

They turn the corner, and sure enough, there's a tanned, dark haired man hawking meats from his little wooden booth, though his voice, low as it is, is impossible for Isaac to pick out with any clarity among the chaotic soup of noise that is the town's general atmosphere.

“Hullo, Mister Ivory,” Isaac greets once the butcher finishes helping a woman standing ahead of them. 

Mr. Ivory looks up, and squints at the pair of strangers before recognizing Isaac. Once he does, his bearded face breaks into a smile.

“Ah, Isaac!” He greets him enthusiastically. “I was wondering what you've been up to. I hardly ever see you outside the stables anymore. Are you alright? You don't look well.”

Isaac fights the urge to roll his eyes and forces himself to sit up straight. Arthur's arm drops from around him easily enough. 

“Just a rough couple of days, you know how it is,” Isaac says.

“Certainly,” the butcher replies sagely. “And who are your friends?”

Hosea and Arthur look at each other for a moment, and Isaac rushes to get a word in before the geezer starts spinning some lies Issac doesn't feel like having to keep track of.

“Just some fellas I ran into this morning,” Isaac says easily. “They were trying to get themselves eaten by a bear. I've got something for you.”

He shifts as though to dismount, only to be stopped by Arthur's thick arm barring across his chest. Isaac turns around to aim an annoyed look at him, but Arthur just shakes his head and looks away.

“Hosea,” he barks.

The old man swears under his breath but dismounts his horse, relieving one of the sacks from his saddle before plopping it unceremoniously on the butcher's counter.

“The boy tells me you've got an arrangement,” Hosea says. “You'll keep him fed for the next couple days?”

Mr. Ivory peers into the sack, sniffing the contents.

“You bagged the bear?” he asks, disbelieving. “When?”

“Yup,” Isaac affirms, but he's too tired to inject his earlier pride into the word, so all it sounds is flat. “A little bit after noon. Should be fine.”

Mr. Ivory whistles. 

“Kid's a hell of a shot,” he tells Hosea. “Couldn't believe it was him doing the hunting when he first started showing up with does. Clean shot, lungs or head, everytime. You're lucky you ran into each other."

“He's the lucky one, as he keeps saying,” Hosea sniffs, “But it was quiet impressive. Took it out from, God, had to be over fifty yards.”

Isaac allows himself a small smile at that. He may not like Hosea all that much, but he's always happy to be praised.

Mr. Ivory takes the sack in hand, feeling the weight of it and nodding, apparently pleased. 

“What about the other one?” He asks, spying the sack that's still hanging from Hosea's horse.

“Ah, well see, since I so helpfully baited the bear out of hiding, Isaac agreed to let me take half the kill.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Ivory asks skeptically, looking back to Isaac.

Isaac just shrugs. 

“Sure. He wouldn't let it go.”

Mr. Ivory mirrors his shrug. “Well, it's late in the day. Most folk’ve already come for their dinner, but I think I can get some of this on ice for tomorrow, probably salt the rest. Reckon we'll be good for a couple weeks.”

A couple weeks? Isaac blinks. That sure is generous.

But, gift horses and all. Isaac smiles, brighter this time.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Pleasure's mine,” says Mr. Ivory happily. “You should go out more. Mr. Levi is wasting you keeping you in the stables.”

“Maybe, but I like it well enough,” Isaac says.

Mr. Ivory chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Well, I guess that's what's important. You take care of yourself, Isaac.”

“You do the same.” Isaac replies, and then Arthur is turning them towards the stables. 

“I'm gonna head back,” Hosea says, following them for now. “Here, Arthur, take this. Make sure you remember to bring back that pelt. I think the bastard that tried to eat me should make a fine rug."

Hosea leans over on his horse to pass a small stack of bills over. Arthur gives it a cursory glance before pressing it into Isaac's hands.

“Will do,” he says.

With that, Hosea turns his horse as if to leave, but he hesitates before trotting off, spending a long moment just staring at the pelt before his eyes come up to meet Isaac's.

“Thank you again,” he says sincerely. “You really did save my life. I hope things work out for you.”

His eyes shift from Isaac to Arthur as he speaks, but then he's spurring his horse forward before either of them can reply. 

Isaac would watch him go, if only to see what general direction they're holed up, but he's too busy staring at the cash. He can't remember having ever held so much. He counts it twice, just because he can, and shoves it into the pocket of his shirt.

“Mr. Levi should be in today, too,” Isaac murmurs, “He said he was gonna wait around in case you still wanted to buy a horse.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it,” Arthur says as they meander over towards the stables. “But I dunno. This one's kind of growin’ on me, big as he is.”

“Have you had him long?” Isaac asks, feeling around the horse’s mane.

“Since yesterday,” Arthur says. “Hosea stole him, though he insists the other feller tried to rob him first. Thought we may as well sell him.

“Of course,” Isaac sighs.

The double doors of the stables are closed when they approach, though Isaac knows Mr. Levi will most likely be sorting through pedigrees or whatever he does at his desk.

“Wait here,” he tells Arthur. 

Arthur tries to hold him in place again when Isaac moves to get off the horse, but lets him go when Isaac starts squirming. Isaac slides down the shire’s side, finding his legs are steady beneath him now, if not still overly sore, but he'll take what he can get. He turns around and spreads his arms in a see? I'm fine gesture that Arthur just frowns at, before turning and trudging towards the door.

The door opens quickly after Isaac knocks, Mr. Levi’s worn face appearing in the way.

“Long day?” he asks in greeting, and Isaac is starting to get real tired of people politely telling him how shitty he looks.

“No longer than usual,” Isaac says gruffly. “Can you let me in? Need to put Banshee up.”

Mr. Levi nods and disappears behind the door. Isaac turns back to find Arthur has already detached Banshee’s lead from his horse and is working on moving the bear's pelt over as well. Banshee just stands there, uncharacteristically still.

That eager to get rid of me, huh? 

He leans against a post, more than happy to watch for once, until he hears the barn doors clatter open. He pushes himself up, walking over to take hold of Banshee’s reins once Arthur's got the pelt off. The mare seems utterly placid. Either Arthur is better with horses than he lets on, or Banshee’s nearly wore out as Isaac is. Perhaps it's a little of both.

“Alright then,” Isaac says, standing in front of Arthur. “Guess I'll see you whenever I see you.” 

Isaac supposes he expected saying goodbye to be harder, but it's about as easy as waving anyone else off. Could be he's just too exhausted to care. Maybe he'll feel more cut up about it after a bit of rest.

Arthur's eyes dart from the open barn to the nearby tents he sees on the other side of the building before settling on Isaac again.

“Naw, I'll see you home,” he decides. “It ain't far. I'll wait out here.” 

“Whatever, suit yourself,” Isaac mumbles as he turns, leading Banshee inside. 

Mr. Levi is standing just beyond the barn doors, watching them, though Isaac doesn't notice him until he's properly inside. The Stablemaster gives him a strange look. The other horses nicker and whicker in greeting as Isaac walks Banshee down the aisle towards her stall 

“That's the feller from yesterday,” Mr. Levi notes.

Isaac simply nods. Not like he could be mistaken for anyone else, walking around with that shiner.

“Thought you wanted nothing to do with him,” Mr. Levi presses, sounding sour.

“Yeah, well,” Isaac shrugs. “Ran into him while I was out huntin’ this mornin’. Talked some more about it.”

“And?”

Isaac sighs, raises his head to stare at the wooden beams on the ceiling, and counts to ten. He might get away with mouthing off to outlaws, but he knows better than to try Mr. Levi’s patience, vast as it seems to be.

“And nothing,” he says at last. “Probably won't be seein’ him again.”

“Here's hoping,” Mr. Levi mutters under his breath. “I'm sorry, kid. Some fathers don't deserve their sons.”

“Some sons are better off as orphans, I reckon,” Isaac says flatly as he begins taking Banshee’s tack off.

“Now what are you saying that for?” Mr. Levi asks, taken aback.

Isaac remembers their conversation yesterday. Mr. Levi’s subtle suggestion that he'd groom Isaac to take over the place, whatever that entails, should Isaac be willing. It didn't make much sense, at the time, nor did Isaac want to spend much time thinking about it, but it comes back to him now.

Mr. Levi is a father who outlived his son. Isaac is a scrap of a boy with a father only in name. He knows that Mr. Levi likes attending the Sunday Service. Maybe, just like Mr. and Mrs. Tempest, Mr. Levi is figuring God brought them together, for whatever reason.

Isaac shakes his head of the thought, setting Banshee’s saddle on a nearby rack. He'll bring it back up to the loft tomorrow. The rifle, too. He leans it against the back wall for now.

He walks Banshee into her stall, removing his bridle and hanging it on a nearby hook before turning back to pet her. She dunks her head into a bucket of water and drinks. 

Banshee, the omen of death, Hosea had called her. Isaac's thoughts veer back towards the Tempests, towards his own mother. It's silly to think that they died because Isaac was in their lives, he knows. But still. He's a boy of fourteen who has already seen more than his fair share of death. He can't help but think, for however ridiculous it is, that Mr. Levi should really avoid getting too close if he wants to see his retirement after all. He's perfectly fine with the way things are.

He also thinks about how he really needs to brush Banshee down after running her as hard as he did, but that too will have to wait until tomorrow.

“Isaac?” Mr. Levi calls expectantly 

Ah, that's right. Mr. Levi asked him a question, but Isaac's already forgotten.

“It's nothin,” he says quickly as he steps out of the stall. “I'm just tired, ain't thinkin’ clear.” 

“Did that man do something to you?” Mr. Levi asks, suddenly all stern and serious.

“What? No!”  Isaac rushes to answer. “No, I pushed myself too hard on the ride back, I'm fine. Just need to sleep it off, is all. I'm good to work tomorrow, I promise.” 

Mr. Levi looks him up and down, one hand playing thoughtfully with his mustache. 

“If you say so,” he says at length. “But remember what I told you yesterday. I'm here for you, if you need anything. I'll see you tomorrow.”

What I need is an extra couple dollars a week and for you to mind your business.

“See you tomorrow,” Isaac says lightly, and quickly ducks back out into the street.

Arthur is waiting for him as promised, leaning against a post by the forge, his horse hitched to the post outside the hotel. Isaac looks at him, then simply turns around and starts heading for the tents. Arthur has to jog a little to catch him.

“Everythin’ alright?” 

“Yup.”

“You sure? You seem mad.” 

“Just a bit.” 

There, at the far edge of the camp, is Isaac's scrap of canvas. He's never been overly fond of it before, but as his weariness and headache crash into him with renewed force at the sight, he can't think of a place he'd rather be.

Without any fanfare, he drops to his knees and crawls under the scrap to curl up in the indent his body's worn into the dirt over the weeks, not even bothering to kick off his boots. His raggedy, smelly old shirt is still there. Must be too foul for anyone to want to take. He shoves it beneath his head and snuggles into it.

“So, this is home,” he yawns, looking back up to him. “Sorry I can't give you a tour.” 

Arthur stands rooted to the spot, mouth partly slightly in what, horror, revulsion? He takes in the moth-eaten canvas sheet, the small stack of cans, the crusty, tattered pair of socks, the sheets of paper with the stub of a pencil tossed across the top, and there he goes making that face again, setting his mouth in a straight line. Isaac watches him bite the inside of his cheek. 

“Right,” Arthur says faintly.

Hey, you the one said it ain't that bad, Isaac pouts silently.

And then Arthur is turning to take in the rest of the place, the other scraps of tents, the other strange men already passed out drunk or halfway there. Isaac doesn't know if Mrs. Forez is around yet; she may still be at the hotel. He’d see if he'd raise his head to look. He really just wants to sleep.

“So, I guess I'll see you when I see you,” he repeats, an earlier echo from outside the stables.

Arthur looks back to him then, just stares at him for a good minute or so, his face a blank mask for once. Then without a word, he turns around and stomps off. Isaac watches him go to his horse and mount up. 

Guess that's that then, he thinks tiredly, throat feeling tight. Don't know what else I was expecting.

He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of hurt, though this one only has half to do with his headache and his tiredness. Already, the sounds of the town are growing distant and muffled. He breathes a long sigh, and drifts.

-

“Isaac.” 

The call of his name pulls at the threads of his consciousness. He grunts, scrunching nose, and raises a hand as if to wave the voice away like an annoying fly, before shifting to settle back into that comfortable void. 

“Christ, kid, it's me. Wake up,” The voice insists, colored with humor.

Isaac knows that voice, doesn't he? Where from? Oh, it doesn't matter. 

“‘M sleepin’,” he slurs. 

“I see that,” the voice replies patiently. “Reckon I found you a better place to do it. C'mon.”

There's a hand on his shoulder now, shaking him gently, and what is that smell? Stew? It's so familiar.

“Five more minutes, ma, please,” he groans.

“Ma?” the voice scoffs incredulously. “You hit your head or somethin’, boy?”

Isaac blinks his eyes open at that, only to find a familiar shade of blue haloed in black and gold. He blinks again, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. The image resolves itself into the battered face of his father, with his tousled, sandy hair fanning out from the edges of his hat, sitting cross-legged across from him with a pleased grin plastered on his face.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Arthur says sarcastically as Isaac slowly sits up. “Or, I should say evenin’. Here, eat this.” 

Isaac looks down at his offered hand. It holds a bowl, with browned chunks of meat swimming in a thick golden broth along with bits of carrots and potatoes and peas. There's even herbs peppered across the dish. His mouth waters instantly, and he wordlessly reaches out to take it.

“What’re you doing here?” he says around his first mouthful, his thoughts still thick and syrupy, though his headache seems to have abated for now, at least. “And where'd you get this?”

Arthur huffs at the gruff greeting. 

“Well, I ain't leaving you to sleep in the dirt, that's for sure,” he says as a spoons a bit of stew into his mouth from his own bowl, humming in appreciation at the taste. “Got this from the saloon across the street. Damn sight better than what I'm used to.” 

Isaac nods and takes another couple bites. It's true, the food is amazing, and he reminds himself to slow down so he can savor every bit. He scans the camp, catching Mrs. Florez watching them curiously and intently. She doesn't even look away when Isaac catches her staring; she merely cocks a questioning brow. Isaac just shrugs at her, and then looks across the street. He notices that Arthur's black horse is nowhere in sight, and then that the sky's gone a lot darker since he laid himself down, even though he feels like he wasn't out that long. Maybe an hour or two at most. The wind’s picked up too, carrying those heavy clouds ever closer.

“Looks like rain,” he notes.

“Bad one, at that,” Arthur nods. “Another reason to get you out of here. You'd catch yourself pneumonia or somethin’, sleepin’ out in this.”

“I've managed worse,” Isaac shrugs, remembering how cold the nights were when he first arrived in Valentine, all the way back in December. “Thought you said I wasn't coming with you.” 

“You ain't,” Arthur confirms, still smiling. “Got you a room at the hotel.”

Isaac almost chokes on his next bite, coughing and spluttering. Arthur huffs a laugh as he smacks a heavy hand across the boy's shoulders, then pulls his canteen off his belt for him. Isaac takes a swig and clears his throat.

“Really?” he asks, tentatively hopeful, but with the way Arthur's smiling, it could also be the setup of a cruel joke.

A room. Four walls and a roof. With a door that locks. And a bed.

“Sure,” Arhur says easily. “Ended up selling the horse, after all. That bastard stable hand hardly gave me nothin’ for him, on account of me not havin’ papers. Who the hell just carries around horse pedigrees?"

Isaac laughs and shakes his head. 

“I dunno, but he's hard about that sorta thing.” 

He doesn't add that he thinks Mr. Levi simply dislikes him. He doesn't feel like elaborating on why he thinks that is.

“Anyway,” Arthur continues, “Got enough for a couple hot meals and the room for six days, at least. The rate’s not too bad. Reckon I can scrounge up enough to keep paying for it, so don't you worry about that."

Isaac can only blink at him, the rest of his stew forgotten for the moment. His hands are shaking around the bowl now, for some reason.

“Why're you doin’ this?” He asks quietly. “You saw all that money I got from Hosea, so you know I can pay for myself.”

The smile slides off Arthur's face. He ducks his head, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“Why wouldn't I?” he mumbles, almost shy all of a sudden. “You're my boy.”

Isaac looks down, idly pushing the last bits of potato around his bowl. Not that the food isn't good, he's just not that hungry anymore.

“Your mother and I, we had an arrangement,” Arthur explains carefully. “She'd work and keep you fed and clothed, and I'd keep y’all in house. That ain't over just ‘cause she's gone.”

“Ah, so it's pity, then,” Isaac mutters bitterly. “I'm just an obligation, is that it?”

Lord, how he hates this feeling.

“What? Are you even listenin’ to me? No!” Arthur snaps, frustrated. “I mean, yes, I have an obligation to you, of course I do, but it's not just that.”

He sets his bowl to the side and sits back, rubbing tiredly at his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. He winces then, having forgotten it's still tender.

“Christ, I'm no good at this,” he mutters, more to himself. His hands fall to his lap, his fingers digging into his palms. His eyes have gone dim, staring at some point over Isaac's shoulder. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“All my life, I had to fight to survive,” he starts slowly. “That meant robbin’ folks, beatin’ em, killin’ em, all of that. It weren't never nothing’ good, and I’ve never known anythin’ else, but you,” he pauses, his eyes drifting across Isaac's face. His one good eye is shining, and his lip trembles, barely noticeable, before he swallows hard and looks away.

“You were such a good kid,” he continues thickly. “The only good thing I ever gave the world, and then you were gone.” 

He ducks his head again, trying to stealthily wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his coat before clearing his throat, coughing a bit. A bolt of lightning streaks across the distant clouds, thunder rumbling a handful of seconds behind.

“This is all such a damn mess,” Arthur mutters to the dirt. “I'm sorry, Isaac. I know I already said it. I'm doin’ what I can, here.”

Isaac takes his time to let the words wash over him, feeling them curl both warm and dreadful around his ribs, worming their way in. 

The only good thing.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

“Okay?” Arthur echos, his eyes searching the boy’s.

“Yeah,” Isaac says, a little more confidently. “Let's see this fancy room of yours.”

He swallows down the last of his stew and sets the empty bowl on top of Arthur's before getting back on his knees to gather his things. The cans and the papers are most important to him. The old clothes, the deteriorating scrap of shelter, those can rot for all he cares.

And they will, he realizes with a thrill. I ain't sleeping out here ever again. 

It doesn't matter if his father falls through on his promise. Hell, it doesn't matter if he ever comes back at all, though Isaac very much hopes he does. Thirty dollars, and a room for a week? This is just the break he needs. 

Thank you, he thinks, eyes darting up to the darkened sky, Ma, God, Whatever. Thank you.

Arthur stands tall beside him, seeming lighter. His eyes are also studying the sky, though his gaze is more critical than Isaac's thoughtful staring.

“Say, you mind me staying in the room with you tonight?” He asks, scowling at the clouds. “Walking back in this sounds miserable.”

A fat drop of rain falls on his black eye, followed by another splashing across the brim of his hat, and then all at once the sky opens up, rain pouring down as they scramble across the street to the hotel. 

The well-dressed man behind the counter startles when they burst through the door, halfway soaked, but he quickly manages to school his expression into something more neutral. 

“Evenin’, Mister Callahan,” he offers politely. “Some weather, yeah?”

“Sure,” Arthur grunts, shaking the excess water off his arms onto the patterned rug. 

The clerk wrinkles his nose at the display, but says nothing on it. Isaac tries to keep his dripping to the wood floor, his possessions held close to his chest.

“This is Isaac,” Arthur says, gesturing to the boy. “The one who'll be staying in that room.”

The clerk peers at him over his glasses.

“Yes, I've seen him around before,” he says airily. 

Arthur starts stomping up the stairs without another word, so Isaac follows, nodding to the clerk as he goes.

“Callahan?” He hisses questioningly once they're at the landing.

“Callahan isn't printed in all the papers,” Arthur reminds him quietly as he turns left and treads all the way down the hall. “This one.”

He stops in front of a door with a golden ‘2c’ on it, then pats down the pockets of his coat until he finds the key. He turns it in the lock and opens the door with a flourish, before handing the key over and stepping back to let Isaac walk in first.

It's huge, that's the first thing Isaac notices. The wood paneling on the walls gives way to faded teal wallpaper about halfway up, except for the wall facing the window, which is a papered subdued shade of red instead. There's a whole fireplace on that wall, right next to the wooden nightstand and the double bed with its brass headboard and paisley patterned brown quilt tucked along the corner. A pair of candlesticks with old wax melted into trails sit on the mantle, and a pretty painting of a cottage in the woods hangs above that.  

