#and now its time to clean the soot and the ashes and go back home

[sigilsongs-a]

𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.

How Vida became a dead woman, a free woman, and a murderer in one night: five years ago in the Westerlands.

Vida hadn't planned on running away, at least not at that time. Now seventeen and fast approaching a decade with the Oakleaf family, over the years Master Oakleaf had grown complacent and often left her alone in the apothecary of an evening to clean ... this gave her access to his inventory, notes, books, and scrolls — unsupervised cleaning privacy allowed her to secretly practice the craft, whereas previously it had been impossible with his eyes always on her. Vida was careful when she pilfered items from him and, though all she stole was information, if he ever caught her she knew she would be thrashed within an inch of her life, and thrown onto the streets.

The night that lead to her abandoning her only known home came to pass when a tonic, that had been brewed for a day and a half, needed to be bottled and picked up by the customer after sunset. After it was readied, Master Oakleaf left Vida to clean the mess as usual and await the client, who was expected late. All had been going well until Vida turned her back to wrap the clay jar, and she felt hands grip her waist with unwanted, hot breath on her neck. Vida immediately turned and fiercely shoved the man away, and… that was all. The wealthy client stumbled back and fell, head striking the bluestone floor and was dead — in an instant Vida had become, in essence, a murderer. She sank to the floor and stayed there, in shock with the world slowing hazily before her, sitting still for several minutes in a daze; watching the blood pool and the lamplight flicker in its macabre reflection. It was the whinnying of the client's horse outside that shattered her reverie, and the world sped up around her — she rushed outside and was immediately sick, then frantically looked around for any other person around that may have seen - there were none.

Inside she beheld the mess of blood and bone, the overweight man's body; and her legs wobbled as she considered how she would be punished — likely put to death for her unintentional crime. There was no way to hide this, it was impossible... and so her choice was to disappear, to cease to exist and just run away… but first she’d have to make Vida Waters die... which would be an easy feat as there was no one to mourn or question it; as long as she staged it correctly.

She had no more tears left in her when she slaughtered the eldest pig and then set the others free... no tears when she found anything flammable and piled it under the shelves of herbs and poultices. The need to survive overwhelmed her, the years of resentment exploding as she upturned and tore through the apothecary, taking everything of use or worth, smashing others against the floor, she stole invaluable books and scrolls (including a collection that she would dub her Black Book: containing sleeping potions and death draughts). Vida cleaned out her hutch of her clothes and own notes, packed a handful of supplies, bagged up her stolen haul and stood back. The clients corpse and that of the pig she had slaughtered lay amongst flammable liquids and kindling, soaked in lamp oil and pitch ... and then she set it all aflame, quickly shutting the door on the horrid scene.

What would be an assumed accident completely gutted the stone apothecary’s quarters and the hutch she’d lived in, nearby grassy areas and trees, even destroying the left side of the pig pen. After the flames and heat burned out and they were able to pick through the ash, soot, and debris, the two charred remains inside would be announced as the client and the servant girl Vida; both apparently caught in the blaze. With the pigs running wild, some never to be seen again, no one would think that the second ‘body’ had been be one of those animals. As for the client's horse, people would assume had broken free in fear and run from the fire.

The then-year-old horse, who would later be named Brego, had instead ferried Vida as far north-east as they could go that night. Once cut loose of the over-laden coach-wagon he'd been strapped to, freed from the harsh bit that had left his mouth with sores, the animal seemed to trust Vida. Upon horseback, running on adrenaline and terror and shock, Vida eventually crossed into the Riverlands where she would hide, camped in the overgrown areas along the Red Fork. She prayed, hoped and agonising over whether her impulsive cover-up plan had worked, trying to block the scent of fire and blood from her memory as she thought about the acrid smoke billowing into the sky.

[jack-daww]

Day 1: Something Burned

Luce hums as he walks through the ruins of the old house, kicking stones out of his way. His mother would be mad, if she knew where he is. The ruins are almost completely overtaken by the forest they’re in, plants growing over soot-stained stone and rotten wood. There used to be a house, here. A small one, cut off from the town even before the fire. Almost a decade ago now, it burned down. Nobody knows why, just that in the middle of the night, there was a big fire. Nobody survived.

Of course, Luce only knows about this from stories. He wasn’t born back then, his mother still a teenager. But Luce knows many stories of this place, some more believable than others. Some of the elder people claim that an angry spirit set fire. Others say it was a punishment from the Gods or a demonic ritual that went wrong. Luce’s mother says all of it is false. It was an accident, nothing more.

Luce crouches down to move one of the bigger pieces of rubble. He isn’t looking for anything specific, but Luce likes looking through destroyed places. His mother forbade him from going through the garbage and he already knows the local second hand shops like his own room. So, Luce went into the woods, to the burned ruins. Just to see if he can find anything.

He lets the piece of rubble fall back into place when he finds nothing beneath it. Luce looks around. There is nothing around him that could fall, nothing that might hurt him as long as he watches his step. Luce has been to the ruins before, of course, but always just for a few minutes, before his mother got too worried and he had to return home.

Something catches his eye and Luce crouches down, brushing away dirt to reveal something half-stuck under a piece of rubble. After a moment of looking around, he pushes his shoulder against the stone, lifting it and quickly pulling out what was trapped underneath.

It’s a stuffed doll, one eye missing and the other stitched on. The hair is singed and the whole doll is covered in soot, but otherwise seemingly undamaged. Luce picks up the doll and holds it up. It’s soft, despite how dirty it is. He brushes as much soot and dirt off as he can, trying to shake it out. It doesn’t quite work, but that doesn’t bother him too much.

After a second of simply staring at the doll, Luce pulls it to his chest and makes his way back home. It feels like he had a good day, today. The doll is a good find and as soon as he gets it cleaned up, It will be in almost perfect condition. He can only hope his mother will allow him to keep the doll. And even if she doesn’t, he won’t throw it out. It’s too pretty for that.

His mother lets him keep the doll, after it keeps showing up in his room every time she throws it out. Even after Luce gave it a thorough wash, it still smells like smoke, with soot staining its clothes, but he doesn’t mind. His mother complains sometimes, that his room smells like fire, but Luce doesn’t mind that either. It’s comforting, especially when, as days go by, the doll almost seems to be warm whenever he hugs it close.

It’s a night like any other, only this night, Luce is out with his friends. His mother will be angry. He was supposed to be back before sundown, but the sky is already day when he lays eyes on his home. If he were paying attention, he would smell smoke in the air. If he thought of something else than hugging his doll, he would notice how the air grows warmer. But Luce doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice any of that, but he does notice when flames burst out of what he knows is his window.

He screams and stumbles back, falling onto the street. Soon, neighbours are outside. The lady he sees walking the dog every day is kneeling next to him, talking, but Luce can’t focus on what she is saying. There are sirens in the background. The fire spreads fast and when the firefighters finally manage to put it out, nothing but ruins remain of Luce’s home.

