#and now i think perhaps your sequel is almost done

[orangerainforest]

x

[moonydustx]

To belong to you

requests | mastelist Pairing: Trafalgar D. Law x F! Reader Summary: sequel of A not so funny story. In this one, we see Law dealing with a somewhat stubborn reader, while he can barely deal with his feelings. Warnings: fluffy, a little hotter at the end, violence, Law exposing his feelings (this will always be a warning for me). W/C: 3.5K a/c: tried not to take so long to produce, but I ended up getting carried away by the text. Regarding the smutty, I'm thinking about bringing it to a third part, I believe this one was too big. Hope you like.

requested by anon: ok ok now m waiting for a sequel with an overprotective-clingy-lover emo boy Law who keeps reader at his sight❣️ ~ maybe a smutty? idk just give me some more Law

Part 1 | Part 3 (NSFW)

A week, two days and a few hours.

For a week, two days and a few hours Law's sleep became scarcer - which seemed impossible - at the same time, he seemed to have found a new hobby. You.

Since the fateful day he discovered what he had done, even if unconsciously, Law had made it his duty to be your support point. At the same time, even though he dedicated himself to repairing this mistake, nightmares continued to haunt the little sleep he still had. Some days, it was as if he only revisited the afternoon he saw you hurt. In others, it was as if he was fully aware of what he had done.

You didn't complain about all that attention. Of course, the guilt was clear in his eyes and you wished you could lift such a burden from him, but Law's temperament was already known as irreducible, it was almost impossible for you to become the person who would change that.

Sleep had also left you aside that night. Maybe because you were anxious, the next morning you would be emerging on the next island and you would finally see the sunlight again. Maybe your mind kept playing tricks and unlike the nightmares that Law had, you kept having dreams that were closer and closer to him.

What you had left that night was to catch up on your studies. The small stack of books piled up next to your small green notebook while you had been sitting on one of the cafeteria benches for half an hour facing the same calculation.

"I didn't expect to find company at this hour." Law appeared at the cafeteria entrance. The same tired eyes, but the gentle tone in his voice pleased you. "Sleepless?"

"I've been in bed for a long time this week, Captain. What about you, sleepless?"

"I ended up distracted by reading. I just came to get something to eat." he walked past you, heading over to one of the counters. "Did you remember to drink your tea?"

"Perhaps." you just responded and you could hear him grumble in response. It only took a few minutes for the cup to appear in front of him. "Do I really need to take this? It's horrible!"

"It's a medicine, its function is to be horrible, but to end up curing you." surprising you, he sat next to you. Next to it, a plate with some onigiris. You just looked at Law and your horrible cup of tea. "What?"

"How can such a pretty drink, full of flowers, be so horrible?"

"Drink it." in a way, you knew that his impatient tone at that moment wasn't serious at all. "I promise to reward you."

"Saying it like that, I feel like a child." you grumbled, taking a sip of your drink and trying to avoid the disgusted look on your face. Law, unlike you, seemed to enjoy his late dinner. "Next time, please give me poison. I will die happy."

"Good girl, congratulations." he said, in a cynical tone. Even so, the words pointed to another place in your mind. "I bet it wasn't that horrible."

"Said the one who's gorging himself on onigiri." With your complaint, Law just stretched out the piece he had already taken a bite of.

Maybe your intrusive thoughts, maybe it was just the desire to get the horrible taste out of your mouth, but you accepted what he offered.

She's just taking a piece. Law's mind looped through the seconds you bit the food. The lack of sleep must be playing tricks on him, making him imagine things he shouldn't. Are your lips as soft as they seem?

"So. What are you studying?" Law's brain went blank, searching for the first random topic that crossed his mind.

"Blood. In fact, I took a calculation to do and ended up getting lost. In the book it seems so much simpler."

"Let me see." He set the plate aside and approached your notebook.

Gray eyes looked attentively at each written number and you were busy analyzing it. The smell that came from him was the same as the t-shirt you had worn that day, his eyes had clear dark circles beneath them and even though it wasn't perfectly done, the little beard he had seemed to outline his face and seemed to match the dark tone. of the small piece of his tattoo that showed.

"So…" he began, pointing to the notebook. "Here, you're taking the wrong route. To calculate this type of transfusion, first you have to base it on the patient's weight and then use this formula. See."

You were too distracted by him and he was too distracted by the silly calculation you were so lost in. When he turned to ask if you understood, the only thing he found were your eyes watching him. Just a few centimeters away, his eyes danced between yours and your lips, wondering if the action would be hasty. Maybe it wasn't ideal to take the risk.

"Nerd." You muttered, letting out a small laugh.

"Just smarter than you." he replied, pulling away a little. "Take one more."

"Thank you captain!"

The night passed faster than you expected. Accompanied by Law, you spent most of the night redoing some exercises while he helped you, or at least watched you. And even though sleep hit your body, it was hard to close your eyes and sleep after spending so much time with him.

The morning came quickly and as usual on the days you emerged, you and Bepo were standing just staring at the sun on your skin. Some other companions were already beginning to disembark.

"I found you." Law's voice brought them both out of their little sunbath. "You take care of buying food."

"Ay captain!" Bepo reached out his hand, picking up the berries.

"You." He turned around, looking at you seriously. "No running, no heavy lifting, no long walks."

"All right, boss." you saluted, just to annoy him and watched him leave, without giving much more explanation.

The afternoon passed quickly in the small village. At least in the commercial part of the village, everything seemed very busy and colorful, as well as having huge taverns that you would definitely go to.

In addition to you and Bepo, the two also dragged Clione along for the task, which wasn't enough. Despite the captain's clear warning, you managed to convince Bepo that it was just an idle worry, which ended with you carrying some bags under your back.

"Need help?" the bear climbed Polar Tang first, reaching out to you.

As soon as you appeared in the Heart Pirates captain's field of vision, you knew you were in trouble. The blue dome enveloped you and soon the weight lifted from your back. Instead, two small flowers appeared on the ground.

"It seems the two of them decided to ignore my warning." Law grumbled as you picked up the two colorful branches that were at your feet.

"My fault, there's no need to fight him." you took the lead, going to where Law was standing. Around him, in addition to the bags he had taken from you, were a few small bouquets of plants and flowers, all as colorful as the city they had just visited. "What are these?"

"Just a few missing ingredients can become medicine, tea, ointments." he bent down, plucking a small yellow flower and handing it to you. "Something tells me your favorite is this one."

"Oh, God no." the image of last night's horrible tea came to mind. you held the flower up to your nose. The sweet smell was delicious, but just remembering the taste made your stomach turn. "It's so beautiful, but so bad." you made to return it, seeing him raise his hand and deny it.

"It is not necessary."

"Thanks." you laughed, pinning the small flower to the zipper of your jumpsuit.

"Captain." two humming voices came towards you. "What do you think about going to a bar today?"

"You can go." he responded to Shachi and Penguim, who were not convinced and joined in a chorus of please. "I'm not in the mood."

"Please, Captain. The town seems nice, I bet the bars are too." you joined the other two, interceding.

You knew that Law wasn't the most sociable person in the world, but if there was something you could boast about, it was your power of persuasion - which you hadn't yet realized only worked on him.

"Okay, okay." he gave up, seeing the three of you cheer up and Bepo shouting happily in the background. "However, no alcohol for you."

"Yet?" you grumbled, but his expression already made the answer clear. Your power of persuasion wouldn't work this time.

You weren't the type to take alcohol seriously enough for it to bother you, just going to a new place would be good enough for you. As soon as night fell, you started getting ready. As much as you wanted to wear something lighter, you didn't know how comfortable you would feel showing the scar on your leg, even though it was already partially healed, it wasn't such a pretty sight. You put on pants and a simple, comfortable blouse and headed towards the bar with Ikkaku.

Law watched you from afar. Unlike most of the women there, you weren't balancing on thin heels or with a face so adorned with colors that made your real expression disappear. You were you.

He saw you sit at one of the tables with the other companions. Everyone with drinks in front of them, except you. He could use some alcohol on him to give him the courage he lacked, but he knew it would be unfair. Ignoring the judgmental looks, he ordered two glasses of juice and took them to the table, looking for a place to sit.

"No vodka?" Ikkaku looked at the cup in front of you and the cup in front of the captain. "This is new."

"I'm banned until further notice." you replied, raising your glass to toast your captain. "At least someone had compassion on me."

"So cute." Ikkaku cheered and you surreptitiously tried to elbow her. "So, I saw people playing in the background. She can play, right captain?"

"As long as she doesn't bet Polar Tang." he replied, a shy smile on his lips. As much as he didn't admit it out loud, something woke up in him when the two of you were in some way related. "I think betting a mink could make some good money." he turned to Bepo, who immediately complained.

"Never!" you stood up, placing yourself next to Ikkaku and picking up your glass. "I'll be right back, I'll take the money from some idiots." you smiled, turning your face towards your captain. A soundless thank you left your lips, as you pointed to the glass in your hands.

Law tried to disguise it, tried to ignore your presence. It was as if your body had some kind of magnet, which made it find you in the midst of so many people who crowded into that bar.

The first time he looked at you, you and Ikkaku were side by side singing something that he couldn't hear from where he was, around you some other people were singing and others were playing cards. He could see some looks that bothered him. Why did they look at you like that? Law could feel the repulsion of those men, even from a distance.

The second time, the two of you seemed to be dealing the cards. A man next to you, one of the same ones who was looking at you, seemed to whisper something in your ear that seemed to have offended you. The expression soon disappeared from your face, returning to a calm expression. At that moment, Law could feel his body tingle and had to suppress the urge to make the man's head roll off his body, even though he had no idea what he had said to you.

The third time, the only thing Law saw was your head being pushed against the table, after that he only saw red and pure hatred in front of him. The other crew members with whom he shared the table only noticed a small playing card slowly fall towards the upholstery.

This time you hadn't stolen in the game but apparently some bastard decided you were hiding some cards. You felt your head against the table and you could hear Ikkaku swear. You could easily get out of there and reach for your dagger hidden in your boot, you could also trip and see the guy hit his own head against the table. You knew you wouldn't need to do anything when you saw a blue dome appear in front of you.

Unlike the many times you had seen him fight, Law didn't use his sword or his devil fruit. His hands reached for the man, twisting his arm and slamming his head against the table, ten times harder than what had been done to yours. The other man, who was restraining Ikkaku, immediately released her.

"What happened?" he asked and you knew the question was directed at you, even though he kept pinning the man against the table.

"They thought we were stealing in the game."

"He said we would pay for what we stole from him with money or anything else we could offer." Ikkaku added, as you stood up and untied your clothes.

"The bastard likes to threaten others." Law muttered and within seconds, the man's head rolled on the table, as he screamed desperately, not understanding what had happened. Looking around, Law reached for a small knife and immediately stuck it to the side of the man's head. "Next time I see you, I won't need to use any power to rip your head off."

Law walked away, his eyes immediately searched for you. You had your back to him, checking to see if your friend had gotten hurt.

"Are you two okay?" he walked closer, searching for any signs of injury on the two of you. At that point in the fight, the entire crew was already gathered alongside.

"It's okay captain, it was just that asshole. The others tried to help us." Ikkaku explained.

"Understood." He tried to calm things down, still thinking about what that stupid guy could have done if, for some moment, you had left his sight.

"For today, that's enough." you sighed, trying to give your best smile, which with all the stress caused, seemed impossible. "I'm going back to Polar Tang. I think today's activities tired me out."

You lied, blatantly. You weren't tired, on the contrary. The whole fight, Law showing up to defend you, that had lit you up. The only question that was going through your head was where Law's anger had come from. It wasn't the first time you ended up fighting with someone in a bar and every time Law would just laugh a little or if things got out of hand, He gave a little fright to anyone who even touched his crew. Today the gray eyes that accompanied you so much appreciate you full of fury.

"I'll join you. You guys, enjoy." Law took out some berries and placed them in Ikkaku's hand. "The next rounds are on me."

Bepo made to accompany you two, but was stopped by his friends. They seemed to see the entire situation clearer than the two of you ever would.

The walk to the submarine was quiet, much quieter than you were used to. Despite the beat, your head didn't hurt besides the fact that you saw Law analyze every inch of you after the argument.

Even after entering Polar Tang, silence prevailed between the two of you, it bothered you a lot more than you tried to show. Taking much smaller steps than Law's, you tried to catch up to him before he locked himself in his room and then you'm will only see him the next morning.

"Hang on!" You tried to follow him and even though you couldn't see his face, you knew he had heard you. "Captain!"

"I don't want to talk about it right now." he replied, stopping in front of his room.

"I am sorry but no." you replied and understanding that perhaps you had a discussion too serious to have there in the middle of the corridor, you just indicated the door behind him. "Let's just talk, just five minutes of your attention, okay?"

He could feel the blood boil in his veins, the words burned in Law's throat. Damn that damn bar, damn all the things that still haunted his mind. He had fallen, and fallen hard.

"I understand." you leaned the door behind you, keeping your arms crossed. "I understand all your concern, I mean, you have been carrying a burden that is not yours."

"No?" he laughed, almost cynically. "I won't apologize for that."

"What about all that at the bar?" you asked, approaching him. "About almost killing a guy over a card game."

"He was hurting you." the words came out of his mouth, bluntly.

You stopped a few centimeters away from him, watching him. You wanted to sound intimidating, you wanted to impose yourself on him, but it was him. It was the serious eyes looking down on you, the posture, the smell that emanated from him. As much as your brain tried to deny it, something in you liked - almost needed - Law to protect you.

"You know I'm not that fragile, right?" You held his arms, looking for even the slightest reaction. "I don't break so easily, if that's what makes you worry about me so much."

Law wished he had more time to plan, he wished he hadn't been as close to you as he was last week. That cat and mouse hunt between the two of you worked for a long time. It worked when he watched someone talk for too long over you and he chose to leave his jealousy aside, it worked when he watched you fight so many times and chose not to intrude, it worked when he saw your curves marked by any other clothes you wore ,except the crew's overalls, and he had to try his best not to look. It worked, sentence passed, something left aside.

"I like you." he began, the words coming out like relief from his lips. "I like you and to be honest, I don't know how to deal with it."

"Why not?"

"We are pirates, I have enemies, people who can use this to target me." he pointed to the space between the two of you. "I don't know if I can handle this, damn, I could barely hold my own against a drunk at the bar. I like you too much to risk you."

Just like the day he had seen you injured, his hands found your face, holding it as if it were the most precious thing Law had ever laid his hands on.

"I have a proposal." your hands found his, caressing them. "Here, in this room, just here it will be Law and me. Without all the worries of a captain, without all the responsibilities of a crew member, without fears. Just you and me, one belonging to the other. No one needs to know."

You wanted to say that maybe it wouldn't work and that maybe the two of you would just come out of this story more broken. You could also say that you would understand if he hated the idea. Before any words found the sound of the room, your lips were stolen by his.

None of Law's thoughts matched what he was feeling. Your lips giving way so he could taste a little of you. Your hands left his and spread out over the small gap in the open shirt he wore. Every inch of your body still seemed small for him to explore, his hands went down to your waist, almost merging his body with yours. He could stay there, in that room trapped with you for days. Damn the life of a captain, damn all the rationality he valued so much, you were more than enough.

"So…" you moved a few millimeters away from him, looking for just enough space to catch your breath.

One of his hands went up to your chin, one of his fingers running over your swollen and red lips in an almost sinful caress. How long did he wait to be like that?

One of his hands tangled in your hair, gently squeezing it so you could give him space. Law's lips - now warmer than when they first touched you - ran down your neck. You wouldn't take Law for an avid lover, but the way he held your body to his said completely the opposite.

"I accept your proposal." His low voice whispered next to your ear. His mind took him to dark places, but a little rationality still kept him lucid. "But maybe, maybe we should stop for now."

"No, we shouldn't." Serene eyes looked at him, but the malice in your words was clear.

"Yeah, we shouldn't."

[thiefbird]

platonic renown trio, “but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done” from your list?

Ooooooooohhh this is so good

(also might be a little bit more pre-slash than purely platonic because Bush has complex feelings about Hornblower just. canonically) have some William Bush character study my friend; i listened to Damage Gets Done on repeat almost the entire time i wrote this, other than the bits where i rewatched Mutiny and Retribution for Research Purposes

(under a cut bc it got long - and possibly not entirely connected to its prompt; Bush decided to instead just dwell on his junior lieutenants a bunch in general)

Should I write a sequel to this? Maybe touching on how Horatio's mood might effect the infamous Kingston Debauch in a Dead Kennedy universe? I have Thoughts but this ended up near to 4k words and I needed to end it.

damage gets done (on ao3)

Stepping on board the Renown for the first time, Lieutenant William Bush had had no idea that he would be a different person by the time he reached Jamaica. He had been the same person, more or less, for the entire thirty-five years of his life so far; expecting to continue as he had was only reasonable.

But that was before he had met Hornblower: being dashed to the deck by a total stranger had not seemed like a likely catalyst for personal change at the time, unless caused by a knock on the head; looking back now, he felt he ought to have known, ought to have guessed. But instead he had been ruffled by Hornblower's oddities, peevish towards Mr Kennedy's facetiousness, and fully cemented himself into the role of outsider he so resented those first months.

They were an unlikely pair on the outside, Hornblower and Kennedy. Hornblower was an awkward, serious sort of man, private and reserved to a fault - and Bush had indeed seen it as a fault - where Kennedy was quite the opposite; Bush didn't think he heard a single earnest word from the fourth lieutenant's lips before he'd been on the Renown a month, unless the captain was present. And yet in practice they were as well together as any two men Bush had served with - he was unsurprised to learn they had been mids together at the start of the war, and shared most of their postings since.

He had been obscurely envious of such a friendship - coming up before the mast as he had created a gap between him and the other officers, one that he'd done his best to hide in his years as lieutenant, but one that he felt sorely - and had resolved to look down on the younger officers. Lieutenant Buckland made for poor company, too harassed by his rank, and Bush had resigned himself to a dull, lonely assignment within a week of coming aboard Renown.

Even now, many months later, he almost regretted that he had been wrong. But Captain Sawyer had proven to be a shell of himself, and he had somehow found himself in the unenviable position of plotting mutiny alongside an incompetent premier and the reckless youth of lieutenants Hornblower and Kennedy.

Reckless was perhaps putting it a little strong; Kennedy, certainly, was impetuous and excitable, a gleam in his eyes that drew Captain Sawyer's ire with a consistency unmatched by the finest timepiece, but Hornblower was anything but. Calculating, conniving, manipulative even, especially in his handling of Lieutenant Buckland; too clever by half, even half dead from keeping continual watch.

He had made a pitiful sight, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, bruises deep under his piercing brown eyes making them appear preternaturally large from under the brown curls of his queue. Compared to Kennedy Bush had thought he looked near corpse-like by the time their plot succeeded, and yet the spark of genius had never burnt low.

Samaná had been the true turning point, where he had gone from outside observer to- perhaps not an equal member, but a close orbiting body of the binary star that made up Hornblower and Kennedy. He had been mistaken, to take Buckland's side against Hornblower's plan, he had seen that almost immediately, and admitting the fault had done much to repair his fellow lieutentants' opinion of him; the desertion of some thirty-odd men had been the perfect opportunity for Hornblower's expert machinations, and Buckland had folded like so many decks of cards in Hornblower's hands.

Kennedy's lascivious grin, the puff of his breath as he laughed at the Spanish solider's importunity, Hornblower's poorly suppressed answering smile - all were the badges of friendship earned, and he had treasured them as he received them lying near prone on a hilltop. They had felt the same pang of hopes dashed as some damned folly aboard Renown - Buckland had never been clear when he explained the mishap - ruined their chance of surprise, and he had felt a similar pang alone when Hornblower and Kennedy had run clear away without explanation: once again he was on the outside of their insular attachment, and he had felt a queer turn at it, one that he could hardly name.

"If you live to see Mr Hornblower-" he'd told Stiles, though he knew not what he had meant to convey before those bitter words had slipped out; "tell him he'll hang from the yardarm," had not been his intention when he started to speak.

The fort had fallen, the Spaniards offered a deal - and predictable as clockwork, Hornblower had seen through it and conceived a counter before the words had left their commander's mouth. And now-

"Alright, are you, Horatio?"

Hornblower's expression was a strange blend of terror and derision when he turned back, Kennedy's mouth fighting to remain bland. "Yes, thank you, Archie." He turned back to the block and tackle hanging over the cliff, and Bush could see how tight his jaw was set from behind.

"I remember when you used to be scared of heights, Mr Hornblower!" Kennedy pronounced, as if an actor in one of the plays he would read aloud in the ward room, despite constant protest. He glanced aside to Bush, laughter clear in his eyes, and Bush felt a smile form despite himself.

Hornblower, too, was smiling regardless of his fear when he turned back once more. "Nothing has changed, Mr Kennedy," he admitted, playing along with his friend's formality. Bush caught his eye and felt a surge of affection for the young man - for he and Kennedy were so very young, if not in years (for Bush had less than ten years on them), then in spirit, a playful exuberance that he could only account to their friendship.

That affection, that long-held desire to be admitted into their intimacy, must have been what sparked his playing along. As Hornblower grasped the hawser and prepared to rappel down to young Wellard's rescue, Bush nudged Kennedy's shoulder with his own and called out. "They say one should always do what one dislikes!" he advised.

"Oh yes?" was the only response Hornblower deigned to give.

Kennedy's grin was in full force now, delighted to have a compatriot in his torment of Hornblower, and Bush knew his was not far behind as he was swept off his feet by his contagious high spirits; he deliberately did not allow his gaze to land on either Hornblower or Kennedy as he spoke. "As a boy, I had to eat turnips."

Hornblower warily began to lower himself down. "Eat them now, do you?" he asked, his voice resigned - but the anxious pitch of it was gone, and some strange tension Bush had not noted in Kennedy before suddenly faded as Hornblower disappeared below the edge of the cliff, replaced by some sort of exhaustion.

"Never touch 'em," Bush said, his voice too low to carry further than Kennedy's ears. Kennedy looked back to him, his face strangely inscrutable until Bush gave up his attempt at controlling his smile; then Kennedy clapped his shoulder, the apparent fatigue entirely absent once more. Bush felt as if he'd passed some obscure test in that moment, and he directed the reassembly of the gun in its carriage with a lighter heart than he'd felt since Captain Sawyer had stepped on board Renown.

The Dons struck, the rebellion attacked, and the fort was to be abandoned the moment it was clear - and Hornblower, the proud, reckless creature, volunteered to set the charges to send the fort to kingdom come. Bush saw Kennedy's face as his friend - their friend? - said the words, and knew his own face echoed that same dawning realization. Kennedy's throwing himself in with Hornblower was instinctive, automatic, and Bush's hardly less so. But Buckland preferred, if preferred was the word to use for so damning a mission and that cold look in their premier's eyes, Hornblower, and Bush felt a shade of Kennedy's palpable terror at the parting; the boy's voice trembled as they shook hands, and not for the first time Bush wondered just how deep their friendship went.

There was a strange moment, as Hornblower turned back to the fort, where Bush felt some strange, foreign urge to touch him, to reassure himself of Hornblower's reality - an urge so strong and strange that he could not resist it: his hand came up of its own volition and brushed the younger man's narrow shoulder as he passed, and he stared dumbly after Hornblower's retreating form until Buckland cleared his throat, giving both him and Kennedy a queer, questioning look. "Well, we had better get this whole... this whole mess cleared away. Bush, Kennedy - you know your duties."

Back on board Renown, they threw themselves into the organising of prisoners with as much appearance of zeal as they could muster, setting men to clear sections of the hold for the carpenter's crew to erect bulkheads. Bush had to reprimand both himself and Kennedy on multiple occasions within those first minutes for near criminal distraction, and he knew they had both caught the cold, hateful look in Buckland's eyes as he shook Hornblower's hand. Finally, in a lull, Kennedy grasped his arm in a desperately tight grip.

"What is it, Mr Kennedy?" Bush asked, and then, feeling his tone had been a little harsh, added with more kindness, "Tell me your mind."

"The men know their work, sir - we would only be in the way, were we to stay below." Kennedy's fingers were still tight around his upper arm.