The window reaches almost from the floor to the ceiling. It's curtained with laceywhite drapes that have partially yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, but are free from holes and other stains. There's a dark, mahogany colored dresser against the wall at the foot of the bed. In the corner opposite of the bed is a tall, polished mirror and next to that, a worn wooden chair as well as a coat rack with a fluffy red towel hanging from it. 

Arthur's faded, russet saddle has been dumped on the floor near the widow, his patchy saddle bags laid across the top of the dresser. Isaac has to remind himself to keep his jaw off the floor as he takes it all in, turning in a circle in the middle of the room. After looking around considerately, he stacks his cans in a row along the mantle. His papers, he notes with a sigh, have been turned into a useless wad of wet mush, the sheets all stuck together. He leaves them on the floor near the fireplace, hoping maybe to salvage some once they're dry, but deciding that it's hardly a huge loss if he can't. 

Athur is smiling again as he steps into the room, caught up in Isaac's infectious excitement. He replaces the towel on the coat rack for his hat, roughing up with wet hair with it before tossing it to Isaac and shrugging off his coat And hanging it up before sitting in the chair to work off his boots.

“Well,” Arthur raises a brow in his direction, still smiling all lopsided. “Think this’ll work for you or what?”

“Will it ever,” Isaac gushes. “Gosh, it's been ages since I slept in a bed.”

He's somewhat thankful for the rain now as he drags the towel across his face and hair, chipping at the layer of dirt and sweat that the rain's help loosen. He pats his clothes dry as best as he can before wadding the towel up and hurling it back across the room at Arthur, still preoccupied with his boot. His aim is true; the towel smacks his face with a wet plop, and Isaac collapses into the bed with howling laughter at the undignified yelp it drags out of Arthur.

“Ow, you little shit, that hurt,” Arthur complains without any real heat.

“I'm sorry, I had to,” Isaac gasps, still giggling. “You left yourself wide open.”

“Didn't know I had to be on the lookout,” Arthur grumbles. 

He shakes the towel out and hangs it from a peg to dry, then makes his way over to crouch in front of the fireplace.

“What's with these blank pages?”

“Oh, those are for practicing my letters,” Isaac says quickly. “I've been told, that my handwriting is “Illegible and unintelligible.” 

He pitches his voice high and nasally towards the end in a mocking impression of a shrill woman, earning a snort from Arthur. It's not a complete lie; he has been told such things a long time ago by some of the nuns running the school, but he could care less about practicing handwriting. No, those papers were for writing the occasional letter to his mother. It was the writing of those letters that motivated him to learn how to do so in the first place, encouraged by a rare, motherly nun whose name he no longer remembers but who's open, browned face and accented voice he'll never forget. 

He knows it's childish, but he has no other way to feel close to her, doesn't know how else to honor her, except by putting a pencil to paper and writing about his days like she's out there somewhere waiting anxiously to hear from him. 

“Well, these are just about useless, but here.”

Arthur pulls a leatherbound journal from his bag and flips it open, tearing a couple blank pages from the back and setting them securely under a can on the mantle.

“Whatchu keep a journal for?” Isaac asks.

“Practicin’ my letters, same as you,” Arthur answers gruffly as he tucks it away.

Isaac curls himself up on the bed with his back flush against the wall as Arthur gets the fire going, watching him coax the wood to burn with practiced ease before settling back and gazing thoughtfully into the flames with one arm propped up against his knee. 

Outside, the storm persists, the rain drumming against the window in dense sheets while flashes of light and crashes of thunder rhythmically roll through. Isaac hopes Mrs. Florez is managing to stay dry enough. Arlight. Hosea got home alright.

“Is Hosea and your other friends gonna be good in this?” he wonders aloud.

Arthur hums and looks up, cocking his head as though listening to the rain.

“They'll be fine,” he says. “Sure am glad to be here, though.”

“Me too,” Isaac says softly, eyes drifting back towards the fire.

While his limbs feel heavy, his hand itches for a pencil. So much has happened the last couple days, and he wants to write Momma all about it, partly out of pure habit and partly because doing so really does help him sort through his thoughts.

He watches Arthur watch the fire. Might be that the warmth of the room and the soft bed beneath him is lulling him into some sense of security, because now his thoughts are embracing ideas he once resolutely shut out. Like how maybe there's another way to feel close to her, sitting on the floor right across from him. What's the harm in asking?

“Arthur,” he whispers. 

For all that's happened, it still don't feel right calling this man Dad or Pa or anything like that. He's still half a stranger in Isaac's esteem, though he's debating furiously with himself on the merits of keeping him that way against the desire to know more. Isaac knows what devastation comes with getting close. He knows he's more likely than that he's only setting himself up for more of it, but then, he's gotten quite good at handling all that.

Arthur looks up at the sound of his name, his expressions shifting through confusion and then hurt before settling into resignation.

“What is it?” He asks, sounding tired.

“You said earlier today, that you wanted to know my business,” Isaac starts hesitantly. “So, let's play a game. I ask a question, you answer. Then you ask, and I answer.”

“Shoot,” Arthur says immediately, seeming more engaged.

Isaac takes a deep breath. 

“What was ma like?”

Almost instantly, Arthur's face twists, his mouth turning down as his brows scrunch together. He stares into the fire, and for a moment Isaac thinks he's not gonna answer, until–

“Kind,” he murmurs. “Honest, clever. Everything I wasn't, and nothing I ever deserved.”

Isaac stares at him, hanging onto every word, hungry for more. His fingers find a loose thread in the quilt and start twisting around it.

“She'd been dealt a bad hand in life,” Arhur continues, sounding surer, encouraged by the boy's rapt attention. “I sure as shit didn't help, but she never let nothin’ keep her down. She had this way of seein’ the world that, I dunno, made me feel better about myself, I guess. Tried to find the good in things.”

“She loved music. When I first met her, she was singin’ along with some sailors some shanty about sirens, whatever those are. Liked to hang around the saloon to listen to this feller that would play on the piano. Had this big dream about goin’ to New York, bein’ in the theater. Didn't care that she couldn't even read.”

He looks at Isaac, then, a tiny, wistful smile tugging at his lips.

”She loved you like nothin’ else,” he adds. “Woulda thought you painted the sky, the way she went on about you. Used to call you blueberry, you remember that?” 

“I do,” Isaac gasps, feeling his heart ache in his chest. He'd forgotten until just now, but the memory of her voice curling around countless endearments comes rushing back like it never left. Suddenly the room seems blurry, and when Isaac brings a hand to rub at his eyes, it comes away wet.

“I wasn't there when it happened, but I must've heard the story a dozen times,” Arthur shakes his head with a chuckle. “Apparently, she'd gone out and spent all day gatherin’ up these berries to make a pie for your first birthday. You'd only just started walkin’, and you were a goddamn menace, always tryna get into everything, though she wouldn' hear a cross word about it. So she left the basket on the table and went across the street to ask the neighbor for some flour. Swears she was gone for all of five minutes, but by the time she got back, you'd pulled the cloth off the table, spillin’ everything on the floor, just helpin’ yourself and makin’ a huge mess. Your hands were still stained by the time I came around a few days later, and all you were saying was “boo,” asking for more of the things. Pretty sure that's the first thing you ever said, now that I'm thinkin’ about it. And from there it just stuck."  

Isaac laughs wetly and swipes at his eyes, smiling through the tears. He's not sure why he's crying; he feels happy, finally learning about her, even if each word adds to the weight on his chest. He has categories for her now beyond being a ghost. His mother: the singer, the baker, the dreamer. Someone who was real, someone who existed in other people's memories besides his own.

“Thank you,” Isaac breathes, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He untangles his hand from the blanket to bring it to rest on his chest. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend his own warmth is hers.

“Heh, don't thank me yet,” Arthur says smugly. “It's my turn. Who taught you how to shoot?”

Isaac groans and squeezes his eyes closed, feeling the imagined warmth vanish from under his hand.

“I already told you, I taught myself,” he says.

“Bullshit,” Arthur replies firmly. “I don't know if I could've made that shot. A kid on a rifle? Gimme a break.”

“It's true!” Isaac insists, “I don't know what else you want me to say. It was lucky. It's not like I could go and do it again.”

“Maybe,” Arhur concedes, “But someone had to show you how to handle it, at least.”

Isaac thinks about it for a moment. He really doesn't want to get into it, but then, it seemed like Arthur didn't want to talk about his mother at first, either. And yet he did anyway, for the sake of playing Isaac's silly, spur of the moment game.

“I ended up stayin’ a while with this couple, down in blackwater.” he offers timidly, sensing how he immediately has Arthur's attention. “It was only for a few months, but the man, Mr. Tempest, he taught me about guns and stuff.”

“And how is it you only ended up stayin’ with them a few months?” Arthur asks. “How old were you?”

Isaac only makes a tsk'ing sound with his tongue, wagging his finger in Arthur's direction.

“That's more questions from you, but you ain't answer any more of mine,” he says playfully.

“C'mon, kid, that ain't fair,” Arthur grouses. 

“Them's the rules,” Isaac reminds stubbornly. 

He hears Arthur sigh as the floorboards creak under his weight.

“Fine.”

Isaac hums thoughtfully, making a show out considering what he wants to ask next, even though it's lingered around the forefront of his mind since he came across that newspaper in the general store.

“How'd you end up an outlaw?” He asks mildly

“My old man was a bastard,” Arthur says, his voice going flat. “What brought you to Valentine?”

Oh, so that's how he's gonna play this.

“Needed some place to stay through the winter,” Isaac mirrors Arthur's disengaged tone. “Ended up stayin’ longer. What's the deal with Hosea?”

And so it goes as the storm rages on outside, the two trading probing questions for guarded half answers as the night descends properly.

What's the deal with Hosea? (He ran away from the circus.)

How'd you end up runnin’ with Indians? (I shot someone and got run out of town)

How many folks are in your gang? (About two dozen, give or take.)

What the hell you mean, you shot someone? (I was defendin’ myself!)

How many people have you shot? (Too many.)

How old were you when this happened? (Thirteen.)

Arthur caught on fast to Isaac's strategy. It becomes its own sort of separate game, trying to piece together a story from the bits and pieces the other offers. It's not one that Isaac finds himself enjoying, nor Arthur, it seems. His questions only grow more impatient,and his answers only shorter. Isaac can feel his headache returning.

After a while of it, Arthur goes quiet once it's his turn again. He adds another log to the fire, letting the renewed crackling fill the silence left by the storm moving on. Isaac feels his drowsiness pulling at him, getting heavier all the time. Eventually, Arthur pulls himself off the floor and drops onto the bed, laying on his back and crossing his legs at the ankles as he stares at the ceiling like he's counting the grains of wood. Immediately Isaac can feel the heat spilling off him. He shivers slightly, still chilled in his damp clothing, but neither of them move more than that.

“You like dogs?” Arthur breaks the silence after a while.

Isaac shakes himself a little, turning his head to look curiously at Arthur's profile, shadowed in firelight. Now this is a line of questioning he can get behind.

“I dunno, I've never really been around them much,” he admits through a yawn. “What's your favorite color?”

That one seems to trip Arthur up for a moment, as if he's never thought about it before.

“Blue, I guess,” he shrugs.

They launch into a series of lighter questions from there, and the answers come longer and easier for it. They talk about wildlife and fruit, books and rivers, all the while, Isaac's eyes grow heavier, his words slower and thicker.

[guiltycorp]

Do you think there's a chance of Suguru Geto regaining control of his body?

Oh personally I think yes (but unlikely)!

This has been discussed in the fandom a lot, main argument against it is the QA author answer to 'how much of Geto is left inside' which was that basically none, his movements being like a dragonfly's spasming after its neck gets broken. And main argument for it is what Kenjaku said to Mahito right after their arm moved on its own -

This was more about their ongoing philosophical debate with Mahito over the true essence of one's soul and whether it's a separate entity or not, but like still, if Geto's soul and body are one and Kenjaku is suppressing the soul with their own then why wouldn't Geto be able to break through that technique somehow, especially if there's outside help. But more than that I just think that jjk's lore is inconsistent enough that basically anything can happen. I do think there's less of a chance of that if Gojo dies without coming back in any way, especially since Gojo had that hallucination/purgatorial plane reunion with him, but well that's not 100% certain for now either... I think with Gojo, Nanako and Mimiko dead it wouldn't make much narrative sense for Geto to return since he doesn't really have close ties to anyone else and he hadn't changed his genocidal views before dying either, buuut it could still be possible as a sort of last blow to Kenjaku whenever it's their time to be the final boss. I do think that Geto's personal character arc isn't completely over as long as there's a question of what form the sorcerer society will take in the future, but it doesn't really have to involve him at all ether. Also to be honest I think Gege's answer in the fanbook is pretty cut and dry and I fully believe that Geto is one of those characters he planned ahead and thought about the most, so I doubt he'd change his mind about it. I'd love to be wrong though! At least there's always hope for more flaaashbacks hehe.

[barncat-therapy]

Damn Dragonflies

TIMING: About a week ago PARTIES:@barncat-therapy & @declinlalune SUMMARY: Andy's keys go missing, and she and Luis struggle to catch up to them.

“Where the hell did I put them?” Andy cursed under her breath as she dug into her tote bag again. Inside were a few scraps of paper (useless) and napkins (usable), but no keys. “Fuck.” Andy took a step forward, cupping her hands around her eyes so that she could peer into the window of her jeep. The passenger seat was empty aside from the empty bag of bugles, and both the backseat and driver’s seat were empty, too. Andy angled herself awkwardly to get a better look at the ignition, but no dice. As she pulled away, she felt the familiar tingle begin to creep up the back of her neck. It was happening a lot these days, and it had gotten easier to ignore, mostly due to the fact that she’d gotten good at ignoring the sense of dread that Alex had brought on in the earlier days. But Wicked’s Rest was different. 

Andy squatted, looking beneath the jeep. All she could see were rusted bits that should probably be replaced, and once again, no keys. As she got to her feet, she heard footsteps nearing behind her, and as she turned around, she was surprised to be met with a somewhat familiar face. “Luis, hey!” The skin-crawling feeling continued, but she pushed it back. Andy put on a pleasant smile as she dusted her hands off on her jeans. “You haven’t seen any keys laying around, have you?” 

The weather at least was getting nice enough by now to make the idea of wandering without a set destination appealing. And wander Luis did, expending a chunk of idle time to take a look around the neighborhood for anything that might catch his attention - there was almost always bound to be something new or odd going on around town, he knew that well enough.

One thing to catch his attention turned out to be something a lot more mundane, though. Someone familiar looking in through the car window. Had she locked her keys inside by accident?

By the time he got close, that proved obviously false, though, given that Andy was also looking under the car.

"Hey, Andy. Can't say I have... Where'd you last see them, I can help look?"

The offer was made without a thought, already looking around for some sign of the keys possibly being dropped on the pavement somewhere.

Instead, he caught what looked like maybe...a dragonfly from a distance, carrying something.

Of course it would be.

"I think I might've found them, actually."

His gaze, wide and fixed on the flittering little 'insect' in much the way a cat may watch prey before attacking, Luis didn't look to Andy to confirm she was picking up on what he was seeing, though he hoped she did.

Better than shooting off chasing a hunch and looking crazy doing it, surely.

“Uh, I think in my bag, but I checked there. Emptied it out on the hood earlier, too.” Andy bit her lower lip as she began to re-think every step she’d taken before getting back to her jeep. She didn’t think she’d dropped them on the way from work, but it was possible she had, and maybe somebody had picked them up. Maybe they’d be on the community board later in the day. 

As Andy turned to look at Luis, she noticed his expression looked distant, as if he was focusing on something else entirely. “Luis?” 

And then he spoke, and Andy was left to follow his gaze. In the distance, she could see something hovering a few feet in the air. The strawberry keychain she had attached to her keys dangled, too, and seemed to be getting further away. “What the fuck—“ Not really thinking it through, she tapped Luis’s shoulder, suggesting he follow her. 

It didn’t help that the closer they got, the further it seemed they were from the— what was that carrying her keys? Even though she squinted, she couldn’t quite make out what was buzzing around. “What the hell—“ Andy grimaced as she caught a better look. She’d heard about pixies, had never seen them except in picture books, but that was what was ahead of her. How to deal with them, she had no clue. But she knew it’d be annoying. 

For the moment, Luis felt almost entranced. With his eyes locked onto a target to chase down, he felt the electric buzz of anticipation urging him to move the longer he stayed and watched.

The tap on the shoulder snapped him quickly out of it, causing him to jolt and look to Andy automatically.

At least it wasn't too hard to lock on again once he was facing onward, at first matching Andy's pace and then quickening his own when the large insect, or whatever it was, showed no signs of being caught up to.

What did it an insect need with a set of keys anyway?

"Since when are dragonflies this fast?"

Speaking in part rhetorically to himself, he focused on following the thief first of all.

Made harder when it vanished off around a corner before he could see where it went from there.

Confused, the balam scanned the distance, and spun around in place with eyes narrowed in concentration.

There it is! No, no keys. Could have been dropped? Oh, there’s more than one.

While spinning around, he’d thought he saw briefly the same sort of insect, though lacking the coveted keys with it. Another spin around revealed yet another practically right behind him and getting away quickly.

“Leave it to Wicked’s Rest to have bugs with a passion for collecting shiny things, huh? I lost the thief.”

“Merde!” She hated how the word slipped out of her mouth. Who was she, Kaden? Andy easily stepped over the curb and pointed it out to Luis so that he wouldn’t trip. “It’s getting away, let’s go!” There might have been a spare key somewhere beneath the hood, but this keyring had the keys to the cabin on it, and she didn’t feel like paying to make another copy. 

The keys disappeared from sight and Andy stopped just short of the next street corner. She looked at Luis who was spinning in a comical circle. She was annoyed, but extremely amused by her company’s antics. 

“Okay, um..” Andy knew that listening for them was pointless. With all of the noise on the street, it’d be hard to discern what was what. Frustrated, she ran both hands through her hair, yanking slightly at the ends before letting her arms drop down to her side. 

“Yeah, no kidding.” Whether or not she’d find her keys was up to whether or not the pixies decided to make a reappearance. Andy didn’t know much at all about them, but she remembered a few of the wardens at the camps they had discussed in an abundance of annoyance. She could now understand why. “I could probably break in and hotwire my jeep. Break into the window at my place. You know, normal things people do when they lose their keys.” 

Logically, the chase was off. But it still didn't feel right to just give up. Andy certainly seemed fully willing to, but the alternative just sounded like a lot of trouble and damage.

Luis didn't have a good solution to suggest. That was the problem here. And keeping an eye out was clearly not doing him any good here either. Great.

Just great.

"If they're dragonflies - are they dragonflies? - those mostly spend time 'round water, right? What's the nearest water source?"

Maybe that was a stretch. Well, it was probably a stretch. But it was something.

Turning to Andy was, in a way, giving up. 

"Anything else I can do to help? Sorry about the keys."

Despite his disappointment at himself, however, outwardly he'd still look as unbothered and calm as ever.

That feeling sunk in already, as if on cue the sharp little sound of metal clashing with cement and against itself came. 

Andy had no idea where dragonflies spent their time, but she was almost positive that what had her keys were not dragonflies. It wasn’t surprising to her that even being a shifter, Luis might not know what else was out there. Maybe his community stayed within its own and didn’t branch out much. 

“No, it’s not your fault. You don’t need to apologize.” Luis even stopping to help was enough for her to deem him competent in high stress situations. Not that it was her job to do that, but still. 

She could probably ask one of the neighboring shops for a hanger so that she could get into her jeep. She wouldn’t have to break the window if she didn’t need to. Andy was lost in thought, mapping out how she’s get into her vehicle and how she’d get home. 

Until the sound of something clattering against glass made her look up. Andy noticed the shine of her keys on the ground, and the pathetic wings of the pixie flutter helplessly. “Hey!” Andy didn’t wait for Luis to follow. Instead, she jogged over and picked her keys up off of the ground, holding them to her chest as if she’d just been told something upsetting. Her eyes widened in surprise as the key-stealer was confirmed to be a pixie. “Luis, I’ve got them.” 

"Yayy." The celebratory cry was muted in tone, sounding almost sarcastic for it despite the intention behind it as Luis caught up. Where Andy's focus was understandably on the keys, he instead stared down at the little humanoid… something on the ground.

That did make sense. Certainly more than insects.

"Do you know what this thing is? I don't know if I've seen one before."

Despite what one might consider to be good judgement, Luis opted to pick up the pixie before it could recover enough to escape.

"It's like a fairy, isn't it?"