His mother got out just in time, but everything else burned down to ashes.

Everything but one thing. Because if Luce were to walk through these ruins of his home, he would find a lightly singed doll.

[bruiisedpetals-a]

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡; how she became a free woman and a murderer in one night. [ five years ago, the westerlands. ] vida waters.

vida hadn't planned on running away, at least not at that time. now seventeen and fast approaching her eighteenth year of life, and a decade with the oakleaf family. over the years master oakleaf had grown complacent and often left vida alone in the apothecary of an evening to clean... this gave her access to his inventory, notes, books, and scrolls — unsupervised cleaning privacy allowed her to secretly practice the craft, whereas previously it had been impossible with his eyes always on her. vida was careful when she pilfered items from him and, though all she stole was information, if he ever caught her she knew she would be thrashed within an inch of her life and thrown onto the streets.

the night that lead to her abandoning her only known home, which was the hutch that she’d lovingly made cosy after all these years, came to pass when a particular tonic that had been brewed for a day and a half needed to be bottled and picked up by the customer after sunset. after it was readied, master oakleaf left vida to clean the mess as usual and await the client, who was expected late, all had been going well until vida turned her back to wrap the clay jay in some cloth to protect it from breaking, and she felt hands grip her waist and his unwanted, hot breath on her neck. vida immediately turned and fiercely shoved the man away, and… that was all. the wealthy client stumbled back and fell, head striking the bluestone floor and was dead — in an instant vida had become, in essence, a murderer. she sank to the floor and stayed there, in shock with the world slowing hazily before her, sitting still for several minutes in a daze; watching the blood pool and the lamplight flicker in its macabre reflection. it was the whinnying of the client's horse outside that shattered her reverie, and the world then completely sped up around her — she rushed outside and was immediately sick, then frantically looked around for any other person around that may have seen - there were thankfully none. inside she beheld the mess of blood and bone, the overweight man's body, and her legs wobbled as she considered how she would be punished and likely put to death for her unintentional crime; there was no way to hide this, it was impossible.

         and so her choice was to disappear, to cease to exist and just run away… but first she’d have to make vida waters die... which would be an easy feat as there was no one to mourn or question it; as long as she staged it correctly.

she had no more tears left in her when she slaughtered the eldest pig and then set the others free ... no tears when she found anything flammable and piled it under the shelves of herbs and poultices. the need to survive overwhelmed her, the years of resentment exploding as she upturned and tore through the apothecary, taking everything of use or worth, smashing others against the floor, she stole invaluable books and scrolls (including a collection that she would dub her black book; containing sleeping potions and death draughts), cleaned out her hutch of her clothes and own notes, packed a handful of supplies, bagged up her stolen haul and stood back. the clients corpse and that of the pig she had slaughtered lay amongst flammable liquids and kindling, soaked in lamp oil and pitch ... and then she set it all aflame, quickly shutting the door on the horrid scene.

what would be an assumed accident completely gutted the stone apothecary’s quarters and the hutch she’d lived in, nearby grassy areas and trees, even destroying the left side of the pig pen (she knew it would; she'd been the one to set the pigs free). after the heat burned out and they were able to pick through the ash, soot, and debris, the two charred fleshy remains inside would be announced as the client and the servant girl vida; both apparently caught in the blaze. with the pigs running wild, some never to be seen again, no one would think that the second ‘body’ would be one of those animals. as for the client's horse, people would assume had broken free in fear and run from the fire. the then-year-old horse, who would later be named brego, had instead ferried vida as far north-east as they could go that night. once cut free of the small but over-laden coach-wagon he'd been strapped to, and freed from the harsh bit that had left his mouth with sores, the animal seemed to trust her (he'd only experienced overwork and cruelty from his previous owner; the client now dead behind them) ... upon horseback, running on adrenaline and terror and shock, vida eventually crossed into the riverlands where she would hide and hope - camped in the overgrown areas along the red fork - praying and agonising over whether her impulsive and ill-conceived plan had worked, trying to block the scent of smoke and blood from her memory as she watched the acrid smoke billow into the sky from a distance.

[mysterythief]

This got long, so I also put it on A03. I'm going to split it into 3 different reblogs here, so make sure you check them all out.

Raising Phoenix

The god stood behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know he was there.

“This will hurt,” he whispered.

You nodded as you rocked back and forth in front of the fire, gently stroking the small girl’s blond hair. She was small enough she fit on your lap, where she had fallen asleep after you had cleaned her up and fed her. She couldn’t be more than 2 or 3. Left on the side of the road covered in ash and blood. You did the only thing you could.

You brought her home.

“What will you call her?” he questioned.

“Phoenix,” was your only response, as the god softly put his hand on your shoulder before vanishing into the night.

***

Phoenix’s laughter rose through the air as she toddled along the road, her tiny right hand tightly clenching two of your fingers while her left pointed out a passing butterfly. Sixth months had passed since you had brought her home, and she was vibrant toddler, lively as ever.

“Fly.” She stated, looking up at you expectantly.

“Yes, Phoenix. The butterfly flies.” You laugh softly.

“Fly.” She repeated again, this time gesturing you to pick her up.

“Ahh, my precious Phoenix longs to fly, yes?” You question as you swiftly pick her up, throwing her up into the air and catching her.

“Fly! Fly!” She giggled and squealed. “Again! Fly!”

You threw her into the air a few more times, letting her laughter and your smile fly with her, until it grew dark.

“Again!” Her cry was softer, having tired herself out.

You kissed the top of her head. “You are the most vibrant bird in the sky my Phoenix. And you will fly above them all. But now it’s time for dinner and bed.”

***

“Tell me a story Father?” Phoenix asked, as you tucked her into bed.

You brushed her blond curls away from her face, amazed that it had already been 3 years since you had brought her home. You licked your finger and dabbed at her chin, where leftover crumbs lay from your celebration dinner earlier that night.

“And what story should I tell you daughter?”

“Tell me about the phoenix.”

You paused and waited expectantly.

“Please.” She added, still learning her manners.

“Very well. Since you asked so nicely, I must oblige.” You responded with a soft smile.

“Unlike other birds, who hatch once their mother has laid an egg, the phoenix is born from the blood and ash of a fire. Covered in soot the phoenix rises. It starts small, a dark little thing, with very little wings.” You put your arms close to your body, mimicking little wings, as Phoenix giggles.

“As the phoenix grows, it become the color of fire. Bringing light wherever it goes as its wings expand to protect those it loves.” You spread your arms out wide as wings. Purposefully placing them in front of Phoenix.

“When the phoenix has lived life to the fullest, it burst into flames, leaving behind blood and ashes for the phoenix to rise again.”

“Why did you name me Phoenix?” The question comes suddenly, as if it had just occurred to the girl.

You smile sadly at your little girl, just barely six, and yet the brightest thing in your world. “I named you Phoenix, because you brought light into my life,” you lied.