"You may have a point there. You there! Keep to your tasks, men!" he ordered, and allowed Kennedy to pull him to the companion and then further, into the wardroom. "Now, Kennedy, no more of this - you will tell me what is the matter," he said in a low voice, his ear turned towards the door.

"You know as well as I Buckland will leave him on the island if we give him half a chance. I don't know who has his ear - if the damned fool has been listening to Sawyer or just to that lush of a doctor - but-"

"That is a harsh accusation to make, Mr Kennedy," Bush said, not in reproach, but in warning. Kennedy's mouth opened, the confiding expression wiped away and replaced with a hot, reckless anger, but Bush raised his voice as loud as he dared and continued over his protestations. "But I will concede the point that our acting captain may have his hands too full to spare men to row back. And as we find ourselves at loose ends-"

The tension holding Kennedy in a rigid, spiteful posture dissolved as if strings cut away, and he drooped against the bulkhead. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, staring down at his hands; they shook like leaves in a gale as they stood in silence for the space of a few dozen breaths. Finally they stilled, and Kennedy looked up, his eyes flashing with that same reckless enthusiasm Bush had once condemned. "Well, what are you waiting for? There's not a moment to lose, if we don't want our acting captain to catch on!"

They walked out as if they were on an important mission, using the natural deference of the hands to have the smallest skiff lowered down the shoreward side of the ship. "That'll be all, Norris, thank you," Bush said dismissively as he climbed over the railing and dropped into the flimsy craft, Kennedy following after and fending them off of Renown's side. Bush took the oars himself, wordlessly indicating for Kennedy to man the tiller, and watched as the great mass of their ship steadily shrank away from them.

"Mr Bush, sir, I wanted to-"

"Do not thank me, Mr Kennedy; I saw that same look. And I think-" Here he hesitated: he worked hard to maintain his rank, had nearly eradicated all traces of his broad accent; to offer such liberties to a junior - and a junior as irreverent as Kennedy, no less - was a risk to all that work. And yet... "I think, while we are risking our necks together a second time, Mr Kennedy, that you may call me William."

Kennedy looked surprised, astonished, at being offered such, and he took a moment to gather himself. Then, with a touch of colour on his cheeks, he inclined his head. "In that case, Will, you-"

"I am warning you, Mr Kennedy-" Bush growled; Kennedy took no notice.

"You may call me Archie," he said, that bright smile firmly in place. "No one calls me Archibald, and if you may use a short form it is only fair I may, too. No need for entire names while we row towards our deaths, now, is there?"

Bush feigned a sigh of disapproval, though he was certain Kennedy- was certain Archie knew better than to be fooled by his attempts by now. "Very well. Archie."

The Renown was only a short distance from the fort's docks, and Archie leaped across to tie the skiff up what felt like mere moments later, offering Bush a hand up as he beamed down. "Sir," he said in a mockery of the white-gloved sideboys as Bush fought with the desire to pull Archie down into the boat in retribution.

"The cheek on you," he muttered as he batted away the offered hand and stepped onto the dock unassisted. "As you said, Archie - no time to lose; we must find Mr Hornblower and lend him our expertise."

"Expertise, Will? I only meant to offer him a boatride," Archie said over his shoulder as he took the stairs towards the fort two at a time.

"Archie! Are you out of your mind?" Bush heard Hornblower shout as he followed Archie up the stairs to where he could hear the fizzling of slow match.

"Very possibly, but we thought you could use the company!" Archie agreed in his play-reading voice. Bush quickly took in the room: barrels of powder stacked, lengths of match trailing from them, and on the other side of the barrels, as Hornblower began lighting another length- He aimed, fired; the revolutionary fell, and he fumbled with his kit to reload.

"Well you've clearly lost your wits, the both of you," Hornblower said brusquely; Archie fired into the smoke and another man fell, barely visible through the acrid cloud.

"I suggest we make our move, gentlemen; it's getting rather warm down here." Bush slipped his reloaded pistol into his gunbelt and gripped Hornblower's elbow momentarily to encourage him to follow.

Together, they ran through the fort and down into the connecting tunnels. The first breath Bush drew of fresh air as Archie helped him climb onto the grass was heaven-sent, and as soon as he gained his feet he was reaching into the smoke-scented pit to grab at Hornblower and heave him out into the sun, just in time for the first rounds to go off. The earth bucked and heaved under their feet with each following explosion, and they ran to the edge of the cliff to hail Renown, eager to escape before they were found and shot.

"She's sailing away!" Hornblower cried, the first to reach the summit.

Bush slowed his sprint as he came up, wary of the cliff's edge, and watched the four ships turn away for the open ocean. "Well..." he began, glancing back at Archie. "Looks like that's it, gentlemen."

He did not regret it, now that the end was in sight. Not the mutiny, not his encouraging of Hornblower's manipulation of Buckland. Certainly not this second mutiny that seemed now to promise their death; he cursed Buckland for a jealous fool, but he was happy to face his death alongside these two brave, bright men. They may not have saved Hornblower, but he at least would not die alone.

"No it isn't, Mr Bush," Hornblower said, his hands on his knees as he gasped against the effects of his run. Then he straightened up, a rare smile, the twin to Archie's near constant smirk, firmly in place. Bush had a momentary feeling of apprehension as he spoke. "Archie?"

Archie's smile was consistently amused; now it looked incredibly fond, as well, as he looked at Hornblower. "I am afraid I think you're right," he said with a disbelieving chuckle, his gaze flickering between Hornblower's face and Bush's own.

"What?" Bush demanded as his apprehension grew into a queer, queasy terror.

Hornblower's dark eyes flashed with excitement as he looked at Bush. "We're gonna jump." His voice was as gleeful as a skylarking midshipman, and Bush wondered at it, that he could not imagine a worse plan, and yet Hornblower had never seemed more alive - more pleased to be alive.

He and Archie jogged a few fathoms away from the cliff's face as Bush mastered himself and peered over the sickening drop to the churning sea below. "Well now who's out of his mind?!"

When he turned back, the other two were stripping down to their shirtsleeves, tossing aside their swords and guns. "See for yourself, Will!" Archie called over the dull roar of the ocean beneath them. "It's only water, you won't break anything!"

"Really..." He turned to join them, hoping to convince them of literally any other mad scheme to escape than this certain death by drowning.

Hornblower beckoned him closer encouragingly. "Come, easier than eating turnips," he said as Bush approached. And then: "Mr Kennedy?"

Before Bush could protest, Archie had him in his arms, spinning him bodily around until Hornblower could grab him by the other elbow, flashing a maniacally beautiful grin. Bush twisted fruitlessly between them, unable to escape. "No, no, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but-"

"On the count of three!" Hornblower said to Archie over Bush's head, ignoring his protests.

"One!"

"No, we're not going to jump-"

Archie continued his count, tensing to start the run up. "Two!"

His grip on Bush's forearm was firm and solid, but Hornblower seemed to think better of his hold, releasing Bush's arm and instead gripping Bush's thick, work-worn hand in his own, long and strangely delicate fingers wrapping around Bush's calloused ones, and effectively extinguishing all Bush's escape attempts out of sheer shock: he did not think his hand had been held since he went to sea - no, Nora had held it when she was small, but that hardly counted. Hornblower gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Despite his bewildered reaction to the almost affectionate hold, he still was capable of putting up some level of protest. "We will not jump, and that's my final word!" he demanded, just as Archie shouted "And three-"

Another charge exploded behind them. " And jump!" Hornblower and Archie said in unison, and charged forwards, dragging Bush between them as they cheered wordlessly.

They cleared the cliff edge and released him to plummet alone, and he felt the loss keenly. "I can't swim!" he yelled, all attempts at dignity gone in the rush of terror as the water rose up to meet him.

Hitting the water shocked him almost insensible, not from the impact but from the strangeness of it; he sank thoughtlessly for a moment before the panic set in and he thrashed ineffectually for the surface. Then two sets of strong arms were around him, supporting him, and he broke the surface gasping. "I can't swim," he repeated as Hornblower and Archie laughed giddily, keeping him afloat as easily as they did themselves - Bush was certain if they did not feel themselves responsible for him they should be playing like mids, splashing and dunking each other in between hails to the ship.

A boat was rowed out to them, and Archie lifted himself in, leaving Hornblower to support Bush on his own while he and the men situated themselves to make more space. "I wanted to say," he started in a strange voice, his arm warm around Bush's waist in the surprising cool of the Caribbean waters. "I wanted to say, sir - thank you. It was good of you to- to keep Mr Kennedy from making an ass of himself."

"Nonsense, Mr Hornblower; Ar-" he cut himself off; the implicit limitations of his granting Mr Kennedy the liberty of his name had ended with their return to the ship - or at least the ship's boat - and he would not do Mr Kennedy the disservice of using such intimate address when he had not extended the offer. "Mr Kennedy only prompted me to do what was right. You should not have been left alone in such circumstances."

Hornblower seemed surprised by Bush's words, and not for the first time Bush felt a pang of regret at his initial behaviour towards the junior lieutenants of Renown; had he been more personable, less concerned with propriety and rank, could he have had these friendships sooner? But before Hornblower could seem to make his mind up to speak, Mr Kennedy was leaning out of the boat and grinning at them. "Pass me Will, would you, Horatio?"

Hornblower blinked at the casual address, but pushed Bush forward until Archie - for if he would not respect the time limits of their intimacy, neither would Bush - could grip him under the armpits and heave him aboard. Bush, still grappling with the remnants of the terror of their plunge, did not allow himself to lie gasping in the bottom of the boat as his instincts demanded; the moment he felt stable he turned to assist Archie in lifting Hornblower's light frame into the narrow gig.

Once they were underway, dripping uncomfortably in the sternsheets, Hornblower turned towards Archie, high spirits still playing about his face and making him look far younger than his twenty-seven years. "'Will', is it? I did not know you and our second lieutenant were such intimates, Archie."

Bush was uncertain how to respond to such a strange manner of address: Hornblower's eyes were fixed firmly upon his face as he spoke, despite ostensibly directing his words to Mr Kennedy. A glance towards Archie, at his left, showed him in a remarkable mimicry of Hornblower's posture, leaning so against the cutter's hull that they were both twisted back and looking at him with an intense humour. "Oh, yes - he granted me the privilege while he rowed me back to save your sorrow soul, 'ratio."

"Hmm." Hornblower did his best to look serious, contemplative, but strong and sincere amusement was such a rare expression on him that Bush caught it at once, and could not believe him. "Well then, Mr Bush; it seems only fair to grant you my own given name - though I beg you will not shorten it so." He threw Archie a glare that seemed only partly in jest.

"Oh, I am sorry, sir - should you prefer 'Horry'?" Archie asked archly, and Hornblower twitched as if he should like to throw himself over Bush to swat at him in retaliation.

Bush felt his lips curling into a small, secret smile of fulfilled desire to be admitted into such confidences - a week ago Horatio would never have let his guard down enough for even so small a betrayal of self, were he in the room. "I would be honoured for you to call me William, then, both of you," he said, adding, "At least when we are not in company, of course; discipline must be maintained amongst the men," in a perfectly bland tone.

Archie huffed, seemingly put out before he caught the sardonic note, and then chuckled. As the boat pulled alongside Renown, he looked more somber. "Well, gentlemen, it is time to face the music."

Buckland's persecution of Hornblower continued from there; he was set to captain all three of the Spanish ships alone, and Bush intervened his apology to their acting captain; as the superior officer, the fault for disobeying orders lay with him - Hornblower had not, in fact, disobeyed any at all.

"It was true to form, if nothing else," Buckland said, his voice strange and frail. "You three: you are so full of yourselves, and of each other... You think me a fool."

It was true, and more true perhaps of Horatio than of any of them, from his position of genius; Bush pitied him, Archie looked down on him, but Horatio? Bush did not think Horatio thought of him at all, except to maneuver around him in order to stay on course, as if he were an inconveniently placed bit of shoal. Buckland was as dangerous, too, as sudden shallows were to the safety of the ship - though not so dangerous as Sawyer's erratic moods had been, like an malignant squall; whatever damage had been done to Renown, to her crew's morale, was not the sin of youthful recklessness, but of frail and unfit officers.

"No one pretends command is easy, sir," Bush said after a pause - damning Buckland by faint praise; he knew Buckland felt the insult keenly, but could not bring himself to any further show of comradery after his treatment of Hornblower.

"I never expected it to be easy." Buckland's voice was mournful, and Bush gave him a shallow bow and excused himself to see to the transfer of stores to the Spanish prizes; Hornblower would have enough on his plate.

[scribomaniac]

forward, always

Spiritual sequel to 'back and then forward' by fencesit

(written with original author's blessing)

The Senju arrived three days after Sakura had stabilized Izuna. A messenger had run in, eyes wide and frantic, to deliver the news that not only had the Senju arrived, but that they had arrived carrying the white flag of peace. Sakura had a good guess as to the reason for their visit–she’d been a diligent student of all subjects during her time at the academy, after all, and knew a truce between the Uchiha and Senju came not long after Izuna’s death–but the historical dates during the warring periods were not exactly a well documented thing.

Sakura had been sitting with Madara at the chabudai in the main room, each sipping on their respective cups of tea. Madara had informed her of his plans to survey the boundary lines and Sakura had updated him on Izuna’s health. All the while, Madara had held Sakura’s free hand in his own atop the table, his thumb gently stroking across her knuckles. 

“The Senju?” Madara’s brow furrowed. He looked over at Sakura, frowning, then looked back towards his attendant. “Who all is with them?”

Bowing deeply to his lord, the attendant informed them, “Senju Hashirama, sir, and his brother Tobirama, as well as five clansmen.”

“Very well, I will meet them momentarily.” Madara turned away, effectively dismissing the other man, and redirected his attention to Sakura. “If the Senju are truly here with peaceful intentions, then I shall send them away swiftly, but if not,” he paused. Madara’s eyes flickered down to her hands, so small and delicate looking, but he’d witnessed first hand that Sakura’s appearance was deceiving. “I will keep them at bay long enough for you to escape. Find somewhere safe to hide, and I will find you when I can.”

Sakura almost scoffed, and instead she reached out and cradled his face. “I will do no such thing. I will stay with Izuna and wait for your return.” 

And protect Izuna if necessary, went unsaid. 

Madara was still for a long moment, then he exhaled harshly through his nose and turned his face into her touch. Reaching up to squeeze her hands once, he removed them from his face and pressed a kiss to both sets of knuckles. “I won’t be long.”

Izuna’s room was on the side of the house, and if the shoji window was opened even just a sliver, then the voices from the front carried well into the room. For all Sakura has memorized her textbooks, she had to admit this was all new. For her, for Madara, for everyone. Sakura had already meddled with history by saving Izuna. Now that Izuna was not, in fact, dead, there was a growing worry in the back of Sakura’s mind. There was no telling what ripple effects that one action had caused.  Perhaps the truce would no longer happen. Perhaps that by saving Madara’s younger brother, she had already changed the future beyond recognition. If there was no truce then there’d be no Konoha, and then where would that leave Sakura? The logistics and ramifications were too much to think about and she quickly pushed those thoughts away. 

Instead of making assumptions or thinking about the what-ifs, Sakura waited and listened.

The first thing she heard was Madara’s voice, deep and hard and as unfeeling as she’d ever heard it before. “Senju Tobirama, you dare to show your face to me after what you’ve done? I should kill you here and now for the impertinence; white flag or no.”

“Please Madara, I have brought my brother here not for more bloodshed, but in the hopes of ending it.” This had to be Hashirama then, Sakura decided. “I am so sorry for the loss of your beloved little brother. Had I been on the battlefield that day I would have stopped it. I cannot imagine the pain you must be feeling, losing your final brother. If I were in your position, I’m not sure that I could bear it.”

Sakura looked down at Izuna and brushed some hair away from his brow. If his survival was the only change she ended up making during this time, then it would be enough for her. To spare Madara the pain Hashirama described, it was enough. 

Just as much the optimist as all the textbooks described, Hahsirama continued, “Why don’t we put an end to this war? We made a promise, remember? To make an ideal village where we could protect our loved ones, where children could be cherished and not forced to fight.”

“I’m sorry, Hashirama,” Madara said after a long pause. Sakura wondered if he was thinking back to his childhood, of the time he’d spent with Hashirama before they learned which clan the other hailed from. “I just cannot bring myself to trust you.”

“But isn’t there any way I can convince you?” Hashirama asked, his voice sounding tense and almost desperate. 

“I suppose,” Madara said slowly, and Sakura recognized a certain level of dryness in his tone that she’d come to learn as one he used in jest, “you could prove your sincerity to me by either killing your brother or killing yourself right now.”

A new voice spoke up, “You dare say such an outlandish–”

“You’re insane! So what now, elder brother?” Another–Tobirama, it must be–began hotly, “Are you going to kill me? Or are you going to die in order to win this man’s trust? It’s madness! Don’t bother listening.”

“You truly are kind hearted Madara, by sparing me the death of my own little brother. Please Tobirama, carve into your heart these final words of mine. Words that I will be exchanging with my life. You too, fellow clan members–”

“Brother . . .”

“After my death you must not kill Madara. I forbid any more fighting between the Uchiha and Senju. Swear this right now upon our forefathers and our unborn grandchildren. Let my death be the end of it. Farewell.”

There was a pause of silence, one that Sakura’s mind filled with horrible scenarios. Konoha needed Senju Hashirama. The ninja world needed him—he was the God of Shinobi! Madara didn’t know that, but given that Izuna was safe and breathing and would recover with time, surely he didn’t intend to let Hashirama kill himself. Knuckles white and breath caught in her throat, Sakura silently begged for someone to do something. Say something. 

“While I appreciate the gesture, Hashirama,” Madara said, his voice surprisingly soft and thick with an emotion Sakura couldn’t place. “There is no need. Izuna is alive and on his way to becoming well again.”

“That’s impossible,” Tobirama spat. “That wound was fatal. Not even our best healers would have been able to save him.”

“Then it is very fortunate for you, Tobirama,” Madara said slowly, dangerously, “that I did not call for help from one of your healers.”

Once again there was a pause of silence. 

“The Uchiha are not known for their healing abilities,” Hashirama finally said. 

“No, they are not,” Madara agreed easily enough. “Thankfully, the world has all kinds of people in it.”

A small smile pulled at Sakura’s lips as she thought back to the day she’d said those very same words to him. She’d offered it to him as vaguely as he offered it to the Senju now, though she doubted the Senju would be as comforted by the words as Madara had been at the time.

“A new healer then?” Hashirama asked, his voice light and brimming with curiosity. “What wonderful news!”

If Hashirama and Madara were left alone, Sakura was sure that the two would be able to part ways peacefully, perhaps even begin the creative process behind founding a hidden village, but, and unfortunately for everyone, Tobirama was present. 

“Bring the healer here,” the younger Senju demanded. 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama chastised. 

“I will do no such thing.” Madara told him firmly. “The medic is the Uchiha’s honored guest. I will not allow for you to interrogate them for the sake of curiosity.”

“I do not believe this mystical medic exists, brother,” Tobirama stated. “I wouldn’t put it past the Uchiha to have made up this ruse to lull us into a false sense of security and then reap their revenge for Izuna when our backs were turned.”

“It was you who sought me out, was it not?” Madara asked. “If you’re to continue calling me a liar then I will ask that you leave now, while we can still call this meeting a harmonious one.”

There was a bit more of quiet, tense and uncomfortable, even for Sakura, and then Hashirama asked, “Please, Madara. If I may, I would like to see Izuna and pay my respects to him. I won’t lie and say I’m not curious about your new medic as well, but if you’d prefer to keep him hidden away then I will understand.”

Izuna would be furious if he knew the Senju were here, much less allowed into his sick room. Sakura wasn’t sure what Madara was thinking, or what his motives were, but after Hashirama’s recent attempt to prove himself in Madara’s eyes, she wasn’t surprised to soon hear two pairs of footsteps creaking upon the porch’s steps entering the home. 

Closing the window softly, Sakura turned to kneel beside Izuna and placed a hand upon his brow. Pushing a bit of chakra into him, she ensured he was deep within his REM cycle and wouldn’t wake during Hashirama’s visit–so long as everyone kept their voices down. She thought about sneaking away before they arrived, but if Madara wanted her to disappear, he would’ve sent her some sign or signal to leave, but none came so she stayed put. 

She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from the Shodaime, but based on the stories she’d heard about him from Tsunade, Sakura didn’t have that much faith in his ability to keep quiet. Hopefully he’d at least have a bit more decorum entering a sick room than Naruto. 

When the shoji door slid open, Sakura had just finished placing a damp towel on Izuna’s brow. As with her initial meeting of Madara, Sakura was shocked by how young Hashirama looked. Whenever she thought about these legends, she always imagined them so much older than herself, so much greater. Seeing him before her, looking not that much older, was jarring to say the least. 

“Ah!” Hashirama gasped as he switched his gaze from Izuna, to Sakura, then back again. “How absolutely amazing. May I?” He took a step forward, looking to Madara for permission to venture in further. 

Madara looked to Sakura, silently asking for her thoughts. Giving him a nod, Madara passed the gesture on to the Senju head. The sequence of actions did not pass Hashirama’s notice. 

Kneeling beside Izuna, Hashirama hummed softly as he surveyed the patient. “How wonderous,” he whispered. Madara had settled beside Sakura, but Hashirama looked straight towards her as he hesitantly reached out a hand towards Izuna’s blanket and asked again, “May I?”

Sakura pursed her lips in consideration. If Izuna would hate the man’s very presence, she could only guess how he’d feel upon finding out he’d been examined by him as well. Still, something in her was adamant that this moment was important. Following her gut, but still trying her best to protect her patient, Sakura raised a hand to stop Hashirama. “Allow me,” she told him, pulling down the sheet herself. 

Deciding to treat this moment as she would any standard examination–just with the addition of two extra pairs of eyes–Sakura tenderly pulled open Izuna’s yukata. His chest and stomach were covered in bandages, covering his still raw wound. Pulling at the knot tying everything together, Sakura slowly unwound the bandages and began the process of surveying the wound. 

When she had first arrived, Izuna’s stomach had resembled that of a gutted fish with a deep line extending from beside his navel up to his right shoulder. The worst of the strike had been the initial puncture in his gut. Wounds near the stomach and intestines were always the trickiest to handle, due to bacteria and stomach acid leaking out and leading to infections or worse. It wasn’t anything Sakura couldn’t handle, but it hadn’t been anything to snuff at, either. 

Now the tear across his chest was nothing more than a thin, pink line, and the puncture beside his navel, while still very red and irritated, was healing quite nicely as well. Sakura placed her hand over his stomach and pushed the smallest bit of chakra into Izuna’s body, checking for any infection. Finding none, she removed her hand to add more of the healing salve she’d created over the stretch of healing skin. Once she was done with that, she reapplied his bandages, straightened out his yukata, and smoothed out his blanket. 

Looking back up, Sakura found the future Shodaime’s attention was solely focused on her. 

“I’ve never seen such impressive work,” he admitted freely. Looking up at Madara, he added, “You’ve found yourself a miracle worker, my friend.”

Madara’s face remained unchanged, “I have been lucky in that regard.”

“Indeed.” Hashirama’s gaze returned to Sakura. “What is your name, miracle worker?”

This time it was Sakura who looked to Madara for guidance. When he nodded his head, she gave Hashirama a small bow and answered, “My name is Haruno Sakura, sir.”

Hashirama waved her off, “Please, call me Hashirama!” The bright smile adorning his face dimmed to something more gentle and his gaze dropped to his hands in his lap. His voice turned soft and quiet as he continued, “I am glad, Madara, truly. When Tobirama told me what he had done, I feared for you, my friend. We have both experienced enough loss to last a thousand lifetimes, losing the last member of your family–your last brother–I would not have wished that on anyone, least of all you. If I were to ever lose Tobirama . . .”

It was no small feat for Sakura to curb the flinch that tried to break free from her body. Before coming to this time, Sakura had been no stranger to loss, either personally or professionally, but now everyone was gone. She thought she’d been doing a good job of not focusing on it–and she was , dammit!--not letting it drag her down and under into a vortex of depression and anguish, but damn it if Hashirama’s words didn’t just cause the void inside her heart where her loved ones used to reside to tear itself open a little bit more.