Andy looked at Luis, then to the pixie that was on the ground in a dazed state. As much as she didn’t appreciate them stealing her keys, the last thing she wanted was for it to get crushed. She didn’t know the proper etiquette in moving pixies, so she opted for scooting to the side of the building where it could regain its composure and later fly away. 

“Ummm….” It wasn’t uncommon that other supernatural beings didn’t know everything about the other kinds of species that mingled in their communities. Whatever Luis was, maybe he’d never been exposed to fae. “Yeah, like a fairy.” There was no use in concealing it from him. It wasn’t her job, and besides, it was clear he had a vague idea. “Just a little bit of a trouble maker, nothing else really.” She knew that pixies could be mean, but this one was now down for the count. 

She got to her feet, pocketing her keys. “I think we can leave it here, I don’t want to piss it off too much.” The pixie stirred slightly, a high pitched squeal leaving it, before it dazedly fluttered its wings and smacked back into the door in its attempt to fly off quick. Instead, it fell back onto the ground and Andy winced. 

While watching the pixie take off, Luis pointedly ignored the faint instinct calling him to smack it back down to the ground. Why would he even want to do that to something both sentient and probably magical to begin with? Just because it looked a little bit like a large insect?

He looked away once it had downed itself.

"Are you sure it won't get caught by a stray cat like that or something?"

Though if Andy, someone who might've known more about these fairies than he did, seemed apprehensive about the idea of helping more, it probably was the better option.

"What even would happen to a cat if it ate a fairy? Bad luck for all nine lives?" 

[trannydean-moved]

okay i need to mention jaime's tats in 1x20 bc i didn't for 1x19 and i want him talking abt which tats he's got so far

[luimagines]

Could you maybe do one where the reader is in their time and they take them on a date since everything is calm for a moment?

Masterlist

It's Reader's turn to treat their favorite hero!

Date Day! Part one will included Wild, Legend and Hyrule!

Content under the cut!

Wild

“Ok, bare with me for a minute?” You grin and put a finger to your lips to keep your boyfriend quiet. “I want to show you something.”

“And we’re sneaking out because?” Wild tilts his head but follows you regardless.

“They to the place is a little... challenging and I don’t my Grandma or Time... or Twilight for that matter getting on our case about it.” The face you wear is mischievous and Wild can feel his morph to match yours as you tip toe away from the main group.

When you get far enough away you look over your shoulder and giggle. In a flash, before Wild can figure out what’s happening, you grab his hand and sprint away into the forest growth behind your house.

Wild snorts at your excitement but follows you step for step as you lead him through the foliage.

You stop a quick breather by a rock cliff and before you point up. “That’s where we’re going.”

And then you start climbing.

Wild blinks and doesn’t hesitate to follow you. A small woop leaves his mouth as he takes a running start up the rock and catches up to you relatively quickly.

Your practiced movements and Wild innate ability to climb anything makes the trip as simple as walking up a hill.

You get to the top first, since you’ve made this trip countless time to your Grandmother’s chagrin, and wait for Wild to make it up, holding out your hand to help him with the final stretch and pull him to you. You jump a little in your spot as he gets himself situated and giggle a little at the way his jaw drops at the sight before him.

A meadow of those flowers Wild seems to like so much, the Silent Princess.

But in the middle?

A natural fountain, with water sprouting upwards to give the rocks below the chance to be rained upon even if they’ll never see the light of day beyond what the crevices would offer. It falls into a small pool just beyond the rocks where small lily pads grow ands frogs sing their songs. In the darker corners you can see fireflies take off and return and there’s multiple dragonflies to dart from flower to flower where they know the mosquitoes reside as they try to catch their own lunches.

You see Wild take it all in and stare.

“This is my favorite spot.” You admit in a whisper. “No one else knows it’s here. They can’t get up even if they tried. But I can, and I knew you could because you can do anything.”

“It’s...”

“It’s a bit small I know.” You say with gulp. “and I doubt it’s anything compared to what you’ve already seen in your own world but I wanted to share it with you.”

“It’s just like you.” Wild says and looks over to you with a large and and boyish smile on his face. “It’s perfect.”

The admission strikes you in your spot and you don’t deny the blush that follows. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“No.” Wild takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Not at all. I think it’s a bit lacking actually, but there’s no other word to use to properly describe what I think about you.” 

“What am I going to do with you?” You snicker and take your hand away to cup his face.

“Tell me about this place.” He answers. “How did you find it?”

“Oh that’s easy! You see, Link...uh, my brother, was just born and I was left unsupervised as mom and dad had to take care of the baby so-”

Legend

“Legend!” You cry and drape yourself across his back. “Come with me! I wanna take you somewhere!”

The boy in question falters in his step from your added weight and looked over his shoulder to see you better. “Now?”

You grin and nod. You’re fairly certain that you look crazy but you’re too excited to care.

“Should I be concerned?” Legend gets a small smirk on his face.

“Of little ol’ me?” You tilt your head, your smile never leaving your face. “Maybe. But right now? No. Come on, let’s go! I got Wild and Warrior to watch over Link and Zelda and Time and Twilight are busy humoring my grandma. It’ll just be you and me!”

Legend pauses before he seems to mellow out, and he reaches for your hand behind him. “Ok.” His voice is soft, the kind he saves only for you and when you’re alone. “Lead the way.”

You barely suppress the giggle that passes your lips before you pulled him closer to your side. You take off a brisk pace in case some of the others who are unattended decided to follow you.

You drag him through the streets of your home, your footsteps a mere after thought to the idea of Link’s reaction to what you plan on showing him.

He doesn’t say anything as you travel and keeps a tight grip on your hand, less he get left behind and lose you.

You stop in front of a flower shop and tilt your head in its direction. Legend nods, at your unspoken question and beams when you brighten even more so than you already were.

You both enter and you b-line for the some of the smaller flowers they have near the back and begin to seemingly pick a few at random.

You don’t even notice you lose Legend sometime in the middle of your choosing.

You’re so focused on your selection that you go to pay and head out, already working on your project.

You weave and bend and keep the flowers in place as you begin your journey out of the store.

Legend watches you leave in the middle of the your concentration and quickly pays the needed amount before following you out. He walks next to you at you pace and keeps one hand on your shoulder at all times to guide you back through the streets and make sure you don’t crash into anyone or anything.

He smiles at you, a soft and secret look he knows he should give you more often but he can’t seem to handle the idea when you’re in public.

Within moments he can see what you’ve been making.

A flower crown, braided with such intensity that the flowers covered every inch of the band, there’s not a spec of stem green in the mass that’s been created by your fingers and Legend has to admit that he’s impressed.

You beam and glance at him, as if he’s never left your side the entire time and rip off his hat.

He jumps to take it back but you throw it over your shoulder and spin him around. It’s a dance you both do often and there’s a laugh on your breaths as you anticipate the other’s reaction. But what Legend doesn’t expect is for you to trap him in your arm as you spin and to put the crown over his head from behind.

He’s stunned and when you kiss the tip of his nose, he’s inclined to not move a muscle until you say he’s free to do so.

You spin around while he freezes and bend down to pick up his hat, placing it on your own head with a cheeky wink.

Oh, Legend thinks, he likes that.

Legend blushes crimson and take takes his hand and places the single flower he bought up to your ear and between your hair. “There.” He says. “Perfect.”

You giggle and adjust the hat to keep the stem in place and grab Legend’s hand to lace your fingers together.

“Thanks for coming with me.” You grin and swing your hands together as you begin to walk around with no destination in mind.

Legend smiles back just as bursting with joy as you are. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Hyrule

“If I were to say we should leave, what would you do?” You ask your boyfriend, as you watch the group meander around your house. No on is paying attention to you, too focused on the game your cousin and little brother have made up as your grandma watches from her rocking chair, knitting something that will no doubt be gifted to one of the boys before you have to leave again.

It was nice.

A bit loud.

But that your everyday anyway, whether in your home or with the group, so it wasn’t all that unfamiliar.

Hyrule looks over to you with a raised eyebrow and and grin on his lips. “I’d follow you anywhere anytime.”

You smile and place your cheek on your hand as you rest your elbow on the table. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Did it have to?” Hyrule snorts. “You already know my answer.”

You hum and tap your fingers on your face before you smile. “Come with me.”

Wordlessly, he follows you and you lead him out of the house and into your garden. It was something your mother started before she left.

You took it upon yourself to try to keep it alive but you never had the same green thumb that she processed. Still, it wasn’t too shabby if you had to say so yourself.

Hyrule took a deep breath through his nose and grinned. “There’s magic in the air.”

You pause and turn to look at him. “You can smell that?”

“Nooo...” Hyrule laughs. “But I can feel like. It’s nice. It’s warm and sweet.”

You smile and hold your hand out to him, waiting until he seems to get a ahold of himself and pull him from behind you. 

You walk together in silence before the old and beaten path opens up to reveal a small clover covered clearing, with a two seater swing hidden by the tree branches. “Come on, let’s sit there Link.”

Hyrule smiles and sits down first, pulling you unexpectantly onto his lap. “And here I thought we were going to go on those adventure you like so much.”

“No.” You blush at the close proximity but lean yourself against him, placing your head by his and poking his neck with your nose. “Grandma would still need me close by incase the kids get too rowdy. At least I’m within yelling distance.”

Hyrule nods and begins to play with your hair as he pushes off the ground somewhat to get the swing in motion. “I like this. I want one.”

“I’ll build one just for you.” You snort and snuggle closer. “Anything for you.”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

“Obviously. Who else you plan on swinging with?”

“I didn’t think I’d be here at all, let alone have someone other than you.” 

You hum and play his hair even if you can’t see it. Hyrule shifts the both of you around so that you’re both lying on the swing instead of being precariously placed on the edge. “Well, I’m glad I’m with you.”

“Me too.”

Part 2 

[anthemxix]

There is something that I noticed while watching a game play of Hyrule warriors. Once You get the great fairy in the game but the way she fights is what got my angst side tickling. The way she fights is that she puts Link in a bottle and fights while he’s in the bottle, and once there’s a victory. The great fairy lets him out and you can clearly see his discomfort when she spins around him and such. Just something i noticed that i thought might be important for yah. :3

thank you so much for sending me this! it makes me so happy that you thought to share this with me. thank you ;w;

the whole getting-stuck-in-a-bottle thing is perfect for angst, and i was going to write something angsty, but then...this happened?? tl;dr for this fic is as follows~

hyrule: i don't like trapping fairies in bottles. warriors: yeah, getting trapped in a bottle sucks. hyrule: wait, what? warriors: what?

like that's it, that's the fic. also, wind is the problem child here because the fairies in WW look so sad after you catch them XD

Deep in the woods, the heroes find a sanctuary.

The densely-packed, straight-backed trees open up into a sunlit pocket, a secret glade undisturbed for centuries, where the air holds still like bated breath. Playing among the sunbeams, fluttering on filmy dragonfly wings, are dozens upon dozens of fairies.

Hyrule smiles fondly as he steps into the clearing, stretching out an arm in invitation. Several fairies, awash in a pastel pink glow, drift towards him and perch there like birds on a branch. A few more land on his shoulders; a couple snuggle into his nest of unruly hair.

“Oh, this is great!” Wind chirps. His voice seems unnaturally loud in the quiet, sacred space, and a handful of the fairies on Hyrule’s arm startle and flit away. The Traveler turns, prepared to admonish the Sailor for his volume, but he pales as he sees Wind, and several of the other heroes, fishing empty bottles from their bags.

Fairies’ healing magic is more potent than any potion, so Hyrule understands why the other heroes want it at their disposal; yet the idea of trapping one of these magnificent little creatures for days or weeks on end merely to exploit her generosity makes Hyrule uneasy. He knows what it’s like to be so small and helpless, and he can only imagine the horror of being imprisoned in a cramped bottle with nothing to do but breathe increasingly stale air and wait for freedom.

Hyrule holds out his other arm to offer refuge to more fairies; several more pink orbs alight on him without hesitation. Dismayed, he watches Wind ready his bottle and make a wild swing for a fairy. She bleats in alarm before zipping away.

His next target is not so lucky. Wind catches this fairy between his hand and the bottle, effectively jamming her inside.

“Sailor—,” Hyrule begins, but he cuts himself off as, to his surprise, Warriors clamps a firm hand on Wind’s shoulder and spins him around. He’s wearing the irritated scowl that’s usually reserved for Legend.

“What do you think you're doing?” the Captain snaps.

The triumph over a successful catch swiftly drains from Wind’s face. “What do you mean?”

“You have to be more careful,” Warriors chastises. “If you insist on detaining them, at least don't hurt them.”

“What? I would never—!” Pausing, Wind gives the cross-armed Captain a once-over, defensiveness dissipating in favor of curious realization. “Wait, why aren’t you grabbing any fairies…?”

Huh. Now that Hyrule considers it, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Warriors with a bottled fairy of his own. He hadn’t realized the Captain, too, is sensitive to the plight of these little winged creatures.

Blatantly discounting the question, Warriors says, “Look, why don’t you let Time give you pointers on how to do this properly.”

Wind’s imminent protests visibly shrivel as his gaze follows to where Warriors points. Time stands peacefully in the middle of the glade, open bottle passively upheld; a fairy willingly flies inside and allows herself to be stowed in Time’s bag. Attention captured, Wind bounces over to Time without another word to Warriors.

Eyebrows raised in amusement, Hyrule relaxes. Wind hadn’t intended to mistreat the fairies, and his youthful vigor is disarming. He glances at Warriors, expecting to see a similarly amused expression on him, given the massive soft spot Warriors has for the kid, but Warriors isn’t looking at Wind or Time at all. Instead, he’s watching the others collect fairies with an expression Hyrule has never seen on him.

His irritation, it seems, was a knee-jerk reaction, a symptom masking the real problem, which apparently is…discomfort?

Hyrule watches as now, in the quiet, some fairies drift towards the Captain, languidly orbiting him or touching down on his shoulders. If he notices, he doesn’t acknowledge them, continuing to watch the other heroes with crossed arms and pursed lips, like he’s tasted something sour.

Stepping closer, Hyrule says, “Uh, h-hey. Captain?”

As if he’s forgotten Hyrule was standing nearby, Warriors startles, but he quickly composes himself, seamlessly transitioning to an air of detached, smoothed-over neutrality. “Yes?”

“You okay? You look a little, uh…spooked.”

“Of course.” He buries one hand in the folds of scarf around his neck. The lie is painfully obvious, though Hyrule isn’t certain if that’s a cue to keep pushing or to let this go.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need to decide. Warriors drops the hand from his scarf and instead hooks his thumbs onto his belt. He’s in his observational tactician mode, his posture and expression shuttered so that he gives nothing away, only takes in. “You know, I'm not as in-tune with magic as you or Legend, but I’ve always been able to sense the residue of fairy magic on you, Traveler. Why is that?”

The deflection is unexpected, Hyrule thinks, but he supposes he can’t call it unfair. Secrets are like anything else: earned, not free. So he barters.

“Yeah, it’s, um. It’s from…a spell I can cast.”

“What does it do?”

“Uh, well, it’s…” He swallows. Maybe he isn’t ready to divulge this particular secret in full. “It sort of…replicates fairy magic, you could say.”

Warriors looks like he wants to ask more; Hyrule jumps in before he can. “So you don’t like catching fairies, huh?”

He can almost see the same thought process flicker across Warriors’ face: get a secret, give a secret.

One hand trails up to his scarf—a nervous habit, Hyrule figures—but then drops to his side again. “I don’t like the idea of trapping them.”

“Neither do I,” Hyrule agrees.

Warriors’ gaze is fixed on the others again, on the bottles in their hands. His hand returns to his scarf, and this time he absently toys with it, mind preoccupied. “...I know what it’s like.”

“What…what’s like?”

“Being trapped like that.” His voice has gotten quieter, his gaze more faraway. “And no matter what you do, you can’t get out.”

“Oh...I...I'm sorry,” Hyrule fumbles, not sure what to say.

“No one took it seriously,” Warriors continues. He untangles his hand from his scarf, holds out a finger so one of the fairies on his shoulder can perch there instead. “I felt so small and helpless...but it was just a joke to everyone else.”

Hyrule shuffles uncomfortably, scrutinizing the somber way Warriors is looking at the fairy on his finger. “So, um...what...where were you...trapped, exactly?”

Warriors frowns, and for one hopeful moment, Hyrule thinks he’s going to get an answer. But then Wind is bounding over, chattering excitedly, earlier tensions seemingly forgotten. The fairies around Warriors flutter away in a cloud, and Time is gathering everyone up so they can keep moving.

Well. A half-truth exchanged for a half-truth. It’s a start, Hyrule supposes. At least it’s a start.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

come fly with me

[hermes x reader]

author’s note: every time i see his name i pronounce it like the brand out of  habit even if there’s no accent grave lol

word count: 2,572

You sense the bright light of morning through your closed lids and it prompts you to wake. But even as your eyes slide open, you still feel as though you’re dreaming.

A man is kneeling down next to you. You don’t know who he is but perceive he means no harm, for his gaze as he observes you is concerned, no doubt wondering what you’re doing out here. You don’t remember falling asleep outside, but the weather has been so nice as of late, you wouldn’t put it past yourself to have drifted off after laying beneath the stars, simply appreciating their magnificence.

As your vision comes more into focus, and the blurred edges merge into finer lines, you note that the sun shines behind this stranger’s head, and it appears remarkably like a halo. Your focus slides lower, drifts over brown hair pulled back into a neat braid to avoid obscuring his face, the highlight of which are his eyes—brilliantly blue, like crystals, and putting the backdrop behind him to shame. He’s beautiful.

Suddenly you’re nervous to be the center of his attention, so rapt it’s like he can see right through you. You must look a disheveled mess in contrast, your own hair tousled, your eyes bleary with the last bits of sleep. But as if he can hear your thoughts, he smiles gently, a gesture to put you at ease.

“Hello,” he greets you. His voice is hushed, taking care not to disturb the peace of these early hours, and it’s warm, washing over your skin and fighting away the chill of the cool evening.

You open your mouth, poised to speak, but at first nothing comes out, though from nervousness or from the fact your vocal chords are still waking up after hours of not being used, you don’t know.

“I… I must have fallen asleep out here,” you state rather dumbly, because what else could it have been? It’s not as if anyone had carried you out here in the middle of the night. Your cheeks redden from embarrassment but the man’s smile widens, amused and—if you aren’t imagining things, owed to the idea that maybe you really are dreaming—charmed. Though for what reason, you haven’t the slightest clue.  You struggle to call yourself a picture of grace at any other point in a day, least of all fresh from sleep.

“It seems you have,” he responds. “I imagine it was comfortable?”

Not wanting to continue this conversation while still laying down, since it’s a little awkward, you sit up, and he backs away slightly to give you space. The notion of sleeping on the ground certainly doesn’t sound comfortable, and so you assume he asks this in light jest, but oddly enough, you don’t feel any stiffness or aches. Your body is relaxed, pliant. You feel well-rested.

“It was, yes…” you trail off, absentmindedly pondering on this anomaly.

The man nods, satisfied with your answer, and stands. You have to crane your neck to look at him, and as he turns his head to look out at the rolling hills, lush green and divided in the middle by a dirt path, you see a string around his neck which is attached to a golden helmet. The brim swoops and lifts in the back, colored silver to resemble a pair of wings.

Then he turns to you again, now offering you his hand. “Well the day is too nice to waste staying here. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

You’ve been aware this entire time that you don’t know who he is, and logic would dictate you turn down his invitation. No matter how nice he may be, it would be unreasonable as well as  unsafe. But even for all that, you find yourself not tied down by any semblance of reason, and perhaps it’s against your better judgment that you accept.

You take his hand and he pulls you up easily. Maybe it’s his smile that does well to quell any apprehension, for you think you would follow him anywhere. Maybe you were incorrect and to go with him now was the better judgment on your part, because you don’t feel that this is wrong or dangerous. And he’s right: the day is splendid and it would make no sense to stay on the ground alone. It’s better enjoyed with companions.

The two of you follow the trail for a while, pausing whenever small creatures cross from one side to the other: mostly bunnies and deer, but at one point when passing by a lake there’s a duck and her ducklings plodding single-file behind her. As the world around you wakes and you walk in comfortable silence, your anxiety melts away and you instigate a conversation.

“Were you just passing by and happened to see me?” you inquire.

The man glances down at you briefly before looking ahead once more. “I was.” He nods. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He’s sincere as he says it, and it makes you grin. “Well I’m glad it was you who found me.”

The smile on his lips mirrors yours. “I am too.”