She nodded, as if that made sense in her little world, already drifting to sleep as you kissed her goodnight.

***

“Father! Father!” Phoenix crowed as she ran with her water pail to the garden where you were planting the springs crop.

“What, my bright bird?” You questioned as you dug another hole and planted more seeds.

“You’ll never guess what happened while I was gathering water at the stream Father!” 10-year-old Phoenix knelt down next to you, pouring some water into the hole, before helping you cover it with dirt and repeating the process.

“Did you see the fawns again?” You questioned with a loving smile at your happy girl.

“Nope, not the fawns. Though I think they’re still close by.” She shook her head enthusiastically.

“Then did you find a special rock?” You threw out another guess of her favorite things.

“Not today.”

“Then you best just tell me as I’ll likely never guess at this rate.” You laughed; a deep hearty laugh that you haven’t heard in years.

“Jonny Wood kissed me!! On the cheek! It was on a dare from Brock, the tailor’s boy. But he still kissed me! I told him he better watch out cause you’re the strongest man around, and don’t take kindly to boys fooling around with my heart…”

You listened intently as your little girl talked about Jonny Wood the neighbor boy. How she absolutely did not like him back (she did, she just didn’t know it yet). And you wondered how you got to be here so soon. Worrying about boys.

You reveled in it all as you spent the afternoon gardening with your Phoenix, even if you were going to go have a talk with Jonny’s dad later. But for now, it was worth seeing your daughter’s wings as she grew. 

***

Phoenix spun in the common room, in front of the unlit fire place, her new gown of yellow and red flowers spinning around her.

“Oh, Father it’s perfect! Thank you so much!” Phoenix spun towards you, holding her arms out in front of her to grab you around the neck in an embrace. At 15 now, she was a stunning young woman, but still short enough that she had to stand on her tip-toes to hung you.

You treasured her hug, knowing that they wouldn’t last much longer.

“Anything for you, my shining light in the sky.” You push her back from you gently, looking into her bright, youthful face as you cupped it in your own hand. Strange, how not so long ago she was just a toddler, and now she was a growing woman.

“Now I know you’ve been practicing, but show me what you’ve got,” you insisted as you reached down to place one of her hands on your shoulder and you grabbed the other one in your own as you softly placed your own hand on her hip.

You twirled around the room together. Phoenix humming the lullaby you used to sing for her when she was young.

And you selfishly wished your girl could stay this young a little longer.

***

Phoenix married Jonny Wood before the first frost came. At 20 now, a full-grown woman, and still you felt she was too young for marriage. But she loved him, and you knew he would treat her right, so you let her leave the nest.

When the spring came, you helped Jonny build a home for them on his father’s land, while Phoenix knit clothes for the baby to come that winter. When it was finished, she kissed your cheek like she used to when she was little.

“It’s perfect Father. Thank you,” she whispered.

“Anything for you to spread your wings and fly my bright light,” you whispered back.

***

Phoenix grew too fast, and you didn’t age a day. 4 children were near full grown when the sickness came. Phoenix was in her 50’s now, her hair beginning to grey.

“Please, tell me Father,” she coughed. “Tell me again why you named me Phoenix?”

You held her too white hand in your own as you sat by her bedside.

“I named you Phoenix, because you brought light into my life.”  You repeated as you had many times in the past.

“Father, I’m no longer a little girl. I have lived a full life, and I know that’s not the whole reason why you named me.

Please.

Tell me.

Why did you name me Phoenix?” she begged.

“I named you Phoenix, because you brought light into my life. And because I knew you would rise from the blood and ash I found you in to fly,” you cried.

Phoenix cupped her hand around your face, tears streaming from her eyes as she brushed the ones dripping down your cheek. “Then I will rise and fly again Father,” she promised.

You burned Phoenix’s body in her favorite pasture and you didn’t leave until all that was left was ashes.

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

[alicewhitesblog]

Lost and Found by Alice White

There is a reason why some lost should never be found.

Beth Simmons stood on the station platform, agitated. She was running late for work, as usual, and knew her boss would want to see her about her time keeping when she eventually arrived.

Once the train arrived, she almost lept through the open carriage door and immediately scanned left and right for an empty seat. Surprisingly, for a busy carriage she found one. Sitting near the window she watched as the station rolled by to be replaced with the back gardens of the houses that bordered the railway track. Soon, they became a blur as the train picked up speed.

Putting her bag on the only available seat next to her, she saw that a child had left behind their doll. Picking it up, it reminded her off the dolls she had as a child. Only this one looked a bit distressed. Its black hair was long and unkept. It wore a long purple and green stripe dress, purple tights with black pointed shoes.

Then looking at its white plastic face, Beth could see it had been bashed in. It was missing an eye and there were cracks down its cheeks. Either it had been ran over by a vehicle or the child had a temper tantrum.

Nevertheless, it was probably missed by a child, so she would hand it in to the lost property office when she got off the train. Beth placed the doll in her bag and spent the rest of the journey thinking up another excuse for being late.

If only she liked working at Transcorp, maybe she'd find the enthusiasm to be on time. Then, subconsciously she said out loud, "If only that place would burn down!"

Then a tiny voice spoke. "Your wish is my command."

Beth looked around at those in the busy carriage. But no-one was looking at her. She was about to ask if anyone had said something, when she could see the train was about to pull into her station.

Upon leaving the carriage, Beth went to the lost property office. "Yes dear?" Asked the man behind the glass screen.

Beth fumbled in her bag. "I have here..." Still pushing aside the detritus in her bag. "I thought I picked up a lost doll?"

The man behind screen said. "It's OK. If it's still on the train at the next station, the cleaning staff will pick it up."

Beth gave an embarrassed smile, turned, and walked out of the station. Now not thinking about the doll, she was preparing for the confrontation with her boss.

A little way away from the station, Beth noticed a plume of black smoke rising from a nearby building. Turning the corner she saw to her horror that it was her place of work, Transcorp!

Fire engines, rushed passed her with their sirens screaming.

Running over to where all the staff had mustered, she saw there were three fire engines already in attendance. Seeing her, Beth's boss came over to her. His face was ash grey and his white shirt, black from soot.

"Beth! You certainly picked a good day to be late again."

"What happened!" She asked.

"I was asking the team where you were. When an almighty explosion came from downstairs! Some say a generator blew up!"

Looking back at the orange flames devouring the three story building he said to her. "You may as well go back home. There is no work for you or any of us here now!"

In shock, Beth turned and walked back to the train station.

Once back in her apartment, Beth began to re-live the day. Her running late, finding a doll and then she remembers saying out loud she wanted Transcorp to burn down! Surely, that was a bizarre coincidence. Wasn't it? And that doll she was convinced she put it in her bag!

Fetching her bag she opened it up again. To her horror, she saw the doll lying there looking up!