Madara shifted beside her, the heat of his arm slowly seeping through their clothes and into her skin, dragging Sakura out of her thoughts and back into the present. The movement was brief, but the message was clear. She wasn’t alone, not anymore. Looking at the Uchiha head out of the corner of her eye as he spoke to Hashirama, Sakura felt her appreciation for the man grow. 

The power of loss was undeniable. Its devastation could ripple throughout families and communities like earthquakes devastated valleys. She remembered what Madara had been like, in her own timeline, during the war. He’d been so empty and cold, so unwilling to consider alternative solutions to the one he’d deemed viable, and all of the havoc he had wreaked against the Five Great Nations had been the result of just one loss. Izuna. 

“I must ask, Sakura,” Hashirama’s use of her name drew her eyes to his, “are you related to the Uzumaki clan?”

Tilting her head, Sakura didn’t bother to hide the confusion on her face. She thought of Naruto, of his bright blond hair and ocean-blue eyes and mile wide smile with a not so small pang to her heart. “No,” she answered slowly. “Why do you ask?”

Madara’s shoulders stiffened at the question. Had Sakura not been sitting right next to him, she probably wouldn’t have even noticed. But she was, so she did. 

“The clan is known for their healing abilities,” the future Hokage answered easily, his smile turning almost charming as he spoke. “I know a good deal of their members have red hair and thought that perhaps your color shade was an offshoot of that.”

Red hair, like Kushina and Mito Uzumaki. Women that Sakura had only ever seen photos of. Mito, from her history books and maybe once or twice in Tsunade’s home, and Kushina only once, from an old wedding photo between her and Minato that Jiraya had unearthed for Naruto when the old Sanin felt he was ready to learn about his parentage. 

Comparing her rose colored locks to their red, Sakura could vaguely understand how Hashirama had come to this conclusion. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Hashirama,” she said with a small shake of her head. “I have no Uzumaki blood to speak of.”

“Well then,” Hashirama’s gaze returned to his one and hopefully future friend, “Thank you for letting me see your brother. I am glad that he is doing well and that he is in capable hands. Madara,” he paused, his next words struggling to make their way past his lips. “If I could encroach on your hospitality for a bit longer—I was hoping to discuss an important matter with you.”

Madara’s dark gaze flickered between Hashirama and Sakura. With Tobirama and several other Senju just outside his door, Sakura could make a good guess as to the cause of his hesitation. She could also make a good guess about what Hashirama wanted to talk about.

Giving her betrothed a small, reassuring smile, she told him, “Go on. I’ll see to everything here.” 

Madara looked like he wanted to argue, but in a show of trust in Sakura—which wasn’t so much surprising as it was pleasing—he merely sighed. “Very well.”

The two titans of shinobi walked out of the room together and Sakura felt herself release a shaky breath. 

The sky had turned a beautiful, pale orange by the time Madara returned and the Senju took their leave. Sakura had just settled down on the engawa to watch the sun set. Her legs dangled freely off the edge and a nice cup of tea kept her hands warm as the temperature slowly began to drop. 

Madara took a seat beside her, his knees tucked in properly beneath him, and with him came the weight of the world. A servant came quickly to provide the clan head with his own cup of tea, and left them with an even quicker bow. A thousand and one questions ran through Sakura’s mind, but she recognized that small furrow in Madara’s brow and the tightness in his lips from their days protecting that lord’s wife and child. The signs had appeared often enough, when he was thinking up strategies and ways to keep those in his care safe. This time, he was preoccupied with whatever Hashirama had said to him. When Madara was ready to talk, he would. Sakura and her questions could wait. 

From orange to pink to red, then to blue and then black, the sky settled into night. Sakura had long finished her tea, but still cradled the cup in her hands to give them something to do. She worried that without it she’d reach for Madara mindlessly, as she’s been doing more and more often over the past few days. Doing so while out on strolls or sitting for meals was one thing, doing so while he was deep in thought was another, and with this thing between them still so new and fragile and precious, Sakura didn’t want to risk it with a misstep. 

Looking up at the dark sky, Sakura found the same constellations she knew from her own time. It helped to settle something in her bones, made her feel more stable and confident with her place in this world. If the stars could survive in both her time and this one, then perhaps she could too. 

“Hashirama is a fool.” Madara’s words, so quiet and muttered they could’ve been lost in the wind, roused Sakura from her existential musings. Without looking at her, Madara reached over to place his hand over her wrist, his fingers pressed against the thrumming line of her pulse. 

“What did he want to discuss?” Sakura asked as she leaned, ever so gently, into his warmth.

“A child’s dream,” he scoffed, not elaborating further. 

Sakura hummed in response, waiting for the rest of the story to unravel in its own time. It took only a quarter of an hour more. 

With a slow slump to his shoulders, Madara closed his eyes tightly and told her, “I met Senju Hashirama first when we were children. We didn’t know who each other were and we,” he paused. His eyes opened and he blinked heavily. “We became friends.”

Wearily, and with a heavy heart, Madara told Sakura about his and Hashirama’s past. Their days spent playing by the river, their mutual dream of creating a better world, their shared pain over having lost brothers needlessly and so young, even his own growing pessimism and eventual desertion of those dreams and his friend. 

“I want to believe in a peaceful world,” he confessed so, so quietly Sakura had to strain to hear him. “But after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done , I just can’t. I don’t know how to dream anymore.”

Sakura thought back to what he said to her after she’d arrived to heal Izuna. “If there’s anything you can do—even if it’s just to ease his suffering —” Even then, the most he had hoped for was a painless death for his remaining brother. 

Pulling back so that their shoulders were no longer touching, Sakura placed her teacup to the side and tugged on her wrist until Madara let her go. Then, boldly, and with full eye contact, Sakura told him, “Lie your head down, Madara,” and patted her lap. 

Dark brows shot up, disappearing behind his raven mane. He looked down at her lap, then back up to her, his jaw dropping at the idea of it all. “Sakura,” he said, his voice hesitant. 

Placing her hands on his shoulders, Sakura guided him down to where she wanted him. “Just close your eyes and try to relax.”

She carded her fingers through his hair. The thick locks were silkier than she had expected, but she was still careful not to catch a tangle as she dragged her fingers through it. Madara’s muscles, which had stiffened against her man-handling, slowly loosened and his breathing evened out as she continued with her ministrations. His eyes, however, stayed open and alert. Smiling softly down at him, Sakura figured she’d take what she could get. 

With her free hand, she took one of his into it and laid them both atop his chest, just over his heart. 

“I had a friend, once,” she started, her eyes not straying from him, “who was the biggest dreamer anyone could ever meet.” Talking about Naruto would be hard, she knew, but she hoped it would also be worth it. 

“He inspired everyone around him, even cynics like you,” her smile widened with the tease. Madara’s hand tightened around hers, his own face unchanging. “All he wanted was for the—for the clan to respect him, to take him seriously and to not dismiss him.”

Pressure built behind her eyes and she had to look away. Sakura remembered back to her Academy and genin days, when she thought Naruto was annoying and a pest because he was loud and played pranks. As an adult with hindsight, she could see him for what he’d been; a child desperate for attention. She wished she could have been kinder to him, more patient. He was one of her most precious people, and she knew he never harbored any resentment towards her, but she still carried around a great deal of guilt when it came to Naruto and her treatment of him in those early days. 

Blinking away some of the moisture in her eyes, Sakura looked out into the night as she continued her story. “No matter what anyone said or did to him, no matter how lost he felt or how bad things looked, he never gave up on his dreams. Instead, his dedication to them seemed to grow. So many people doubted him, but you know what started to happen?”

Madara stayed silent, knowing the question was rhetorical. Sakura’s fingers continued trailing through his raven locks, her nails gently scratching against his scalp. Her eyes remained focused on the trees before her, but her mind was in the past. 

She thought of Neji, who’d been inspired not to accept fate as a fixed thing; of Gaara, who’d never known love or friendship, but who’d leapt towards it the moment a sincere hand was outstretched; of even Tsunade, who’d forsaken the village and her vow as a medic, only to have that desire to help people reignited. Sakura thought not only of them, but also of the hundreds of other people who’d been touched by the radiant light of hope that was Naruto Uzumaki. 

“He turned their hearts,” she said finally, looking down at Madara with a watery but bright smile. “Every single time.” 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Sakura tried to circle around to her point. “There are good people in this world, Madara, people who share in this dream of a better future. You may not believe yourself worthy of it,” she gave his hand a squeeze to silently tell him she disagreed, “and you may not be able to believe in it yet, but that’s okay. All you have to do now is to try. Take it one day at a time, one choice at a time, one action at a time. Before you know it,” she shrugged, “all those little changes, those little thoughts and actions, will have built themselves up into something solid and real that you can believe in.” 

Madara looked up into Sakura’s eyes, an expression of wonder and incredulity on his face. Holding her one hand tight to his chest, he brought up his other one to cup her cheek. A hesitant, hopefully smile played at the edge of his lips. His thumb brushed away a tear that Sakura hadn’t noticed escaped. Turning her face into the palm of his hand, she breathed in deeply.  

“This friend of yours,” Madara starts, his words slow and cautious, “he’s gone too, isn’t he?”

Breath hitching in her throat, Sakura nodded her head. “His name was Naruto,” she whispered, feeling as if she were sharing a greater secret than just a name. “I miss him every day.” 

Sitting up, Madara pressed a kiss against her forehead. “His spirit lives with you, Sakura. You serve his memory proud. Because of you, I feel a newly sprouted sense of hope within my chest for the future. I feel that I can begin to try.”

Inhaling shakily, Sakura hid her face in the crook of his neck and whispered, “Thank you.”

[ithaquasbbg]

A sequel to my pre-manor fic from two days ago.. bc I left it in a good-ish place to continue! Yipee. If this is the first fic you find of the two.. go look at “Love me again”- which should be linked on a masterlist :)) could also be maybe read separately.

A broken man - Ithaqua x reader

Pairing: Post-oletus manor! Ithaqua x reader

Tw: Attempted self harm, Traumatic flashbacks, mentions of physical violence (especially referring to the matches), disordered eating mentality, self dehumanizing (if that makes sense?)

Ithaqua slowly walks down an all too familiar path, thinking about his mother and you. How could the memories ever leave his mind? He can remember the way you passed in his arms and he had never noticed. He can still remember your face, the one he was promised to see again should he have survived those god forsaken games. Though, he finds himself shaking violently the moment he opens the door to his cottage, barely able to even step foot inside.

He hears the sound of talking that suddenly stops when the door opens, as a woman slowly walks towards the door of the cottage, bearing the same long red hair his mother had so long ago. “…Ithaqua?” Her eyes widen as she stares at him. It seemed his pain was worth it in that moment, for his mother to have forgotten all about the harm his twin had inflicted upon her.

Ithaqua nods, flinching as his mother quickly pulls him in to her embrace. He’s unsure if he should panic at the feeling of touch once again, especially after the long period he spent in that god forsaken manor. His heart shatters the moment he looks into his mothers eyes, realizing that even now that he had inflicted traumas upon himself for her to forget her own, she would still be worried for him, even if his own monstrous reflection was the very thing that caused this.

“(Name), come here!” Mother yells, the sounds of your footsteps running down the hall as you come to the entryway, staring up at Ithaqua as tears fill your eyes. For you, the tears were those of joy. But for Ithaqua, the moment he sees you crying like he had the day of your death, he’s reminded of how badly he failed you. That very moment, the walls around him crumble as he starts wailing, unable to hold back the regret and fear he had felt for years. The regret of not being able to save you, and the fear that you or his mother would despise him the moment he returned from the manor.

Slowly, you walk to Ithaqua and pull him as close as he’ll allow, feeling the way he shakes at the touch, as if something had happened. It was strange, the way you had no memory of the day he had suddenly disappeared, but you remembered being heartbroken, screaming his name desperately with his mother. Though something about these memories felt fabricated to you, and perhaps to him as well.

After trying and failing to calm Ithaqua down, you and his mother bring him back to his bedroom and give him some privacy, hoping that would help. But within a few minutes, you hear the sound of glass shattering and rush to his room, seeing him on the ground in the middle of scattered mirror shards, holding a sharp piece of glass up to his own eye. “Ithaqua!” The way you take the glass from him is almost instinctual, keeping him from harming himself any further than he could have done already.

“What is this about?” You ask, looking at him and finally getting a good look at his face before he looks away. He looks exhausted and thinner than you remember, the once lovely shine he had in his eyes gone, replaced with a full blue color, only fear visible in those once gorgeous eyes of his. “…Im a monster” he whispers, choking back sobs while staring at the shards around him. “It’s my fault, (Name), it’s all my fault”

Not knowing how to comfort him, you simply put a hand on his trembling shoulder, watching as he flinches, almost expecting something to hit him. When he realizes you won’t do that, he looks back at you with widened eyes, tears still falling as he tries to understand why he’s being treated so gently after so long of being viewed as nothing but a monster.

“Ithaqua.. what happened to you?” There’s a moment of silence before he whispers a response, his voice much more shrill than its usual tone. “I took a deal, to help you.. they had me do.. terrible.. things to people and-” He’s unable to continue speaking, gagging at the way he remembers it all, the screams of the people he hunted, the way they’d hit him while trying to get away, how he had become nothing but a monster to almost everyone else in his world in that time. “I can’t say it..”

You slowly grab his hand, planting a kiss along his knuckles as he watches you closely, almost unsure if he can even trust you in this situation. “You are not a monster, my love, you’re anything but a monster to me.” Ithaqua simply frowns and shuts his eyes, holding back tears. “You don’t understand, (name)! I’m going to hurt you, that’s all I’ve been able to do-” he stops mid sentence, voice unable to form coherent sentences as he starts sobbing once again, his shaking frame clinging into yours as if it was a life line.

Slowly, you lift your hand and run it through his hair as he used to. For a moment, he tenses up before relaxing into your touch, continuing to cry into your shoulder. “I’ve got you, darling, you’re safe in my arms.” Ithaqua seems comforted by this as he nods, a quiet sound resonating from his throat as he pushes his still trembling frame into yours, his sobs quieting down as he looks up at your face,

After hours of him sitting in your arms, you have his mother help you carry him into bed, pulling him into you as you keep him tight, kissing his forehead. “I love him so much, (name).” His mother slowly changes him into cleaner clothing, unknown bruises and cuts littering his entire body, frail to the point he looks as if he might break. “It hurts so badly to see my little boy like this..” Tears run down her face as she plants a kiss on her sons cheek. “I’m worried he’ll never be the same person he used to be..”

You tried to reassure her before she went to bed that night, though hours later you wake up to hear him in the bathroom, violently ill. “Ithaqua..?” You run your eyes as you get up, trying to open the door, which to your relief was left unlocked. In front of you, sits the young man, too weak from the purging to lift his head. Instead, all you get is a short hum in response to your voice, seeing his eyes peeking over at you, welling up with tears as you kneel next to him, gently pulling his hair back, knowing there was not much you could do at the moment other than attempt to distract him from whatever nightmare he had.

“Do you remember when we met, Ithaqua?” You ask, seeing him nod slowly as his trembling slows. “The way you’d always go out of your way to help every little animal or child you’d see.. that’s why I fell in love with you.” Ithaqua bites his lip, staring down at the floor. “I’m not like that anymore, (name).” He whispers, his voice cracking as he laughs sadly, only to be cut off by you kissing his forehead once again. “If you were the monster you say you were, Ithaqua, I doubt you’d care this much.”

You slowly pick him up and run a warm bath, helping him scrub his bruised body as he watches you, finding himself longing for more and more of your touch as he leans into your hands, a tiny smile forming on his face for the first time since that night.. “I’ll never leave your side, just like you’ve never left mine, I promise.” Ithaquas eyes widen as he hums. It seems that even after being broken down for years, you and mother still loved him. This makes him feel as if everything was worth it, just to see you get a second chance at living along with his mother, to be held in your arms as you grow old together, the way he had always wished it to be.

[rallamajoop]

I have too many feelings about Deus Ex: Mankind Divided (2/3)

So we've covered gameplay and worldbuilding. The stuff on character has been deemed too long and will be split out into yet another post. For now, let's talk plot.

Plot

God, where do I even start with this mess?

Plotwise, I'd call Deus Ex: Human Revolution fine, but unremarkable. It had many problems and a notoriously weak ending, but it still delivered a decently-paced adventure with rising stakes and tension, and major reveals at appropriate intervals. The bar for video game writing at large is so low that I’d honestly rate it well above average [insert obligatory grumbling about The Witcher 3, RE4R etc here].

The scope for sequels to that story were always going to be somewhat hamstrung by that usual prequel-problem where we can’t actually beat the Illuminati, because we know they’re still around in the future. But there’s plenty that could have been done with Jensen’s story. In particular, HR’s DLC chapter has Jensen catching the interest of an anti-Illuminati hacktavist network called the Juggernaut Collective, led by the mysterious Janus (real identity unknown). Jensen’s backstory as a genetic test subject was presumably meant to be expanded upon in future too. And canon tells us that Jensen was declared legally dead after the Panchea incident at the end of the previous game, only to wake up in a facility in Alaska with no memory of how he survived. Surely that’s the perfect start point for the sequel – it even gives you the perfect excuse to reset all his augs again for gameplay reasons!

But MD does not take that perfect sequel idea. Instead, the ‘story’ of Jensen’s survival is relayed to us via Black Light, a tie-in novel that I read months ago and have so many conflicted feelings about. On the one hand the author, James Swallow, is refreshingly interested in so much aug-related worldbuilding that the games utterly ignore, and writes some genuinely great Jensen/Pritchard banter. On the other, the main ‘conflict’ of the book revolves around retrieving a smuggled shipment of leftover Sarif Industries cyborg parts, which is pretty lame even by the usual weak MacGuffin standards. With stakes like these, it's just very hard to care whether the heros succeed or fail.

Meanwhile, having set up the great mystery of the holes in Jensen's memory and how he really survived, the book delivers no answers whatsoever (and nor, I'm sorry to say, does Mankind Divided itself). Tasked also with setting up Jensen’s new double-life working for both the Juggernaut Collective and Interpol, well, the book tells us the collective comes to see Jensen and asks him to work for them, and Jensen thinks about it and then says ‘yes’. The story of how he came to work for Interpol is similarly underwhelming.

But perhaps worst of all is the title, which refers indirectly to the mysterious ‘Project Black Light’ – something which a villain significantly reads a report on in this one scene. We do not see the content of the report. ‘Project Black Light’ presumably has something to do with Jensen ‒ either the genetic experiment that created him or whatever created that hole in his memory ‒ but that’s literally all Deus Ex canon has ever told us about it. It’s embarrassing just how little meat this thing has on its bones.

Unfortunately, Mankind Divided itself would prove to be a lot like Black Light – just without the interesting worldbuilding or the good banter to spice it up.

The usual big complaint levied at this game is that it’s too short, and the story feels unfinished – presumably cut short by time and budget constraints. That first point surprised me, as I’m sure it took me as long to finish as HR did – but I’m a terrible completionist and MD does have roughly a gazillion different side quests to waste your time. As the player, I’ll do almost anything for EXP, but rationalising why a guy as busy as Jensen would waste time on this crap is dissonance city. All these distractions do nothing to keep you invested in the main plot either (which is hard enough to care about to begin with).

I’d also debate that the story feels unfinished. To me, it feels unstarted.

(Yes, that is a loading screen detailing the history of a construction firm. This is absolutely the level of excitement you can look forward to here.)

The story of MD is so uninvolving it’s an effort even to remember much of it. The augmented populace who survived the 'aug incident' are now the new world-wide pariahs, and there’s an upcoming UN vote that will ban them from living anywhere worthwhile, and some terrorists have bombed a train station for some allegedly-related reason. Jensen is sent to apprehend the leader of a pro-augmented rights group leader as a suspect, a staunch pacifist whose name I've forgotten. On the way in, though, he meets a man with a sinister accent called Viktor Marchenko, the mother of all big-ugly-heavies, so it will amaze you all to learn that this guy is secretly the real terrorist mastermind, and will later be the final boss. The Illuminati have stakes in this somehow, and are probably pulling his strings or something. Look, I’m all for stories about twisted political shenanigans, but some of that has to happen on screen to work. This is a story where you’ll hear about all that shit third hand if you’re lucky.

Possibly, the idea was to open MD on a similar note to HR, at least in that Jensen is some months into his new job when a terrorist attack leaves him and his augs back at Factory 0. He then spends most of the rest of the game trying to track down those responsible. The key difference is that in HR, the attack was a targeted assault on Jensen’s workplace, resulting in his robocop upgrades and the abduction of his ex-girlfriend. Yes, it’s cheesy, yes, it’s cliched, but it gives us personal stakes. And as the story chugged along, we’d learn that Jensen’s own DNA was behind the discoveries that led to Sarif Industries being targeted, used without his consent. Love it or hate it, it’s very much Jensen’s story.

MD, by comparison, is just a story which Jensen happens to be in. He’s only at ground 0 for MD’s terrorist attack by unlucky accident, and is barely injured. He investigates because he works for Interpol, so this shit is literally his day job. Stopping bad people from doing bad things shouldn't need justification, but in what way is this Jensen’s story? His contacts with the Juggernaut Collective help with the investigation, but the conflict between his day job and his own secret affiliations never comes to a head, or even really escalates. It's the kind of experience that makes you long for the sort of generic genre cliches you thought you were tired of.

Some token attempt is made to link Megan’s research on Jensen's DNA to a new poison being used by the terrorists – and two almost complete games in, Jensen’s personal superpowers have finally mattered by making him immune to that poison – but why on earth would they need a new poison at all? Any quick-acting poison would’ve done the same job. (A cynical answer is that the plague from the original Deus Ex was supposed to have been accidentally created during human augmentation experiments, and fans want this to be more like the original Deus Ex, right? So let's do that again! Just, you know, even worse.)

None of the other dangling plot points go anywhere either; this is a story devoid of exciting reveals. We never meet the real Janus. We learn nothing new about Jensen’s background, his amnesia, or the Illuminati’s plans for him. Various members of Interpol are either revealed or subtly hinted to be working for the Illuminati, but Jensen himself doesn't get to react to those reveals. We learn that the Illuminati hopes Jensen will uncover Janus' true identity for them, which is to say that they mention it in passing in the very final cutscene. I as the player would really like that to happen too, if only so something would happen, but as an explanation for the Illuminati's interest in Jensen (escaped research test subject with DNA apparently vital to augmentation technology) that's pretty freaking underwhelming. The grand 'villain' of Mankind Divided isn't the Illuminati but ordinary human prejudice, and no actual progress is made in defeating that either.

We do get some intriguing hints in optional side quests that the Jensen we’re playing as may be a clone of the Jensen from HR (heck, maybe the real Jensen really did die when Panchea sank, and the Illuminati decided they still had a use for him), but hints are as far as it goes. The whole universe feels like it’s treading water, desperately trying to squeeze out another installment without having to answer any real questions or advance the real plot one iota forward. The whole game feels like a filler episode.

There are good moments scattered through nonetheless. Having to decide between doing the urgent mission Interpol wants and the equally-urgent mission the Collective wants at one key moment is wonderfully tense (though the actual consequences of that choice are typically minor). Wandering around Interpol HQ talking to people who are busily trying to track down the Juggernaut Collective without a clue that Jensen's an actual Collective agent is effective too. But the pacing suffers badly from the huge number of side-quests it encourages you to waste time on, and the core cast really isn’t holding up their end.

A few side-quests actually deliver some of the game’s other best moments. There’s a cult leader living in the sewers with hypnotic powers somehow strong enough to scramble Jensen’s CASIE aug, producing a terrific sequence when some of our favourite tools suddenly turn against us. Elsewhere, Eliza’s side-quest features by far the single best moment of twisted, trust-no-one paranoia in this whole franchise, where you have the chance to spot the fact that an "ordinary" shopkeeper is actually a plant trying to bait Jensen into a trap. That reveal worked all the better for me because I missed it completely on my first run through that dialogue tree, and stumbled onto it only by accident after reloading a save for unrelated reasons. You’ll get the odd glimpse of what this game could have been with a stronger vision behind it, but such material remains few and far between.