Flowers line the path, leaning inward as if to welcome any who walk past. They grab your attention, and you skip ahead to pick some of them. They only require a gentle tug for the stems to snap and you gather them until you’re holding a small bunch of the white flower in one hand. You bring them closer to your face so you can smell them: the scent is subtle and fresh, like the air after it rains. The man finally catches up to you and you twist around. There’s that expression in his eyes again, one of amusement, and again you blush, attempting to hide it by the flowers as you duck your head, but you don’t think you’re successful.

He peers over your shoulder. “Let’s go this way now. There’s bound to be more flowers in that direction.”

You turn and follow his line of sight. The trail has led to a forest, and veering off here would lead you into the thick of it. The man takes the last few steps to close the distance and stand next to you, and you look up at him. “Okay.”

Sunlight pierces the gaps in the foliage, the rays which light the ground soothing to behold and to walk through. It’s like a painting, calm and peaceful, displayed on the finest marble and you’re honored to be in the midst of it, maybe not as the subject, for you think the birds who cast shadows as they soar above you are more worthy of the privilege, but you’re content to be there at all, even just off to the side.

The woods lead to a meadow and the man was correct: there are more flowers here. Their colors vary, from white to lavender to yellow, and the sun envelopes them all in its heat, unhindered in this clearing. The tall grass shifts with your every footstep and brushes your calves, light as a feather, and you giggle. It tickles.

Your eyes rove over the expanse before you. There are more trees, another portion of forest,  on the other side, but this place is so peaceful, and the sun is in the perfect position, centered in the sky, that you would hate to leave so soon.

“I’d like to lay among these flowers…” you murmur. It’s an aside you mean to mutter only to yourself, but given your proximity to the stranger—no, not a stranger anymore, but more of a friend—he hears you fine despite the low volume with which you said it.

“Why don’t we?”

At this, you blink and glance up at him. He’s already watching you with a twinkle in his gaze and he’s smiling. You can’t help smiling too and you feel so warm to be in his presence.

So in the middle of the clearing you find a suitable spot and settle down, lying on your back with the bunch of white flowers still clutched in one hand. You have to squint and use your free hand to shield your eyes from the glare of the sun, but then you close them and the furrow of your brow relaxes, and you can fully enjoy the nature which surrounds you.

Dragonflies buzz and you can hear them flittering along, the beating of their wings louder as they approach, then becoming quieter as they pass. The grass shifts as your friend comes to join you now. He sits, and you hear a brief shuffling before he follows suit and lays down. Together you bask in the sunlight, but for how long, you aren’t sure. Not that you’re interested in tracking the time.

“Your suggestion to tarry a while was a good one,” he compliments, breaking the silence. “It feels pleasant to rest here.”

His compliment makes you grin and your eyes open. You turn your head to look at him. He’d removed his helmet from where it was hanging around his neck and placed it next to him to allow him to lie back comfortably. “The sun makes you feel so refreshed, doesn’t it?”

He hums. “I think it has more to do with the company.” He opens his eyes and also turns to look at you, and the blueness of them is incredibly soft. Your smile grows.

And though you’re confident you could pass the rest of the day in that meadow, the two of you move on. It’s done with a bit of reluctance on your part, but it fades quickly because you agree with him: it’s the company which makes you feel refreshed. The colors of the sky are shifting as mid-afternoon turns into early evening and it occurs to you that you have been walking since the morning yet you aren’t tired, nor has it felt like many hours have transpired. You know it has to do with him. You think you could do this forever, walking with him.

When the sky is a blend of indigo and orange, you ask if anyone is expecting him. We’ve been together all day, you explain. No one might wonder where you are?

He chuckles. “That’s kind of you to be concerned.”

Your cheeks feel warm. He’s awfully good at getting that reaction out of you.

“No one’s expecting me,” he continues. “But even if someone were, they’d understand my lateness, given I’m with someone so sweet. I’m not keen to part ways too soon.”

Your chest feels tight, like your heart is wrenching and you’re scared it might break. “Me neither,” you state shyly.

Then gradually the indigos and oranges transition to black as the sun fully disappears below  the horizon and you are sad to see it leave. You’ve also long since left the meadow and the forest surrounding it behind. The land you walk through is wide, flat, empty. There aren’t any plants or animals and it feels foreign, adjusted as you had been to the lush scenery of this afternoon. The only feature worth noting are the mountains that come into view now, which, while you’d already assumed them to be tall, are taller than you first thought as you get closer, so high they seem to touch the clouds, perhaps even extending past them.

“This way.” The man’s voice pulls your attention away from staring up at the clouds. There’s a path that leads farther into the mountain. “Watch your step. It’s rather dark.”

What light of the moon reaches through small gaps in the mountain reflects off the helmet strung around his neck. He takes care to move slowly to ensure you don’t lose him but the glint of his helmet serves as a beacon. The more you venture in, you wonder where you’re going. Should you ask him? The idea of doing so hadn’t crossed your mind all day because you’d been happy just to be with him, no apprehension about the destination, or whether or not  there was one. But now…

The words are on the tip of your tongue, about to be voiced, but they die out once you turn a final corner and spot a river. The water is dark, almost black, and a haze settles above it that obscures what might possibly be on the opposite shore. Once you do speak, it’s still a question, but it’s no longer about where the two of you are headed. He doesn’t need to tell you that.

“Wanted to let me down gently, didn’t you?” The manner in which you ask this is quiet, lightly teasing but also laced with a sadness you do little to hide.

Hermes—for now you know confidently who he is—leads you right to the edge of the water and then stops, twisting around. “I chose to take the longer route with you.”

You meet his gaze. His eyes are sorrowful, yet for their melancholy they are still just as beautiful, and they’re tender as he looks at you. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath, momentarily glancing at the water then returning his focus to you. “You hadn’t realized what happened, and I didn’t want to tell you. I decided we would venture through the nature you love so much, taking breaks where you desired, to listen to the bugs and to feel the sun.”

Thinking back to this morning, you recall that when you’d woken up, you hadn’t checked behind you. If you had, you would’ve noticed your body there. You’d been too enamored by Hermes to do that. Though you suppose there are worse ways of being led to the Underworld, and you’d always be grateful to Hermes for choosing to take the long way.

“Through it I’ve grown very fond of you,” he confesses. He offers a small smile, and you surmise it’s a struggle, at odds with a frown because of where he has brought you, and what it implies. “A day with you was a lifetime, and it still didn’t feel long enough.”

You muster a smile of your own. “One day or an eternity, I don’t suppose any length of time ever would.”

A boat comes into view, appearing to materialize through the fog, and once it stops at the small dock, the front bumping gently and the water lapping against the support beams, Hermes gives the ferryman two coins. Treat her well, he instructs. And then he turns to you a final time, and when your heart squeezes, you really think it has broken.

Glancing down, your eyes settle on the flowers you’re gripping. You’d kept them with you the entire journey. But now you hold them out to Hermes, and the heaviness in your chest seems to lighten slightly as he takes them and the expression on his face becomes a little less crestfallen. You would hate to leave him in such a forlorn state.

“Thank you, Hermes.” You hope he can detect the sincerity, and when he smiles faintly, you know that he has.

He helps you onto the boat, clasping your much smaller hand in his to provide support, and he stands on the shore as the ferryman pushes away, watching you until the fog engulfs the boat once more. And though he’s alone, the flowers in his hand make him feel far from lonely.

[sylvie-writes]

Beautiful Just the Way You Are

word count: 1982

request: 

warnings: talks of negative self-image. please don’t read if this will upset you! 

a/n: this is part 5 of (undetermined) of me trying to finish requests that have been sent in ages ago. IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. it’s been hard to write but hopefully these will do. please ignore any mistakes, I typed this a bit fast and didn’t really check.

Chris 

You and Chris were getting ready to go to one of his closest friend’s wedding. 

This would be the first time you would meet each other so making a good first impression was a must.

Chris had gone to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners and you were currently scouring through the four dresses your sister-in-laws had lended you. 

The wedding was a summer wedding and it was gonna be held on the beach. 

As of recently, the heat had gotten worse each day meaning you didn’t want to be stuck in a dress that caused you to sweat like a runner after 12 miles. 

Both of Chris’s sisters had noted this and unfortunately all four dresses before you were above the knee, something that made you uneasy.

It seemed that when you were going to meet people or attend public events, your insecurities crept up even more than usual and your mind would shove negative thoughts down your throat. 

You were gorgeous, no doubt, but with such poisonous thoughts of yourself, you couldn't see any beauty as your reflection stared back from the mirror.

The first dress was a lacy yellow v-neck dress. It slightly flared out to the sides and it complimented your figure beautifully.

The second dress was a black bodycon, which made you want to scream. While to the average eye, your curves flourished under this dress, all you could see was a belly and hips that you wanted gone.

The third and fourth dresses were similar with thin spaghetti straps and flowy bottoms which reminded you of a bell.  

Unbeknownst to you, Chris had come back sometimes in between trying on the second and third dress. 

He peeked through the door, admiring how amazing you looked. 

Chris kept thinking how lucky he was to have such a woman until he heard yells of anger that shook him from his daydream. 

That was when you tried on the last dress and the final straw was gone. 

Your anger turned into tears as you collapsed onto the food feeling nothing but pain and worthlessness. 

In seconds, Chris was on the floor with you, wrapping his arms around your front where your arms were held up to your eyes. 

He rocked you back and forth, shushing you gently. 

“(y/n), honey, speak to me. Tell me what I can do to help you?”

Words were worthless at this point and all Chris could make out was “dress.”

He put two and two together and realized that you were upset with the way you looked. 

For some time now, Chris knew this had been a problem, but he didn’t realize it would bubble up this badly.

He knew words of his compliments wouldn’t help at all because you’d just say that he was lying. 

All he wanted was for you to see yourself through his point of view because you were like an angel.

“Hey, love, listen to me.”

Chris removed your hands from your eyes and looked at you in the mirror. 

“You are stunning, always and forever. Your body does amazing things for you and for me.” He chuckled at the end causing you to laugh a bit, a sad smile on your face. 

“I know you don’t believe me, but I would never lie to you. I made you that promise all those years ago and I will keep it forever, you understand me?”

You nodded just wanting to shrug this whole embarrassing experience off. You were never one to want people to see you like this because it felt like you were vying for attention when you weren’t.

“No, (y/n), I want you to say.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Yes, I know, Chris.” 

He smiled and kissed your temple, “There’s my girl. Now c’mon, let's keep this dress on and I’ll help you with your makeup.

Ransom

You and Ransom were at one of Harlan’s publishing parties.

The family was up to their usual shenanigans leaving you and Ransom to sip on one too many drinks to stay interested.

One Joni walked away after trying to sell you some of her face moisturizer that cost more than the largest bag of dog food, Ransom snuck up behind you and led you to the garden, away from the sight of any house guests.

“How about we sneak away and take a dip in the pool?” His eyebrows raised teasingly and it was hard to resist such an offer.

“But Ransom, I don’t have a swimsuit!” You motioned to your maxi dress that was too pretty to damage with chlorine. 

You set your drink down on the cement bench and went to sit beside it before Ransom grabbed your hand and smirked. 

“Fine by me, here, simple fix!” 

In seconds, Ransom slipped off your dress, not even with a tear which was shocking from his usual animalistic movements. 

This left you standing in your simple undergarments, yet feeling more naked than actually being so. 

Ransom placed a kiss on your head before jumping into the pool in his boxers and nothing more.

He seemed ever so happy, waving his arms for you to jump in as he shook his now mop-like hair, now looking like a wet dog. 

Instead, you were sitting quietly on the ledge of the pool, arms wrapped around your waist trying to cover every inch of your exposed body. 

You felt so terrible like the sight Ransom would see would be so repulsive because that was exactly what you were thinking. 

When Ransom noticed that you were frozen in your spot and zoned out on some dragonfly floating in the pool, he swam closer. 

Ransom placed his hands on your thighs and looked up to see tears running down your nose and cheeks, dropping onto your lap.

At his touch, you involuntarily pushed him away and Ransom respected your space, floating back a bit. 

“Angel, what’s wrong?” 

“Ransom, I don’t want to be out here like this!”

You were on the verge of yelling, but instead kept your voice at a harsh whisper.

“Are you afraid someone will see us because (y/n) I can assure you they won’t. Plus, they’ve seen worse happen in this pool, trust me.” Ransom laughed, but you didn’t and he picked up on this, deciding to remain serious for the rest of the conversation.

“No it’s not that. I don’t want YOU to see me like this!”

The man swimming in front of you was in shock at such negative words coming from your mouth. 

He looked at you as an absolute goddess and he often wondered why a beauty like you would stay with a mess like him.

Sure he was gorgeous on the outside, but you were both inside and out.

“You’re just saying that because you feel like you have to, Ransom.”

You huffed and looked the other way, not wanting to even glare at him. 

Ransom laid his head on your lap in defeat.

“What do you want me to do? Worship you? Because I will! Oh (y/n), have mercy on me with your beauty! You are just so-” 

At this point, Ransom was speaking as loud as possible and he knew he was getting on your nerves.

You playfully rolled your eyes, “OKAY OKAY.  I BELIEVE YOU. Will you just hush now!?” 

Ransom looked up with a devious glimmer in his eyes, before he pulled you into the pool and you squealed loudly. 

“I think you are the one who should hush now, missy!”

Andy 

Andy had just gotten off from work and you had just finished making a surprise dinner. 

He was delighted at the sight of homemade chicken pot pie along with two bottles of old fashioned soda, a small tradition between the two of you.

You both settled down to watch a movie with your plates of chicken pot pie.

Andy had picked a movie that you’d never seen before and within five minutes your happy mood had morphed into insecurity. 

Turning, you saw Andy intently watching the movie as the most perfect woman appeared on screen and the negativity sprawled from your mind, turning nothing into something. 

While Andy just innocently enjoyed the movie, your inner saboteur told you that he was more so enjoying the sight of the gorgeous woman on screen. 

After all he had been stuck with you, so you didn’t blame him. 

Well he wasn’t actually stuck with you, but that's what you told yourself. 

You told yourself that he just felt bad for you and that is why he stayed. 

Andy noticed that halfway through the movie, you were uncharacteristically quiet and a sour pout on your face. 

“Gosh, imagine looking like that! That would be a dream.” A bitter laugh ended your snide comment and Andy immediately shut off the tv.

“Why did you do that?!” 

Andy just shook his head, “Because of what you said! (y/n), is there something you’d like to tell me?” 

“All I said was that I wish I looked like her. What’s wrong with that?” You nonchalant shrugged and turned away from his hard stare. 

“Honey, I can read you very well and I can tell that wasn’t just a joke.” 

You were quiet and Andy continued to pry. He pulled you tight to his chest, murmuring whispers of praise causing you to break and cry quietly.

“See, even when you cry, you are pretty.” 

Steve

The funny thing about insecurities is that it can turn someone into an absolute mess or monster. 

In this instance it was both.

You and Steve were at a cafe, one that you had been visiting together for years now.

Today, it seemed that the cafe had hired new employees as at least four faces you didn’t recognize were waltzing around the kitchen. 

It didn’t bother you until a complete beauty who introduced herself as Cara waited at your table. 

At first it was like the green eyed monster had crawled out of you and you felt shameful all until gut intuition showed you that she was being a bit too friendly with Steve. 

Little glances from across the room with flirty waves. At one point you swore that she winked at him. 

Her tone would instantly change anytime she talked to you and that made your blood boil.

Steve noticed your change in attitude as a borderline scary scowl worked its way on your lips. 

You were burning holes into the back of her head as you thought about how perfect the two would be together. 

Steve tried to nudge your half of your sandwich to catch your attention as he was clueless to what was running through your head. 

“Hey, doll. Why don’t you eat your sandwich? The flies are crazy and I can’t keep them away for long!” He swatted at the nagging flies, laughing at how the tiny creatures were defeating him, Captain America. 

You didn’t hear any of what he said and instead mean words that never once came out of his mouth.

“Why don’t you go be with her. She’s so perfect for you anyway.”

You stood from the table and stormed out the door, the tiny bell above it mocking you.

Steve was utterly confused at this random outburst. 

All he had mentioned was the sandwich, nothing about a girl, especially the waitress, whatever her name was.

Thinking back, Steve realized that she was flirting with him, but he was just so used to being friendly that he didn’t notice that he had put up such an illusion.

Especially one that hurt you.

The only word he was able to get out was “what” before he rushed out behind you.

He grabbed your arm and spun you to face him, not angry as he knew exactly how being insecure felt. 

“(y/n), you are the only one who is perfect for me.” 

You just fell into his arms, remembering that you were truly the only one for Steve.

[bosspigeon]

i left a little something on the table for you

Saints and Sinners isn’t the only club in Vapolis, but most of them have the same or similar protocols, to varying degrees of diligence. Still, everyone should know the game by now, no matter where they go. It’s all the same general gist: check your ID, check you for weapons, get the cover charge, then send you in to get wasted and be stupid without the threat of a disembowelment on the dance floor.

Most people don’t want the trouble. They just obey the rules and leave their weapons at home or in their car, though plenty of others do try to conceal a piece regardless, and either let the bouncers confiscate it to give back when they leave, or kick up a fuss and get thrown right back out the door. If they do manage to slip under the radar, most people have the sense to keep quiet about it.

Coyote Knox isn’t most people.

The merc’s clothes are almost always pretty shredded, and Jax knows him well enough by now to know that, while he does wear them like the damage is all intentional, most of it isn’t. It means he’s rarely fully clothed, which makes it pretty easy to pat him down and send him on his way, with several shiny new knives for the trouble.

Well, some of them are new, anyway.

Some of them still have blood on them.

This time, it wasn’t Jax at the door. It should be his night off, and while he usually has better things to do with his free time than hang around the place, Orla wanted him to pop in for a brief consult for some job coming down the line.

He goes to the bar for a quick drink before he heads out, the crowd parting around him like water the second they see who he is, flags down a bartender, and waits.

And then he hears that loud fucking mouth.

“It’s not the size that matters, babe,” Knox is saying, his voice a rough purr. He never smells like tobacco, and Jax has never seen him smoke, so he’s not sure where that rasp could come from, but it’s there regardless, like vodka and broken glass. “It’s what you do with it.”

“Uh-huh,” the bartender laughs indulgently. Jax can’t remember their name, but clearly they know Knox well enough to be comfortable with him. Speaks to their mental state, he supposes. “I still think you’re compensating for something.”

He knows he’s going to regret it, but Jax turns his head to the left, and it’s easy enough to see Orla’s rabid pet merc even through the crush of people vying for the attention of the bartenders darting about like bright dragonflies in neon and mesh.

He’s sitting on the bar with his heavy boot propped up on a vacant stool that several people are eyeing with furious envy, but none are brave enough to try for, considering the little bastard is twirling around a bowie knife like a fucking baton.

“Compensating for what, doll?” the masked merc chuckles, leaning back on his elbow. He’s practically lying across the bar, head tilted back, choppy hair hanging down as he smiles winsomely at the orange-haired bartender who twists nimbly around him to top off glasses and gather orders like they’re used to his bullshit. “I know what I’ve got and how to use it, I just feel like it never hurts to have plenty of options at my disposal.”

“Let a bouncer catch you waving that thing around, and I’m sure Orla will remove a few of your options for you.” The bartender clears some empty glasses from the bar and drops them by a nearby sink, taking a clean shaker to begin mixing cocktails.

Jax is off the clock. It’s none of his goddamned business. He drums his fingers against the sticky bartop and immediately regrets it, scowling and wiping his hand on his jeans. They’re expensive, but at least they’re dark. He can have them cleaned later.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Knox croons, sitting up and raking back his hair. Someone leaves their drink alone for a second, and he snatches it up and knocks half of it back in one go. Disgusting. “I know when to test my luck. I nicked the bouncer rotation from her office last time I was in. Jaxxie’s not on duty tonight, so I’m in the clear. The other muscleheads know not to fuck with me if they’d like to keep their own options intact.”

It’s a good thing Jax hasn’t gotten his drink yet, because he’s pretty sure he’d slam it down on the bar and shatter the glass.

“I’ll have to have a talk with them, then,” he snarls, loud enough to be heard over the noise, and to make the people around him clear the hell out.

The bartender yelps and nearly drops the shaker.

Knox just groans. “Speak of the devil.”

Jax pushes off the bar and stalks through the crowd, and saints and sinners alike practically throw themselves out of his path. Knox doesn’t move from his graceless sprawl across the bar, though he does sit up a bit to watch. His bright yellow eyes track the bouncer’s every move, his pierced lips kicking into a smirk.

The bartender, predictably, makes themself scarce.

“You must be stupider than you look,” Jax says, crossing his arms across his chest.