Beth dropped the bag. It hit the floor and its contents plus the doll rolled out. The doll was face down. Beth was about to retrieve the doll when its arms moved and pushed itself onto its back. Slowly it began to sit up!

The expression on its face had changed. Now through its facial cracks, there was a smile. An evil, sinister smile. Then a voice came from its unmoving lips.

"Tut, tut. I grant you your wish and you tried to get rid of me! What kind of thanks is that. I am here to stay with you sweetheart. So long as I can see you, you can't lose me. The last person tried to blind me. But now I'm all seeing."

The doll reached across its chest and with its tiny plastic hands ripped open its dress to expose hundreds of small black eyes!

Beth screamed!

[fipindustries]

it was worth it

so here we go, one more of what im sure will be half a dozen essays on the ending of worth the candle, hopefully ill be able to say something sufficently distinct from what other people are saying that this is worth reading. truly we have to than that i had been liveblogging this story because if i had to put everything i thought about this story right here right now, it would probably be longer than the 1.6 million words of the book itself

every so often you come across those works of fiction, those works after which the entire genre feels pointless because all there was to say was already said and done there. worm comes to mind, a lot of people have said that they just couldnt engage with superhero fiction any more after reading that because everything felt so stale and pedestrian. this feels much the same for the isekai genre, and for geeky fantasy kitchen sink worlds in general.

alexander wales, through his successive avatars sprinkled all around this story, through the dm and juniper and everyone else, feels like an archetype. @itsbenedict​ at one point said something to the effect that he was amazed by how every desition the characters would make and the specific reasoning behind it all felt like what he would have done and i agree with this. i dont think there was any other book that showed such a perfect, in real time, display of my thoughts as i was having them while reading the book. this book, more like any other captures a very specific type of mentality, a very particular way of engaging with fiction and fantasy, an incredibly specific philosophy when it comes to imagination and storytelling. it feels like a beacon, a conceptual circumbscribing of a type of personality and a way of looking at the world that i would truly consider my kin, as shown by the fandom of this novel. 

wales, madman that he is, went and did it, he wrote the story that i feel we all wanted to write our entire lives, the gigantic, sprawling tale of someone in a granular detailed expansive and rich fantasy world, munchkinning their way into godood with one weird trick, no tricks, no traps, no short cuts, just one guy and his group of friends being very clever and making good choices. solving problems as they come with actual problem solving skills. with actual thought put into it. fantasy understood as a great puzzle to put together, a mathematical equation, commiting to go wherever the logic of the story may take us, no hedging, no items, fox only, final destination.

but there is even more to this archetype i mentioned. juniper is not just a geek, he is a very specific kind of geek. he is the classical version. he is the epitome of the gen X nerd. this subculture evolved a lot through the years, and the millenial nerd is a far different beast from its previous iteration. webcomics through the 2000′s and the 2010′s are if anything the long chronicle of that evolution, from the greasy loser of the past to quirky catgirls of today. but joon and his world feel like the last great hurrah of this character, its final tribute.

now, going back to wales, the real actual wales and not the hall of mirrors that he set up all around himself, this story proved to me more candid than i ever imagined. all fiction is ultimatly the author talking about themselves in one way or the other, we all put a bit of our lives and our sould into our tales. some times the lines can get blurry but, unless the author comes out and outrights spells it out for you, there is always some degree of plausible daniability. 

well, as a matter of fact wales himself does come out at the very end and outright spells it and the amount of borderline one to one correlations with his actual life are, dare i say it? brave. doesnt help that he more or less confirms that a part of him (that is not quite him but still a significant part) would gladly have sex with a cactus person, an otter girl and an octopus, or at least would get a kick out of fantasizing about it.

but wacky fetishes aside (we never really got to see what was in flesh.txt did we?) there are some suggestions that the characters in this story may be distantly based if not in actual people, at the very least in the feeling that certain people he knew sucitated in him. which leads one to wonder was there something analogous to a “real” amarylllis??? perhaps some girl he had a crush on when he was a teenager that at the time seemed like the perfect girl and that he couldnt help but idolize and put on a pedestal, much like the readers of this story, me included, did with amaryllis. truly the last chapter invites you, almost dares you to go back and try to psychoanalize wales and figure out who he is by the veiled clues sprinkled all through out this self admitted metaphorical autobography.

as a way for me to take a deep breath, cleanse my mouth and slowly dial my self back into the rest of my life without this story ill comment on some of its flaws, mainly the final leg of the story where the emotional tugs just werent all there. where the plot sags a bit and where you can feel that the story is mainly rushing a bunch of stuff wales was just not interested in exploring but that he had commited himself to see through. so much so that through the entire arc of the long stairs all the other characters felt like they were just not really there much and the final tearful goodbye with arthur doesnt completly land, at least for me. a lot of it feels like going through the motions to just get things done, but the final take away here is that it sticks the landing, sure it might have blown its load a bit early leaving the rest of the story deflated but who am i to complain? didnt i get the load at the end of the day? and wasnt it fantastic, beyond fantastic even, transcendental? this is a good book, is my main takeaway here.

incredible, amazing, perfect, superlatives galore, i loved it and i am heartbroken that is done and i cant wait to see what alexander wales comes up with next. go fucking read it.

[lilyclawthorne]

For the "I wish you would write a fic where..." Thing:

I wish you would write a fic where...

Alma and Pepa talk.

(Or "fight and then talk" lol)

Like, about Bruno, about Mirabel, about Pedro... About Pepa's cloud and gift...

:')

Sorry this took longer to answer than expected, but uhh thats because I did end up writing it!

It’s maybe less of a talk and more of a much needed vent for Pepa and her mother listening to all of her feelings for once?? Idk I’m not sure how i feel about it, it’s kinda dialogue heavy, and I’m not quite sure if its what you were looking for? Also, used google translate for some of this, so if anything seems off feel free to let me know.

Don’t Need The Sun To Keep You Warm

Word Count: 3780

Ao3 Link

It was supposed to be her day off. A good day. A calm day, and Pepa had been looking forward to it. But even if the people in the Encanto had been doing a better job of taking care of things on their own, of helping all of those around them and easing up on their reliance on the Madrigals, there were just some problems that people couldn’t anticipate. Emergencies that could best be handled by one of their Gifts.

Pepa had been quietly enjoying a book while sitting outside of Casita when her day was interrupted. She had actually smelled the smoke before the people came up to her yelling that one of the older barns had been caught on fire. She was up and running before they even made it all the way to her, abandoning her book on the ground, and following the direction the smoke was coming from. The sight itself was enough to kick her anxiety up, and by the time she got there she had no problem conjuring up a cloud with enough rain to put the whole thing out before it spread too far.

What would’ve been a challenge for most people, was an easy fix with a gift like Pepa’s, but even so, just working herself up like that, all of the adrenaline mixed with emotions was enough to make her exhausted. She wanted to go right back home, it was her day off after all, but as soon as the fire was out, people got to work cleaning the mess and she felt bad leaving everything behind as everyone else helped. With all the people involved, it only took about an hour to clear the debris, but now she was wet and cold and felt gross from getting covered in ash and soot. Now she really wanted to get out of there, dodging questions from farmers about when the next time she’d be available to water some crops would be before they could end up setting her off.