And burying the best stuff in optional content does the game no favours. I’d been spoiled for the fact you can find what seems to be a cloned copy of Jensen’s body (or maybe even the real Jensen?) in the Versalife vault, and had naively assumed that meant it was an actual plot point. I'd never have guessed the body isn’t even visible unless you let off an EMP grenade while standing right on top of it (which you have no reason to do because there are no enemies in this room). There’s no way to get a really good look at it without using freecam mods. And so the biggest single clue to any of the mysteries still surrounding Jensen is a detail so minor I can’t help wonder whether it’s anything more than an asset leftover from cut content, shipped in the finished game by mistake.

Maybe this game really was finished in a hurry with half its intended plot incomplete. But for my money, what it really needed wasn't an extra year in development, it was the direction to tell an actual story from the start. Seriously, Jensen discovering that he died in Panchea, that he's a clone re-created by his worst enemies as a sleeper agent against his new allies? Gold. If that was even the real intent. But no-one wanted an entire game about a UN resolution to make cyborgs more oppressed ‒ and if they did, the game they delivered was not it.

A bad plot alone isn't necessarily a death-knell from my side of fandom, of course. Some of the most beloved franchises out there are pretty objectively a load of hot garbage with a few compelling characters at the fore. Some of my own most beloved series are that exactly. So I wish I could tell you that Deus Ex: Mankind Divided was at least saved by its stellar characters and cast. But my thoughts on that front have yet again been deemed too long to squeeze into this post.

[kallie-den]

Renewable Energy: Peer Review

Averabeth, a succubus professor, is determined to veto any funding or support for Ziratha's brainwashing device… that is, until Ziratha introduces her to a freshly revirginized mortal with a singular fetish

A sequel to Renewable Energy!

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---

Averabeth, succubus and psychology research fellow, took a moment to pause, cross her arms, and peer sternly over her glasses at the grad student standing in front of her, before saying:

“Miss Ziratha. Can you possibly fathom the recklessness of what you’ve done?”

Her withering glare had put tears in the eyes of many students. Even most of the college deans feared her disapproval - but that just made it all the more infuriating when the succubus grad student she was addressing met her gaze with nothing more than smug satisfaction.

“Changing the world is always a little reckless, I suppose,” Ziratha replied pleasantly, as if the two of them had been agreeing.

Her absurd self-assurance had Averabeth smoldering with rage. “That’s what every fool says when they’ve made something stupidly dangerous. It’s unbelievable! Your invention requires oversight. Thorough testing. Input from experts - real experts, not half-cocked grad students who think they know better than their professors!”

Averabeth made her glare even more pointed but, once again, Ziratha weathered her scolding with nothing more than a shrug and a sigh.

“You know what’s what I’m here for, right?” Ziratha said easily. “To ask for your expertise?”

“Normally, you would ask beforehand,” Averabeth told her icily. “Not after you’ve already started putting your clumsy fingers into poor girls’ heads.”

Ziratha just shrugged again. There was something disconcerting about how immune the younger succubus seemed to be to Averabeth’s disdain. Perhaps it was the size difference. It was a little difficult to intimidate someone who stood almost seven feet tall.

Averabeth was, by comparison, of a far more conventional stature. The psychology researcher appeared - by human standards - roughly middle-aged, and thanks to her mature charm and tenured position, she had no trouble finding mortal partners whenever she needed to top up on sexual energy. She might not have been feasting on prime virgins every day like rich archsuccubi could, but she fed plenty, and thanks to that she was a bombshell. Her skin was a bright, lurid, healthy violet, the twin horns that jutted straight up from her forehead were a good few inches long, and her spade-tipped tail was plenty dexterous. All that made her a catch, by succubus standards, although mortals were more likely to care about her stunningly soft, curvy, middle-aged body, which she usually accentuated with pencil skirts and tight button-up blouses.

All in all, she looked powerful, and she looked good.

In typical grad student fashion, Ziratha had always been lesser. The two of them had rubbed shoulders at a few faculty socials, and Averabeth had never found a reason to take notice of the younger succubus. Now, though, everyone took notice of Ziratha. Everyone. She had grown magnificently, and one look at her was all anyone needed to see that she was flush with energy and power. Ziratha now towered over every other succubus on campus, her skin was a deep red that glowed radiantly, and her horns were steadily growing into an imposing, archsuccubic crown.

It was enough to make anyone wonder where Ziratha had been finding so many untapped virgins. Averabeth had heard a few rumors, of course, but she’d refused to lend them any credence.

Until now.

“Look,” Ziratha said, with a theatrical gesture. “Are you going to help me, or not?”

“I suppose I have little choice,” Averabeth growled, still glaring at the huge succubus standing in her office. “But make no mistake: if it’s as bad as I think it is, I will be unequivocal in my recommendations to the board. No funding, no testing - and harsh punishment for you personally!”

“Yes, yes,” Ziratha replied dismissively. She started pacing. “Let’s just get to it, shall we?”

Averabeth sighed and took a moment to collect herself. As much as she wanted to see Ziratha taken down a couple of pegs, there would be time for that later. “Very well. Please give me a full summary. Leave nothing out.”

“Thank you!” Ziratha smiled brightly at her, which was infuriating. “Well, as you may have heard, I’ve been developing a device to counteract the Succubus Energy Crisis - the well-known tendency for humanity’s level of sexual energy to decline, leaving our kind starved for food. And, as it happens, I have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.”

“You made a hat,” Averabeth snapped.

“A helmet,” Ziratha corrected, unperturbed. “The Transcranial Magical Stimulation Unit. Informally known - by me, anyway - as the Perma-Revirginizer. In layman's terms, it causes the vic- I mean, the subject, to regress permanently to a virginal state, both in terms of their energy yields and in terms of their sexual attitudes, confidence, and skills.” She licked her lips. “It turns them into total useless, blushing, delicious perma-virgins.”

Averabeth rubbed her head beneath one of her horns. This was a lot to take in, and the only reason she believed it was because of the evidence that Ziratha had brought with her. “And so, having created this… helmet, you just started handing them out to people? Are you insane?”

Ziratha waved away the insult. “I wanted a little more data. And if it helps to get some buzz going around, all the better for my funding proposal! Every succubus I gave a Transcranial Magical Stimulation Unit to is an acquaintance of mine, right here on campus.”

“So you’re either insane or stupid,” Averabeth groaned. “Do you have any idea how hard we’re all going to be sued for this?”

“Technically, I’ve done nothing wrong,” Ziratha replied, holding up one taloned finger. “Strictly speaking, it’s not a medical treatment, and according to FDA guidelines, the requirements for manufacture and distribution of a light-based therapeutic device are far less-“

“Great, you found a loophole!” Averabeth exploded. “Good for you! But did you even stop to think about this? Why, the implications are… what happens if a succubus puts one of your helmets on another succubus? If humans start getting transformed into perma-virgins en masse, what will that mean for the mortal reproductive rate? These are crucial questions!”

Once again, Ziratha shrugged. “I think dealing with the energy crisis is far more pressing. And besides, I’m keeping an eye on any potential wrinkles! That’s why I came here today, to you.”

“You came to me,” Averabeth said slowly, struggling to contain her outrage, “because you have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to her.”

As one, both of them turned to look at the third person currently present in Averabeth’s office, sitting on her couch. She looked between the two looming succubi, blushed furiously, and then stared resolutely at her feet as she pulled her heavy jacket tight around her.

Her name was Erin Reid, she was human, and she had apparently been a perfectly normal college student - up until about a week ago. In Averabeth’s estimation, she was the attractive, popular type. She had a trim, athletic figure, a charming face, and long, well-kept, blonde hair. She was the kind of girl who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the college cheerleading squad. Now, though, she projected none of the confidence her looks suggested, only a kind of twitchy, deer-in-headlights nervousness that became infinitely more pronounced whenever she looked at one of the buxom succubi in the room, or they looked at her.

This, Averabeth surmised, was typical of the perma-virgins Ziratha had been creating. From where she was sitting, this Erin certainly looked like a virgin. She had the scent of one too. But after a few minutes in her company, it had become obvious that there was something distinctly strange about her, even by those standards.

The first sign was her clothes. It was a warm, stuffy day, but Erin was wearing the largest and heaviest coat Averabeth had ever seen, draped suffocatingly over her shoulders, even though she was plainly sweating from the heat. By contrast, the long-sleeved top she was wearing underneath was at least a size too small, and so tight it was visibly constraining her all over and limiting her range of movement in a way that Averabeth couldn’t imagine was comfortable.

And then there were her little tics. Erin was fidgeting constantly and looked unbearably uncomfortable even though she was simply sitting on a couch. She couldn’t seem to stop clutching and grabbing at herself, sometimes holding one wrist with the other, and, as both Averabeth and Zahiri inspected her, she slipped both of her arms behind her back to clasp herself at her elbows. It was an odd, rigid, awkward gesture, but it seemed to bring her some amount of relief in her highly-agitated state.

Averabeth turned to glare at Ziratha again and raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“She’s in a relationship with Camylyth,” Ziratha explained, “one of my acquaintances. I gave her one of my perma-virginizer helmets to take for a spin. But then Camy came back to me a few days later and told me that her Erin had started behaving strangely. That she was worried.”

“And you’ve never seen this before?” Averabeth demanded. “Not in any other test subjects?”

“Never.”

Averabeth stroked her chin thoughtfully. She had decided to place her urge to castigate Ziratha on the back burner. She was, first and foremost, an academic, and from a research psychology perspective, there was clearly something very interesting happening here. Perhaps she could salvage a publishable case study from this debacle.

“I need to know everything,” she said flatly. “Right down to the last detail. Every single thing that happened when the helmet was used.”

“And that’s exactly why I brought her here!” Ziratha gestured to Erin with a flourish. “Who better to explain than the girl herself?”

Erin quivered anxiously.

Despite how intimidating Averabeth could be, she also knew how and when to present a softer side of herself. The succubus stood up from her chair and moved to perch on the couch next to Erin, hoping to appear more like a friendly counselor than a stern professor. She took off her glasses and let them hang from their chain around her neck, nestled against her silk scarf - but then, as she was settling, she froze. At this distance, she could truly sense Erin’s presence. She was oozing sexual energy, her virgin-scent so potent it momentarily threatened Averabeth’s self-control.

Clearly, Ziratha’s invention worked, whatever its dangers.

“Erin,” Averabeth began gently, after getting a tight hold on herself. “Tell me everything that happened, please. Everything. I’m afraid I really do need the full picture. Even the slightest detail could be crucial.”

Erin seemed to appreciate Averabeth’s efforts, even if the succubus’s closeness only made her blush deeper and stare at the floor. “I… um… well, Camy brought the helmet over. S-she made it sound like it could spice things up in our… um… um…” She turned a bright scarlet. “Our l-l-lovemaking.”

Averabeth sensed that wasn’t the kind of word this girl would have used before. “I see. Is that something you two were in need of?”

The tips of Erin’s ears started to burn. “I guess we were pretty v-v-vanilla.” She looked like she could barely bring herself to say it.

Averbeth nodded. “Please go on.”

"She used it on me,” Erin continued shyly. “I just remember a big flash, and then I was, um, l-like this.” She fell abruptly silent.

“And then?” Averabeth insisted.

“Then we… um… we… we…” Erin turned an even deeper shade of red and started letting out odd, nervous giggles. She looked almost completely overcome with embarrassment and started clutching tightly at herself. “We… we did… we did… it…”

Her voice trailed off into a shocked whisper, like she was scandalized with herself.

“Erin,” Averabeth said gently, “I’m sorry, but I need to know. I really do.”

She drew closer and put a comforting hand on Erin’s shoulder. Her nostrils flared. Her scent was incredible.

Erin nodded unhappily and clasped her hands over her face. “So we… you know. And I… um… you know. But it was, um a lot!” Her voice was muffled, but she kept going. “I started shaking and thrashing, and it went on for a l-long time. Camy was worried about me. She thought I was going to hurt myself. So she, um, held me down, and grabbed some clothes so she could tie me up until it stopped.”

“I see.” Averabeth nodded thoughtfully. “And since then…?”

“Since then, um…” Erin’s hands came away from her face, and she folded her arms behind her back in that odd, stiff pose again. She was so red that it looked like steam was about to start coming out of her ears. “W-well I asked her to tie me up again. Kind of a few times, actually. And I g-guess I changed my wardrobe a little, too. Got some tight clothes, and some heavy clothes.”

“Why’s that?”

“They just feel nice. R-really nice, actually. Almost as good as Camy tying me up.” Something breathy and earnest was creeping into Erin’s voice. She seemed to be forgetting her embarrassment as she got caught up in gushing. “I just want to feel, um, c-constrained. It’s so relaxing when I can’t move. The pressure is just so… god, I need it. I can’t believe I never realized it before. I just can’t stop thinking about it. Rope, or handcuffs, or zip ties, or tape, or even just someone strong who can hold me down. I need it so badly, I-”

She glanced up, her face glowing, and suddenly remembered where it was. The look on her face as she shrank back into herself was so mortified it made Averabeth feel for her.

But much more than that, her words stoked in a fire in the older succubus. Most of her kind found sex alone perfectly satisfying, but Averabeth had developed and honed a taste for something more. The very same something Erin was describing in such desperate, lustful detail.

In that moment, Averabeth realized Erin was exactly her type.

“A-and that’s all,” Erin squeaked.

“Thank you, Erin,” Averabeth looked up at Ziratha, keeping her own urges carefully suppressed. “Is there anything she might be leaving out?”

“Not really,” Ziratha answered briskly. “But she’s got it bad, to be clear. Camy says every time they fuck, she needs to put her in a straitjacket and give her a mouth guard just to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. And now she’s all bondage freak about everything. I just need to figure out what the helmet did to her, so I can make a few tweaks. I don’t want to end up giving all these cute little virgins brain damage - either because of what the helmet does, or because they end up slamming their heads on the bedposts during sex.”

“And if you already have,” Averabeth hissed. “That doesn’t concern you?”

“Well, legally speaking, there was a disclaimer with some fine print that they all-“

“Oh, save it.” Averabeth sighed. “In any case, I believe I have an alternative theory about what happened.”

“Then, by all means, share it.” Ziratha looked infuriatingly pleased with herself.

“Based on my own academic knowledge of virgins, I suspect her thrashing may have simply been a natural virgin response to the experience of sex with a succubus,” Averabeth explained. “Perhaps Erin here is - shall we say - unusually enthusiastic at the point of orgasm. But not unnaturally so.”

Erin looked like she wanted the couch to swallow her up. She let out a meek, pathetic groan.

“But your friend hadn’t seen this before,” Averabeth speculated. “She was concerned, and so she chose to restrain Erin. And that, I hypothesize, is what caused everything else. I’m sure even you, Miss Ziratha, know what pleasure-conditioning is. I suspect that, given the effects of your device, the imprinting was particularly effective. Being restrained at the point of greatest pleasure has given Erin a singularly-potent fetish. It’s not neuro-physiological. It’s simple psychology.”

Averabeth was, unwillingly, somewhat impressed that Ziratha had stumbled upon such an effective way to induce her favorite fetish. But she certainly wasn’t going to let the younger succubus know about that. Averabeth kept her kinky side firmly in the bedroom. She was an academic. It wouldn’t be good for her reputation if her students heard rumors about things like that - even if they were, often, the girls she was persuading to let her tie them up.

It wasn’t classy. But it was a time-honored succubus tradition.

“Huh.” Ziratha tapped her cheek with one of her claws, taking a moment to digest that. Averabeth noted that she didn’t look particularly surprised. “Well, great! I guess that means we don’t have anything to worry about.”

Averabeth’s fury reignited. “Excuse. Me?”

Already, Ziratha was turning as if to leave. “It’s easy. I’ll just slap a warning label somewhere. ‘Don’t tie your new perma-virgin up while they cum… unless, of course, you’re into that’.”

The way she threw a look at Averabeth as she said that made the older succubus freeze for a moment. Did Ziratha know? Surely not. Averabeth had always been so discreet, and she’d always sworn her partners to silence. She became uncomfortably aware that she had a collection of toys right here in her office, hidden away, just in case. Had Ziratha noticed something?

“That kind of attitude is exactly why you need to be stopped!” Averabeth roared, moving past the momentary worry. “I’ve seen enough! It doesn’t matter how revolutionary your invention is, it undoubtedly has the potential to harm just as much as it helps. I’ll be contacting the ethics and funding boards at once. I’ll recommend they suspend you with immediate effect, seize your foolish little helmets as college property, and prohibit any further development until FDA regulations catch up with you.”

That threat was the ace up her sleeve - and it wasn’t empty. Averabeth had enough pull with the board to make it happen. She was hoping, at the very least, to make Ziratha learn a little humility. If the grad student threw herself at her feet and begged, perhaps she’d reconsider. But, as ever, Ziratha’s smug confidence seemed eerily invincible.

“My goodness!” Ziratha exclaimed, giggling and turning back. “Don’t you think that’s a little premature?”

Averabeth folded her arms. “Why would I?”

“Well, it just seems to me,” Ziratha drawled, an infuriating smirk on her face, “that if a research fellow such as yourself was going to stake her reputation on opposing a new, world-changing technology, she should at least bother to take some time to properly examine the test subject sitting in front of her.”

Averabeth’s glare could have melted glaciers.

“You think my Transcranial Magical Stimulation Unit has harmed her in some way, right?” Ziratha challenged, unfazed. “Take a closer look. See if you can prove it.”

“Fine,” Averabeth replied through gritted teeth. Her pride wouldn’t let this pass. “All the better for adding some color to my report.”

She turned back to Erin. Her nostrils flared as she once again caught the virgin’s scent. It stirred her hunger, despite how eager she was to prove that Ziratha was dangerous. All it would take is a nice, thorough examination. Given Erin’s current nervous, twitchy state, it should be easy to demonstrate that she was having difficulty functioning normally.

“Give me your hand,” she demanded.

Erin was too shy and meek to disobey. Clutching at herself with her right arm, she stretched her left out to the older succubus. Averabeth immediately and impatiently seized her wrist, yanking it a little further toward her. In response, Erin let out a breathy yelp that was plainly borne from more than just surprise. Averabeth threw Ziratha a sharp look.

“You see?” she said. “She becomes aroused from as little as this!”

Erin made an impossibly mortified little squeak.

“That seems a little inconclusive,” Ziratha retorted. Averabeth couldn’t wait to wipe that smug, amused look off her face.

“Please!” Averabeth scoffed. “That’s just the beginning. Look.”

Without bothering to warn the mortal, Averabeth suddenly wrenched Erin’s arm behind her back and kept it pressed there in a kind of hold. This time, Erin didn’t just yelp. She moaned.

“Come on!” Averabeth insisted. “Surely, even from over there, you can tell how absurdly turned on she is! I mean, it’s… it’s…”

She paused, as a singular realization dawned on her, so crushing and so powerful it robbed the words from her mouth.

She was hungry.

For succubi, the desire to feed was omnipresent. Coping with it was a fact of life. But Averabeth had never known hunger like this. It defied all reason. She wasn’t starved. She’d fed recently. But something about Erin was driving her appetite wild. Now that she had drawn attention to it, the sexual energy she could sense from Erin was nothing short of incredible. It stoked her hunger like nothing else.

Ziratha’s taunting smirk had kept Averabeth distracted, but now the succubus’s predatory instincts were sharpened like a knife. She sensed Erin earlier, yes, but the small ways she’d touched and grabbed the perma-virgin just now had put her arousal and energy output over the edge. Averabeth could feel it in her whole body. It was a buzz. It was intoxicating. It was irresistible. She couldn’t avoid thinking about what it would feel like to truly enjoy Erin - especially since she knew the perma-virgin had been made hopelessly weak to bondage.

“Perhaps,” Ziratha suggested quietly, “it would be instructive to replicate the conditions of the initial incident?”

That suggestion took mere moments to coil itself around Averabeth’s mind. Her hunger agreed with it, and her intellect was dragged behind, forced to rationalize and excuse.

“Yes,” she agreed, breathing heavily. “Of course. Naturally. I was just about to…”

Her impatient hunger got the better of her. Averabeth released Erin’s wrist and, in a frenzy of activity, tore off her own blouse, ripping half the buttons in the process. She shrugged the ruined garment off her shoulders and, before Erin could raise any protest, forced the mortal’s wrists together behind her back and used her blouse to bind them with a nice, tight, safe knot.

She wasn’t thinking clearly enough to worry about Ziratha seeing how good she was at tying people up.

“How does that feel?” Averabeth hissed urgently to Erin. Her eyes were smoldering. “Tell me everything.”

She knew the answer before Erin even opened her mouth. She could feel it. Erin’s arousal surged, and with it, her energy and her scent. It only served to make Averabeth even more ravenous.

“I-it feels…” Erin panted. “R-really good.”

That seemed to be all the answer she could manage. Erin was straining against her bindings - not to try and break them, but just to feel them and take comfort in their presence. The expression on her face was rapturous, her joy tempered only by intense, excruciating embarrassment. If Ziratha’s re-virginizer helmet worked as well as she promised, Erin was feeling all this like it was her first time. She would always feel it like it was her first time. Already, Erin was starting to tremble and shudder.

“Perhaps…” Averabeth said slowly, “it would be best to conduct a truly thorough survey… different stimuli, different tools… just to make sure we understand the limits here.”

“A wonderful idea!” Ziratha giggled. “I knew your insight would be invaluable. Please, continue.”

Averabeth was too consumed with desire to notice her mockery. Pride was forgotten; lust and hunger were all that drove her. She surged upwards, lifting her skirt and swinging one of her legs over Erin’s body so she could straddle the bound mortal. Erin had never looked more like virgin prey than she did looking up at Averabeth, flustered beyond reason, as the tall, domineering succubus used her body weight to pin Erin down at her hips.

The immediate surge of arousal Averabeth could sense from Erin had her seeing white.

Now Erin truly started thrashing, kicking her legs and contorting her body like she was already in the throes of orgasm. Her efforts were useless. Averabeth kept her trapped in place between her thighs effortlessly. The more Erin struggled, the more flush with arousal she seemed to become. Averabeth was enraptured by the sight. She wanted to fuck Erin, yes - but more than anything, she just wanted to keep pushing her further and further, to keep binding her, to see how much she could break Erin’s brain with bondage and pleasure.

Succubi needed to have sex to transfer energy, but Averabeth firmly believed that, through bondage, she could extract far more and far better energy than through sex alone. And she could scarcely imagine what Erin’s energy would taste like now.

“Is she…” Averabeth said, as a single rational thought penetrated her lustful fugue. “Will Camylyth…”

“Don’t worry,” Ziratha reassured swiftly. “Camy isn’t the jealous type. They have an open relationship.”

That was all Averabeth needed to hear. As she stared at Erin, she started drooling, and couldn’t stop licking her lips with her long, inhuman tongue. “God, she’s so… ripe. So full. Practically begging to… to… fuck, I need my rope.”

“Allow me.”

Ziratha sauntered around behind Averabeth’s desk and opened one of her drawers, reaching inside to pluck out a length of rope. She walked back and handed it to the older succubus. Averabeth flashed her a dubious look.

“You… knew that was there?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” Ziratha replied dismissively. “Word gets around.”

Averabeth’s blood ran cold for a brief moment. “Word of…”

“Of your preferred feeding habits,” Ziratha purred. “You know, you’re really not as discreet as you think. Girls love to gossip.”

Averabeth was far too worked up to feel embarrassed, but she was starting to put the pieces together. “If you knew about all that - if you knew how much I’m into bondage - then you… you brought this girl here for more than just advice.”

“Oops.” Ziratha put a hand up to cover her mouth in a parody of bashfulness. “You figured me out.”

“Why?” Averabeth growled. It was perilously difficult to remain clear-headed while she was straddling a virgin who was plainly jonesing for the rope in her hand. “Are you going to blackmail me?”

At that, Ziratha actually laughed. “Hardly. I just heard that you might not be a fan of my work. And I thought that, rather than worry about your pull with the board, I should give you a taste of what you’d be missing if you shut me down.”

Averabeth felt her cheeks starting to burn. “Don’t think this will affect my recommendations to the board!”

Ziratha’s ominous smirk returned. “We’ll see.”