Yellow eyes flicker down to the open vee of Jax’s silk shirt, and that lazy smirk spreads wider. “Mama always told me smarts weren’t the way to catch a husband anyhow,” he drawls. He taps the tip of the blade against his temple like he’s imparted some deep wisdom and takes a pointed sip of his stolen drink.

Jax curls his lip and doesn’t deign that with a reply. “Hand over the knife, and I won’t throw you into traffic and tell Orla she’ll have to pick up a new poorly-trained housepet from the pound.”

The merc’s quick, Jax will give him that. In the blink of an eye he twists the knife away and arches off the bar, slipping it into some hidden sheath behind his back. He also manages to do so while slurping down the last of his stolen drink, and sliding the empty glass down the bar for the original owner to find. He wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, before he raises them both and wiggles his fingers so the rings on them click together. “You must be mistaken, Sir,” he simpers, fluttering his eyelashes, “I don’t have any knife. I’m an upstanding citizen, and I would never disobey the rules of this fine establishment!”

A frisson of something shoots down Jax’s spine, but he chalks it up to anger, because that’s generally what overwhelms him when he has to see this smug little fuck’s face. He can’t be that useful to Orla, the way she bitches about him.

But he’s still around being a thorn in Jax’s side, so he must be good for something.

It shouldn’t be his problem. He’s off the clock. But he knows Orla would find some way to blame him if Knox got out of hand while Jax was around to stop it. So he grabs the merc by one stout shoulder and starts carting him towards the doors.

Knox, to his credit, doesn’t struggle. What he does might be even more annoying, cackling like a madman and blowing a kiss up at Jax. “Baby, at least buy me dinner first!” he crows as they carve through the crowd, stumbling a bit to compensate for Jax’s much longer stride.

The two bouncers on duty leap out of the way when Jax shoves him through the doors, and the look he gives them both has them cringing away. They must be some of the new hires Orla mentioned. “We’re going to have a talk later,” he promises grimly.

“Oh, don’t be too hard on them, Jaxxie,” Knox coos. His mask is slipping off, and he fumbles to peel it away and toss it to the ground while being dragged along by the arm, “they don’t know any better.” He laughs again, grating and sharp, and he keeps laughing until Jax hauls him out the door and lets him go so suddenly he goes staggering into the hood of someone’s car. Thankfully, the car doesn't seem to have an alarm. Knox raps his knuckles against the dented hood and raises his eyebrows, apparently making the same observation. “Noted,” he says wickedly.

“Next time, I won’t be so gentle,” Jax snarls, the back of his neck still prickling at the nickname.

Coyote flicks his tongue out, wiggling the split prongs, the silver ball embedded in it catching the dull light of the dirty street lamp overhead. “Ooooh, do you promise?”

As far as Jax is concerned, the problem is handled. He gives the merc one last withering look, eyes narrowed and lip curled, before he stalks away to find his own car and get the hell out of dodge before he’s roped into more nonsense. Knox’s raspy cackle follows him the whole way.

He’s halfway home when a sudden, niggling suspicion tickles at the back of his mind. He waits until he’s at a red light to pat down his waist, which feels notably lighter than it should.

“Motherfucker!” he snaps when he realizes his gun isn’t there. He’s not the type to lose things, especially not important things.

Orla warned him on day one the merc had sticky fingers, and he didn’t listen, thinking nobody would be stupid enough to try him.

A part of him, though, is sort of… grudgingly impressed. How’d the crazy little bastard manage to take it? When?

Jax drags a hand over his mouth and grumbles to himself. He’d shake the truth, and his damned gun, out of the merc next time he saw him, no matter what.

A rough voice that sounds suspiciously like Knox croons in the back of his mind.

Sounds like a date.

[faetxlity]

Hey, it's Ledgea, 99 for Aiden/Coën/Lambert for your prompt game? Thanks!

Song 99 of my Wrap-up was....

Принцесса - Бабек Мамедрзаев Lambert/Aiden/Coen below the cut - rated T for suggestive content and Lambert typical cursing.

They were in the middle of no where, which was somewhere outside of Vizima, and Lambert was doing his best to not shout to the gods as Aiden’s clever fingers bright him to completion. Aiden was already sated, draped over Lambert’s chest and pressed flush along his side, and his pretty lips pressed over and over against the Wolf’s jaw and neck. Traces of their missing lover, who wasn’t missing at all but working in a role they couldn’t play, clung to them both in scent.

“Fuck, Princess.” He turned his head, satisfied very well, and took kisses from Aiden’s lips. “Aren’t you sweet?”

Aiden nipped him to prove contrary.

In the evening they would be attending a party, acting as security against bandits on the grounds, for no nobleman would allow a witcher inside such a prestigious event (except the one Witcher who was allowed inside and currently the only other thing on Lambert's mind), but it was a good gig nonetheless. Which meant that no one should have been bothering them for some hours and certainly not around their little hideaway.

“Someone’s been having fun.”

Lambert stiffened, tightened his hold around Aiden’s shoulders, and snatched up a dagger. He could throw it blind and hit a falcon, a man sized target would be nothing.

“Aiden~” The stranger sing-songed. Muffled against his neck Aiden cursed, exasperated and annoyed. Lambert didn’t let that relax him. “Come on, little brother, come introduce us.”

Aiden huffed, shoved his nose hard into Lambert’s pulse, and then tucked himself back into his pants.

“Why the fuck are you here?” He called out to the apparently-not-a-stranger.

“Working a contract! Lot less fun than whatever petty thing you’ve got.” Aiden frowned deeply and levered himself out of their makeshift nest.

“Stay here a minute?”

“Gaetan, what the hell.”

“Heard there were some others of us with pretty hair about and I thought - it’s either Aiden or Dragonfly so I’ll go say hi.”

“Look, good to see you but I’m busy.”

“I can smell.”

“Gaetan.”

“Come out and let me meet my brother’s lover!” Aiden seemed to like this one, whoever he was, so Lambert put the blade aside and smoothed his hair back before stepping into view. The Cat that had interrupted them was small, shorter than Lambert with a close shaved head and keen eyes like goldenrod. He whistled and appraised Lambert shamelessly.

“Not bad, Little Brother.” It was genuine praise but it had Lambert’s back up. “I’d shake your hand but I think I know where it’s been. I’m Gaetan.”

“Lambert.”

“Pleasure, I’m sure.”

They did not break bread or take supper together but they did share some ale before Gaetan took his leave and promised to see them that evening. It took only a few minutes for Aiden to start pacing.

“I can’t believe he caught us. He’s going to tell everyone. What if he finds Co too and -”

“Aiden, there’s no need to panic over it.”

“They’ll hunt you down just to say they did it! Or won’t let me hear the end of it in winter or- or tell me I can’t come back!”

“And?”

“I don’t exactly have a Keep to return to.”

He sighed and swept the other man up by the waist, holding him close with a sigh.

“No need to stress, Princess.” Lambert wasn’t very good at being gentle but he knew how to kiss Aiden’s neck and hold his hip to cradle him just right. “Your brothers think you make the sun rise, I’m not going to ruin that.”

“You don’t ruin anything.”

“And! If I’m not presentable enough you can take Coën.” He felt more than hard Aiden laugh. Their wayward Griffin fit perfectly with them but he’d be more out of place among the Cats than a bear at a dinner table. “So we’ll go to the party, get paid handsomely, and then we’ll get some uninterrupted fun.”

No one died at the party. Lambert half expected at least one body to drop given the company that he knew to be running around the grounds but Coën stood on the single balcony and waved at them every now and then. He’d dressed finely and Lambert wanted nothing more than to climb the trellis and ruin his perfectly combed hair. He didn’t: only because he was a professional.

Their contract was fulfilled at the stroke of midnight and they raced to the roof of the empty groundskeeper’s hut where it had been decided they would meet. Lambert scrambled up just in time to watch Coën start a sprint across the grounds to join them.

The music was dying down, more and more musicians growing tired and taking their leave until it was a single violinist playing for the straggling guests. From the folds of his cloak Aiden produced a bottle of wine with a flourish and twisted the cork out, letting it fall to the ground far below. They laid close, Lambert pressed in the middle, and passed the bottle back and forth.

Lambert pillowed his head on his own arm and turned to look at the Cat. “Hey Princess,” Pretty gold eyes, flecked through with green, settled on Lambert with anticipation. Lambert continued, “It’s all nonsense isn’t it?”

“Hm?” Atop Lambert’s stomach Coën and he linked hands.

“World‘s not ending, no one could give less of a shit about the three of us- no wait let me finish -“ he squeezed Coën’s wrist to head off any philosophical comments “-so why don’t we all go somewhere nice? If you want to go to the Caravan I’ll go with you, Co can swing by that friend in Novigrad, and then we go to the coast or something. How about it? Somewhere warm for winter.” If Aiden said no that was… well, that was fine really. He’d climb the mountain with Coën, spend the winter sharing comforts with one half of his heart, and they would meet in spring just as they had for years now. Three years as a unit, longer for each pair individually.

“Are you asking us on a date, Lam?” Aiden smiled crookedly, fang on display.

Coën rumbled, “I dare say he is.”

“Maybe I am.” He suddenly felt sheepish.

“My knight.” Aiden and Coën slid their joined hands higher, over his heart.

“Is that a yes, Princess?”

It was.

[batarella]

ANDROMEDA - CHAPTER SIX

Jason Todd is lost in an unknown realm light years away from Earth.

With not much hope to find his way back, his only companion is a cruel alien cyborg from the enemy fleet,  one he’ll have to get along with to survive.

A/N: THE FLUFF STARTS HERE

WORDS: 10,270 WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF PAST TRAUMA 

MASTERLIST

—–

Allies are not friends.

They don’t have to be fond of each other. Tolerance was most desirable. An annoyance- plausible, though might lead to dangers involving her fist down his neck. Fondness- unnecessary, and highly doubtful to happen.

And it certainly didn’t mean any of them had to put up with unnecessary chatter, small talk, or any of the sort.

Sometimes, when he wasn’t purposely being an irate pest, Jason was alright to be with. That morning, perhaps, was one of those days, as she didn’t awake to babbling or screams, but rather to her own well-rested fulfilment; crusts in her eyes as the hay dug into her flesh from where she laid.

It was a peaceful morning. Fresh air despite the hefty fog, quiet and serene as it often was in her well wishes for each day. She stretched her back, arms, and legs. No one was around but the fleshy horse and the weird ram. Was it noontime? She had no way of knowing. Nighttime lasted three quarters of a whole day here.

Jason was out, it seems. Went on his own around the market like the tourist he claimed not to be. He arrived at the barn with a sack over his shoulders not long after she awakened. “Mornin’ Briar Rose,” he snorted. She did not like that name. “Took you long enough.”

“How long was I out?”

“About twenty hours. You were out cold. And you snore.”

“I barely have any sinuses,” she sneered as she fixed her holster and scabbards, “I don’t snore.”

“I’d have filmed you if I didn’t know you’d beat me to death if I did.”

Smart.

“I was tired,” she said as she outed the foggy disturbance in her mouth. N/N watched him unearth the many trinkets out of his sack of goods. “And where were you this whole time?”

“Went around a few shops. Ten bags for a quarter. You were right about the currency thing being weird.”

In front of her, on the wooden desk she’d cleared of her weapons, Jason threw packets of popcorn kernels: the same she’d downed just that night. Perhaps that was why she slept so soundly despite the whole universe in a chaotic whirlwind.

“You bought more?” she picked one up and felt the unpopped kernels beneath the paper. “We have enough food.”

“Relax. Better too much than too little.”

“But why this?” she asked unknowing.

His shoulders rose as if the answer out of him was too easy to tell, but that easiness didn’t come to be as they fell back into place, mouth parted for that same second before it shut.

“Because you liked them,” he said, and that didn’t sound like it was easy to tell at all.

N/N stopped amid strapping a gun to her leg, but continued after some time, without a thought on what to say, or if she should say anything at all.

Jason settled himself against one of the wooden archways, sat down, and looked up the ceiling. “I found a weapons shop,” he started. She tried hard to recall the time she asked, but the drowsiness hadn't fully departed, and she wasn’t in any mood to yell or be sarcastic. Besides, he bought her popcorn.

“I went in there with just three coins and about fifty bucks in bills, which I don’t think they’d want. Anyway, I was looking around and I found two handguns looking exactly like the ones back at home. Black pistols. Fits perfectly in my holsters, too. Don’t get me wrong; the blasters I took from the Fleet were awesome, but these things look like they’ve been microwaved just before they’d internally combust. So I asked how much the guns were. Didn’t know what he said after. I showed him all the coins I had left but that could only get me one of them. You know what I offered?”

N/N hadn't shut him down yet, which was something. She instead raised her brows as if she were the least bit interested.

“The silver from my belt buckle. Caught his attention like a snare trap. I counteroffered with a rifle and he seemed pretty cool with it.”

She glanced at the now empty sack and the weapons strapped to his hip. “So where are they?”

“Haven’t bought them yet. Told him I’d come back later before we leave. That’ll give me another grenade if the guy’s as desperate as I hope.”

“We’re leaving now,” she monotonously uttered, picked the last of her stuff up as he followed her out the barn. “You should have just bought them.”

“Then I saw they had a cybernetic arm for sale. Costs a fortune but it looked about your size. You planning on doing anything about that soon?” he pointed at the loss of limb. The maniacal imbecile.

“No. I have no credits to my name and I’ve dealt with worse. And in case you forgot, this was your doing.”

“Hey. I would have gotten it with the pistols if I had the coins.”

Suddenly that irritation grew to quietness, then N/N brushed it off and strapped on the last edges of her boot. They flew off the barn with one of Saro’s ziplines and landed on the hangar.

What was waiting for them at the end, however, wasn’t a ship driven out of the repair terminals or a finish that would have told them it was ready for lightyears of flight. Instead, the Dragonfly had on a large tent over its shell to cover it up, with Saro at the base of it talking to one of his men.

“You said it would be ready by now,” N/N startled him without any other greeting. Jason was behind her and was kind enough to at least wave his hand.

‘There is a problem,’ Saro croaked, not being the least bit intimidated by the cyborg. ‘Your fuel cells are incompatible with the ones we have in stock.’

“What do you mean?” she said with her teeth gritted. “Those are the standard.”

‘In some sectors, perhaps. But these were made a long way from the far ends of the galaxy. Standards could only work for so far out of the parsec.’

“Can you do something else? Makeshift the battery terminals?”

She started fidgeting uneasily and didn’t even know it.

‘Not enough to adapt to our cells, it seems, or else your whole ship explodes. Provide me with compatible batteries and I’ll work something out.’

Her mouth was as dry as her fists hurt from clenching. “What kind of batteries?”

‘Something more powerful. Your ship isn’t sustainable enough to make it last half the time it's supposed to.’

“What, you want me to steal a fucking Lantern Power Battery?”

‘That could work.’

“I wasn’t serious,” she growled. “Where do I get these batteries?

‘At the shops.’

“I don’t have any credits left.”

Saro waved them over to a nearby desk that had piles so disorganized she heard Jason flinch when they fell. After rummaging through the sort, he pulled out a flyer: one that crumpled from water damage even with it looking new.

THE SOMI ARENA MATCH

FOR THE BEST FIGHTERS IN THE GALAXY

REWARD: 300,000 CREDITS

Saro needn’t say anything more. N/N stuffed the paper into her pockets and left.

“I take it wasn’t good news?”

The fact that they’re stuck in that smoke-infested planet for another day? Or that they had to make a round trip pitstop at the sister planet millions of kilometers away with no money, no direction, and no idea where to begin?

Her eyes were on the earthling as she held herself from more curses and breathed.

-----

“At least he was nice enough to lend us these.”

Breathers to stick to their noses and filter out the oxygen from the water. Either Saro lends them that, or, knowing what N/N would resort to, risk another instance of high-speed chases and runaway fiascos after she robs a bus or even a whole ship. Thankfully, she hadn't thought of that herself just yet. She might when she reaches the inevitable bridge.

They didn’t have to pay for transport, either. Tourism demanded the amenity to quickly move between Ogawa and Somi, the sister market planets, which they weren’t about to ignore the advantage. Just at the outskirts of the Central, two giant wormholes were stationed with lines of all races, staff members and guides who mediated the whole area, and a port that meets everyone who wishes to enter. One was to take them from Ogawa to Somi, and one for the other way around.

The wormholes resembled boom tubes, though it was much larger, much brighter, and what was so odd: she could see everyone inside it even as they’ve stepped in, so it wasn’t much of a teleportation tube as it was a tube- something that speeds them past the kilometers fast enough for it to take no more than a few minutes.

Suddenly, it was no wonder why the place was littered with outsiders. Obnoxious ones at that.

When they reached the port, and after skillfully slipping into crowds to avoid being asked for identification, N/N pulled up her hood as they stood in line for the first wormhole. Jason was behind her, looking around for more oddities he questionably liked to stare at.

“Give me pointers about this planet before we get there.”

They moved along the line as people stepped into the white threshold. N/N spoke over her shoulder: “You’ve seen it just before we landed.”

“I know. But what’s it like?”

“A lot of its mass is water, so that’s where civilization grew.”

“Underwater cities?” Jason beamed.

“Yes. And when we get there, we find a way to get a battery and leave. No shopping. No detours.”

He held his hands up in defense. “Swear. You lead the way.”

It didn’t take long before it was their turn to walk into the tube. A fabric of light, like a curtain of plasma so easily walked into yet so terrifying to approach. The brightness didn’t blind them, even with it resembling the face of headlights coming straight for you. Still, with the light the same of the most dangerous stars, they shielded their eyes as they took their first step.

Then.

Then they stopped walking.

It was everything else that moved.

The speed of light can only be so comprehensibly fast, not a spectacle for eyes or even scopes of the highest advancements. Light doesn’t appear to move. It resembles a blink or an instant that just suddenly appears sourced from one end to the next. At least, to the eyes of many, it is that very thought. Light isn’t fast to them because it doesn’t look like it’s moving at all.

But the moment one does experience the speed of light, how it travels through space, an empty vacuum, or a smoke-filled jungle, only then could it be understood just how fast light can be.

The tube to Somi wasn’t a teleportation tube at all, but a horizontal elevator that moved faster than any flash or flame.

And instead of a boxed compartment that moved as they stayed put, everything around them was transparent plasma, glass if it weren’t so solid, to shield them from the lack of air. Between the two planets is nothing, as expected, but empty space. And it is that very space they were travelling in- at the speed of light.

And what was most likely the reason for all the tourists could be nothing else but the view.

With how vast the stars were, it seemed to be the same as the speed of an ordinary ship flying from both ends. But they’d never seen it from such a standpoint. Above and around, watching over like eyes stuck on clouds, the billions of lights so miniscule and twinkling smiled down as they heard the cries of admiration, the caws of wonder. Nothing was so silent, even with all the people about. There were more planets at the far ends, galaxies the size of seeds, suns so near it hurt to watch, yet not enough to pry off the awe-struck eyes.

And they weren’t even walking.

They stood motionless as the floor moved for them. At the lightspeed, they tore through what they thought to be the impossible.

But of course, N/N wasn’t marveling over any of it. She looked down at her shoes and not even at the clear glass that allowed them to move, nor the literal abyss that awaited below.

With a grin she hated to see, Jason broke his silence. “N/N. Look up.”

From under her hood, the first thing she looked at was not the stars nor anything out of the otherworldly view. Instead, she scowled at Jason. He didn’t stop his pestering, however, and just pointed at the sky.

In particular, a star cluster just over their heads.

“Stars,” she unenthusiastically muttered. “Okay.”

“Pretty right?.”

N/N pouted, watched as the twinkling drew soft lines at the speed they moved. “They’re alright.”

“They form a ladle.” Jason started drawing invisible lines with the tip of his finger. “And there. I see a tree.”

“Excuse me?”

“Constellations.”

It was then when she thought entrusting so much of her life, as of the now and tomorrow, to this manic, delusional earthling might not be the best idea.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“When stars form shapes. Look at those three. That’s the trunk. And the ones around it are the branches and leaves.”

It hurt to listen. “I don’t know what you have on Earth, but I definitely don’t name stars after trees or ladles,” she groaned and hoped the demons were there and make her unhear it all.

“Once you see it, it’s all you’ll ever see.”

She wished that wasn’t so.

Because when she did take a glance up, it was true. She did see the tree. It was horribly built with a bent trunk and uneven branches, but a tree. It did none but make her groan.

They reached the port. The plasma walls surrounded them, the staff guiding them in as they neared the planet. Then the stars quickly morphed into sea life, the black space into this cerulean blue and greens that littered in stripes as they entered the planet’s first layer of the atmosphere.