She was about halfway home when she was stopped once more, turning around at a tug on her dress to find two kids looking up at her. The rumbling in her cloud from the interruption ceased as soon as she saw them. There was a little girl who looked like she’d been crying, and a boy who was just a little older than her and looked like he could be her older brother.

“U-um, Señora, my hermana got hurt - she’s okay now - but she’s still sad and I was, um, wondering if you’d be able to make a rainbow to help cheer her up, por favor?” the boy nervously asked her. Pepa’s heart softened at this kid just trying to help his sister, but that didn’t change the fact that rainbows were hard for her to create if she wasn’t in a very good mood. She saw their faces sadden at her hesitation, which only made her feel bad as well, but she couldn’t blame two children for not knowing the extent of her gift.

“Lo siento, but they’re not that easy to produce, another time, okay?” she told them, and they shook their heads in understanding, but Pepa could still see the dejected look on the girl’s face grow deeper as they turned around to head back to their own home. As Pepa started her own trek back home, her cloud returned, a little darker than before to reflect her bad mood.

When she finally made it back to her own room, she used the cloud to rinse both herself and her dress of any dirt and ash that was remaining before getting changed into a dry set of clothing. She felt a little better than before, but her cloud still trailed along with her as she set out to collect her book from where she left it outside, but she did not make it more than a few steps outside of her room when she heard it.

“Pepa! You have a-“ her mother began, only to stop at the glare that was sent her way.

“Go ahead! See what it’ll look like when you finish that sentence!” She shoots back at the woman.

Her mother took a deep breath before beginning again, “I apologize, force of habit-“

Pepa rolled her eyes, her cloud growing darker and larger, “It should have never become a habit in the first place!!”

“I-you’re right. I should never have started pointing it out. I’m sorry and I want to do better, so if you’ll let me restart-“ Pepa gives her mother a nod to go on. “What’s got you upset today, mija? Would you like to talk about it?

Pepa’s still slightly annoyed but her immediate instinct to say no and storm off is lost. Her inner child has been longing to hear her mother ask that for so long, and before she realizes it she’s nodding her head. She’s nervous, but if her mother wants to try then maybe she should too. After all, Pepa knows she needs to improve on talking about her emotions with others rather than holding them all in. Who better to work on that with than her own mother, the person who she always should have been able to go to talk to in the first place?

Alma has now approached her, has very gently taken her hand, and is now leading them both upstairs to her own bedroom where they can talk privately. Pepa feels a little odd as she’s sat down on her mother’s bed. The only times she can remember being brought up here are when she was younger, usually to be reprimanded for whatever chaos she managed to get up to as a child.

They sit for a few moments in awkward silence before her mother speaks up, “Tell me what’s wrong, mi vida?”

Pepa thinks about her day and how it had put her in a bitter mood, but she can’t actually find anything that feels like a legitimate complaint. She’s feeling like she’s already made a big deal out of nothing, and starts to get up, “Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

But she’s pulled back down by her mother, “It’s not stupid if it’s made you upset.”

Her younger self wants to cry at those words, wishing to have heard something like that from the woman for so long. So she gives it another shot and tries to talk about her day, “I-I’m just exhausted. It was supposed to be my day off, but there was a fire and no one can take care of it as fast as I can, so it’s far from unreasonable to make an exception there to help. But then I kept helping because I knew it’d look bad if I didn’t. T-then people wanted to talk to me about work but I ignored them and I feel horrible about it. And then there were these two kids! Who seemed very sweet, but they asked me to make a rainbow and I wanted to! But I couldn’t, and it’s not their fault they don’t understand how the gift works, but they looked so sad, and then I felt so sad. Not to mention almost the whole time I was soaked by rain and covered in dirt, and just felt so uncomfortable and gross.”

Pepa’s not quite sure when it happened, but she’s feeling a light drizzle coming down from her cloud, and feels tears forming in her eyes now that she’s let that all out. Despite the tears, she can’t help but laugh at what her mother has to say next.

“Ay, I’ve never understood why you never used any of the raincoats I got you.”

“That’s what you have to say next? Because they were ugly Mamá! And hot, between the rain and then the heat from the hood, my hair always wanted to frizz up horribly, which was a nightmare.”

“Oh you want to tell me how much of a nightmare your hair could become? I think I did your hair for you every morning until you were at least 15, and you would never stay still,” her mother laughed with her, “Would you like me to help you with your hair right now?”

Pepa is quick to feel her hair, questioning what was wrong with it, but as soon as she felt it, she realized after the work and rushing around today it had become very loose. Between the rain and wind, as well as the natural heat outside, her hair was sure to be a pain by the time it was dry at the end of the day. She feels her mother get up, grabbing a comb and shifting to sit behind her as she begins to undo the rest of the braid entirely.

Alma feels her daughter begin to relax a bit at her touch, and she continues, gently working through each knot. She takes the silence as a moment to speak up again, “Those farmers shouldn’t have bothered you, I’ll have to talk to them. And you didn’t have to stick around to help with the aftermath of the fire, putting it out was sure to already be a huge help.”

“How was I supposed to not help?” she quietly questions her mother before continuing, “Hard to erase a lifetime being taught that we couldn’t not help, that everyone else came before ourselves.”

It’s clear she’s not only talking about herself. She’s nervous she’s going to start an argument, and is briefly both thankful and terrified that she can’t get up and avoid everything like usual when her hair is currently in her mother’s hands.

“I- that would be my fault again. I did so much wrong by you all, and I will regret that everyday. I thought I was doing right by our miracle, by your Papá, but if he were here now I think he’d be very disappointed.”

“I know why you did it, Mamá, and sometimes I think I get it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s had a negative impact on the rest of us to the point that we couldn’t even talk about it. An impact that, for some of us, is far too late to undo,” Pepa takes a deep breath, wondering if she’ll get yelled at, but the silence from her mother suggests she should continue, “This may hurt to hear, but sometimes I am so resentful of you because I know that both Julieta and I have tried so hard to raise our children differently than you raised us, and yet the things we learned from you still manage to sneak their way in there.”

She thinks if she turned around to face her mother, she’d have a hard time seeing the look in the woman’s eyes, but once again she’s glad that her mother has chosen to take her time working out each knot in her hair, making it incapable for her to face her. Her mother lets out a small hum, one that reminds Pepa of her sister and she thinks that must be where she got it from. It’s an indication to continue speaking.

Pepa decides it’s easier for her to begin on someone other than herself.

“It’s just, Julieta LOVES her hijas, so much. But she’s been taught to work herself to the bone every day since she was little, I’m pretty sure - no I KNOW - she didn’t have much of a childhood. It’s kept her from seeing the problems her girls have been having, and it’s normalized for them that it’s okay to overwork yourself for others. You taught Juli that if she’s not helping others or doing as told, she’s worthless, and her girls have gotten that too.”