Averabeth looked away and tried to affect haughtiness. It was difficult when she was half-undressed and drooling. “I simply… simply wish to conduct a properly thorough examination. That’s all.”

“Then don’t let me stop you.” Ziratha giggled. She bent down next to Averabeth, resting a hand on her shoulder in a comradely gesture. “Don’t you think she’ll look good in rope?” Suddenly her voice was a whisper, seductive and tempting. “Can’t you see how much she wants it? She’s so desperate. So needy. Full to bursting with sweet, sweet lust.”

Averabeth’s nostrils flared. Knowing what Ziratha was up to didn’t make it any easier to resist, and thinking clearly about anything at all was impossible while Erin was still thrashing and writhing needily between her legs. The older succubus decided to simply try to ignore Ziratha and do what she had been going to do anyway.

Which was, of course, to try and push Erin to her limits. That had always been her plan, hadn’t it?

“You want this,” Averabeth said to Erin, showing her the rope. Instinctively, she made her voice into a rich, seductive purr. “Don’t you?”

Erin didn’t respond, but the answer was obvious. Her eyes dilated fully as they locked onto the length of rope, and her futile writhing became even more uncontrolled and desperate.

“Good girl.” Averabeth licked her lips, and a hint of mockery entered her voice. “Now stay still.”

Erin had little choice, and Averabeth soon robbed her of what little range of movement she had left. Measuring out lengths of rope between her hands, she started trussing it around Erin’s body in elegant, looping, spiraling patterns, using her powerful thighs and dexterous tail to move her around like a doll as needed. When she finished her work and pulled the rope taut, it bound tight around Erin, squeezing her tits, her hips, her belly - and keeping her arms completely trapped behind her.

The human started thrashing more vigorously than ever, with such fervor she started frothing and drooling from her mouth. It was useless. She couldn’t move. The spreading, damp, sticky patch of wetness at the front of her jeans made it very, very obvious Erin wasn’t squirming to get free. She was so wet she was soaking through her panties. The poor girl had never been so turned on in her life, and thanks to Ziratha’s invention, she was less equipped than ever to handle it.

Averabeth was just as turned on. For a succubus like her, arousal and hunger were one and the same, and her appetite had been stoked like never before. Erin was like a drug. Her scent was irresistible, and the prospect of savoring her sweet taste had the succubus drooling.

“Doesn’t she look perfect?” Ziratha murmured. She looked over Averabeth’s shoulder, whispering to her like a tempting devil. “Is this really such a bad thing?”

Averabeth growled about her, but couldn’t take her eyes off Erin. She looked beautiful in rope. “Be quiet.”

“You should tell that to her.” Ziratha giggled. “I’m not the one making all the noise.”

She had a point. Erin was obviously trying to stifle her moans - but she was also completely failing. The lewd, wet, drooling groans that passed her lips filled Averabeth’s office, and from the way Erin’s tongue was starting to loll out of her mouth, the succubus worried she was going to accidentally bite herself.

“I need a-“ Averabeth started to say.

“This?” Ziratha supplied at once. She dangled a finely-crafted leather ball gag in front of Averabeth’s face. It was another one of the treasures Averabeth had tucked away under her desk, and she couldn’t bring herself to be mad at Ziratha for taking liberties.

Instead, she just plucked it from Ziratha’s fingers and, after prying Erin’s lips apart and forcing her tongue back, crammed the ball into her mouth. It only took her a moment more to fasten the clasp around the back of her head, leaving Erin completely gagged. That did much to mute the noise of her moans, but it made her eyes bulge dangerously instead, and Averabeth felt electrified by the energy she was giving off.

“Have you ever,” Ziratha whispered, “tasted anything better?”

Averabeth couldn’t bring herself to offer a rebuke. She shook her head dumbly. The only thought in her mind was hunger.

“It’s a shame you can’t truly sink your teeth into her,” the other succubus teased. “Because you’re just running a little experiment, right? For your report?”

Averabeth started panting ravenously, a slight whine catching in her throat.

“Oh well!” Ziratha giggled carelessly. “Hey, why don’t you try this next?”

She produced a blindfold from somewhere and offered it to Averabeth, who immediately snatched it from her. Her own eyes were bulging just a little. Erin was perfect for her. As an attractive succubus, Averabeth had never had difficulty convincing her partners to participate in her fetish - but this was the first girl she’d found who shared her true, deep perversion. She could feel herself dripping wetness into Erin’s lap, but she didn’t care.

She needed more. She couldn’t let a girl like this go.

Averabeth took a long moment to look into Erin’s eyes before closing the blindfold over them. They were clouded with lust, askew from the overstimulation, and filled with a kind of desperate, overwhelmed panic that drove the succubus wild. Once Erin was blinded she became momentarily still, but when Averabeth ran a single claw across her skin, she thrashed like never before.

It was a beautiful sight. And for Averabeth, it was almost as nourishing as sex itself.

Almost.

“Fuck,” panted Ziratha, close to Averabeth’s ear. One of her hands was between her legs, rubbing herself. “Can’t you just feel it? I know I can. It’s so intense. So good.”

Averabeth couldn’t help but nod along with her. There was no point denying it. It was in the air all around them, and thrumming through her body. Erin’s scent. Her energy. The slow, kinky bliss of bondage had brought the mortal’s arousal to its peak, bringing her flavor and vitality to the richest possible point. The hapless perma-virgin was just aching to be devoured.

Already, Averabeth was tearing off what remained of her clothes. She was pure predator now. Academic standards were the last thing on her mind. Her hunger was everything. She reached down, ready to shred Erin’s clothing and plunger her fingers into her virgin cunt, when Ziratha stopped her with a powerful hand on her arm.

“That’s probably enough, don’t you think?” Ziratha’s eyes glinted with malice. “I’m sure you have plenty of material for your report. Maybe we should get her back to Camylyth.”

As soon as the words left Ziratha’s lips, Averabeth knew that she had been checkmated. She hadn’t even truly tasted Erin yet, but she already knew that there was no way she could let the girl go now. And she also couldn’t face the prospect of a world without kinky, juicy, hapless virgins like her.

She couldn’t even bring herself to be angry. Being with Erin felt way too good for that. She was simply grateful for the revelation.

“Actually,” Averabeth said slowly, smiling. “I think I need more time to investigate some of her… responses. Clearly, some thorough research is in order. And… I’ll be sure to tell that to the board. Funding. Test subjects. Whatever you need.”

“Wonderful.” Ziratha cackled, eyes glinting with victory. “Thank you so much, Averabeth. I’m glad we understand each other now. Your expertise was every bit as invaluable as I’d hoped.”

She turned to leave, her work done, and as she walked out of Averabeth’s office her ears were filled with the sounds of the succubus beginning to ravage Erin’s body.

---

—

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

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Finally, thank you again to GrillFan65 for commissioning this story!

[illfoandillfie]

Hi! I’m the same anon from the “Lazy Sunday” ask. First off, you’re welcome! It’s a brilliant story! As far as blurb ideas go, I always go back to the line where Reader tells Roger that he’s going to make a “dorky dad”. I kind of like the idea of a blurb taking place later in time where Reader is trying to tell Roger that she’s pregnant and keeps getting interrupted throughout the day. But you’re the amazing author, I’m sure that you could probably think of something much better than I could. 😊

Blurb Advent 2023: Day 1

Anon this is an amazing idea, I apologise it took so long for me to write anything for it lmao but here it is, the sequel to Lazy Sunday, and the first of the 2023 Advent prompts!

No warnings for this except a few suggestive themes and that Roger's a bit of a dumbass skfksfjskdj

Also editing on these has been minimal, so ignore any typos/weirdness lmao

9.28 AM 

As soon as the phone rang you grabbed it. Roger was upstairs, gathering up some scribbled song ideas that he’d left floating around which, thankfully, meant it was easy to have a quiet conversation with your doctor to confirm the results of your test. You were pregnant. It all felt a little surreal. You hadn’t even realised you were late at first, mostly because you never properly tracked your cycle so you hadn’t picked up on the irregularity until you were really really late.  

There had been a conversation, of course. You’d sat down and talked about what it would mean, how it would work when Rog toured, whether both of you felt capable of raising a child. And you’d agreed you were in a good place if it happened. Roger had been diplomatic and calm during the chat, always acknowledging when things would be hard, never getting too caught up in things like how little and cute baby clothes are. But you could tell he was excited at the thought of starting a family. He’d always loved his friends kids and it was clear he was more than ready to try having a few of his own. Luckily you felt the same, though perhaps a little more apprehensive. But remembering that had made you decide to keep it from Roger until you were one hundred percent certain, just in case you were wrong. 

But now that you knew it was happening all you felt was relief. It was a relief that you’d been right, that you could give Roger the good news, that you wouldn’t be disappointing him with a false alarm. But it was also a relief that there wouldn’t be months of agonising over why you weren't conceiving, worrying that there was something wrong. It had happened fairly easily. As bad as it might sound, it had happened without you really even trying. All you’d done was tell Roger when your pills last ran out and then didn’t go get new ones. It was less effort than you usually made. Neither of you had done any more planning than that. You’d not thought to track when you were ovulating, not changed anything about your lives that might have impacted fertility. You didn’t even really have sex any more than usual since you were having it fairly frequently anyway. It was very much a ‘wait and see’ kind of approach, almost lazy even. And apparently it had worked.  

The reality of what the doctor had said began to properly sink in as you hung up and you let out a little squeal of excitement while you had the room to yourself. Roger had to know as soon as possible, of course. And when you heard his hurried footsteps, muffled only slightly by the carpeted stairs, you moved out into the hall to catch him. He didn’t seem to notice you were bursting with news, leaning in to kiss your cheek as he apologised.   “Sorry love, I’m running late. I’ll see you later, okay? Love you.” And then he was out the door before you could even begin telling him to wait.   You blew out a breath, a little annoyed, but it was fine. You’d just call him and give him the good news and maybe make him feel a little bad for leaving so quickly. It usually took him about half an hour to get to Freddie’s place so you headed upstairs to dress and get ready for the day.  

10.15 AM 

Freddie answered after a handful of rings and after a minute or two handed to phone to Roger.   Unfortunately, upon hearing his voice, you realised you didn’t really want to tell him over the phone. Pettiness in response to mild carelessness was not a good reason and you really wanted to see his reaction in person.  “What is it love?” Roger asked after you’d been too quiet for too long, "Is everything okay?”  “Oh, yeah,” you said, trying to laugh in a casual sort of way, “I just wanted to check what time you’ll be home. You were in such a rush I didn’t get a chance to ask and I was thinking of doing something nice for dinner but if you and the guys are gonna be at it until late I won’t worry.”  There was a pause from the other end of the line and then Roger said, “Ohhhh I get love. I know what this is.” His voice was a little hushed like he was trying not to be overheard but it didn’t stop him from sounding cocky.   “No, that’s not it.”  “Was that what you were trying to tell me when I left? It’s okay, I get it.”  “You get it?”  “Y’know it’s kinda hot that we’re not using protection, and we didn’t fuck last night. I bet you want me desperately by now. Might have to resort to that toy of yours, at least until I get home. Which will be round fiveish at the latest I think. And I promise you can have whatever you need then.”  You were still trying to sputter out an answer, to tell Roger how wrong he was, when he hung up. And for a moment or two you were incapable of moving, listening to the repetitive beep that signalled the end of the call, as you wondered whether Roger’s stupidity was genetic.  

12.45 PM 

You thought about it a lot through the day, trying to come up with a fun way to tell Roger. A few years before a friend of yours had surprised her husband with a mug that said ‘Number 1 Dad’ on it. At the time you’d privately thought it was beyond cheesy but now it seemed kind of cute. You didn’t want to copy exactly what she’d done but an alternative didn’t jump out at you immediately, so you kept thinking about it as you went about your day. At one point you considered baking a cake and writing the message in icing. That idea morphed into making a loaf of bread so he could discover the bun in the oven. The problem with both was you’d never been much of a baker and you didn’t want to waste ingredients making inedible food. Then you thought maybe you should just run to the local shop and find a card, or perhaps some baby clothes. Keep it simple and impossible to misunderstand. But neither was a particularly exciting idea. If you were going to do something it should be fun and interesting. Besides, you didn’t really feel like leaving the house. At some point you got it stuck in your head that you could make him a more personalised announcement, maybe a card with a reference to one of his songs, or perhaps cut up old magazines to make a collage. But nothing really seemed to stick. You’d think the idea was good for about two minutes, and then you’d look at what ingredients or craft supplies you had, and decided it was a horrible idea that would never work. So you kept thinking.  

4.08 PM

Roger wrapped his arms around you and pressed his lips to your throat, “Don’t worry love, I’m here. How do you want me?”  You’d not even heard him come in. The TV had masked the sound of his keys but you’d been in your own little world anyway, very aware that you were running out of time before he’d be home and you still didn’t have a cute way of revealing the news. The suddenness of it all – his voice all low and gravely against your ear, his lips on your throat – was a shock and, unthinkingly, you blurted out a few incomprehensible noises and then, “no- I- you- daddy.”  Roger paused, moving around to better see your face, “Oh, that’s new. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing but hey, I’ll give it a shot. Is it just calling me Daddy or is there more to it? Is this where all that like bondage stuff comes into it?”  You snorted with laughter and pushed him back a little, “No, dumbass, you surprised me. I was thinking about something else.”  “What?” he asked, suspiciously, “Can’t be your actual dad cause I’ve never heard you call him daddy before. What other daddies do you know?”  “Well....theres you. I’m pregnant.”  Roger stopped and blinked a couple of times like his brain had short circuited. “You are? Really?”  “Yeah, got the confirmation this morning. I tried to tell you but you were in such a rush.” Most of it was said laughingly into Roger’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you tight. 

[lonesome-witching]

Engagement Talks

Sequel to the Mole Men and the Diamond Ring. As requested by @rabbitofdeath-atcastleaarrggh. I am posting this in between classes so sorry for the brief introduction.

You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.

Robin wasn’t sure what Karen was feeling right now. She also wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. A dozen apologies were burning on her tongue.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your blessing first. I wasn’t planning on everything going so fast. I had only just purchased the ring. I was planning on asking for your blessing first but then last night happened and I just fell in love even harder and I really couldn’t contain myself.” Robin was babbling, she was nervous. For some reason she felt like she had done something wrong.

“It’s alright, Robin. Everything is alright.” Karen smiled. “I know you make my daughter happy and that truly is what is most important to me.”

“Good, great.”

Nancy put her hand on Robin’s knee. A calming gesture. A bit of comfort in this uncomfortable situation. It helped. It helped calm down Robin’s nerves just a tiny bit. Just enough to look up at Karen and Joyce and see the absence of anger.

“I will admit I’m a little surprised. It doesn’t seem like the two of you have been together for that long.”

“About as long as you and Joyce, mom,” Nancy replied.

Robin looked from her girlfriend to Karen and back.

“Oh.” It was merely a sound. Yet in it the shock was evident.

“Yeah, we’ve been dating for a while. Friends first, of course, and then it just kind of happened.”

“It is actually a pretty funny story,” Nancy added with a soft smile.

“We’d love to hear it,” Joyce said.

“We had been friends for a while and I clearly was falling in love with Nancy. I kept bothering Steve with all of it. Constantly talking about how amazing Nancy is—”

“And I accidentally,” Nancy stressed the last word, “overheard part of their conversation.”

“I panicked, like full blown ramble panic. Worse than usual.”

“It was endearing.”

“It was annoying.”

“Anyway, that’s when I asked her out. Officially,” Nancy finished the story.

“When did you get together?” Karen wasn’t trying to hide her smile.

“A few days later, Nancy was the one to ask.”

“And that was about a year ago.”

“That is about a month longer than us,” Joyce exclaimed. She sounded almost delighted. “What do you think? We could have a joined wedding and all.”

“Joyce, they’re only 18.”

“Which is old enough to marry,” Nancy interrupted.

“Yes, and I am delighted for the two of you. But perhaps you should enjoy your engagement a bit longer.”

[tsarisfanfiction]

Eclipse: Chapter 32

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades We're finally here - the last chapter and end of this story. This fic's been a year and a half in the making, and it feels weird that it's finally done and posted. To head off the question I know is coming (because it's already been floated in the discord) - no, there is currently no plan for a sequel. Yes, there is definitely space for it, and if it happens it will be the Revolution~, but I have several other projects at the moment that I want to work on, and honestly writing a full blown revolution fic would be a lot of work and time I don't have right now. So for now at least, assume there won't be one. I'm not making any promises on the next project or when it'll come, but I have several muses clamouring for attention so there should be another longfic out of me at some point... In the meantime, I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one!  If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 31

APOLLO XXXII

A goodbye for now The future keeps coming, but This tale is over

Hades rolled his eyes.  “You do not need to thank me, nephew,” he said, the familial title sounding almost fond and reminding Apollo yet again of Hades’ words after the Arai.  “I never intended to allow Nico to return to the Pit; it should be I thanking you for preventing it when he had found a way to get around my notice.”

Apollo had no words to say to that, a creeping feeling of awkwardness descending around them.  In the Pit it had been one thing, an alliance for survival against the Pit and everything it tried to throw at them – which had, eventually, been everything or close enough to it that Apollo was still amazed that they had escaped, and thoroughly grateful to Thanatos for choosing to aid them.  Now, there was no adrenaline tying them together, no co-dependence for survival.

They were safe once more, in Hades’ domain where Apollo had less power while his uncle ruled over every daktylos of it, and Apollo was not sure if he was expected to stay and talk, or if he had overstayed his welcome and was required to leave, now that the demigods had departed and Asclepius sentenced.

Silence stretched between them, before Hades broke it with a sigh.  “I did not lie, in the Pit,” he said.  “Your presence is more tolerable than that of your siblings and cousins.”  There was a weighted pause.  “Certainly more tolerable than your father.”

“I don’t think being more tolerable than him is much of an achievement,” Apollo muttered, and Hades let out an amused noise.

“No, it is not,” he said.  “Once, he was fair and just.  Now, he has allowed paranoia to devour any common sense he once had and isolates himself, fearing a knife in the back at every turn.  In truth, he is hardly recognisable from the young god I recall leading us from Mount Othrys, except in his determination.”

Apollo knew the stories, but that had been long before he and Artemis had been conceived so all he knew were the stories, most of which had been told to an infant god by his mother.  Zeus had rarely spoken of it, and Apollo had never been close enough to the other involved gods for them to tell him about it.

“Speaking of your father, and my siblings,” Hades continued, “I was not expecting Poseidon to drag himself from his watery depths, much less to take the side of Bob.  Athena, perhaps I could understand your sister gathering, but Poseidon keeps himself out of reach of Olympus almost as much as I.”

“It wasn’t Artemis.”  That much, Apollo knew, but the sound of his sister’s name provoked a memory of a vision, of two demigods scribbling symbols on a piece of paper.  An awkward, not-quite bubble letter ‘C’ – or rather, he realised, a crescent – squiggly lines stacked above each other in parallel rows, a stick figure that could creatively be called a bird.

At the time, Apollo had been too distracted with the aftermath of the Arai to recognise what the bad iconography had represented, but now he recalled mention of Percy and Annabeth, and the pieces slotted together.

“It was Will and Nico,” he said, meeting his uncle’s eyes as Hades froze.  “Somehow – Nico’s dream-walking – they reached out.  They must have known bringing a titan out wouldn’t go down well and tried to find allies.”

It was a laughable thought – allies amongst the Olympians.  Artemis was unique, his twin and intrinsically tied to him because of it, covering his back when she could manage, but the other gods?  No.

Except, Hades had stood with him, still stood with him, amicable and merciful to the son who offended him more than once, and Zeus had been the one outnumbered in the throne room.  It hadn’t been an alliance – Apollo had allied with three of the gods in there before, to try and talk Zeus into being a little less tyrannical, and that hadn’t been the same at all – but it had been something.

Trust demigods, who had little scope of the dynamic between gods, but an innate knowledge of how powerful friends in the right places could be, to head straight to the heart of the matter and enlist them regardless.  They must have gone through their friends – Percy and Annabeth, for Poseidon and Athena, and Reyna or Thalia to reach Artemis – all demigods who also knew the strength in bonds.

Asclepius had warned them against it, but hadn’t stopped them – enough of a god to know how unlikely it was to work, yet with the memories of a demigod who knew it needed to work.

Hades sighed, clenching a fist in the fabric of his robes.  The souls around his fingers twisted into something even more agonised.  “Foolish children.”

“Very,” Apollo agreed whole-heartedly, “but it worked.”

His uncle scoffed.  “It shouldn’t have done,” he said.  “My son’s irreverence for the gods will get him killed one day, if he is not careful.  It is one thing not to fear me – for all he should.”  Apollo didn’t think for a single moment that Hades was as irritated about his son’s lack of fear as he projected; parents who wanted to inspire fear tended not to put themselves in danger to protect their child.  “It is another to argue with or attempt to manipulate other gods, who would as soon as smite him down as listen.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Apollo could not see how they could convince Nico not to keep doing exactly as he pleased.  It was not as though the son of Hades hadn’t experienced first hand the wrath of a god – Apollo recalled the death of Maria di Angelo all too well, and not just because it had coincided with his uncle cursing his Pythia in his furious grief.

That had been the moment Bianca and Nico had been marked as important, to the future.  Their potential had always been there, but the potential had also been there for them to die in the war, forgotten casualties like so many others of the time period.  Zeus’ attack on Maria had provoked Hades’ defence of the children, squirrelling them away, out of the time stream and safe until it was time to bring them back out to re-join the world.

“In the future, I expect William to attempt to stop my son’s suicidal plans, not enable them,” Hades said, and Apollo gave a shrug.

“I’m sure he’ll do what he can,” he said lightly, well aware that Will’s own stubbornness and strong morals were more likely to have him joining Nico in the chaos, rather than pulling him out of it.  Even when he’d tried to keep Nico out of harms’ way, it had happened anyway.

“See that he does,” Hades grumbled, but Apollo suspected he, too, knew that the demigods were a lost cause.  As long as they were happy, that was the most important thing – although safe and alive were also listed at the top of Apollo’s priority list, and no doubt Hades’ as well.

His uncle stepped past him, as though heading for his throne once again, but paused after a few steps, turning back to face Apollo, who had half thought that he had just been dismissed.

“The prophecy,” he began.  “I find it curious that topaz referenced Koios.”

“I thought you didn’t care for prophecies,” Apollo retorted, defensive almost without thinking – it had been enough of a struggle getting his uncle to comprehend the idea of claiming one, and now Hades wanted to talk about the wording?

Hades hesitated, something that had been unnerving enough in the depths of Tartarus, but now in his own domain just seemed wrong.  “I cannot say that I like them,” he admitted, a truth Apollo had long been aware of, “but I realise now that they exist nonetheless, and will not be gainsaid by my refusal to listen.  I was… rash, when I cursed her.  Your Pythia.  I… should not have done that.”

It took Apollo a moment to realise his uncle was apologising, and another moment for the implications to sink in.  It changed nothing; Cassie’s life had been forfeit and she had been forced to endure long beyond the limits of her mortal life, restricted from death but unable to live.  With the lifting of the curse and the transference of her duties to Rachel, she had finally been allowed to rest, her torment over.

It also, Apollo realised suddenly, was not something he could condemn Hades for.  Perhaps once he would have done, a hypocrite of the highest order or perhaps simply forgetting his own crimes, but thinking now about a young woman cursed by a god for no good reason, Apollo could only remember the Cumaean Sibyl and the grains of sand he had made her life.

He had long waited for Hades to acknowledge what he had done to Cassie, to apologise for it, but now that he had received it, it gave him no satisfaction at all.  The act of his uncle apologising, and apologising to him, was strange enough in its own right, a flicker of warmth within his essence because apologies were not given lightly between gods, but it was cooled unpleasantly because as soon as he received it, it sent a chill through him.

He couldn’t accept it.

“You are not the only god to curse a prophetess in a moment of rage,” he admitted, glancing down at the polished black marble of Hades’ throne room floor before meeting his uncle’s eyes.  Hades looked surprised, as though he hadn’t known about the Sibyl – but perhaps he hadn’t, her name not appearing on Thanatos’ list of souls to be reaped and leaving that crime of Apollo’s unrevealed.  “I cannot condemn you for it when I have done worse.”