Suddenly, they were underwater, into the civilization that lived for millennia and housed all aquatic races in the near galaxy.

N/N didn’t care for the fish that swam in schools or the algae that floated to the current. Instead, her attention was on the earthling.

She studied his face, watched how his face changed from held-back grins to sighs of wonderment, because if anything was a curiosity she ought to figure out, it was Jason.

There was that darkness in him she often got a glimpse at. He wasn’t all light. He wasn’t this ray of yellow and white and a spirit so pure and untainted that not even the worst atrocities could ruin his worldly views. In fact, it was far from it.

Still, she could tell, there was that push in him: a conscious whisper saying the darkness mustn’t be for so long.

Jason looked amused at the fish with spikes for tails, merfolk that danced like they would to the winds of air, sharks the size of ships, corals of changing colors like the signs of polluted cities, the clear water in place of a sky, floating petals, anemones, and creatures in place of clouds.

Then the city came into the clear. The underwater kingdom, with a Central of its own, sitting at the bed of the ocean like the embodiment of its soul. There was a mountain at the very center, one that marked the heart, and all else that floated about much like the sky city they just left were flying, hovering, with the city not having the level ground to rely on. The shops floated at almost a kilometer above, in uneven rows and columns scattered and disorganized, well-intended chaos. And the people, the merfolk, the humanoids, the fish, and all the other creatures from galaxies afar, swam about the depth of such canvas: the ocean that managed to keep its clarity and untaintedness. A child that stood on the lowest soils darted up to the heights above with no more than the aids of the fins on his arms, and what followed behind were the bubbles that trailed his feet. It was just a child, yet Jason, the six-foot-four earthling with the build of a rock (at earthling standards), gaped at the scene like it was something more.

Then, he faced her, caught her in the midst of her stare.

N/N looked away just before he’d have seen her eyes for a second too long and pretended to be so occupied with her cloak.

In some ways, they were a wonder: the stars, the dust clouds, the ocean, and the fish. She didn’t often go to water planets.

“We’re here,” Jason said, tugging at her cloak. They stepped off the wormhole, into the stable ground below a glass dome that kept out the waters.

No one waited a second before the bustling and excited squeals came into clear. The tour groups and families headed straight for the viewing decks and Center shops. Thankfully, they managed to walk against the current and stood just outside the populous swarms. Against the glass, Jason continued with his gazes at the outside while N/N surveyed the area.

“Do you know where to find the battery?”

“Somewhere far from here. Near the hangars, maybe. But that isn’t the problem.”

“What is?”

Hesitantly, N/N fished out the flyer from her cloak and handed it over to a clueless Jason.

She could feel the drop in his spirits.

“You’re joining an arena match!?” he exclaimed with a hitch in his throat. “With one arm? Are you insane?”

“I’m not joining.” She pointed at the bottom of the flyer. “We are.”

FOR TEAMS OF TWO!

“We don’t have a choice. We have 0 credits and our ship can't leave without a battery.”

Jason resorted to stinging himself by pulling on his hair.

“I know what I said about stealing before, but it sounds like the better option here.”

“Unless a bounty hunter comes along and causes a distraction, I doubt we can steal a coin.” She snatched the flyer from his hands and started for the crowd. “This place is more developed.”

And a lot more commercialized as well.

Just two spaces across them, a Green Lantern merchandise shop with toy rings and fake power batteries welcomed the tourists as they arrived from the wormholes, and they ate it up like starving men. People went out holding stuffed bears with Lantern suits on their backs.

“For an alien planet,” Jason said, “this isn’t any different than what we have on Earth.”

“I think one of the locals is a Lantern. A real famous one, too.”

“No kidding.”

She paved deeper into the crowds, onto the signs that led them to the great Arena. “You got your guns?”

“Don’t you think we should talk about this just a little bit more?”

“No.”

-----

Other than a couple of dirty looks from veterans, it didn’t take too long before the two sat at the waiting chambers. The arena had no rules for admission, no limits to who could or couldn’t sign up to the bloodfest, which meant they were facing species of the dozens, the warriors who traveled parsecs upon lightyears just to get here and shed blood. Some were at the height of their knees but had knives that cut steel like it were flesh and a build thin enough to move at the wind’s will. Some were thrice the size of the average being, with their heads weighing a ton and fists that could crush bone in one slap. Some, if not most, looked not much different from them, save for the neon skin colors and antennas sprouting out their heads, humanoids from all over the galaxy, the best fighters, awaited the countdown.

Jason had calmed, but his arms were stiff and his hands held tightly onto the seat’s ledge. He wouldn’t let his mind stop from the anxious ambling. N/N was quieter, though not as hopeful. She eyed her blade but couldn’t sharpen it without the aid of another arm. With a dull sword and just three limbs, their odds weren’t ones to wish for.

“I didn’t take you for the optimistic kind,” Jason broke the silence. He sounded as uneasy as he looked.

She placed her sword into her scabbard and sighed: “I’m not. But I think you’d know what desperation can make us do.”

“I do. I came here with you, didn’t I?”

She couldn’t let out a snide remark when it was exactly what she thought of as well.

“Can you… be underwater?”

Her homicidal tendencies started to kick in.

“Was that rude?”

She squinted.

“I’ll shut up.”

He distracted himself with the onlooking audience from behind the glass they were sitting across from. Thousands were watching, cheering. Probably not at them, seeing as they were one of the least popular teams in the contenders.

Then she clutched onto the seat as well, her hand right next to Jason’s, then she pulled- just to ease that tightening in her gut.

“I’m waterproof.”

Jason pouted his lips and bowed at her graciously. “Wow…” he gaped, and he didn’t sound as bewildered as she imagined he’d be. Jason went back to the amused staring out the foggy window instead of pitying over her like she would have done. But perhaps that was an earthling thing: thinking that steel for skin was something to mull over.

There was a buzzer, then the crowds stood from their places in an uproar. The current match just ended, and the winning teams scored a point. They could see the scoreboard from where they sat. The team at the top place only had one name, however, which was puzzling. TOS, it read. And they’d won every match they were in.

The screen distorted into the next teams to play. They were at the bottom, without a reputation to keep them up.

N/N-RED HOOD VS ZID-KID

“Zid and Kid?” Jason snorted. “They sound like they’re from a kid’s show.”

Before she could yell at him for possibly jinxing their odds, they were called to the front. The entryway was a door to a chamber, where they’d wait before the countdown strikes and the match begins immediately after the front gates open.

The guard held out his hand and almost broke Jason’s nose if he hadn't stopped in time.

“No guns,” he stammered, low enough to shake even a moth from the ground worsened by the tusks on his mouth.

As if their chances of even living weren’t already so shaky, she couldn’t say anything to the guard, nor to Jason, because that might have been when she realized this was, entirely, a death sentence, and that there might have been better options than this after all.

Jason swallowed hard enough to make his neck shake. He was looking at her the same way she looked at him: utterly horrified for the foreseeable death sentence.

Gap-mouthed, Jason pulled out the guns from his holsters and handed them over to the guard. He let them in. “Just pick out a weapon from the chamber.”

Right. The weapons they had on hand for the contenders. The weapons no one used because these beasts had ones of their own. The weapons that had rotted from the years of use underwater and probably were never cleaned for as long as the games started, which was centuries ago.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to die to lose.”

If the guard had a neck, N/N would have jumped for it.

They entered the chamber and the door locked. In front of them, another gate, and the pillars at their sides held the tubes that would pour out the water and submerge them before the match starts and they’re welcomed into the arena like a grandmother’s warm embrace.

Jason picked two swords with sharp hilts and thin blades- probably the best out of the bunch he wasn’t even willing to touch. “I’m alright with swords, aren’t I?”

“Hmm.”

Then it was his turn to give her a dirty look.

The water started pouring in, and on their mouths, they stuck the breathers. “Good luck,” he said, just before his lips were concealed.

The chamber was filled, and they were afloat in the cold waters of the unforgiving planet. Perhaps the thought that the water might just be a tad too cold to be in hadn't been conveniently made aware. But as the end of the countdown ended, so did their doubts. No turning back now.

The gates opened. The crowd roared. In front of them, their opponents: Zid and Kid.

She could hear Jason choke himself with what he said about them in a children’s show.

Zid was an eel. That was the easiest way to put it. His length, however, she didn’t want to think about if they wanted at least a string of hope to hold onto. The thing could swallow them both without being an obstruction to its organs and it’ll probably take an hour before they’d reach the other end of its body. With red eyes and fangs stuck to its mouth, things weren’t exactly looking up for them.

Kid, on the other hand, was exactly as he was named. He was a child and nothing more, a humanoid without a weapon. Wouldn’t survive on his own if it weren’t for his partner.

But they weren’t partners. Zid was his pet. Kid sat on a saddle on top of the eel’s back with reins to let him maneuver his body like he would to a horse.

Ready.

Set.

Match.

The eel darted across the current, and they split to let it pass in between. It shifted so swiftly that his length looked nothing more than a blur. Then he stood upright, eyeing them both like measly prey. The rules said they didn’t have to die but doesn’t guarantee that they won't. And with the sight of the kind of fangs the eel had, that chance wasn’t looking too bright.

It rushed for them again with its jaws wide open. N/N swam back, and Jason landed a clean cut on its side, but it was barely enough to even make it bleed or even yelp. It did, however, piss it off, because the eel’s eyes were locked on Jason like boneless meat.

He couldn’t swim away in time, and the eel was spinning around him to create a whirlpool and keep him inside. The current was too strong, and she was brought with it like a helpless, wingless bird in the midst of a storm. She spun to the pool, legs and arm flailing as if already dead. And Jason, holding onto his swords like the poor thing knew what to do with them as much as he’d hoped, swam away just inches from the eel’s jaw snapping at his side.

Then N/N kept her eyes forward, saw a clear shed of scales that looked penetrable enough for a blade. She willed herself closer, fought the currents with whatever might she had, and with just one strike, she sank the sharp tip of the blade at the ridge where the scales met. Despite the water, she could hear it pierce through its innards, with the blood that spurred out the wound. That was when she did hear a cry, and it distracted the eel enough for Jason to stab its nostrils. Deeper she sank it in until the beast finally stopped with its spinning and the kid thrashing with its reins.

N/N pulled herself to its back, running, almost crawling even on her hands just to reach the top. The water, even with its resisting force, couldn’t match with her speed, and she was at the head of the monster that laid still as Jason held its mouth open before his jaw would snap close and severe his head.

The kid was vulnerable, and before he was done fumbling for his seatbelts, N/N cut open the straps and held the child by his collar. He had gills, it looked, which was why he could let annoyingly painful shrieks out into the aquatic void. N/N threw him aside and went for Zid’s head, her blade driving deep down its skull. Jason backed away in time just before it forcibly shut its mouth.

Then, perhaps what he wouldn’t have done if he were dealing with a human and not an animal, Jason stabbed its two eyes with both his thin swords, teeth grit, and elbows shaking at the incredible force. She did the same, twisting her one blade deeper into its head, and at the last of the eel’s cries, its blood spreading everywhere that would have driven a shark mad with hunger, its cries eventually ceased, and the sharp pains that came with the stings of unexpected victory paralyzed them in place as Zid’s limp body sank to the bottom of the ocean floor.

Something grabbed hold of N/N at the back of her head. Reaching over from behind, she held Kid by his shirt up high for the audience to cheer on as the child angrily thrashed his arms.

----

N/N-RED HOOD VS THORLOX SISTERS

A couple matches down. They almost lost their heads at the last one with sling-blade, but they were here. They were alive. She, a one-armed cyborg, and Jason, an earthling. That was enough to draw pitiful stares from the audience. At first, at least, until the doubtful whispers turned to cheers as their names went higher up the scoreboard. They hadn't lost. But if they wanted a shot at winning, they’d have to keep up with their streak and go up against Tos, who still hadn't been rid from the top.

As the chamber filled with water, Jason asked her: “You okay?”

Every fracture in her rods would snap back the moment after it breaks. Of course, she was okay. Why even ask?

But she nodded, asked him the same. He was okay as well.

The gates opened and the buzzers rang. Across them, with breathers of their own stuck to their mouths, two twin humanoid girls with vicious gold eyes wouldn’t wait for the buzzer before they darted past the thick water. They were strong, well-built, had orange skin, and black hair braided down their backs. Their armor mimicked scales, impenetrable just like steel. One had an axe in her hand and the other a large mace.

The latter aimed for N/N. She was stronger, more brute. The former, more precise. The axe swung for Jason’s head and he narrowly ducked just enough for it to miss his hair. Her blade, if it could speak, would be scolding her at how she used it to block a mace’s hilt, with the jolting in her wrists as he held onto the sword like she’d die without it. She pushed her feet against the whipping current and used the surrounding water to help her blow the mace-wielding alien off her front.

Jason held to no advantage and was dodging the axe’s every hit as narrowly as he could have possibly survived. Backing away, being blown by every swing, his feet landed on the sister’s guts just enough to push her off, then with his swords, he cut a string of her skin exposed just at her shoulder.

It only angered her further. Jason always did have a knack for pissing off his opponents.

N/N fought off the mace, ducked before it hit her head. at one point, it struck her arm and dislocated it off her bone, but it snapped right into place just before the mace struck her head. Her sword, as dull as it may be, did a horrific job at blocking the mace from smashing her skull in.

And it was thrown off her grip, to her horror, then she had to hold off another swing of its spiked head with nothing more than just her palm.

N/N pushed it off with the might she could muster before it destroyed her face if even just a slice of her strength falters. Jason was doing no better, moving slower as he couldn’t land another hit with the armor on their backs too strong. The Sister pushed harder, tougher, and from behind the breather on her face, N/N could make out a devious smile that went with the golden eyes.

The breather.

At the whiff of another strong current, she let go of the mace and it narrowly missed her ear. She had a second of a window, and she spared none to take it. With the Sister propelled forward, N/N snatched the breathing mask off her face.

Then the gold eyes stuck to the sky, mortified at the water rushing down her lungs. The Sister dropped her mace, held her neck, screamed at the sudden panic. Visibly, she turned blue, and her arms swung viciously to bring her up the surface, which was nowhere near where they stood.

And her sister, hearing her muffled cries, turned around and screamed horrified at her squirming for air. She pushed Jason off her axe, swam to help her sister reach for air, but N/N had grabbed Jason by the ankle and swung him over in that same direction. As if they’d planned it out, Jason held his two blades and caught up with the enemy, ending the match as he held her stiff body with two blades stuck to her neck just a push away from drawing blood. The buzzer rang, and their sights on the prize money came clearer with each round.

-----

N/N-RED HOOD VS TOS

The water was up to their necks when Jason said what she never thought she wouldn’t mind hearing.

“We’re a good team,” he said, then he put on his breather. She didn’t know how to respond.

Tos. The undefeated champion. They win this round, and the ever dim shadow of light at the end of this black hole comes clearer. The gates opened and in came their last opponent, the one obstacle left to deal with before the prize money was as good as theirs. With one name, he was only one man.

One man with two heads. In technicality, he was two. And that made a team.

And this man was twice their size and had four eyes as white as they were empty. His skin was armor in itself, with the sharp ridges the same as rocks and stone. He had no sword, no shield. Nothing was in his hands.

Dealing with his bare hands? That would have been far too easy.

His fists? His boulders for feet? Nothing they hadn't already succeeded in.

N/N was ready to pounce, drive her sword down its thick throat and show them that stone was no match for her steel.

But Jason held out a hand to stop her. Through his petrified eyes, she could see, Tos’ lack of blades or axe or mace was to no advantage.

As he drew closer, she realized why that was.

From his fists, Tos unearthed the very weapon she swore to never have to encounter for so long as she were alive.

Something all too familiar. Something all too terrifying.

A Green Lantern ring reveled in their horrified stares, and as Tos slipped it into his finger, the chances of them even getting out of that place alive were no longer to their reach.

Before they could do anything about the growing burn both in their heads and their throats, Tos threw two heavy anvils glowing of green for their bodies

It was like a whole kilometer’s drop, even if it wasn’t so. As the anvil’s steel-like finish smashed their ribs, it pummeled them down for the unseeable ground. Their backs hit the ocean floor and it was none but their arms and legs that held to keep it up from crushing their bones.

Green Lanterns were supposed to be the universe’s police force. They arrested people like her. What the hell was this one doing in a fighting match?

She pried the anvil away from her crushing bones with her one arm, forcing it off despite its growing weight that pushed her further into the soil. Her elbow started to bend, so did her knees and thighs that she held above her head so her skull wouldn’t be crushed. She cried from behind the breather on her mouth, and her limbs, trembling from the immense might, cried out to her will as well.

Tos drew nearer. He was struggling, holding his arm with the other as he forced all weight upon the two as much as he could congress. Beside her, Jason didn’t have the advantage of near indestructibility, nor did he have the kind of strength that would have been enough. And if they took long, he’ll die from shattered bones impaling his every organ. Even if she does lift the anvil off her bones, Jason can't.

Will it be enough? Will her strength be enough to get her out of this one?

She switched to hold it up with her back, lifted it from her shoulders down her spine. Her neck, straining from such weight, refused to break even with it pressing into her bone, both organic and steel of which was left beneath her flesh. Higher. Higher. Her feet were on the ground. She was pushing against the blur of the seafloor. Teeth about to shatter, palms slipping from holding it above her neck, her cries were unheard, but with every pull of her might came the greatest sting of pain.

Is she strong enough?

Jason couldn’t, for his own sake, use his arms to keep the weight away from his fragile head. His bones would break, and the fractures would paralyze him for life if he gets out of it at all. His cries, the horrific shrieks clouded by the water, were none from his pushes, but out of fear, callings for what life he must have felt easily slipping away. Behind his back, the soil started to dig in, his muscles taut and tighter as each pound of pressure was laid on his chest.

If his cries were to be heard, they’d know it would have come with tears- from the pain, the loss of life, and the hopeless shrieks for help.

Jason closed his eyes, stopped his screaming, and let it sink to his bones.

Then-

Then-

The weight vanished.

He wasn’t buried alive or floating to the heavens. From his eyes alone when he saw the anvil slowly lift itself higher over his head, his body, up until his face was shone again by the glittering lights. There were the cries still, but no longer of pain. Then when he met N/N’s eyes, all there could be was his awe-struck silence.

The anvil should have weighed a ton or two by then. Maybe even more. With just her arm and her cut elbow, N/N raised the anvil off the ground and stood underneath it to hold it over her neck. Her eyes bled from being so closed shut, and the stings will linger even later if they live to see the next tomorrow. On her back, raised with her bent knees, she screamed for herself to live through, and after Jason had the room to move, swim out of the way, Tos stopped summoning the anvil entirely.

With the weight gone, she should have fallen off her own feet.

But she willed on, swam up to their two-headed opponent with the blade out of her scabbard. Jason was at her side, beaten and weak, but he wasn’t backing down either.

Their swords, swinging at the Lantern who summoned every weapon he knew to exist, couldn’t possibly go against the missiles and nukes he threw at their faces. No gun rule, but a Green Lantern ring was allowed? Fuck this game.

He focused fire on N/N, blocking every bullet he threw at her with just her skin to protect her. It bounced off the steel, missed her flesh as she manipulated her movement in the currents to make them a harder target. With that, Jason dug his sword over his shoulder only for the whole blade to break at the impact.

Shit.

He grabbed Jason by the neck, summoned a rope around his ankle to haul him off his balance. N/N swam to save him, but that couldn’t even be.

No.

As the Lantern held all their limbs with the grips of green ropes tied to his ring, they couldn’t move. She thrashed, struggled, and screamed, but she couldn’t pull herself out of this one.

An unfair game, one they couldn’t win. She should have known they’d play dirty.

The buzzer rang, and their hopes for getting home, reclaiming their names, never truly at their reach.

-----

A Green Lantern worked for honor, willpower, and integrity, had to survive trials and garner enough triumphs, prove to the almighty Guardians that they were worth the ring. They served the galaxies, in all sectors there were in the universe. They were fearless, strong, and most of all, they served for justice.

This two-headed mongrel at Somi’s Central had nothing but a head, or two, up his ass, pride thicker than his neck, stubborn arrogance the density of star, and a cocky enjoyment for the line of his fans waiting for a meet and greet outside his Green Lantern merchandise shop, and that place was absolutely filled with a galaxy’s worth of races. He flexed and showed off all he could do with the ring, summoned barbels, guns, and the largest swords he pretended to wield. And the people ate it up like fine meals after days of hunger. He had the credits and two belts hung over his shoulders, and he waved with his lips made of stone and haughtily exclaimed his victory every chance he got.