They’re both briefly aware of the cloud rumbling above them, but neither one of them says anything about it. Pepa decides to ignore it as she continues, “Don’t even get me started on Mira! In this family, worth was equated to gifts, so she spent her whole life so far pushing herself too hard to reach a goal that was made unattainable for her! I feel horrible that I didn't pay more attention to her. She almost died because she thought the miracle was worth more than her life!”

She winces as she feels a harsher tug through her hair and she tries to turn around, concerned she’s already taken it too far, but her mother doesn’t let her, “Lo siento, just a tough knot. Continue with what you need to say.”

“A-and Bruno, we all treated him terribly. When he was little, me and Juli always wanted to defend him from the terrible things people would say or do, but we couldn’t. We were little too. Too little to do enough, and too little to take on the role of protector that should’ve been held by our madre.”

Pepa herself is getting uncomfortable. She has steered the conversation towards the triplet’s childhood which is only a step away from discussing her own childhood, and that’s certainly not something she planned on doing today. As if she sensed her discomfort, Pepa feels her mother running a hand through her hair, one meant for comfort this time rather than detangling, as if to say it’s okay to keep going, she can take whatever her daughter has to say.

“I hate the way I behaved after Bruno left,” Pepa finally says, taking the conversation in a slightly different direction, “I wouldn’t - no, I couldn’t - be upset about it. It hurt so much not to talk about him that I made myself angry at him instead just to stop a hurricane from occurring. And he could hear me this whole time! Yo era una perra.”

“Pepa! Language! Please don’t say that about yourself.” It’s the most Alma has said since her daughter really started to talk about everything and Pepa herself is unsure whether she’s more shocked because she let such a self-deprecating comment out in front of her mother, or at how instantly her mother reacted. Either way, a louder crack of thunder had been let out. “It was selfish of me to have suggested it in the first place. To deny you your feelings.”

The drizzle is back. It’s back and suddenly Pepa is very aware she’s slowly drenching her mother’s room. Worry instinctively takes over in the pit of her stomach and her hands reach up to soothe herself when she remembers her braid currently isn’t there.

“Just a moment,” she hears her mother say, apparently almost finished rebraiding her hair already. When she finally ties everything into place Pepa expects to feel her hair back in her own grasp, but instead feels her mother gently hold her hand. She takes this as her opportunity to finally turn around and face her mother, and it’s clear from the redness in the woman’s eyes that she has cried at some point while Pepa was talking.

“M-Mamá, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to ma-“

“Shhhh, mi vida. It’s not your job to worry about me,” Alma reassures her daughter before adding, “Besides, I missed this.”

Pepa’s confused, “You missed what? Me complaining?”

“No, I missed my Pepita, my little spitfire who always told everyone what was on her mind, regardless of what it was. I’m glad to have her back.” There’s tears forming in Pepa’s eyes again, and her mother is quick to wrap her arms around her and pull her backwards into a hug, “It’s okay Pepa. Está bien. I’ve needed to hear all of this anyways. You deserve to let it out.”

She’s not sure when it happens, but somewhere in the next few moments her mother is holding her as they’re both laying down on the bed. Pepa’s reminded of when she was little, before she turned five, when she’d get hurt or have a nightmare and her mother would comfort her just like this. It’s enough to calm her down that the drizzle stops for now.

“And what about you, mi vida? Tell me how all of this has affected you?”

Pepa takes in a sharp breath. They’ve managed to come back around to the part she really didn’t want to talk about: herself. The desire to run out of the room comes back again, but she shoves it down. She’s already gone this far, might as well keep going.

“I…” She takes a deep breath, her cloud is already getting bigger, “I, ugh, I don’t… know how to cope with my emotions at all. All I really know is “clear skies” and to suppress everything else. And suppressing always leads to everything spilling out in a mess. Literally, it’s such a common occurrence that the townspeople had already named them ‘temperature tantrums’ by the time I was eight.”

Alma was shocked, to say the least. She knew people had been awful to her Brunito, that was certainly made clear to her by now. It hadn’t occurred to her that something similar could’ve been happening to Pepa, and she briefly wonders if anything ever happened to Julieta as well. Pepa senses what her mother is thinking before she can even ask, “It wasn’t good, but it was never as terrible as Bruno. People did fear my lightning, after all. It only ever got bad if I got too scared to make the lightning happen.”

The woman wants to ask what exactly “bad” meant. She’d heard about all the times Pepa struck someone from annoyed townspeople, but “too scared to make lightning” was not a feeling she’d ever witnessed from her daughter, but seeing as she’d never heard about it, she could easily suspect that Julieta may have been involved with hiding the evidence that anything had ever happened. That her daughter felt the need to hide this from her.

“A-and speaking of scaring people,” Pepa continues, “Because I’ve never had control over this damn gift, even my own hijos are scared of me at times. The thunder hurts Dolores’ ears, I’ve seen Antonio try to hide when he hears one of my storms, and I have unintentionally hurt Camilo with my lightning. And it breaks my heart everyday to know that I do that to them.”

She’s feeling tears pricking the corner of her eyes, screwing up her face to prevent them from falling, because tears meant rain and that was the last thing she wanted to do right now, “And I know, I know, by now that letting it out should make it more manageable. Félix reminds me all the time, but I think it was already ingrained in me before I even met him, that my emotions aren’t meant for me, that they’re meant to be for everyone else’s use.”

Alma waits while Pepa takes a deep breath. It’s clear her anxiety is getting the best of her and if pushed she may start to panic. It’s best to give her some time.

A few moments pass in complete silence, her breathing beginning to even out again, before she speaks up, “E-Every time I have even the smallest of clouds, I-I’ve always heard you there, in my head, ‘Pepa! You have a cloud!’ or ‘Pepa! You need to calm down!!’ and I’ve always been scared to disappoint you. Bruno’s the baby and the only son, Julieta’s your golden child and the eldest, and I’m just, in the middle. I couldn’t afford to do anything extra to make me feel like even more of a disappointment to you.”

Pepa feels her mother’s arm around her, gently encouraging her to turn around and face her. She hesitates, scared at every moment she’s said too much and will get yelled at like a child, but when she finally gives in, she sees only sadness in her mother’s eyes.

Alma finally speaks up again, “You will never be a disappointment to me. Eres mi sol. And I am so sorry I made you feel that way. I can never take back what I’ve done, but I am so thankful for having another chance with our familia.”

Pepa nods her head. She’s happy that her mother wants to do better, but she’s also exhausted both emotionally and physically. And as tears finally do fall from her eyes, she feels the rain start up again. She nearly shoots up from the bed as she tries to apologize for her weather, but her mother keeps holding her, telling her that it’s alright.