Cassie still had a body, when she was finally allowed to pass on.  The Sibyl of Cumae had been nothing but a naked and vulnerable soul, her body long since decayed to nothing while she still endured.  Apollo could not call it living, not in that state.

Hades’ eyes regarded him, surprise flickering in black flames for a few moments before morphing into something else, softer and yet harder at the same time.  “In that case,” he said after several long moments, during which Apollo felt exposed in a way he hadn’t even when his form had been torn to shreds and his essence was the only thing left of him, “let me rephrase.  In cursing your Pythia, I belittled and disrespected you and your domain.  You and she attempted to use Delphi to protect Maria and her children, and when I did not listen, I lashed out at the ones that would have helped me, had I allowed it.  If you will not accept an apology for my treatment of her, then let me instead apologise for the disrespect I gave you then.”

Apollo froze.  He had thought Hades would brush off the attempted apology and continue with whatever it was he had to say about the wording of the one they had claimed, not that he would amend the apology to address what was, in essence, the real offence.

“I still do not like prophecies,” Hades confirmed, “and I do not believe I ever will.  But they are part of the Fates’ designs, a part of your power, and I should not have lashed out.”

If the previous apology had startled Apollo, this one floored him.  His uncle apologising for a single rash action was one thing, but to delve into the heart of the issue and apologise for what was, at its core, disrespecting Apollo?  No, Apollo had never even considered the possibility.

He also knew that he could not brush this one away.

“Thank you,” he said.  There were no other words good enough in the face of Hades’ honesty, no elaborate speeches that would share his gratitude so eloquently.  “That…”  His breath hitched, as he realised just how much it meant, but also that while Hades had been open with him, he hadn’t returned the gesture.  “That means a lot.”

It felt wrong, baring himself, but if Hades could do it in Tartarus, then Apollo owed it to him to at least try.  “I know it’s less competition, but you’ve always been the most tolerable of my father’s siblings.”

Hades’ face went blank.  “Even Hestia?”

Apollo’s heart did an awkward twist at that, remembering her rejection of his advances.  In hindsight, it had been the correct decision, for both of them, but at the time…  Apollo had respected it, but he hadn’t been used to rejection.  Not when he was the young, handsome god everyone was falling over to be near, let alone with.

“You have never rejected my presence,” he settled on.  It must have been good enough, because Hades did not press further.  “Then, you protected me, in the Pit.”

“We protected each other,” Hades said, his face still unreadable.  Apollo hoped he hadn’t just overstepped, hadn’t just ruined everything he thought they’d created in Tartarus.  “It has been a long time since anyone trusted me like you did.”

The corner of Apollo’s lip quirked up humourlessly.  “It’s been a long time since anyone stood between me and Father.”  He could scarcely believe that he was admitting that, that he was admitting any of his thoughts, but after his uncle had been so open with him – it was the right thing to do.

It also, inexplicably, made his essence feel lighter, like a great weight had just dispersed.  “Thank you.”

Hades nodded, a single tilt of his chin acknowledging his words, but when he spoke it was a change of topic, backtracking to the comment that had sparked their openness.  Apollo followed the subject change eagerly – baring himself, being honest, was unnerving at best, and if Hades didn’t want to leave those words hanging between them awkwardly, then he was more than happy to oblige.

“The prophecy,” his uncle said.  “Topaz was an interesting choice for Koios.”  With a flick of his wrist, a collection of gemstones appeared in his hand, a mixture of fiery oranges and yellows, and faded blues.  “These are all topaz,” he said.  “It comes in a variety of colours, but these are the most common ones, and amongst the common colours, its reputation is for yellows and oranges, not blue.  Yet you and Koios both accepted without question that it was him.”

Apollo gazed at the gemstones, bright and pure in the hands of their god, and could only shrug.  “Prophecies are not set in stone,” he reminded his uncle.  “Topaz certainly referred to Koios” – he’d known that, felt the certainty of an event coming to pass – “but had events resolved differently, there may have been another prisoner of the Pit who better fit the other colouration.”

“You,” Hades said bluntly, not even letting Apollo pause before jumping in.  “If you had gone without me, it would have been you.”

“It could have also been Asclepius,” Apollo corrected, “or anyone who ended up in the Pit and could be conceivably associated with one of the many colours of topaz.”  Like Will and Nico.  “Once a prophecy has come to pass, the other potential interpretations are meaningless.”  Discarded possibilities, like so many of his visions over the millennia, because there were near infinite possibilities but there was only one future that would ever come to pass.

“And it has come to pass?” Hades pressed.

“Yes,” Apollo said simply.  “It has.”

Really, there was no more to be said on the matter.  Prophecies were simple, in hindsight, and this one was no different; he and Hades had ventured to the depths of the prison in Tartarus, and helped Bob and Koios leave – with the help of Thanatos – before he and Artemis had cast Koios back down at the moment their domains overlapped.  It was almost too simplistic to encompass everything else the prophecy had caused, the weeks of impossible-to-track time trudging through Tartarus and suffering everything the Pit chose to throw at them.  None of it had been even referenced in the vaguest terms by the prophecy, and yet without it none of it would have happened.

“In that case, it is time we returned to our duties,” Hades said, turning away once more and continuing his way to his throne, resizing to fit.  Almost instinctively, Apollo grew to match, even though this time he was sure that was the start of a dismissal.  “Thanatos did well, but he is not this realm’s god.  Likewise, the sun felt wrong, without you at the reins.  The gods from the other pantheons are not you, Apollo, and you are irreplaceable.  Do not let anyone, least of all your father, tell you otherwise.”

Ichor rushed around Apollo’s cheeks, and he pushed it down with only the innate force of will and absolute control being a god allowed him – things he had sorely missed as a mortal, when his body had failed him on multiple, often humiliating, occasions.

“So are you,” he replied, reaching for the sunlight high above them, in the Overworld.  “See you later, dear uncle.”

“One last thing, nephew,” Hades said, and he paused, casting his gaze up at the god sat on his throne as the address registered.  “Next time you need help, just ask.”  There was no if, just a simple when, and Apollo wasn’t sure what to think about that when he was the god of prophecy and had no inkling of when he might need it, but the look on his uncle’s face was intent.  “You know where to find me.”

It was a promise, Apollo realised, briefly losing his grip on the light high above in surprise.  A promise of aid, when he needed it – something he hadn’t had in millennia.

“I- thank you,” he breathed, before finding enough presence of mind to say, “the same goes for you, uncle.”  Hades rolled his eyes.

“If I need your help, I will call,” he said, but despite the eye-roll the tone wasn’t dismissive; rather, it was serious enough that Apollo could feel that he meant it.  “Now, go.”

That was a dismissal, with no room for misunderstanding, but it wasn’t harsh, and Apollo gave his uncle a grin and a wave before latching onto the warmth of the sun and dissolving into light.

The sun was only just risen, a new dawn to mark a new day, but it was late enough that Apollo had once again missed the timing for the chariot.  Tomorrow, then, he would take the reins again, although he was well aware that his horses required a lot of bribing and grovelling before then for disappearing on them again, despite the fact he had warned them this time.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he had almost an entire day to spare.  Part of him immediately flickered away to Helios’ old palace in a near-repeat of when he’d re-ascended as a god – sure enough, Hermes had piled up all the subscriptions and repeating orders he hadn’t cancelled across the door again, and once Apollo got past it to enter the stables, the greeting he found himself on the receiving end of was very similar, complete with hooves in delicate areas.

Most of him, however, had only one destination in mind, and it was barely a thought to reappear at the edge of Camp Half-Blood, watching the demigods stir as their new day began.  His children were all up and about already – Will was curled up in a suntrap near the porch of cabin seven, the unmistakable shadow of Nico tucked away outside of the sun’s rays but with his boyfriend nonetheless.

Will looked much better under the light of the morning sun, even if it was a sun that wasn’t Apollo’s.  Tomorrow, when he took to the skies once again, he would ensure a boost to his son – it was the least he could do, after being the reason he had been trapped in the Underworld for so long.

“I hear you and the old man below stirred up some drama,” a voice drawled from behind him.  Apollo had sensed Dionysus’ arrival and refused to give him the satisfaction of being startled when he began to speak.  Dionysus had gained enough blackmail material to last him millennia simply from Apollo’s second, brief visit to camp on his and Meg’s way to Nero and their fake surrender.  He did not need any more.  “A titan rescued from the Pit, wasn’t it?”

“Bob,” Apollo confirmed, still watching the demigods as Kayla prodded Will incessantly until he stood up – bringing Nico with him – and meandered his way to the breakfast table.  That appeared to be a cue for the others to swarm their brother and Nico, and Apollo was abruptly reminded that as far as the rest of the camp were considered, Will and Nico had simply disappeared for two months without a trace.  No wonder they were delighted to see them back, and in one piece at that.  “Formerly known as Iapetus.”

Dionysus snorted.  “I bet Father loved that,” he commented.

“Not particularly,” Apollo replied.  “The Fates intervened.”

That got the full attention of his younger brother.  Apollo felt the burning violet flames of his eyes boring into the back of his head.  “The Fates?”

“‘Bob will aid Olympus in her time of need’,” he quoted.  “‘Because Olympus aided him’.”

That prompted another snort from the other god.  “Father definitely loved that.  I almost wish I’d been there to see his face.  Where is Bob now?”

“Reuniting with Percy and Annabeth,” Apollo told him.  “New Rome probably received rather a shock when he arrived with his chaperone goddess.”  He suspected it would have been Athena who went with him on that particular errand, given that it concerned her daughter.  Apollo certainly would have gone himself in her position.

Dionysus flapped a hand dismissively, clearly uncaring about New Rome’s potential collective heart attack.  “So, what happens now, brother?” he asked.  “Do we just continue in this boring dirge of an existence, ignoring the titan’s presence outside of the Pit, until something exciting enough to change things occurs?”

“Life isn’t boring,” Apollo corrected.  “Did we not already establish that you will continue making wine out of the sour grapes deposited in your way?  But as for me – Will demanded I drop by, and he seems awake enough now, so if you don’t mind-”

“One last question,” Dionysus said, the lazy drawl of his voice disappearing to be replaced with something dangerous.  “The voice summoning Nico.  I trust there will be no more noises dragging my patient into situations that worsen his mental health?”

Alcyoneus sprang to mind, jewels and rocks combined as he sent out a cry that had sounded all too much like help me despite an eternal grin on his face, luring Nico down simply to get to Hades.  Apollo also recalled the way his and Hades’ essences had intermingled, furious and deadly even to a giant.

“The voice will not call him again,” he said confidently.  “Hades and I made sure of it.”

“Good.”  The single word was vehement enough it almost made Dionysus sound personally invested in the situation.   Apollo almost called him out on it, but movement from the pavilion drew his eye back to Will.

Will, who was looking directly at him and pointing a firm finger at the stone table cabin seven used as their own.  Apollo wasn’t sure how his son had noticed him, but he was not about to ignore such a blatant summons.

The rest of the table were beckoning him over as well, a total of eleven demigods including one son of Hades, and Apollo homed in on them like a fly to honey, slipping onto the bench next to Will, Austin on his other side.

“Is it over?” Will demanded, skipping greetings in favour of jumping straight into the grilling.  None of his siblings looked surprised at the question, and Apollo assumed they’d all dragged the story out of Will the moment he and Nico had reappeared in camp.

Apollo smiled at him, and looped an arm around his shoulders.  Instantly, his son nestled against him, and Apollo got a sense of tiredness.  Of course, he and Nico had lost all semblance of a sleep schedule in the Underworld for so long, so far away from the movement of the sun and the moon.  Arriving back in the middle of the night must have been a shock to their systems.

Was it over?  Was anything ever, really, over, when the future kept marching forwards, adjusting to the tune of millions of small, individually inconsequential decisions with every new weave from the Fates’ loom?

But Will wasn’t asking about the universe.  He was asking about Tartarus, about the voice calling his boyfriend, about the prophecy issued to him – but also to Apollo – and the titan that had clawed his way back out of the Pit and had no intentions of ever returning.

According to those, the answer was simple.  “Yes,” Apollo promised, pressing a light kiss to blond waves.  “It’s over.”

End.

[stellamancer]

notes: inspired yet again, by something that happened to me irl and perpetuated by @sipsteainanxiety​,  @namodawrites​  and other teahouse peeps. a sequel to this work. 

"The fuck is that?" 

Were this your first encounter with the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, you might be scared. Admittedly, you might be the slightest bit nervous, but Katsuki Bakugou has shown up at your doorstep armed with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze enough times that you know that there's nothing to actually fear. The worst thing that Bakugou has ever done to you is call you an idiot and walk out of the room. 

You offer Bakugou your trademark sheepish smile. "It's miso soup."

"No shit," he spits, stepping past you into your apartment proper. " S'not what I'm talking about, idiot— what the hell are you drinkin' it from?"

You lift the cup to your lips and take a sip, watching as he kicks off his shoes. "A measuring cup?"

Bakugou hurls a disgusted look in your direction. After a moment, his eyebrows rise, a silent gesture for you to start explaining since you both know that your 500mL measuring cup is not intended to be a serving vessel for miso soup or soup of any kind.

"It was the first thing I grabbed," you say, following Bakugou into your kitchen. “Besides, I think most of my dishes need washing anyway.”

"Hah!?" His head whips around and you can see his eyes zero in on the dishes in the sink. "You really frickin' let it pile up this much?"

"I meant to do them all last night since I knew you were coming..." You decide to not tell Bakugou the reason why you didn’t actually do your dishes; he doesn't need to know that you got caught up in an impromptu marathon on your couch last night. 

Bakugou’s head jerks again, his narrowed gaze fixed on you and it feels almost as if you’ve gone transparent. It’s probably an intimidation technique, but you don’t let it faze you and just smile at him like you’ve done nothing wrong. You were going to wash them eventually.

"Hurry up an' get washing," he barks, pointing at the sink. "We ain't starting the lesson til those dishes are spotless!"

Despite Bakugou’s grousing there aren’t really that many dishes in the sink— a benefit of living alone. Washing them shouldn’t take too long. Maybe fifteen minutes at the very most.

You start washing and fully expect Bakugou to just watch you and comment on your poor dishwashing form, but instead he grabs a dish towel and begins hand drying things as you finish washing them. Personally, you think it’s just fine to let them air dry, but you suspect that Bakugou wants them not only spotless, but dried and put away in their proper places. 

With his help, the dish washing time is cut nearly in half and you start to put all the neatly dried dishes away in your cupboard.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” 

“Thought you said all your bowls and shit were dirty.”

You blink and look, and there are a few small bowls sitting there that weren’t in the group of dishes that you washed. “Oh, yeah… I didn’t use those because they’re not microwavable.” 

It’s true. The bowls in question are ornate and delicate. Honestly, you only really use them when your parents come to visit which isn’t very often. Maybe they would be better in storage… 

“...Microwavable?” Bakugou’s voice is calm. Almost oddly so. 

“Yes?”

His eyes slide over to the now empty measuring cup in your hand, the final dish you need to put away. You think he’s ready to live up to his namesake and blow up. Thinking about it, perhaps he would find some offense to instant miso soup, but it’s not like it’s the worst thing in the world right? He’s gotten mad at you for using kitchen shears as a knife and a measuring cup as a mug, but instant miso soup isn’t that strange. It’s normal! A convenience! 

Finally, Bakugou heaves the heaviest sigh you’ve ever seen, looking more like he’s swallowed an explosive rather than feeling relieved. “Alright, nerd, for today’s lesson, we’re learnin’ how to make miso soup— the proper way.”

[moodymisty]

Tree in Bloom - Ch 1

Chapter 2

Author's Note: Am I planning a full multichapter fic for a game that has been blueballing us on a sequel for years? Yes. Will I regret it? Perhaps. Hotel? Trivago.

Summary: Even after humanity has just been resurrected, Strife still finds himself using Jones. It's easier; Until you find him out of his façade. (Taking place days after Death revives humanity, you wade through a world still infested by demons, while Strife struggles with growing attached to someone.)

Relationships: Eventual Strife/Fem!Reader

Story Wide Warnings: Canon typical violence, Friends to lovers, Teratophilia, Strife being an emotionally stunted jokster and pouter, Eventual smut maybe, Strife is clingy, One or two OCs to fill things out at times, Shooting guns,

Ao3 Mirror

“Where do we even start?”

You can hear a few people talking somewhere out of view, and you find yourself looking upward curiously to see if you can spot anyone on the suspended platforms hanging above you. No one up high, so they’re probably somewhere on the same level as the forge.

“We’ll figure it out. I mean more and more people are coming to the tree, so we have way more manpower than before.”

The distant chatter is unimportant to your ears, leaving you to let it leave your focus as you continue to work on your little project. There isn’t really much interesting happening in the tree for once, as most of the Makers are off either repairing their own equipment, or attempting to wrangle some pesky, recently revived humans. You don’t envy what they’re feeling, not in the slightest after having been through it yourself. But beside those technically post-apocalyptic duties, Nothing of note.

Until you finally hear “Hey Jones.”, Somewhere off to the side, which makes your head suddenly jolt upwards.

It’s from an unfamiliar man who’s leaning against one of the chiseled pillars of the forge, minding his own business. One of the new people; You remember he was part of a group of three that managed to make their way to the tree. The Maker’s little nest up here is getting quite full. But it’s the name he said that made your body raise upward with acute interest, before you quickly settle back down.

Geez; Just act normal for once, will you?

That inner voice in your head is always trying to help you keep your cool, as you notice him walk finally into your view. He stops walking as you speak up, halfway in the process of getting up as you say:

“Oh, hey Jones!”

You’ve left your little puzzle box project to the side, instead walking over to him. Judging by the way he was walking however, you assume he’s on his way to leave the tree.

“Heading out?” Even though you pretty well know the answer you ask anyways, watching him nod.

“Need to make sure there ain’t any demons close by. Seen them circling around the base of the tree.” There’s a bit of dirt stuck against one of your nails that you nervously pick at as you respond.

“Don’t you think the Maker’s work is enough? It’s been working so far, at least.” Jones turns around and takes a look towards the direction of the Maker’s Forge, seeing one of them trying to shoo away a some humans that are far too curious for their own good.

“Call it peace of mind. And I want to help them out where I can.” You can’t fault him on that; The Makers have done so much for you all, you can’t help but feel an immense sense of gratitude for them.

“Well, be careful. It’s been getting dark earlier now,” You can’t help but crack a tiny smile. “I know I wouldn’t want to be stuck out there in the dark.”

You’re more than sure Jones can handle himself, but he hasn’t been the only one that’s noticed more demons circling around the tree lately. It wouldn’t be impossible that they’d overwhelm him if he wasn’t paying perfect attention.

He’s only human, after all.

“I’ll be sure to be. You still need someone to help fix that, uh-” He flounders for a moment, until you fish him up.

“The puzzle box?” He suddenly nods affirmatively, almost as if pretending he had known the whole time. “Yeah, the puzzle box.” You’d love if he would help you with it; If only so to have some quality time together.

The smile you had towards him slowly fades as he nods goodbye and moves to leave, passing by one of the Makers and out of the tree. They don’t bother trying to warn him like you did, as much as they might want to. The Makers have always been protective, however they’ve learned to loosen up with Jones; As it’s largely pointless to try and warn him anyways.

He seems to march by the beat of his own drum, and in a quiet way, seems to almost have a reckless disregard for his own life. Though he always come back in one piece.

You sigh.

Maybe working on the puzzle box you’d recently found some more will keep you occupied. Some of the parts still don’t move right, and the more you work on it the more you might think it’s a lost cause. The wood is chipped in some places and warped from water in others, but despite the damage it’s still in one piece.

It’s been something nice to occupy yourself, as well as a thing to touch that reminds you of a time before, everything.

Damaged, but still holding on.

Your sleeping spot is tucked away in a far corner of the tree, and beside it lays the small assortment of tools you’ve been using to try and pry pieces of the box away, without breaking it. You’ve gotten close a few times, especially when once a piece popped off and flung across the tree, leaving you to scramble to try and not lose it. It’s proven to be a nice little project, in your downtime. Even if there’s still more than a small list of things left to fix on it.

It’s harder to keep focus on it this time however; As you find yourself freezing and glancing upward every ten or so minutes, watching as the sky outside slowly becomes darker and darker with still no sign of Jones returning.

You don’t know why you’re so focused on him this time. He always seems to come back just fine. But he’s been a close friend and part of you just can’t help but worry, after so much time. Hell, he’s the one that taught you how to shoot, once he found you and brought you back to the tree. After, everything.

Thankfully, someone’s voice sounds in your ear before you have much of a chance to go down the path thinking about the apocalypse, and the now current state of the world. Or realm, as the Makers call it.

“Still working on that cube?” Looking up and seeing someone standing there, you smile and nod while still holding onto your pet project. You don’t quite remember her name yet, she’s one of the other two that came with the man that greeted Jones earlier.

“You know,” She gives a joking smirk. “I knew someone before the Apocalypse that was like, wicked good at solving those things. Never figured out how he did it.”

“Really?” You smile up at her, the tool still partly jammed in one of the seams. She nods, but turns her head away from you when someone yells her name. She ends up scurrying off to find them, leaving you alone again.

You attempt to get back to working on the cube once she’s gone, but this time you just, can’t. Any attempt to actually pull it apart is just stopped by, something. Like there’s an invisible force keeping you from doing it.

Sighing, you dump the cube aside along with the tools in a gesture of defeat, and look up.

It’s completely dark now; The stars and moon are the main source of light, other than a few small patches of light from fires lit along the tree. If Jones isn’t back yet, you find yourself worried about what might’ve happened.

It’s been, hours. Far longer than usual.

The tree is huge and winding, even someone like him could get lost or ambushed.

You decide after no small amount of deliberation that you can cast aside your better judgment, at least what little of it you have, and go take a look. Making sure the puzzle box is safe you get up and adjust your belt, double checking to make sure your pistol is still there. It’s more of a self soothing gesture, than anything.

As you walk through the tree you see multiple people asleep on their rolls, or at least preparing to. The tree is getting busy, with the Makers finding so many people. Though so many are still scattered across Haven, you have trouble thinking about just how long it’ll take. Any significant effort is impeded by demons and fallen angels as well, leaving many humans still stranded in abandoned buildings and sewers.

Ugh, I don’t even want to think about another sewer.

Not eager to relive any memories of trudging through wafts of waste in order to get away from swarms of demons, you stuff your hands in your pockets, and walk past the Maker’s forge.

Eyes straight forward, you look out the large entrance of the tree as you walk towards it. It’s so dark out there, you can only see because of the light of the stars and the glow of various torches lining the path down the tree.

If I just look like I belong and I know what I’m doing, they’ll never notice. Works every time.

Taking a deep breath and walking straight forward on a line, you attempt to ghost your way past the few still awake beings in the tree. You get almost enough of the way that you can begin to see just how high the tree is in comparison to the ground below, before-

“Aye. And where do you think yer goin?”

A loud voice makes you stop in your tracks, eyes set on the entrance of the tree. When you turn, you see the only Maker you’d dread seeing right about now; Eunan, standing with his arms crossed, and eyebrows raised.

“Ye ain’t going on out there.”

Turning on a single heel, you try and avoid letting your face wrinkle up in annoyance anymore than it already is.

“And if I want to?” The metal on various parts of Eunan’s outfit clank against each other as he moves closer, and you have to look up at him more. When he sighs, the longer parts of his braided beard move along with his mustache.

“And what do you wan’ out there in the black of night?”

He waits for you to speak for a moment, raising his eyebrows with an impatient expression when you don’t instantly speak up. You had a reason to dread him being the one that caught you trying to sneak out; It’s like trying to convince a brick wall of something.

“I was going to go check on Jones.”

Eunan sighs, his lips parting and showing off one of his fangs.

“Lass, I’m sure the bloke is fine. He can handle himself right. He’s done it before.”

Eunan isn’t wrong, but there’s something stewing in your gut that just feels, off. It’s been longer than usual, and you know you won’t be able to rest your head until he’s back.