N/N was at a far-off corner, one arm shielding her chest. They had nothing. No second-place prize money, no chances of getting a decent battery, no hope for getting out of the planet. It might sink in, eventually, but that won't be for the foreseeable future. Each time the Arena Champion held up his Lantern ring, the crowd cheered, and her spirits darkened.

Jason was at her side, leaning onto his arm against the wall behind her. He was mulling over the same sight, with the hooded eyes, the same pout in his lips. The broadcast called the two the sorest losers to leave the arena, and that was against Kid who threw tantrums at the judge’s table. And what was worse, showing her face for the whole planet to see live wasn’t the brightest idea. By then, someone would have recognized her, called the authorities, or worse, a bounty hunter, and things will go from hopeless to absolute nothingness. They had to leave soon.

“What now?”

She couldn’t answer, and that was more terrifying than having one even with it being the worst.

“Steal from the shops?” he asked.

“Too dangerous. We’re on thin ice.”

“We can't go back empty-handed.”

“We did what we could. Face it,” she scoffed. “It’s over.”

It didn’t help that her tone wasn’t at all hesitant to reveal such truth. She could see Jason’s shoulders tense, then fall. There was that bite in his lip he did when he was thinking, though he’d been doing that for hours, and still, he hadn't thought of anything.

It probably did sink in by then, but her immunity to bullshit had been engrained on her flesh, so much that even the worst happenings in her eventful, adventurous, yet seemingly dull life wouldn’t shake her off her soles.

Then Jason closed his eyes, tight enough that it looked like it hurt. In his grips, he held his hair, pulled that she could see his scalp rise with it. Slowly, as if he counted the seconds himself, he let go of his held breaths. They were shaking, uneasy. The thought of never getting back to his shitty home often did take time to be realized.

And what didn’t happen so often and probably was the first in an excruciatingly long time, she felt bad for him.

And it was because of that she hadn't an idea what to say. She started to, but her words ended up sounding like a muffled breath. She took to her silence instead. Saying nothing probably was best.

Instead, she watched his face to the ground, didn’t even flinch away with it close to her own.

He looked over his shoulder. “Look at the asshole.”

The Green Lantern Power Battery. Tos held it up for everyone to see, then he lent it to a fan for a photo and one of them had the stomach to kiss his cheek.

The floor wouldn’t be able to handle N/N’s acidic vomit, so she held it in.

“The Corps has no idea,” he sneered. “No way they’d let an asshat like that keep a ring.”

Another fan borrowed the Power Battery for a picture, then Tos signed autographs on their arms, necks, and legs. N/N squinted, waited, watched. It took a minute, but as she shot up from being slumped helplessly against the wall, all darkness seemed to part.

She breathed. “I have an idea.”

And it was simple, the idea, the heist she made up as she went.

----

It started with waiting almost an hour in line. With the hood on her head, and Jason holding N/N’s credit device to pass off as a camera phone, they neared the Champion of the Arena with their necks stretched as if ready for another fight.

The next step was a gamble. A child they saw holding a newly bought Green Lantern Power Battery Toy from the gift shop was convinced to join in on the scheme in exchange for coins Jason had left in his pockets. Pretending to be Jason’s ward, they got to the front of the line and the child asked to borrow Tos’ real Power Battery.

It looked enough alike. With his attention too feeble, it was a risk, but an easy one at that.

Tos didn’t even recognize Jason, stood for a quick photo with him and the little boy while N/N switched the toy Power Battery with the real one.

They gave it to Tos, left the area, and as the screams of the two-headed stone monster echoed out to all corners of the city underwater, the allied comrades, a cyborg and an earthling, were well on their way back into the wormhole, with the speed no less than of light.

It will sink in. Soon enough.

That they had a Green Lantern Power Battery in their hands.

That their odds of getting to the end of this infernos venture were higher than it’s ever been.

-----

The earthling was thinking.

At times when it was well into the day, he often was. And when it was dark, it was always. At times devoid of starlight, the clouds that paraded his mind grew thicker, and he’d wish to be alone, be quiet, turn his back from all else but himself. What a day it was, only the second since they landed their ship. It was a lot for even her to take, what more for an earthling who’d only gone through the horrors on Earth and nowhere else?

Jason was outside the barn, kicking his soles onto the wet grass that glowed in neon at the tips of the wilted weeds. The winds were tough that day as well, and from where she stood at the barn’s open porch, Jason’s hair was visibly taken with the wind, dancing on his head. It was long enough to brush his eyes and still, he wouldn’t tuck it away.

She wasn’t the one to go up to people as often as needed, and that wasn’t a lot of times. But amid his loneliness, with his hands tucked deep into his jacket and arms scrunched together, N/N found herself heading for his side.

It surprised him, but he tried not to show it. Even more startling it was when she hadn't a thought to say at all. In silence, she stayed. Jason eventually broke the silence.

“Quite the whirlwind today, huh?”

Nodding, she watched one of the weeds drop a tear to the barren soil. With it slightly uphill to the barn, they overlooked the top of the sky city and the fog that blanketed it.

But his eyes, still, as if enraptured as an eternal slave, were looking up at the star-riddled sky. It was from their view they saw the marble planet of Somi at the far horizon. With it so large, it covered half the night.

“I’ve never met anyone who looks at the sky as much as you do.”

That made him snicker, and not just through a breath out his nose. Jason let out a hearty, soft chuckle from deep in his chest, and it caught more than just her attention.

“If you lived where I did, you’ll understand.”

“I’m starting to,” she sighed. “Isn’t that the tree you saw earlier?”

Indeed, it was. The constellation he made up. It wasn’t as clear then as it did at the wormhole, but it was enough to be recognizable at first glance. The trunk, the leaves, the branches that stuck out to the left. It was there.

“I told you,” he chuckled again, “you can't unsee it.”

Jason walked further downhill just in front of her, and his hair flowed to the wind’s wanting.  

“You lifted a Green Lantern’s creation,” he whispered, much like he didn’t want to hear himself. “Not a lot of people can do that.”

The fog had cleared as the winds proved stronger. With it, the whistling of the glowing grass. The horse from the barn neigh at the sudden cold, but that was the only one to be heard other than their soft, careful voices.

If she could focus on everything else but the voices in her head, the warmth uncalled for, and the cold that came with it, perhaps she wouldn’t notice just how much emptiness there was from her lips.

“I’m not… people,” she said. “I’m a machine. I was built this way.”

There were chimes at the front of the barn. It rang as the air grew even stronger.

His shoulders tensed, and she awaited an answer that would sting the way she’d learned to ignore, or at least tolerate the pain she was used to, but that tension went when he turned around.

Jason stood lower downhill, just a foot away. He drew nearer, closer, until the air no longer could flow much at the distance. And there was nothing else he was looking at but her face, her eyes.

“Machines don’t weaken,” he breathlessly said, “they don’t eat, or sleep, and they don’t feel anger. You have a lot of that.”

Three days ago, she would have reacted differently.

That day, there was not enough of the anger he spoke of.

“How would you know?” she asked, without a second of breaking from his eye’s hold.

Jason spoke as if the answer were so easy to say.

“Because I have that, too.”

She waited for more, anything to make her hate him, fuel the ever-growing pits of rage, make himself more difficult to tolerate, but he didn’t. Craning her head down just as he was looking up, he was close enough to see the smoke out his lips. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I owed you last time,” she breathed, unknowing of the gentleness that wasn’t so often.

“I told you not to worry about it.”

They were whispering. The wind was as well.

“I couldn’t just leave you for dead.” His hair fell to his eyes as she spoke. “Is that not what allies do?”

It was that smile that took her aback.

Did she say something too drastic?

“It is.”

It seemed like it because she’s never seen him smile like that before. It was subtle, not at all cocky. Appreciative, but not prideful.

Jason’s eyes, for a moment, flashed at hers, then he backed away just as quickly, started heading for the barn.

Left alone at the fields, she turned for him.

“You like to star-gaze, earthling?” she said, and that was without much thought.

It was the nickname that ticked him off. Playfully, at least. Tongue pushed to the side of his mouth; Jason turned around.

N/N waved him over to the side of the barn, where a ladder was laid against the wall leading straight up to the roof. They reached the top, at the very height of the hill, where the fog was clearer and the stars the only light there was.

N/N sat at the ledge, legs hanging off the roof, and Jason did the same at her side.

That frustration she saw after they realized their defeat had drifted. Instead, there was that hopeful, kind curve up his lips. It only grew at the sight of the many lights, the string of the Andromeda galaxy in clouds of purple, the constellations, the planets. So much in such a small plane above.

“What should we name it,” he said. “The tree?”

She didn’t insult him, turned to him with genuine curiosity.

“A name?”

“We name our constellations. Big Dipper. Little Dipper. Orion’s Belt. There are thousands of them.”

“You can name it,” she said.

One of the stars on the tree’s branches was brighter than all else in its cluster, like the first fruit borne from a young tree.

“I’ll think of something.”

She laid in stillness, watched as the five moons of the sister planets dotted the already vast sky.

“Now do you think it’s beautiful?” he asked.

Without a lie, she admitted: “I guess.” And it amused him.

It wasn’t so often that she stayed on a planet long enough to be familiar with its oddities or have a place to land after a day’s travel. There was that, and the fact that perhaps until now, she never even took notice of anything. Not the dust on surfaces, the hay that stuck to their feet, the sounds and whistles that lingered in silences. That barn might have been one of the only instances of peace so rarely found in her life.

“Stay here. I have something for you.”

For her?

Jason left the rooftop, came back with a sack over his shoulder- the same sack he’d brought with him to the market that morning.

“I lied,” Jason laughed. “I didn’t get the pistols. I thought you didn’t want it, so I kept it this morning until now. Would have been useful in the arena, but better now than never.”

The cybernetic arm in his hands was exactly her size. Adaptable, too. Would snap into her rods and wires the moment she’d put it on.

But she couldn’t move. Not even seconds after.

To say bewilderment was something she could overcome with pride simply couldn’t be more of a lie. Not at that moment.

“What…” she gaped, “you used your coins?”

Her breath, shaky as she fought it off, still could not contain solidity. She remained motionless yet her voice was trembling so much she could shatter not from anything else but disbelief.

It didn’t even sound like anything to startle him. “And my belt buckle. But yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

Such a question with depth. To her, it wasn’t so much. To him, however, as she could see from his face, it was anything but. Jason was looking into her eyes until right then when he resorted to his hands.

“You needed it.”

This never happened to her before.

“It’s no big deal,” he snorted playfully. “You’d have done the same.”

She wouldn’t have.

Which made it worse.

Slowly, after gaining just a smidge of composure, she faced the right end to her chopped-off arm and held the machinery in place, waited, but nothing happened.

“Here, let me hel-“

She flinched away like she was bitten, eyes stuck in horror. It wasn’t to her doing. Instinct kicked in.

It died down after she saw the blue eyes that struck her with nothing but kindness. Kindness.

But it wasn’t enough to make her give in.

“Don’t… touch…” she swallowed.

“I won't touch you,” he held his hands up for her to see. “I’m sorry.”

Inching away, she tried again, but the arm just wouldn’t stick.

“You have to press on that,” Jason pointed to its side, “and hold it. It takes a while.”

Her hand couldn’t reach, and she’d have to bend it the wrong way if she were to hold it for that long.

Everything was at this slow-moving, heavy beating. And despite the heights, the winds, it wasn’t cold, not even without a fire, there was probably something else out there; something that sang, but there wasn’t. It was just them.

She gave up and dropped the limb on her lap, with Jason trying to keep his careful observance away in case it wasn’t anything she’d like.

But he didn’t have to be afraid of her right then. She won't pounce, not to him right then.

Pride isn’t worth your life, he once told her. She never forgot that.

N/N slowed that beating even further when she handed the limb to Jason.

It wasn’t to what he’d expected, and he was hesitant, but he took it from her.

“I won't go past the shoulder,” he promised.

Even slower. Slower. That beating turned out to be fear. But it’ll slow. She could feel it working.

N/N nodded.

“Nothing beyond the shoulder.”

“I swear. I just want to help.”

His fingers tightened around the girth of her arm, held it in place, and latched the limb onto the broken rods for it to adapt. It wasn’t startling, but she could feel it working. The wires were moving. The steel bones were snapping into place. A piece of her rebuilt, and still, she felt pain.

Never, not even in her nightmares, has she said it out loud.

It must be the pain, confusion, disbelief that pushed her to speak.

“I can feel touch,” she whispered in a single breath.

Jason kept holding the limb in place as he listened to her.

“Texture sensors. Force Feedback. It’s the density of a human’s,” she said, easing the burn with a voice that soothed. “It’s like I have skin, but I don’t.”

An advancement for the Fleet. Steel for flesh, rid it of its life, but retain its ability to feel pain, torture, scratches, and burns.

Jason’s fingers softened. “Did it hurt when I…”

Chopped it off with an explosion at proximity?

She nodded. “It wears off eventually.”

Slowly, the feel of fingers started rewiring itself to her brain. She could move one, two fingers. After some time, all five.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t.”

Even with that, she still sounded soft enough for it to be worrisome.

Jason let go of the arm. “That okay?”

It’ll adapt better overnight. A bit uncomfortable at the sides, but manageable. N/N held it up to the sky, stretched her shoulder, eyed the back of her palms, and held it up to the light from one of the moons so it shone between her new fingers.

She should thank him. Again.

She thanked him once when he uncuffed her, another when he saved her life. And now, it seemed, she’d owed him a greater deal than she ever would have let on.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “It was my fault in the first place.”

Perhaps their alliance was the right decision after all.

The wind had stopped. In front of them, the city rushed for slumber. The shops floated out the central, the homes settling to clearer skies. People disappeared behind doors and with the lights that shut and the voices dying down, the Central looked nothing like it would have at day.

N/N caught him smiling at her when she unconsciously faced him. She didn’t smile back and instead looked to the stars.

“I have a name for the constellation,” Jason said.

N/N’s eyes were on its fruit, the brightest one that showed past the smoke. “What?”

“Newton’s Apple,” he said. “Because the fruit looks like it’s falling.

She had no idea what he was talking about, but he sounded happy with it.

“What do you think?” he chuckled.

“I think you earthlings are ridiculous.”

He let out another of that gentle, humming laughter that bore no pride and instead, exuded enjoyment and peace. It was so soft that it just couldn’t help but make her aware of it.

“You know what I think, Tiger?”

Tiger?

She scowled at the new name but couldn’t bark back when Jason drew his face closer to a whisper.

“I think you’re not so bad after all.”

Like he knew she’d have a lot to say, he left the rooftop without giving her a chance for a response.

But as it turns out, she couldn’t think of even one.

Instead, she was lost.

Too lost in her clouds and mists, blurring her every sense.

With it being the first from many years, something no one had seen since the dawn of her beginnings, N/N looked down at the glowing grass from above the barn,

And smiled.

 -----

MASTERLIST

—–

TAGLIST

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[lizardkingeliot]

So, do those of you currently reading time cast a spell on you (but you won’t forget me) remember that scene in chapter 4 where Quentin shows up for his tutoring session and Eliot says he wants to go to the edge of the campus and manipulate the magic of the wards so they can fly? You know... this one:

Only they never end up making it there because they start bickering the second they leave the library? Well, in the rough draft of this chapter I initially had this scene... ending very differently. And they also weren’t going to fly, they were going to... well. I think I’ll just let y’all read it for yourselves lmao. I think I talked about this a bit on twitter when I was working on the chapter so if it sounds familiar that’s probably why. ANYWAY. I have a ton of deleted scenes from this fic, most of which will never see the light of day, but I woke up this morning with the urge to share at least part of this one so... I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

This is super rough and unedited and honestly not up to my usual standards, but... you know. Rough drafts tend to be that way. It’s also all over the place in terms of tone and where they were at this point in the fic lmao. This might be bordering on crack honestly. Which is why I just scrapped the whole thing and went a different route in the final draft. Anyway. Shutting up now. This is about 2k words so I’m putting most of it under a cut...

—

Trudging across campus two paces behind Eliot, Quentin was stricken by the overwhelming feeling that he was trapped inside a dream. The eerie, quiet campus, lit only by the waning moon and a few dots of light spilling from the various student houses. He looked back over his shoulder, spotting the Cottage in the distance, the dim orange glow of the front bay window swimming in his vision like a boat lost at sea. 

As they approached the outer edge of the grounds, Quentin could feel the magic of the wards, buzzing on the air like insects. Bone-deep reverberations, strains of music swelling from within. He’d never been out this far before. The line where Brakebills ended and the real world began. Where there was nothing but the boat house and the wind. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He breathed in deep, the scent of the Hudson rushing nearby filling his senses as Eliot came to a sudden halt in the dark.

“Here,” Eliot said. Quentin could only just barely make out the shape of his elegant fingers pointing just ahead. “Can you feel the energy? I guess the Naturalists come out here sometimes and use it to light their bongs.” He laughed, a sound that warmed Quentin underneath his jacket at once. “And occasionally singe their own eyebrows off in the process.”

Quentin looked back. They’d come out to a place that the light from the Cottage couldn’t reach. Eliot formed an orb between his hands and pinned it overhead, a grapefruit sized pendant of magic swaying gently in the breeze. He stepped into Quentin’s personal space, giving him the once over. Head-to-toe and back again, settling at last on Quentin’s eyes.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “Cavaleri Animation. My memory of the First Year curriculum is a little hazy, but they’ve dazzled you all with that one already, yes? Turning your marbles into little glass animals, you know the one.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, um… but Alice was the only one who could actually get hers to work.”

Swift and warm as a pulse, Eliot’s hand curled around the nape of Quentin’s neck. Heat spreading down the column of his spine like a flame catching a wick. Thumb teasing over burning flesh. Eliot’s lips ghosted over his ear, not quite touching. Still, Quentin swore he could feel his smile. “Well,” he said, soft and dark, “I’m here now. And you’re going to do it. And it’s going to work.”

Quentin’s hand was bunching up the back of Eliot’s cardigan. He didn’t know when that had happened. The hum of the magic was making him dizzy. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. His body a tight line of tension and desire. Eliot pulled away and Quentin released his hold, staggering a little as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

“Um, okay…” Quentin ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at centering himself. “Why, uh—why do we have to do that here? We could have just done that spell in the library.”

“Because,” Eliot said with a tip of his head, “I have a theory.”

“A theory?” Quentin frowned. “You brought me out here for a theory?”

“More of a hypothesis really,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “But I think it’s going to work.”

“Great,” Quentin said with an exasperated sigh. “Dicking around with unstable magic in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong.”

“Look, it’s going to be fun,” Eliot said with that casual little air of his. “And we probably won’t explode even if I’m wrong. So we really don’t have very much to lose.”

“Okay, I’m—” Quentin threw his hands up. “For fuck’s sake, El, can you just tell me what we’re actually doing out here?”

“We,” Eliot said very slowly, reaching inside his cardigan, pulling a sliver of magenta colored glass out of the pocket of his vest, and looking through it, “are going to tap into all that crazy energy and make your little glass marble friend into a very big animal friend and take it for a spin.” He passed the sliver of glass over to Quentin. “Take a look.”

Quentin stared at Eliot for a very long time before relenting. “You’re actually a crazy person, you know that?”

“I think you mean certified sorcerer genius, but I’ll take it.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Go on. It’s balls to the wall out here. So much energy we could power a fucking nuclear reactor and I doubt Henry would notice.”

Quentin looked through the glass, moving it from one eye over to the other. At first, it was impossible to make sense of what he was actually seeing. A latticework of stars. Billions of them it seemed, all bumping up against one another in a wild, cosmic dance. A galaxy of intersecting lines and patchwork patterns shimmering like the wings of a dragonfly. And every now and then, a spark. Popping off into the dark like fingers desperate for the night. Quentin handed the glass back to Eliot with a shake of his head.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Don’t be boring, Quentin,” Eliot said. It made Quentin’s chest ache with its normalcy. Like their past couldn’t touch them out here. Like out here with their bad ideas and their wild magic, maybe they could have some hope to start again. “But maybe… maybe don’t make anything that wants to bite our heads off.”

“Okay, so…” Quentin sighed with his whole chest. “To recap: you want to steal unstable magic from the wards of the school where we’re both currently students to make a giant glass animal that hopefully doesn’t swallow us whole so we can… take it for a ride?”

“Yes,” Eliot said, like it was the most obviously brilliant thing in the world. “Don’t make that face with your face. Tell me you’ve never wanted to ride a rhinoceros.”

“We are not riding a rhinoceros, Eliot. Absolutely not.” 