“Estás bien. I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but you’ve let out a lot of emotions, and the most you’ve done is drizzle.”

Pepa looks around, and she thinks about the past hour or so. She’s not really sure how long she’s been here but it’s definitely darker outside than when she first entered the room. And her mother is right, she’s barely gotten stronger than a drizzle, a sprinkle at the most, which doesn’t match the weather she usually gets when all of her feelings build up and are let out at once. But this wasn’t an outburst like usual either.

“I-I think, that talking about what I’m feeling, instead of hiding it, maybe makes the weather less troublesome?” she tells her mother.

“I should’ve known better,” her mother tells her back, “Anytime you need it, you can always come to me to talk from here on out. No matter what it is, okay? I’ll remind you of it too so you don’t doubt it either.”

Pepa smiles. When she was younger, all she wanted was for her mother to just listen to her, especially when the emotions got too big for her to handle. She hadn’t been sure that she was ever going to get that. She feels lighter, now that she’s shared so much, and yet the exhaustion from the day feels heavy on her, and she lets out a yawn. Alma holds back a laugh at the sight, Pepa trying to keep her eyes from shutting as she begins to stroke her daughter’s hair, just like she did when she put all of the triplets to bed when they were little.

“You can rest now, mi sol, it is still your day off after all.” It’s only a matter of moments before Pepa gives in, letting out a light snore as she falls asleep. Alma holds on to her tight, content to let her lay there and take a well deserved nap. Alma knows there’s still so much work for her to do, but seeing how peaceful her daughter looks for the first time in who knows how long, well it’s enough to remind of her how ready she is to put in all of her effort going forward.

[myheelsdontmatchmysweatpants]

Or Red Lilly with Iida 👀

Thank you so much for sending an ask! Sorry this took me forever but i hope you like it!!

Red Lily (Passion) with Tenya Iida

Warnings: MeanDom/Tenya Iida, SubFem/Reader, impact play, handcuffs, use of “sir, good girl”, oral sex (fem receiving) consent check, orgasm denial, degradation, vaginal fingering, no condom, d*cryphilia. 

Also big shoutout to @doinmybesthere @patchworkpuzzle @eyebagsbutglam for helping me out!! I love all of you!!

The first time Iida found out that you sleep without clothes he gave you a two-hour lecture.

“What if there was a fire and you needed to evacuate immediately? What if someone broke in? What if you sleep walk and get out of your apartment? What if- “

“Tenya!” You grab his arms, concerned that they are going to fall off with how aggressively he was chopping them. “I understand that you are just trying to help, but I am comfortable sleeping like that. Could you please respect that?”

He looks down for a moment, the sun glare on his glasses making it impossible to see his eyes. When his shoulders drop, and he visibly relaxes you know he has calmed down. “I am sorry my dear, you’re right. It is important that you are comfortable.” He kisses your cheek. “Let’s go to bed now.”

Two years later

Iida was done, done with the day, done with people, done. Done. DONE.

He was late to the agency because of a villain backup that he couldn’t help with. When he finally ended up getting to the agency, he had to calm down several interns because number one hero Deku had stopped by. One of his engines went out because a villain on his patrol was able to get some sort of substance in his exhaust. This meant he had to go to Mei Hatsume because she was one of the few who could fix it. She tricked him into activating a “baby” of hers that exploded effectively covering his entire hero suit in ash and soot.

Numerous other things happened through out the day that soured his mood even further. The last thing was him getting home late, not 30 mins, not 1 hour, but 4 hours late. He had to take his hero suit to be cleaned and ended up taking a shower at the agency. All he wanted to do was go to bed with you.

Iida sets his stuff down by the door and removes his shoes. Walking carefully, so as to not wake you he opens the bedroom door and glances at your shared bed.

Iida’s breathing stops for a moment, the sight of you making his heart skip a beat. Laying on your side, one of your hands laying on his pillow; the blanket between your legs. Moonlight peaks through the curtains, bathing your naked form in a soft light that makes you glow.

As he shuts the door, he can feel his pants getting uncomfortably tight. You are so beautiful and what better way to ease the stress of a horrible day than to bury himself in your tight heat.

He walks up to the bed, reaching out to caress your face with his knuckles. Your eyes slowly open hazy, and unfocused from sleep, eyelids fluttering.  “Mhm… Tenya?” A soft smile appears on your face and you grab his hand, turning your head to kiss it.

“Sorry I woke you darling, why don’t you go back to sleep?” Iida feels guilty, waking you up just to have sex with you. He moves to pull his hand back but you clutch it tight, he looks at you, raising his brow in question.

You push yourself up with one hand and sit on your knees in front of him, still holding his hand. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you take a quick moment to stretch, arching your back and lifting your arms up in the air. You hear Iida suck in a breath and open your eyes with a smirk.

“Now why would I go to sleep when you clearly need some help turbo.” You lower the hand not holding his and graze your fingers over the obvious bulge in his slacks.

Iida shudders when you touch him but doesn’t react any further, more worried about your sleep schedule. “Don’t worry about me love, nothing I can’t take care of on my Ohh.” His sentence gets cut of when you give him a squeeze through his pants. His forehead pressing against yours you can hear his breathing getting heavy.

“Don’t worry about me love.” You repeat his words back to him. “Nothing we can’t handle together.” You place his hand that you were still holding on one of your breasts and grab the bottom of his shirt. As you pull it up, he reluctantly lets go of your warm chest and takes his shirt off throwing it behind him. You are already unbuttoning his pants before he throws his shirt and as you work to pull them down, he grabs your hands.

“Let me do this okay? Can you lay down for me? I want to look at you.” His eyes pleading, his face weary and tired you can’t help but abide by his wishes.

You lay back down on the bed, your legs bent at the knees resting to the side. Your hair is splayed out on the pillow a hand on your chest the other to your side resting with the palm up. Iida doesn’t move for a moment, entranced by the goddess in front of him. It’s only when you say his name on a breath that he remembers what he was supposed to be doing.

He undresses in a flash, quick and efficient his clothing forgotten in a pile next to the bed. Now its your turn to admire your partner. His dark blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and wide breadth of his shoulders. Iida worked hard to maintain his physique for hero work, and it showed in the way his muscles flexed as he moved to hover over you.

You both look at each other for a moment longer before Iida leans down to kiss you slow and deep. His lips melding with yours, his tongue meeting yours in a soft caress. You reach your hands to cup his face, but he grabs your wrists and pins them above you.

When he breaks the kiss, you can’t help but whine, arching your back and lifting your head to meet his lips once more. “Y/N.”

The authority in his tone makes you shiver in delight and submission. You lay back down on the bed, once again resting your head on the pillow as you look at his innocently. “Yes Tenya?”

His eyes darken further, almost black in the light. The hand not holding your wrists softly moves up from your hips to your breast. You sigh in contentment until his large fingers pinch one of your nipples and you yelp.