“I know, I just want to be sure. It’s been awhile.” Your eyes look away, as you attempt not to roll them while he’s watching. “S’not like you can yell at me for being a little worried.” You’re notably not pleased with the way he’s looking at you like a disgruntled parent, as you refuse to budge on this. The Maker sighs, his mouth twitching as he tries to censor what he might actually want to say.

“Alright, we can go in-” “No it’s fine; I can go alone. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Eunan quickly attempts to fight back but after some sort of inner monologue, he finally acquiesces with a heavy sigh. After doing so he unfolds his arms and leans down, pointing a finger out until it almost presses against your chest.

“Be. Careful. Don’t do anything stupid, ye hear?”

He emphasizes each word with a point of your finger, until your much smaller hand pushes it away gently. He lets you do so, despite being legions stronger.

“I won’t, I won’t- I promise. I just want to make sure Jones is ok. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” While it does next to nothing to actually soothe the Maker, it’ll at least make him slightly less likely to cuss you out once you return and he’s had time to think about this interaction.

Hopefully.

Granted the Makers have cussed out many of the human residents for stupider things; Like climbing the outward branches of the tree for fun. You were one of said humans, of course.

Sticking your hands deep into your pockets you walk out of the large opening of the tree, stepping onto the large flat area of trunk that turns into a path beginning downward. The path down the tree is actually split into many different gargantuan branches, winding away from the main trunk through various buildings and down to the street below. It can be a maze if you don’t know how to navigate it properly, especially when you step off the tree and into one of the many buildings it weaves through.

But you don’t have a particular destination in mind, as you have zero idea where Jones could’ve gone in the first place after he’d left the tree.

There’s so many paths to take, he could be on the city streets, or anywhere in the buildings.

It’s that indecision that ends up making you aimlessly meander slowly down the tree, up until the branch you’re on begins to thin and weave through a large apartment building. Or at least what you think at one point was an apartment building.

Around this point there is no more torches providing light, so it is very quickly becoming darker with only the night sky to illuminate. A small part of you considers possibly turning around, and maybe getting some sort of light, until you hear a noise different from the rest.

As usual you can hear the howl of demons still in the ruins surrounding the base of the tree. But through them all you hear one yelp- a shaking, frightened call. For your own peace of mind you have to look, the sound getting closer before a sound of a gunshot, and the noise all suddenly goes silent.

That has to be Jones, you think; And quickly rush down what’s left of the decrepit hall and turn the corner.

The demon falls to the ground with a wet, lifeless flop- coagulating blood seeping from the gaping wound in it’s chest.

That one had gotten too close. Far too close.

Even with the Makers’ help, even with him patrolling around at night picking any demon he sees off, they still keep slipping closer and closer to the tree. Even through the magic, and the giant roots that wind themselves through years of human architecture, they know what’s up here. Knowing the apocalypse has been halted hasn’t dissuaded them in the slightest.

Like chickens in a hen house, circled by wolves.

Though the hen house already has a wolf inside of it; Even if they don’t quite know it.

A soft trail of smoke rises from the chamber of Mercy, freshly fired and ready to unleash however much more he asks of it.

But nothing else remains for him to do so; They all lay dead in the buildings and streets surrounding the tree. He’s got rid of them for now, but so many more will soon follow. To see glimmers of humanity returning is no doubt a good sign for the realms, but in a way, Death did little more than ring the dinner bell once again.

He never thought Death would actually do it; The rotting bastard.

They are called the endless legions of Hell for a reason. With the apocalypse over they still come, still throwing themselves at anything and everything, mostly to satiate their own mental or physical appetites. And thanks to Fury’s efforts, many of them lack a firm leader to guide them. It makes them easy, uncoordinated prey for Strife.

But even if it’s all over; He still finds himself using Jones.

It’s… Easier.

Humans aren’t scared of Jones, the same way they are of him. The real him.

You, aren’t scared of Jones.

From the first moment he had decided to help humanity all those years ago, Strife had sworn he would never get attached. He never does; Strife for an uncountable number of years has mastered the ability to separate his feelings from anything he does. It’s what made him so good at killing anything and everything; Put a bullet into the back of something’s head and walk away. Shove it down deeper with the rest of them.

But of course he ended up getting attached this time; Someone so much as gives him a hint of genuine kindness and he’s attached to them like glue.

Strife lets out a ‘tch’, bumping one of the demon corpses away from him with the toe of his boot.

He’s never given a shit about what people think of him. Not Death, not War or Fury; Or any other Nephilim when they were still alive. The Angels and Demons? Strife scoffs at the idea of taking any of the unmutterable things they’ve said to him to heart.

But he gives a shit about you. He knows how you look at all the demons swarming the realm, your realm, and in some way, he sees himself in them.

He is half demon after all. Angel as well, and what have the angels done but scorch the ground where they landed? Many of them now ended up fallen, stumbling around the realm with the same lack of regard as the demons they were originally killing.

Strife grits his teeth at the idea of you seeing him, edges and sharp fangs.

He gives his helmet a firm bonk with a single knuckle.

“Ugh.”

Every demon he’s come across so far lays dead- and for tonight, he thinks the tree is safe. With a giant hole in the building he’s in, it allows enough light in to illuminate the scene enough for him to easily see, while the wind blows heavy enough wind to make the tattered remains of his scarf wave. It’s the only think making noise in his ears, as the demon chatter has now been replaced with a permeable silence.

The wind keeps howling, until he hears something else. The wind almost carries it away because of how quiet it is, though he recognizes it enough that it stays with him.

A voice; A familiar one.

“Jones?”

Strife freezes.

Only after what feels like an eternity does he turn his head to look over his shoulder, and sees a distinctly human silhouette standing in the hall of the broken down building behind him.

No; No no no…

The dim moon only serves to shine more light onto the shocked expression on your face; Having followed Jones, but are now face to face with a monster. One that has blood splattered in small patches on his armor, droplets still sliding down the front of his boots.

His eyes glow like amber, shining against the metal of his inhuman mask. The gun he holds in his hand dwarfs the one that you have hidden in your belt, his shoulders casting a sharp shadow on most of the tiny hall. Given his height, he dwarfs almost the entire area around him.

Strife is frozen in time; Watching you with a shocked expression safely hidden behind his mask.

Why her! why did she have to see! Out of every human in that Creator-damned tree why’d it have to be-

He needs to speak. He has to say something before you really do think he’s a demon; One that’s killed Jones somewhere out of view and left his body cold.

“Hey… Why are y-”

The moment his body moves, going to put Mercy in it’s holster, you flinch; Stepping backwards.

Right; You won’t recognize this voice, his actual voice. The person you’ve been speaking to is Jones.

Not a Nephilim. Not a Horsemen, who’s brother is the very being who is part responsible for you falling into Strife’s life.

“Where’s, where is Jones.”

One sharp, gauntlet covered hand reaches outward, out of a fruitless attempt to soothe. You stand frozen in place, until he says your name. It gets a very noticeable reaction, head raising upward as your eyes widen.

But he can’t get any other words out, because the moment you see the barrel of his gun lower enough that he would have to raise it to shoot in your direction, you turn heel and run. He’s surprised it takes as long as it does for you to finally bolt, racing along down the tree branches like Hell itself is on your heels.

Leaving Strife standing in the ruins alone, a pool of fresh demon blood licking at the toe of his boot.

He can only watch as you run until you’re quickly out of view, tripping and stumbling down the wide but steeply declining branches. The way the talon tips of his gauntlets dig so hard into the metal palms it makes them creak, attempting to hold fast against his growing anger before he suddenly lets it all out with a resounding:

“DAMMIT!”

Strife kicks the closest thing to him, which turns out to be the remnants of a half erect wall. It crumbles, standing no chance against his strength in it’s shoddy state. And once the dust settles Strife is still furious; Furious that he messed up and now you’ve seen him.

You saw him like, this.

Strife has to let out a heavy, stiff sigh to avoid wanting to destroy something again, and harder. He has no idea what to do now and he hates it more than anything, not having the answer or the words to say. And even if he did, you aren’t here to say them to. You ran back to the Makers, all the way up the-

Strife suddenly jolts upright from his distracted slouch as if lightning had struck him.

You didn’t run up the tree, you ran down! Any demons that had hidden from him will surely come out at the sight of a lone human, no matter how well armed you might be. That gun of yours is meant to pick off Duskwings and scavengers, not packs of demons prowling around for anything to slice to ribbons. Strife was going to deal with them next, before you’d interrupted him.

Mercy still stays firmly gripped in his hand, as Strife begins to race down to street level.

He has a good idea where to start looking for you, and soon enough after finds the corpse of whatever demon you’d thrown enough shots into to kill it. Shortly thereafter, he sees you.

He spots you attempting to climb some sort of ladder against the side of a building, however it’s so rusted and ruined that it shakes as if about to fall. And it does, the metal peels away from the side of the building and you tumble a good meter or two, grunting with effort.

Strife in his attempt to make sure you’re not hurt forgets that you were running from him, and startles you to your feet once his boots come into view. In that split second, he tries to calm his tongue enough that he doesn’t say something phenomenally stupid.

Ok just- Lets, lets just not scare her off again.

[screechthemighty]

Hark! The penultimate chapter of this God of War fic is here! Fair warning, some stuff discussed in this chapter isn't going to be resolved in this fic...because that's what the sequel is for. >:3c But I just wanted to let everyone know before I post the final chapter/epilogue (which hopefully won't take too long?? But with me you never know). Anyways, AO3 link in a reblog as always, but enjoy the full text below!

will you greet the daylight looming? part 5/6: winter

cw: vomiting mention, animal death, references to odin being a shitty ableist father

.

When he opened the door to the first snow of winter, Kratos felt…underwhelmed.

The snowfalls of Fimbulwitner were still fresh in his mind–large, thick flakes covering the ground so quickly that any attempts at digging out of the house were doomed to fail. He’d spent three years struggling through drifts up to his waist, across frozen rivers and lakes and a landscape changed almost beyond recognition.

This, in comparison, was nothing. A light dusting coated the ground. The air was brisk and cold, but not the biting chill of Fimbulwinter. He surveyed the forest, sighed, and went back inside to retrieve Mimir. “Hunting won’t be a problem,” he said.

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Mimir said. “Suspect the young ones will be disappointed they won’t be able to use the snow to get out of practice.”

“They wouldn’t regardless. They need to learn to fight in any conditions.”

“Of course they do.” Kratos stepped back outside and started down the path to Speki and Svanna’s kennel. “Did you have snow in Greece?”

“Mostly in the mountains. Never like here.” Kratos tilted his face back, feeling the snowflakes melt as they touched his skin. “What about your homeland?”

“Oh! Well.” Mimir sounded surprised. He didn’t often speak of his homeland, only that he was from someplace else, and Kratos had never really asked. Perhaps I should start asking. “That depends. It snowed more where I lived when I was a lad, but it was a lot more temperate where my first lord lived. He wasn’t fond of the cold.”

“He could control the weather?”

“Something like that. We had the odd bit of snowfall, more like this, really, but nothing like here. Took some getting used to when I came north. Especially back when I had more bits to worry about keeping warm.”

“...do you miss it?”

Mimir was quiet. He didn’t speak until Kratos had finished hitching the wolves to the sled. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not all of it…and I probably only remember the good parts when I do miss it. But sometimes, yeah. Do you?”

Kratos didn’t have to think long. “The same as you,” he said. “Only sometimes. Only when my regrets return.” All the moments he would have done differently. The things he would have changed. But…

“No making things right, eh?” Mimir said quietly.

“Hmm. Only better than they were.”

And with that, he got onto the sled and urged the wolves forward. There was work to be done. Things to be made better.

Even a mild winter would bring its trials.

.

There was a time when he could have said that he didn’t care. That the various groups setting in Midgard should settle their differences among themselves and leave him out of it.

Kratos could not do that anymore. Freya was right: he trained their children. He went to their village almost every day. He was a part of this now. He could not simply walk away.

That knowledge did not make the conversation less frustrating.

“Did you actually see anyone enter the storehouse?” Kratos said, struggling to keep his tone even. He didn’t think he was successful; if the look on the mortal’s face was any indication, he still sounded angry. Kratos was beginning to think that tone was beyond his control.

“Well…” The man twisted his cloak in his hands. Kratos had already forgotten his name, but he knew the man was more or less in charge of the village half a day away. “...no…sir…”

“Then you cannot prove that anyone from here was responsible for the theft?”

“Well, who else would it be?”

“Thieves. Plenty of raiders never left Midgard. You do understand this, correct?” He had done his best to eradicate them, or at least strongly encourage them to move on, but many had gone deep into hiding as spring and summer returned. Winter and its lack of resources would likely draw them back out. “They will only grow bolder moving forward. I suggest you find more competent guards instead of starting fights.”

“But…”

“If there is a problem, I will handle it. If you require assistance, ask. But now is not the time for us to fight among ourselves. Do I make myself clear?”

The mortal’s face reddened. “Yes…sir?”

Kratos noted the questioning tone, and simply grunted his approval at the title. He still hadn’t given one (still didn’t want to give one), but sir he would allow. “Do your people require assistance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we are done here.”

The man departed, leaving Kratos with a headache and a roomful of nervous stares. “Do we have any reason to suspect someone might be stealing from other towns?” he asked with a sigh. “Any at all?”

“None that I can think of,” spoke up one man, Leif. From what Kratos remembered, he served as a sort of quartermaster for the town. “We’ve stored up plenty. There isn’t a need, though…I reckon that wouldn’t stop some people, would it?”

It certainly wouldn’t, and that could cause problems in the long term. Another voice spoke up, this time a woman. “Haven’t noticed anyone sneaking out, for what it’s worth,” she said. Helga was her name. She wasn’t one of the Asgard transplants; she and her people had managed to survive in an abandoned mine through the Desolation and Fimbulwinter. Kratos had been the one to suggest them when the town started forming a militia. By all accounts, they were very good at it. “We started a curfew, on account of the wolves and such. Set up patrols. No one’s gone in or out at odd hours that we’ve seen. No one coming in carrying anything, either.”

That was reassuring, at least. “You should increase your numbers, just in case,” Kratos said. “If other places are facing raiders, it is only a matter of time. I have older students who are ready. I will speak to them.”

Helga nodded grimly. Leif sighed. “If you’ll pardon my language, sir,” he said, “I can’t fucking stand winter.”

Kratos grunted in agreement. This winter may not have been as fierce as Fimbulwinter, but he could already tell it was going to be long.

.

When the first fight finally came, it had nothing to do with raiders. The wolves were growing just as desperate as the mortals, and to them, meat was meat. Goats and small children were just as easy to catch.

He was examining the town’s defenses when he heard the shouting. Kratos ran towards the sound instinctively, drawing Leviathan as he went. A few of his students saw him and joined in the rush, Skjöldr among them. The drills must have been working, because they fell into formation without being instructed. Good, he thought. Well done.

It was over by the time they reached the scuffle–or, more accurately, the ending of it. The animal was dead, a spear deep in its side, having collapsed on top of a smaller form. Kratos ran forward to push the creature aside; Davin was underneath, body trembling, eyes wide, hands still trying to clasp the knife he’d sunk deep into the wolf’s throat. He was covered in blood. It was hard to say how much of it was his. “Are you injured?” Kratos asked.

“...uh…” Davin looked up at him. The closer look showed scrapes across his cheekbone. He must have managed to pull his head back before the teeth could sink in too deeply. “I got it.”

“I can see that.” Kratos looked around. There was a dead goat nearby, and two trembling children nearby. Both looked unharmed, but shaken. “Can you stand?”

Davin could. Kratos carefully examined him for injuries as the others who’d followed him gathered around the wolf. “Shit,” Skjöldr said. “You really got him, Dav!”

“I…” Davin stared at the wolf. “Y-yeah. I…I did have to move to the left. You were right.”

“It is good you remembered.” Davin’s tunic was torn, but there was no sign of injury underneath. The cuts on his cheek seemed the worst of it. They would have to monitor him for infection or illness, but he was very lucky beyond that. “Well done.”

Davin stared at him for a long moment. Then a grin split his face, his teeth vibrant white against his blood and dirt-stained face. “Thank you, sir!”

The boy’s cuts were cleaned and mended. Someone in the town made him a cloak of the wolf’s fur. No further harm came to the boy.

Kratos hoped it would be the most exciting thing to happen all winter. He knew better than to hope too hard.

.

“So,” Höðr said casually, “how’s Freya doing?”

Kratos knew a leading question when he saw one. He could immediately guess why Höðr was asking; it was an implication he had been trying to avoid, one he did not appreciate hearing from a member of Asgard’s court. Especially not one who seemed so nosy.

“Freya is fine,” Kratos said tersely. He glanced the blind god’s way. Höðr leaned against a nearby building, his cloak pulled tightly around his body. Someone had given him a haircut, making him look somewhat less haggard than before. “Why?”

He expected a smirk, another cryptic comment, or for the god to simply walk away. Instead, Höðr sighed and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I thought,” he said, “that you two would want to get ahead of things. And I don’t really know how to contact her, so…” He gestured towards Kratos. “...here we are.”

It was difficult to tell if he was being sincere. He sounded sincere, his body language was sincere, and he must have known that Kratos would not be pleased if Höðr tried to deceive him. That didn’t answer one question: “Why do you care?”

Freya’s brother, dead though he was, had been the one to blind Höðr. She was Vanir, his former enemy, an interloper on his court. Kratos was the ultimate interloper, a foreign god from a foreign land who had helped overthrow Odin and was dangerously close to being worshipped here. Yes, they were technically at peace. Kratos knew better than anyone that this peace was not necessarily welcome.

Höðr considered his answer carefully. His fingers drummed slightly against his staff. “I know this might sound hard to believe,” he said, “but I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. Some people might, but I’m not one of them.” He smiled briefly, almost embarrassed. “If nothing else, you can trust that. I wasn’t exactly benefitting from being Aesir in those days.”

“And you’re benefitting now?”

“I can walk around most places without feeling like I’m going to be heckled or have something thrown at me, so…yes, very much so.” There was a harshness to his smile now, as if he were still bracing himself for that treatment. “You don’t have to believe me, but can you at least do a poor blind god the mercy of letting him say his piece?”

Kratos considered the offer before nodding. “Speak, then.” Even if Höðr’s words were lies, those lies could still be valuable.

Höðr’s head tilted slightly, as if he were listening for something before he began speaking. “I would’ve written it off as idle gossip if it hadn’t escalated so quickly. In my experience, you don’t really go from a few people thinking you two would make a handsome couple to everyone being sure you two have some secret romance without someone having a hand in it. No one’s tied it back into what happened with Odin yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried.”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. “She broke it off with him,” he pointed out.

“Yes, true, and I wouldn’t exactly call him a faithful husband,” Höðr conceded, “but none of those facts are going to matter in the face of a good scandal, are they?”

No, they wouldn’t.

“I don’t know if this has spread to Vanaheim yet, but if it were me, I’d be keeping an ear on it,” Höðr finished. “The winter’s only going to get colder, and the lean months can make people believe all sorts of things.” This time, Höðr turned his face to the wind, as if test the temperature, feeling the currents and what they may bring. “I can keep an ear out myself, if you want.”

Kratos wasn’t sure about that. Höðr hadn’t done anything to harm him, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t malicious. “You didn’t ask,” Kratos pointed out.

“Didn’t ask what?”

“If we are together.”

Höðr shrugged. “Not my business. And you’ll want to get out ahead of it either way, so it doesn’t really matter. Congratulations if you managed to win her, though.” A slight smirk tugged at Höðr’s lips as he pulled away. “And good luck.”

Kratos grunted in response, and watched the blind god leave.

He debated if she should speak to Freya or Mimir first. Perhaps both of them at once. She deserved to know about the possibility of rumors, and Mimir’s guidance in the matter would be helpful. Kratos had been in the habit of ignoring rumors about him back on Olympus, but he couldn’t afford to do that this time. This was a problem that had to be addressed.

He may not have been addressing it alone, but the thought still made him feel weary. I never had these problems when I lived alone, he thought.

Despite that, as he walked back to his students, he couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t want to give this up.

.

Freya took the news about as well as could be expected: by sighing heavily and immediately getting up to pour herself some mead. “I should have seen this coming,” she said. She sounded calm, which Kratos knew likely meant she was furious. “Of course someone would try to undermine me with a connection to a man. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” She had more to lose from this rumor than he did and he knew it. Kratos had no right to be offended. “How do you want to handle this?”

Freya took a long, long drain from her mead. Kratos didn’t interrupt. She was more than capable of considering the question and taking a drink. “For now? Nothing,” she said. “I want to see who’s spreading this around. It might help us narrow things down.” She turned to Mimir. “Do you think we can trust Höðr?”

“Well…I think we can trust that he wasn’t lying about not wanting things to go back the way they were,” Mimir said. “He was Odin’s spy master until he was blinded. After that happened, Odin replaced him with the Raven Keeper and cast him aside. He reckoned Höðr being blinded by the enemy reflected poorly on Asgard. No one treated the poor lad well after that…except Týr, whenever he had time for him.”

Kratos thought back to their conversation at the harvest feast, the way that Höðr introduced himself with his mother’s name and seemed genuinely glad to see Angrboda alive. Perhaps the isolation had given him some time to reflect on where his loyalties were. “We could consult Týr,” he said. “He may know if Höðr has any ulterior motives.”

“Agreed,” Freya said. “Assuming you can find him.”

Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. “Has he left?”

“I don’t think he’s gone far. He’s just developed the disposition of a barn cat. He comes and goes and you’re never sure when you’re going to see him again. I’ve been trying to get a council together and it’s been a pain trying to find him to discuss things. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I have.” Freya smirked slightly as she sipped her mead. “It takes a hermit of a war god to know one, right?”

Kratos wanted to argue, but was immediately annoyed to find that he couldn’t.

He was even more annoyed when Freya ended up being right. All Kratos had to do was ask himself where he would go if he were Týr and start checking those places. He found the war god at the second spot. “Not a word,” he grumbled to Mimir.

“Wasn’t going to say anything, brother,” Mimir said. “Honestly, I was just enjoying the more temperate weather.”

“Hmm.” It was true; Alfheim was warmer than Midgard at this time of year. Even if the winter at home was temperate compared to Fimbulwinter, and even if the fighting in Alfheim was still irritating to avoid, it was worth coming to the realm on occasion for the temperature change. Týr seemed to think so; he was sitting cross-legged along one of the river banks, staring out at the running water. He didn’t look away as Kratos joined him. “Did Freya send you?” he asked.

Kratos shook his head. “I have my own questions,” he said as he carefully set down Mimir. “About your brother, Höðr.”

Týr frowned slightly. “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“He passed along some important information. I wanted to know what his intentions might be.”

Týr considered the statement. “I can tell you this much,” he said after some thought, “he’s definitely not on the side of anyone who might want to reinstate Asgard’s old rule. Between how Odin treated him after he lost his sight and…” A note of grief entered the war god’s voice. “…what happened with mother…he has no love for the way things were. I can’t say if he’s on any side but his own, but his desires are more aligned with ours. And any information he has is good. He might be a nosy little brat sometimes, but he only shares what he can verify.” A fond, if exasperated smile replaced the grief. “It’s not gossip if it’s true, he’d always say.”

“Hmm.” So, there were definitely rumors being spread about him and Freya.

That was irritating.

Kratos sighed irately. Týr had the decency not to ask; he only went back to staring at the water. They sat in silence for a time, in the gentle warmth of Alfheim.

“Freya has been looking for you,” Kratos said finally.

Now it was Týr’s turn to sigh. “For the council. I know. You can tell her I’m not avoiding her. I just have…things to consider.”

Kratos understood what Týr meant. The thought of the council had been gnawing at him since Freya mentioned it. She hadn’t brought it up to him again, but…

What do we call you?

…it was possibly only a matter of time before she did.

He did not know what his answer would be.

.

“…swear, they’re like rats,” Hildisvíni said as they emerged from the gat into a cold Midgard night. “Every time you think you’ve handled the problem, more show up.”

“You still have not located the nests?” Kratos asked.

“Unfortunately, no. We’ve been trying, but…”

Whatever he was about to say next was interrupted by the distant blast of a horn. An alarm. Kratos recognized the sound; he’d only heard it briefly, during a test run of the small town’s alarms, but he knew it. Those were Skjöldr’s people.