“Well, okay…” Eliot’s hand on his nape again. Heat, fire, a five alarm blaze encircling his neck like a collar. “If you could ride on any animal, real or imaginary—”

“The Cozy Horse,” Quentin said without thinking, heart pounding like hoofbeats trapped inside his chest. “Um… it’s from the Fillory books, uh…”

Eliot laughed softly. “Okay.” His hand slid down to Quentin’s shoulder, gripping it possessively. “Tell me about... the Cozy Horse.”

“Um…” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, shook his head. Eliot’s hand was stroking up and down the expanse of his upper arm and shoulder, making everything go all fuzzy in his brain. “It’s just, uh… it’s this horse that Jane rode on. It’s, uh… really tall. Like a hundred feet. Like a clydesdale on steroids.”

“You won’t ride a rhinoceros but you’re perfectly fine with a horse that’s a hundred feet tall?”

Quentin turned his face upward, trapping himself in Eliot’s gaze. Sinking, flying, falling. Close enough to kiss if he only went up on his toes a little. Tucked inside the safety of his warmth. Quentin wanted to burn, to melt into a puddle at Eliot’s feet and slosh around like muck. “I…” Quentin swallowed. “I don’t think the Cozy Horse would hurt us. It’s basically a giant stuffed animal.”

Eliot grinned, gazing down at Quentin for a long beat before pulling away. “Okay then,” he said, taking a few steps down the path under their feet. “Show me Cozy Horse.”

Quentin reached into his pocket, knelt down, set the marble on the path. “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to… harness the magic of the wards.”

Eliot made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, peering through it with one eye. “Just leave that part to me,” he said absently. “Go on. Make your horse. And don’t say you can’t do it. We both know that you can.”

Quentin gazed up the long line of Eliot’s body. Eliot was fully focused on the wards. The sound of night, the crackle of magic. Quentin shivered under his jacket. His hands hovered over the marble, focusing his energy on prepping the glass for transformation with Dempsey's Silent Thermogenesis. Once molten, the marble could be manipulated into almost any shape he could imagine. For the Cozy Horse, Quentin didn’t have much to go on but the memory of a single illustration, and a few lines from The Wandering Dune, but he figured it would probably be simple enough. How hard could it be to imagine a draft horse the size of something straight out of the Cretaceous period?

Quentin twisted the glass under his fingers, so fully focused on his task he almost didn’t notice when Eliot began to move. When, suddenly, through the loop of Eliot’s fingers, a beam of sharp, frenzied magic began to focus on the animal he had half-formed with laser precision.

“You might wanna hurry,” Eliot said. “I don’t know how long I can hold this here.”

Quentin scowled in his direction, looping a bit of the molten glass into the shape of a tail. “You’re shit at communicating, you know that,” he spit, letting the gentle rage rising in his belly fuel his magic. “I thought cooperative magic was supposed to be, I don’t know… cooperative?”

Legs, hooves, the gentle slope of a hulking animal’s back. The wispy tendrils of a mane. Eliot was saying something that might have been a warning. Quentin was too focused on his creation to parse a single one of his words. The magic of the wards cracked like lightning. He could feel it in his hands. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, Quentin gave the beast that had come to life beneath his fingers a shimmering loop around the back of the neck that might have passed for reins if he squinted.

A single hoofbeat on the soft ground. The beam of magic stuttering through Eliot’s fingers died away, and he let out a tremendous sigh.

“Okay so... “ Quentin frowned, eyes flitting from the tiny glass horse up to Eliot’s face. “I don’t think this is going to—”

A flash, a pop, a tremendous wave of heat knocking the air from his lungs. Quentin shoved his body backward off the path and into the grass just as Eliot was running over. Kneeling down, using himself as a makeshift shield as he pushed Quentin further back away from the molten monstrosity shifting and morphing and doubling, tripling, quadrupling in size. A deep rumble, the tinkling of glass. Quentin peered over Eliot’s shoulder, his eyes moving up, up, up, trying to take in what it was he was actually seeing.

The glass horse shook out its mane, rearing up on its hind legs and down again with an earth-trembling thud. The distance from the ground to its shoulder must have been twenty feet. It had no eyes and no mouth, but Quentin swore he could feel its glassy stare boring into him. The light of the orb dangling overhead passed right through the center of its body. For a long moment, everything went perfectly still.

And then Eliot started to laugh. “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes wide as dinner plates when he turned his face to Quentin. “That is a big fucking horse.”

A laugh sputtered out from between Quentin’s lips. “Yeah, um… yeah. Fuck. It really is.”

Eliot’s body pressed right up against Quentin’s body when he turned, and leaned in, so close they were almost kissing. A pulse of heat passed between them. Quentin felt it in his chest like a second heart. “So,” Eliot said, a hand curling around Quentin’s cheek for a fleeting moment before pulling away. “You wanna take her for a spin?”

Quentin felt absolutely out of his mind. Hazy, his body a liminal space. “Yeah,” he said with a short, stuttering burst of laughter. “Yeah, why the fuck not.”

Unreality set in hard as they stood and cautiously approached. Up close, they might as well have been gazing upward at the hulking glass back of a dinosaur. The haphazard reins Quentin had created looped around the beast’s neck like a string of fairy lights. 

“Um…” Quentin laughed, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. “How the fuck are we even going to get on this thing?”

Eliot took his hand suddenly, threading their blood-warm fingers together. “Oh, Q,” he said with a full-faced grin, “we’re gonna fucking fly.”

[whoslaurapalmer]

so i never do this but i put a lot of thought into really specific details about the structure and scene layout of (the three-part folding mirror) and i really really really want to talk about it so here are some of my notes and some general commentary 

-the crux of the fic, at least the way i had envisioned it, is what vfd does to family, how it becomes biological family vs the family created by vfd

-what vfd did to specific families: -physically separated the calibans -morally separated the denouements and the snickets -somehow brought the anwhistles closer together

-in terms of ramona and olaf, ramona was there to stress the distinction of biological family vs. vfd family but also how they’re so inextricably intertwined with each other, and olaf, this is harder to tell bc he doesn’t have a point of view here, but olaf is scoping out potential candidates for his personal group of firestarters – his own sort of “family” (ramona bc she’s a duchess, ernest because he has a similar line of thought, josephine because her husband is working with the mushrooms, the white-faced women because, well they wind up in his troupe and I have very vague headcanons about how that happens)

-related; the reason frank asks olivia about miranda at the end is because, at that point in the fic, frank feels so terrible about what he said to ernest that he’s trying to reassure himself that his family is still okay because (dewey’s right) at least they’re together, compared to the calibans, who haven’t seen each other in years. it was one of the first ideas I had when I was jotting ideas down in april and it stuck with me the whole way through. I really wanted it in there. I went back and forth before I got to this plot, though, on whether or not frank or ernest would be the one asking it. but I think it fits frank. -(ahahahahahaha the kicker being that miranda really was at the party the whole time and olivia didn’t recognize her) -anyway 

-the parallels in the fic were: -the denouements start the fic together, and end the fic alone (by being honest about how they feel about each other) -the snickets start the fic relatively separated, and end the fic together (by being dishonest about what happened during the party) -the denouements start the fic by playing their game, and the snickets end the fic with theirs -frank is mistaken for ernest, ernest is mistaken for frank -frank pretends to be ernest on accident, ernest pretends to be frank on purpose -dewey has never slammed a door in his life; towards the end of the fic he slams the tray -i….think that’s all of them. I think

-character-wise, jacques and frank both see themselves as the people holding their families together; when in fact for the denouements, it’s dewey, which I think is clear in this, and for the snickets it’s lemony, which is less clear here? but definitely something I agree with -dewey and kit see themselves as the most ‘normal’, and they both have relatively solitary positions of acquiring information -ernest and lemony clearly both vibe on a ‘question vfd’ wavelength -i was also interested in kit and ernest, as siblings who feel stifled by an older/perceived older sibling, and dewey and lemony, who are sometimes unnecessarily protected by their siblings because they are the youngest/perceived youngest -this doesn’t show up in the fic bc olaf’s parents are still alive, but I thought ramona and olaf were also interesting foils re: reacting to their parent’s deaths

-some narration notes: -frank never refers to ernest and dewey as his brothers, except in the scene where he argues with ernest. because frank doesn’t necessarily see the split of biological family vs vfd family but has definitely swayed more to vfd family -ernest and dewey always refer to each other as brothers. -similarly, frank refers to the members of vfd as associates, most everyone else refers to them as friends. -ernest refers to vfd as strictly VFD because he’s distanced himself from it, while everyone else calls it ‘the organization’ -frank doesn’t swear even in his narration when he’s thinking them and not saying them because it’s, still his narration. he still wouldn’t quite completely say the words. (oh, he’s like gansey, like that. the raven cycle is still on my brain. i had so many scene sketches where ernest and frank were way too callous to each other bc they kept coming out like ronan and declan.)  -kit’s line at the beginning is “someone in this very room has betrayed us” which is jacques’s line from the building committee meeting in unauto. the clock saying wrong afterwards is because the someone who really betrayed them (lemony) isn’t in the room. 

-the costumes, which i did decide very arbitrarily: monty: clearly a snake. olaf: sigh. wolf ramona and olivia: oh, there was actually a slight distinction that just no one notices because none of them have looked at an insect (and also because describing clothes properly but succinctly is the hardest thing. i've written fic for a long time!!!!! i did my time in block paragraph clothing description hell!!! it haunts me!!!!!!!!!!), but ramona was the butterfly and olivia was actually a dragonfly. their masks are roses because, well 1) I thought that would be cool 2) butterflies and dragonflies land on flowers…. jacques: the boxwood, but a lion otherwise. josephine: ocean widdershins: the octopus with the pirate hat jacquelyn: the gold star suit (because gustav said she should do it for a play on. star. like. actress star.) miranda: uranus’s moon named miranda. it was very vague and I put that in the fic before I decided to have her in the little scene with esme. and then i thought i would put her in that scene too. gustav: phantom of the opera.  haruki: tree frog hector: tree (not because of haruki’s costume but because i literally could not think of a damn thing for hector to be) lemony: uhhhhhh I had vague ideas he was. a cloud or something. like a stormcloud???? couldn’t pan out though. I like him in grey anyway. kit: I really just wanted her in red. with a big cape. and i spent so much time mentally deciding if i wanted her to have glasses or not in the archives that i forgot to mention her mask. everyone has one i swear to god  white faced women: did anyone recognize that was them? :) it’s not mentioned in any way at all but in my head they were all dressed identically as flappers

esme actually doesn’t have one, because I, forgot, to give her one. I’m taking suggestions. 

-references to lyeekha’s fics: -“that which is essential is invisible to the eye” is what frank says to jacques at the end of edge, and also the title of their snicket/denouement series  -it initially wasn’t in there, because I was worried it wasn’t, like, in the right tone, re: what happens in edge vs how I was interpreting jacques and frank? but i liked it a lot. so i put it back in.  -“frank quit smoking, but you didn’t” is a reference to frank smoking at the end of rigged  -guess the guest and the clock alcove are from the end of fragments, with dewey and ernest watching hotel guests. this is my favorite thing in the whole world and something i actually keep forgetting is not canon because it is SUCH the perfect beethoven parallel  -kit’s tattoo, which I was specifically imagining as the giant bombinating beast tattoo from ink on her back, which is definitely not around her neck but that was the only spot of skin she was showing so it was available and my thought was, it was kind of a low-cut in the back dress, and she was wearing the cape to cover up the giant tattoo on her back because beatrice was not there to cover it up with makeup (also bea picked out the dress.) (bea: if I can’t be there you have to make a statement) (kit: I have to what) -lemony being a “powerful, mythical figure” to the sugar bowl gen was actually something I wrote a long time ago, back in 2013, and I put it in the fic because I thought it fit, and then happened to reread double edged VERY late into the rewriting, literally THE DAY after I wrote that line in, and i saw a similar line of thought, and I was like “*cooper voice* sometimes you just get lucky ~ ” -jacques being in a lion costume, from the masquerade outfit sketches

additionally – -yes I am still cackling about ‘angel of my apple’ -angel of my apple -ANGEL OF MY APPLE  -writing olaf is constantly like, he can say the funniest fucking things. and then turn around and say the absolute cruelest shit and the balance can be difficult.  -but, angel of my a p p l e 

-i can’t believe that out of all the people here, frank and jacques are the ones having the most semi-successful romantic relationship. well, ramona and olivia, too, but frank and jacques actually kiss so good for them -i know it was very vague and it’s because writing romance is physically embarrassing, but yes that last line was supposed to be them kissing, i’m so sorry 

-undercover underwater was a last-minute addition because I didn’t want to take the time to try and google something real and good because I didn’t have the time. my guilty pleasure is super shitty hallmark murder mystery movies (I like good murder mysteries as well, thank you.) and my mom’s been reading terrible murder mysteries during lunch (where I was sitting across from her, also eating lunch, but also hiding behind my laptop and writing the fic) so I just came up with undercover underwater on the spot, but my mom came up with the tagline. it was originally ‘sleeps with the fishes’ (especially because i love the godfather movies which also, clearly has a very big stress on family vs The Family) but I thought ‘diving for the truth’ was funnier. -my mom and my brother (who has no interest in shitty murder mysteries, but loves to verbally smack them down with me re: their predictable tropes) and I decided that the plotline was something like, single woman scuba dives and keeps running into stuff (you know, hidden treasure, dead bodies, the like); her love interest drives the boat; her overbearing family member is an aunt; this is definitely like, book four in the series. there’s probably twelve books or something. (she goes on vacation on like book six and still finds a dead body, come on it practically writes itself.) (she probably owns a little fish tank......it’s a small sunny beach town.........etc etc.........) (it’s so easy to do this.)  -oh, fixer upper is the worst hallmark murder mystery series, murder she baked is the best. in my opinion. 

-dewey and lemony were supposed to have an actual conversation at the hors d’oeuvres table but every time I tried to put lemony in earlier he just wouldn’t work. it didn’t feel right. so he got saved for the reveal. -but i’m still delighted by the idea of lemony literally doing the shot of gazpacho.  -dewey uses a spoon because he doesn’t have the composure or the guts to do a shot of cold soup  -lemony was also supposed to have a scene with kit and one with jacques, i’m pretty sure, to lead up to the gazpacho conversation and the commiserating re: siblings. but again, didn’t work out. so then dewey had to fare alone in the scene. -oh!! the line about how lemony hides, in the least likely places, was actually something that was in my initial write of lemony’s scrapped pov of my ellington fic. jacques being responsible for sending olivia to the hinterlands was from a scrapped jacques fic.  -steal from your unused fic. 

-because I had to take scenes with lemony out, I had some, gaps in the night that I had to fill in (especially because this is a party more people are there than the snickets and the denouements), so that was how esme, the herpetology squad, and olaf and josephine came to be. (also olaf needed to show up again somewhere else otherwise he kind of, disappeared awkwardly, I thought?) -also because initially there was going to be a scene of bea and bertrand, elsewhere, but I wanted to keep the fic contained to the hotel, because one of the ideas I wasn’t able to put into the fic all that much was the sense of the hotel being its own world -oh, bea and bertrand don’t know that lemony used them as cover. the assignment they were working on instead of being at the party? planning the opera. the scene would’ve come right after ramona and olaf’s conversation. -the herpetology squad not only serves to highlight that people can’t tell the denouements apart (part of the foreshadowing that ernest would pretend to be frank), but was also me roasting myself because writing like a million different characters I had never written like this before had me very concerned about if their characterization was consistent, specifically for kit. (specifically, her with dewey.) also defining a character down to one base trait can be helpful when writing and creating characters, but for people no it’s not ideal. -haruki’s estimation of the denouement’s traits were not how i was mentally keeping track of them, because i definitely do do the ‘one base trait’ sometimes, but i had a lot more going on when i was thinking of them -but yes dewey is kind. in the way that bertrand is kind, but bertrand’s like, way more smooth about it. 

-lemony does not have his own pov because, for me personally, I can’t fathom writing him in any other way besides first person, and it just would not do to have one scene out of the whole fic not in third person. unless he was secretly narrating each scene, which, he clearly was not. i would’ve had to do it in a whole different style. 

-i love that dewey and kit are like ‘ahaha we’re the normal ones though’ and their normal conversation is them literally going ‘hey these creepy fish are AWESOME THOUGH’ -i looked at so many fish. for hours.  -ALL BECAUSE I came up with the phrase ‘oceanic intrigue’ as a fun phrase and decided I had to commit my soul to it and never look back. -oh, the fairy shrimp are really very cute though. and i think the cookiecutter shark is, fucked up but a neat little guy. 

-i’m eternally going to be laughing about this too  kit: where the fuck is frank frank: /three floors down, making out with jacques

-oh!! 40-49 is unassigned in the dewey decimal system (which I googled. many, many times.), and was previously biographies. there’s another section for biographies now, but because biography was the closest I could come to like, some sort of, identity category, I thought it was more fitting if it was the section that used to be biography but was now as blank as frank felt.

-dewey is the one responsible for the clock sounding like it does. he just thinks ‘wrong’ is a fun word. that, and frank recognizing jacques by sound, were from my earlier scene sketches for this when i thought this fic was going to be much, much shorter. 

[multi-fandom-peep]

So you remember that wings AU I said I'd draw a million years ago? So uh

Here.

Except without the Kiddos because we all know how my last attempt at drawing people went.

Field notes because I didn't think it'd fit on the picture:

Happy He has dragonfly wings. They connect at his shoulders. They're super strong. He can lift literal tons with his wings alone. They're slightly transparent. The veins have liquid inside that can leak out when damaged. It's not blood though. Nobody actually has any idea what it is. Speaking of damage, if Happy's wings do get damaged, they take forever to heal, and they're basically useless when they are. Not that it really matters, since, you know, he can fly. His wings are kind of a hassle, as they're almost as tall as he is. Having them folded makes them tangle with his legs, but unfolding them leads to them getting caught on absolutely everything. There's a bit of magic here, as even though Happy never developed extra muscles (or whatever the robot equivalent is), he can still buzz them. They buzz. Loudly.

Sweet She has bird wings. They connect at her shoulders. Not angel, those have different anatomy. (I searched up types of wings for this) They're high-speed wings, a bit longer than average. Although they're pretty balanced, she's the fastest flyer and is constantly practicing maneuvers. (Because magic) Her wings are the most lifelike and behave pretty much like a bird's except they don't bleed. They are always shedding, and Sweet gets feathers everywhere. It's annoying, but she sometimes uses them for crafts because what else are you gonna do with them. Dust baths. It's a secret. She can feel her wings, and it's kinda painful to get a feather pulled out before it sheds.

Smart He has butterfly wings. They connect at the upper middle of his back. Predictably, he flaunts them like a peacock. They're pretty reflective, and if he get's the light just right, they can blind people. Nobody knows why there's a magnet on his wings. It's just there. They are the biggest hassle since he can't really collapse/fold them. They're not as strong as Happy's wings, and as a result, get damaged way more often. On the plus side, they heal faster than his. (I know butterfly wings don't really heal but shhhh magic.) A butterfly's natural flight pattern is all over the place, a tactic to avoid predators. Not very helpful to Smart. He can't do long distance flights without giving himself a concussion. They're a useful (and effective) tool in battle. They're normally used to distract, but he can also use bursts of flight to get out of difficult situations. He practices using magnetism to stabilize his flight, but it's kind of pointless because using the same power, he can fly. His name has never been more ironic. (The Chinese one, at least.)

Careless He has beetle wings. The cover connects at the base of his neck, the wings slightly lower. They do have veins, but don't "bleed" like Happy's do. His wings look like they have layers, but they don't. The protective cover is super strong. His wings are susceptible to tears and bends, but can also heal the fastest. Careless is the most stable flyer, but it somewhat the slowest. They buzz, but it's almost silent. The cover is literally a shield. They buzz when he's excited. It's cute, honestly. Has been known to accidentally hit people with the tips of his wings. I call them beetle wings, but I modeled them specifically after ladybugs.

Careful (This shade sucks, but it's the only purple one) He has dragon wings. They connect at his shoulders. They have the intimidation factor. Joints are mechanical (He is a robot after all). The yellow stripes are kind of like muscles and control the open/folding motion. Despite the mechanical aspects, they're pretty lifelike. Trades stability for maneuverability. He can still feel his wings and if something's touching them. Although strong, it only takes a solid hit to one of the joints to disable flight. They don't really heal and have to be mechanically fixed. They'll seal tears by themselves though. A big downgrade on stealth because wingbeats are loud (although not as loud as Happy's). They're super static when he's not using them.

I had an obsession with drawing wings for a bit and it hasn't really worn off yet.