Something was wrong.

He took off at a run, not stopping to see if Hildisvíni was responding to the horn call as well. He summoned his spear as he ran. It was instinctive, even more so than drawing his other weapons. It was the first weapon a Spartan used, the one he’d been training them with.

He needed that familiarity now.

Kratos arrived at the town to the sounds of battle. He could make out Skjöldr’s voice above the din, directing his troops. That was the sound he made his way towards. He altered course enough to turn his approach into a flanking maneuver, surveying the battle as he did. His students were holding the line so far, but what the bandits lacked in discipline they made up for in numbers.

But numbers did not always make a battle, and sometimes the surest way to ensure a victory was to convince the other side a fight was not worth it.

Driving an exploding spear through a man’s heart and detonating it was one way to do that.

Almost immediately, the enemy line dissolved into chaos. Kratos heard their call—Sá merkti! Hann er kominn!—and some chose to flee at the sound. Others, too caught up in their desire for a noble end or beserker rage, still tried their luck.

They were dealt with.

This encouraged more of their comrades to flee. Soon, the sound of battle was replaced by the strange unquiet that often settled over a close call. Kratos’s mind turned to his students. When he turned, they were still in formation, still maintaining an admirable shield wall. Skjöldr’s face peered out. “Are they gone?” he asked shakily.

“Yes,” Kratos responded. “It is over.”

Almost immediately, someone started vomiting. Someone else began to weep. The formation slowly fell apart as some of its members turned and ran, calling out for their loved ones. Others lingered, staring at the carnage. Skjöldr was one of them momentarily, before he shook his head and stumbled towards Kratos. “Th-there’s people wounded,” he said. “I, uhm…” He looked around the battlefield. “I don’t know where my spear is.”

Kratos remembered then, very clearly, how Atreus had reacted to killing for the first time. Skjöldr was much older, and there were no tears in his eyes. But some of the same pain lingered in his eyes. Kratos remembered what he had said to his son back then. How he had wished may times since that he had said something different.

This was not quite a second chance, but he took the chance anyway.

“Skjöldr,” Kratos said firmly. His voice softened when he was sure he had the boy’s attention. “They would have killed you, and many more besides. You understand that, yes?” Skjöldr nodded. “It is a horrible choice, but sometimes a necessary one. You led with courage and conducted yourself with honor. That is all anyone could ask of you.”

Again, Skjöldr nodded. “Does it…get any easier?” he asked quietly.

“For some. But you should not let it become too easy. Keep your heart open as you can.” Kratos rested his hand on Skjöldr’s shoulder. “Well done.”

Some tears finally formed in Skjöldr’s eyes as he glanced down. He wiped them away quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Hmm.” Kratos nodded. “I will see to the wounded. You should…”

“No, I’ll help. I think I’ll feel worse if I don’t.” Skjöldr took a deep breath before turning back to town. “This way.”

Unfortunately, there were casualties. If the town had lacked a well-trained fighting force, there would have been many more. Kratos tried to comfort himself with the thought as he oversaw the aftermath of the battle. It did not help him much.

It helped more to see that the survivors, that his students, recovered and went to help. Even if their hands still shook, even if some wept, they helped. Skjöldr lead them, moving among his people with an encouraging smile.

Kratos hoped Skjöldr’s father knew what a fine young man his son was becoming.

He hoped that he would see his own son’s growth as well.

.

Kratos had not spent much time in Jötunheim. He felt as if he would be intruding, like an outsider who had somehow breached their walls and disturbed their peace.

But this place was Faye’s homeland. He still missed her deeply, some days more than others. He did not think anyone could blame him for seeking any connections left to him.

“Where do you think she would have lived?”

“Laufey?” Angrboda scanned the horizon. They were at the edge of the Ironwood, overlooking the rest of Jötunheim. “Did she ever talk about it?”

“She said she grew up near mountains. That her second family raised horses.”

“Hmmm…” Angrboda turned until she was facing the mountain peaks—the same ones they had spread Faye’s ashes from—and pointed in that direction. “That way. Beyond the temple. Some of our most famous horses were bred in the mountain valleys.”

Kratos stared out over the horizon and tried to imagine her there as a young woman. Perhaps her eyes were less tired in those days, her hair a more consistent red, without the small strands of white he noticed even before Atreus was born. She had been far angrier once—he had learned that during his travels in Vanaheim—but he was growing more comfortable with the thought. As much as it pained him to think that she had lived through the same rage he once had, it was an understandable anger. One she had learned to tame.

Many of her words to him made sense now. She had understood him more than he realized.

“The prophecy in Týr’s temple was broken in part,” he said. “Do you think…?”

Angrboda shrugged. “I never knew her. Everything I heard about her before made her more like one of the people from old legends, you know? But…I think she may have been the one to break it.” Angrboda rested her chin on her knees. “I get why she would. I’ve been on the other side of what Atreus would’ve lived through. I had this one moment that would make me important, then…nothing. Forever. And that was already bad, but he would’ve had one moment and then everything forever. That sounds awful.”

“It would have,” he agreed. Prophecies had destroyed his own childhood, and the three years he had spent with the threat of death hanging over him had been exhausting. Atreus knowing had nearly torn them apart. How much worse would it have been if they had known from the start? His life here had been far from perfect, but they had been some of the most peaceful in his long life.

And he had Faye to thank for that.

“You really loved her, huh?” Angrboda said.

Kratos closed his eyes. He imagined Faye walking through the fields towards her old childhood home. He pictured the way the sun would turn her hair gold, and the smile in her eyes as she turned to face him.

He knew, then, that no matter what came, no matter what changes lay ahead, he would still be able to remember her, alive and vibrant and calling him towards something better.

He took comfort in that.

“I still do,” he said.

That much would never change.

[exbex]

fic author tag game musings thing

Thank you @sygoflyy for the tag!

How many works do you have on AO3?

412. I am old, y’all

What’s your total AO3 word count?

547,393

What fandoms do you write for?

Currently it’s MCU and TRR

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Windows (OMGCP), Five Times Alexei and Kent Embarrassed Their Teammates, and One Time They Didn’t (OMGCP), On Lost Causes (OMGCP), Inferiority Complex (OMGCP), That Obscure Object (OMGCP)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I almost always respond to comments. I don’t get enough to justify not responding to comments, and I like it when authors respond to my comments. Sometimes I forget or it’s an older story with a very short comment and I might not, or something happened that week to distract me. So it goes.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably This Side of Hell (Sherlock). It’s dark and I just reread the comments and more than one person asked for a sequel that they definitely didn’t receive, so apparently that’s the one.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I guess that depends on what is happiest to people. Most of my pairings are together, sometimes their children are born or are thriving. 

Do you get hate on fics?

Only when someone hated the pairing and just wanted to throw a tantrum. That’s been rare.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I write vanilla smut, pegging, tentacles, noncon. Some stories revolve around the smut and some are just incidental.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I’ve written several. The craziest one is probably my OMGCP crossover with Cormac McCarthy’s The Road-“To Cool My Tongue.”

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a few. I think mostly Sherlock stories.

 Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Sweeter For The Wait (due South) with prudence_dearly and We Never Had This Interchange (TRR) with CertainLittleSmile.

 What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I’m not sure I can choose. Currently it’s SamBucky.

 What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I’m going to be optimistic and say I’ll finish all my WIPs. If I abandon a WIP it’s basically dead to me.

 What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue. If things are going poorly, I’ll just write dialogue until I can get over the hurdle.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Plot. I’m doing NanoWrimo right now, with an original fic idea, and I don’t know how this FBI agent is going to solve this mystery. I have similar issues with fanfic, which is why most stories are short.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Terrifying. I am actually doing this now, but I’m limiting the amount because I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. 

First fandom you wrote for?

Due South. Started in 2009.

Fave fic you’ve written?

Just Far Enough (TRR) perhaps. I think I wrote in some notes on it that it was my fanfic magnum opus, lol. I’m pleased with it though.

I think my mutuals may have all done this, but if you see this consider yourself tagged.

[pb-dot]

Film Friday: [REC]

After talking about Paranorman last week I feel a hankering for some more in the world of the spooky, and so I figured it was time to talk about one of my favorite scary movies, certainly the one that has the best track record at scaring the utter bejeezus out of me, the Spanish found footage film [REC]

TV Journalist Angela Vidal and her trusty cameraman Pablo are filming a Human Interest story about the life of firemen on night watch when the emergency services are called to assist an old woman who has fallen in her home. Hoping for a slight touch of action to the otherwise painfully boring footage, Angela and Pablo tag along to the apartment complex where the rest of the movie takes place. Unfortunately for them, by the time they get there the old woman is dead, the exit is sealed by the government shortly after their arrival, and to make it all worse said old woman refuses to actually stay dead.

Now, Found Footage is an oft-maligned subgenre, and I will concede that many of its criticisms are valid. Shaky camera and characters too scared and cinema verite-incoherent to explain what the hell is going on can wallpaper over subpar effects and incoherent writing and the by now beyond cliche ending of whatever beastie is out hunting amateur filmmakers or journalists lunging at the cameraman isn't as satisfying as the first five or so times we saw that. Still. [REC] makes it work, and I think there are a couple of reasons for it.

First of all, the main characters are professionals. Pablo wields a heavier, more stable camera than the handheld camcorders that are often the POV in these things, and his skills and experience compels him to keep striving to keep a more or less readable picture until shit has well and truly hit the fan. Similarly, Angela's journalistic instincts wake up in a big way under the unusual threat and the mad scramble to get to safety as the firefighters and tenants fall to the intensely aggressive rabies-like disease that makes them turn on their fellows. Her ongoing narration and commentary on their situation also help bridge gaps in the narrative and provide a small, but important jolt of characterization. Her attitude also does a good job of justifying the movie going on. When all is said and done, she is a journalist, and what's going on with her may be terrifying, but it is also capital N-News. As she herself says close to the movie's final crisis point "We have to tape everything, Pablo, for fuck's sake."

Perhaps the best part about [REC] is how perfect the movie's sense of timing is and how it capitalizes on the verisimilitude offered by the camera pov style. Sudden jumpscares do not come in the form of cinematic build up and scare stings but in the middle of an otherwise normal-ass scene where something unexpected and frightening will happen at a point where your mind has kind of assumed this scene's just a breather scene or is secretly delivering you some exposition when WHAM!

My favorite of these scares is just so insidiously effective that it has gotten me every single time I've watched the movie. The scene in question where our heroes use their camera, now the only light they have access to, to scout out a potential escape. Despite knowing the type of scene before I even saw it and expecting a scare to come out of left field either before or after I expect it, the scare still hits me like a damn train. It could be that the filmmakers hold back, almost to the degree where you end up wondering if it's misdirection and that the real scare will be when the camera is pulled back when WHAM, you get got by the simplest conceptual scare possible, there's something scary and grody-looking in your attic and it fucking GETS you.

REC isn't one of those movies that I have zero complaints about, there's a kind of out-of-left-field twist to what exactly is going on that feels more like sequel bait than part of a cohesive story. There are also perhaps more moving parts to this apartment building than feels entirely plausible and one or two scenes that don't quite hit the mark. These are minor quibbles hanging on for dear life on a majestic shadow-beast of a movie. Normally I don't even like fast zombies all that much, but these living dead folks got my adrenaline going like there are ambush predators about, and make no mistake.

[thelightningthatjumpsbetween]

Nineteen

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Sequel of Winters and the Beast, a Resident Evil: Village Story

Table Of Contents

Breakfast was a joyless affair, during which the string of questions around the table was punctuated only with the sound of forks and knives against plates.  Ethan noticed that Karl’s hands were shaking the entire meal; he’d also donned his dark sunglasses despite only wearing thin linen pants to the meal.  Ethan wanted to comfort the other, but even when he caressed the dark-skinned hand, Karl offered only a hollow stare and caress back. 

“How can we be sure it wasn’t Miranda, though?  She’s appeared as…well, you.  To me.”  The thought made Ethan shudder even as dawn sent stripes of sunlight through the dining room.  

“She’s not left-handed, for one,” Karl answered in a flat tone.  “Wouldn’t’ve got you there.  Or even known about that knife.”

Eva spoke next.  “But Karl, I have searched for your family for years.  I heard Miranda speak of your father’s return to his land when it happened, when you were children.  No Heisenberg ever died and became absorbed into the Mold.”

“What if it wasn’t…the organic way?”  Donna’s soft voice was hesitant, guarded.  When Ethan looked over at her, she pressed her right hand over her eye, stroking the hair that brushed her temple nervously.  

“What do you mean?”  Ethan looked at his plate, hoping to make her feel more comfortable. 

“She could do things with people, experiments–using their bodies too.  She used crystals.  That is how she studied before using cadou, and some time after as well.  I heard her speaking of going to look for more crystals.”  

Eva’s expression was drawn, contemplative.  Karl turned to her, looking almost positively lost.  “Could she have done something to his body, sent it somewhere, used a crystal or something, without you knowing?”

“You may be onto something,” Eva admitted.  “There would be a benefit, for her, to store consciousness into crystals without moving someone’s catalogued identity into the Mold.  If they were to resist her…or work against her, it would be more difficult to get rid of them.  And we know that she both put parts of herself into others using these crystals, as well as–” she nodded toward Donna, and then Ethan, “Somehow being able to remove parts of your consciousness to make you forget things.  All to benefit her cause.”  

Eva threaded her fingers together, ever curious, never too perturbed to wonder.  “I think that your mind has to restructure those events!  It would make so much sense.  That she rips them out like flowers and they take time to regrow, perhaps?” 

“Are these methods not in her research?”  Donna asked as if she were afraid of the answer.  

Ethan still stared at his plate.  “We don’t have all of it…just some of what came from Chris, but he blew that lab up, everything’s gone.  It’s all stored in the Mutamycete wherever the hell she is now, but that’s like walking right into the dragon’s lair.  Eva used to go, but even that was,” Ethan shrugged.  “Small pieces at a time.” 

Donna seemed to ponder on this for a moment, and then she said with a raised eyebrow, as if she were surprised to hear this from herself, “Moreau would have knowledge of it, if he gains his memory.” 

“What?”  Eva, Karl and Ethan all said the same word, causing Donna to creep down into her seat shyly. 

“Moreau was the most involved with her work.  She used to send it to him, I think. Before his mind went so…poorly.”  

Ethan glared between Karl and Donna.  “You mean he wasn’t always….”

“A moron?”  Karl shrugged.  “I remember him before he got real bad.  He was always kinda….stupid, when Donna and I were around.  But he’d been turned long before us, no idea what he was like as a human.  When I met him he already looked more frog than anything else.  Only other thing I know is that his dad had some kind of lab and worked with Miranda too.” 

“He was simple,” Donna said, glaring at Karl’s use of the word ‘moron’, “But yes, the cadou affected his mind, it worsened over time.  It was sad to see.”  She stared wistfully out the window, her dark hair cascading over her face.  Ethan took the opportunity to finally look at her properly, admiring the way that morning sunlight hit her deep brown eyes, and the simple beauty of her features.  She really was lovely, without the giant screaming baby and the horrific possessed doll.  

The father sighed, tearing his eyes away from the once-Lord and turning back to Eva.  “I saw Godric last night,” he began nonchalantly, and Eva’s face lit up.  Karl stabbed his food a little more forcefully.  “He said the same thing…mentioned Moreau.” 

“How does he know of Moreau?  How fascinating he is!  Such a strange treasure.”  Eva was beaming.  Ethan nodded sheepishly, and got the feeling that Eva wanted to ask many more questions about the meeting with the King, but Karl rolled his eyes.  

“Of all the dumb plans.  Let’s give a body to the freak who was obsessed with Miranda for decades.  What could go wrong?” 

Ethan contemplated this, but before he could ponder very long, Donna’s silverware clattered and she pushed her chair away from the table.  “I…I’m so sorry.  I need to lie down.  I don’t feel well.  I think things are…coming back.” 

Eva made a sympathetic noise, and Donna rushed from the table, leaving the trio to stare at one another.  

—-------

The melancholy in the home was palpable that day.  Many times Ethan heard sobbing from Donna’s room.  Sometimes Eva attended, other times Karl stepped in and spoke with her; Ethan made certain to never eavesdrop, though the nagging voice in his mind urged him to.  What was up with that?  He busied himself with taking Rose out into the gardens with her goat, but the girl’s joy at running around with the animal didn’t reach Winters, the same way the bright overhead sunlight didn’t seem to penetrate his skin.  

He felt cold, and lost.  When he’d come here and tried to learn how to defeat Miranda, it felt like one long uphill battle.  Moment after moment, more confusion, more death, more uncertainty was piled on him.  It made navigating the situation near-impossible.  He felt like that again, but in a worse way.  The stakes were different now, it seemed, and this was not a task that Ethan could take on by himself, or he would have already done it. 

Ethan heard a sound; wheels on gravel, from far away.  He scanned the base of the mountains that surrounded them and frowned when sunlight glinting off a faraway windshield caught his attention.  It was a vehicle, coming from the direction of the nearest town, the same road that he took every so often when shopping.  Ethan had never seen a car approach from this direction; the Roma village was higher in the mountains, and in the opposite direction.  

He couldn’t help but be suspicious, and rather than leave his daughter alone in the garden, he ushered both Rose and Sage into the house (to the delight of Rose, who squealed and started toward the hallway, goat on her heels) and then exited through the front door, continuing to survey the vehicle. 

It was a postal carrier, he realized with some relief, and leaned against the door frame to watch it approach.  The small red van was modern and sleek, and looked almost ridiculous silhouetted against the jagged, created valley.  It looked even more ridiculous parked on the gravel entry area of the mansion.  Ethan saw the completely skeptical look on the courier’s face as he exited with several large envelopes.  

“Alo,” the young man called, heading for Ethan, and seeming to ignore his own feeling of unease.  

“Hello,” Ethan countered–a fast way to get Romanians to speak English, he’d learned.  No matter how bad their English was, it was guaranteed to be better than his Romanian.  And frankly, Ethan had other things on his plate; learning the native language had not been a priority for some time.  One day.  When he had a little fucking peace and quiet, maybe.  

“Oh uh–I must ask, is this the home of-” He checked his clipboard.  “Karl Heisenberg?” 

“It is,” Ethan answered with an eyebrow raise.  Who was mailing Karl?  

As if by magic, the engineer appeared on the doorstep, cigar in his mouth.  He slouched against the other side of the frame, and the courier looked dubiously at the pair.  He was now in front of them, and held out the very formal-looking stack of mail.  

“I just need a–” he didn’t know the word for signature, but Karl spoke curtly to him, and he nodded thankfully.  However, Karl gestured at Ethan.  “Go ahead.” 

“Oh.”  Ethan scoffed at the brunette’s very Karl-like response to mail, and signed the paper.  He tried to read the return addresses, but one was simply a wall of foreign text, and the other was written in…was that Chinese? Ethan squinted and handed the clipboard back, taking both envelopes.  

The courier looked at him curiously.  “Name, sir?  Are you-”

“Ethan Winters,” and when the man continued to stare between them with a look that did not hide his confusion, Ethan said sharply, “His husband.” 

This caused Karl to chuckle, and the courier to leave quickly with an embarrassed goodbye.  When he was in the vehicle, Ethan frowned and muttered, “What was his problem?” 

“It'd be illegal for us to be married here,” Karl answered in a tone full of humor.  Ethan’s scowl deepened as he glared at the engineer, before shoving the larger envelope into Karl’s hands.  Karl spoke around the cigar this time.  “I still didn't say yes.” 

Ethan scoffed as he opened the letter that had mostly-Chinese lettering on it, as well as Karl’s name written in nearly calligraphic, handwritten ink.  

“You will one day.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Karl read his letter with a blank expression, as Ethan poured over the communication from Ada Wong.  It was also handwritten, but her note was in German.  A red lipstick smudge was the signature.  Stacked within the package were other research papers–all in German, Ethan quickly saw-but he picked out a few familiar words.  Mutamycete.  Miranda.  

Ethan saw another packet, this time with a simple English note: 

-ps, these are for Ethan. 

He ripped the packaging apart not knowing what to expect, but in awe, the blond held up a brand new Buletin, the Romanian official ID that he’d gotten when he entered the country a year ago.  Behind it was a shiny passport.  Paperwork for Rosemary was also in the packet.  A birth certificate that was identical to the one he’d left behind in their home.  Ada had even sent one of the hospital’s cards with her footprint on it.  Ethan brushed his thumb lovingly over the photocopied print.  

They were, in some ways…people again.  They existed.  He was touched.  Ethan pushed the envelope to his chest in a loving gesture.  

“Well shit, yours is bettern’ mine,” Karl waved, and shoved all his paperwork into Ethan’s hands.  

“What is it?”

“State, sayin’,” Karl scoffed, “Sorry to hear ‘bout the earthquake, but the government gave ‘em the funds to repair the sluice an’ the river.”  Karl shrugged.  “They don’t use the sluice for minin’ anymore, but there’s a dam a few miles south of the factory that I guess they still use for power.” 

“Is that uh…going to be…” 

“Safe? Hell no.”  Karl puffed on the cigar, squinting.  “Gonna have to rip up all the mold before they do anything.”  

“This is a good thing though, isn’t it?  Rebuilding?”

Karl shrugged, a motion devoid of feeling.  Ethan heard Donna’s loud sobs from an upstairs window.  He met Karl’s eyes, though they were still behind glasses.  

“Are you okay?”

“Sure.” 

“If you want to talk about-”

“I said sure, Winters–don’t push it.”  

The blond’s sour expression of a response pushed Karl back into smiling territory.  He stared past Ethan into the valley.  After putting his hands in his pockets, Karl asked casually, “Wanna go down there tonight?  Have us a little seance in the field?” 

Ethan’s hazel eyes lit up and he nodded.  “Call her out?”

“She wants to show her hand, lettin’ you see my brother…well, let’s see the rest,” Karl nodded.  

Ethan knew that when Miranda had called out, hearing him, she’d called for Karl’s brother.  But she’d said another name.  And he had to know.  And he didn’t want to tell Karl. 

Mia.  

“Can I ask you one question without you saying ‘don’t push it’ Winters?”

“Maybe.”  

Bastard. 

Ethan shifted the paperwork under his elbow.  “Is your brother the type to just…stab someone?  I mean, was he trying to hurt me, or trying to warn me?  He whispered a warning to me.  I don’t think he was trying to taunt me.” 

Karl shook his head distastefully.  “I mean-I stabbed you, to be fair, because I knew Miranda was lookin’ for you.”  Karl grinned.  “Also wanted to see if you were tough.  Miranda kept goin’ on and on about your body.”  Ethan’s disgusted face at this elicited a shrug from Heisenberg.  

“But…I don’t know.  He was a kid when I was kidnapped too, Ethan.  Didn’t make my way back home til I was almost grown, an’ by then he an’ my dad were just…gone.  Disappeared.  I wanted him back so bad.  Tried to find out where he went for years.  Always suspected her.”  

Karl’s eyes narrowed behind the glasses, and he finally gave up on the cigar, crushing it at the doorstep.  “Have dreams about him, but.”  

“What is he like in the dreams?”

Karl shook his head, giving Ethan the same ‘don’t push it’ expression.  

They doubled back in through the parlor, and Ethan headed up the nearby stairs to move the paperwork to his large office area.  Quietly, he tried, “How’s Donna?”

“Well,” Karl said in a false-chipper voice, “She’s got all the part about her family dyin’ out, an’ she’s mid-rememberin’ how she murdered people for Miranda, an’ how she more or less lost her mind after the cadou.”  

“Do you think that the other Lords will be more…reasonable, if we bring them back with their minds intact, no cadou?” 

Karl grimaced, clearly unhappy with the idea of being positive about either Moreau or Alcina’s reappearance.  “If they’re not, I’m gonna kill ‘em this time,” Karl said in a tired voice, and then he nodded toward the room where Donna’s cries echoed.  “Gonna go stay with her.” 

Ethan nodded.  After Karl departed, he stared out the large window, pressing his forehead to the glass.  

If today had started out with a stabbing and the mental breakdown of one of their group, he could only imagine how the night would go.