“Now dearest, I understand that you just woke up however – “He pulls on the nipple and you whimper, your eyes starting to water a sadistic smirk crawling up his face. “– I do believe you know better than to address me like that.”

“S-sorry, Sir. I’ll be good, I promise.”

He waits a moment after your answer then lets go of your nipple, rubbing soothing circles over it with his thumb. “That’s better. Now, I’m gonna handcuff you and you are going to keep your eyes shut understood?”

You nod your head before closing your eyes. “Yes sir, understood.”

You feel him shift on the bed and hear a drawer open before the sound of metal clinking together fills your ears. You fidget in anticipation before a sharp pain blooms on your breast. You cry out when Iida slaps you but keep your eyes shut, not wanting to anger him further.

“I thought you said you would be good for me dear. That also means staying still.” Iida lets go of your wrists locking one of them in the cuff before wrapping the chain on the reinforced hook he installed on the bed. Before he cuffs the other wrist, he softly grabs your chin and tilts your face up.

“Y/N, open your eyes for a moment darling.” When you do your eyes immediately connect with his, no longer dark with lust but softly filled with tender love and concern. “You ready for this? Let me know if you are too tired, we can stop.”

You shake your head and give him a soft smile. “I’m ready Tenya, I need you too.”

“Tell me the safe word.”

“Axel”

He kisses your nose, eyes quickly darkening again. “Good girl.”

Before he can ask you to shut your eyes again you do and lay still. “Thank you, sir.” You feel him shift again and you other hand is cuffed; he pulls on the chain to make sure its secure and double checks that the cuffs aren’t too tight.

When you feel the bed shift you know he crawled off of it. You try to listen, to hear any sound that lets you know what is going to happen next but there is only silence.

All of a sudden you feel to large palms on your thighs, giving them a squeeze before pulling them apart.

“Such a perfect pussy.” Iida lightly drags his nails down your legs, a breathy moan escaping your lips. “Look at you, such a good girl for Sir.” You feel a breath of air, the slick of your arousal on your cunt and thighs going cold.

It’s difficult, holding yourself still but the feeling of his large hands on your body keeps you submissive. His hands on your body, however, do not help with the anticipation. Iida isn’t moving, you can almost feel his eyes on your core but no movement, no dipping of the bed or shifting of his hands.

You whimper, trying to relay your need for touch you finally feel the bed move under his weight. “Are you trying to tell me something dear?”

You almost open your eyes, needing to show him just how bad you need his touch, but you don’t. “Please, sir. Please touch me, I-I need you.”

Silence, and then Iida slaps your pussy. You can’t help but arch your back and yelp, eliciting another slap from your lover for moving.

“I don’t remember this being about you. I vividly recall you saying that we were helping me.” Iida wrenches your legs apart father before shoving his face into your cunt, he licks a broad stripe up from your tight hole to your clit before biting to little nub.

“Ahhh! I’m sorry! I’m sorry sir you’re right!” You can feel the tears escape past your eyelids and Iida huffs before biting the inside of one of your thighs.

“Of course, I’m right now you will lay there and be obedient or I will punish you as I see fit.”

“Yes, sir.”

Iida kisses the mark he left on your thigh and continues kissing and biting until he gets to your core. “Fuck you look so good- “He licks you again, humming as your taste blooms on his tongue. “– taste good too.” He continues his ministrations, alternating between biting your thighs and licking at your sex. You can feel the faint tightening of your core, but he isn’t licking hard enough, not giving you enough attention for the feeling to build.

Iida relishes all the little whimpers and moans that escape your mouth. He can tell you’re getting frustrated with the lack of stimulation but like a good girl you are following his orders. After he has decided you deserve a reward, he slots his mouth over our cunt and starts dipping his tongue in and out of your slit.

The needy moan you let out at finally feeling something has his cock twitching. As you strain against the hand cuffs, resisting the urge to grind against his face Iida wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you impossibly closer.

You choke out a sob when he moves his mouth up to lick shapes onto your clit and gently suck it. He hums against you and the extra stimulation has you crying.

“Please S-sir, I’m m’gonna cum. Can I please cum?” Your thighs are shaking but you’re too focused on holding your orgasm back to care.

Iida thinks about it for a moment, slowing down his movements just to hear the frustrated cry from your mouth. He backs away from you for a moment, chuckling at your frustration.

“I don’t believe you’ve earned the right to do that yet.” He leans down to give you one last swipe of your tongue before sitting up.

The tears fall in earnest now, your need for release clouding your mind. “N-no, please sir I’m – I’ve been a good girl! Please sir I- “You let out a wail when Iida slaps the inside of your thigh.

“Are you such a needy slut that you can’t even follow orders?” He slaps your other thigh and growls when you don’t answer. He adjusts his position until he is at your side, wrapping an arm around your torso to pinch at one of your nipples before running his whole palm down your aching cunt. “Do you like it when I punish you? Is that it?”

You finally calm down enough to shake your head. “N-no, I don’t like it s-sir.”  You are still crying, the tears running down your cheeks and wetting the pillow beneath you.

“I think your lying to me, because every time I hit you.” Iida lifts his hand up and slaps your clit, his fingertips rough from hero work. “You look like you enjoy it slut.”

You can’t help it when you feel the sharp pain on your clit you moan, the feeling slowly fading into pleasure.

“I told you, you like the pain, don’t you? My naughty little pain slut.” He hits your clit again twice in quick succession. “Do you want to be a good girl for me?”

You nod your head, tilting it to the side to rest on his shoulder. “Y-yes, I wanna be a good girl sir.”

He kisses your forehead. “If you can cum just from me slapping your clit then I’ll reward you with my cock yeah?”

“Yes sir!” You force your body to relax, knowing you’re your too tense the pain won’t give way to pleasure.

As Iida repeatedly slaps your clit you can’t help but utter a jumbled mess of words.

Yes sir…. thank you, sir, …. feels s’good…. m’close…please ..... harder ….

When you finally cum you back arches completely off the bed, your mouth open on a silent scream as tears pour down your face.

Iida lays there for a moment, watching as you come undone, he almost finishes right then and there. Before you can catch your breath, he is crawling on top of you and pushing your legs to your chest. He shoves two fingers in your hole scissoring them to open you up before he puts his cock in.

You only have enough energy to moan as he fingers you, your eyes shut from exhaustion instead of obedience.

Iida is intently watching his fingers move in and out of you, clearly you don’t have any control over your body anymore and yet your cunt still pulls his fingers in. When he pulls his fingers out, he shoves them in your mouth, without even a thought your sucking on them to clean them off.

“Good girl.” He lines himself up and thrusts into your cunt, balls deep in one go. No letting you adjust to his size he is now just after his own release.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish; he was already close to coming when he was slapping you. The sounds coming from your mouth and the tears streaming down your face, he will never get tired of it. Right as he is on the edge of cumming he feels your walls start to tighten again, he holds back just long enough so that your orgasm hits and you milk his cock for all its worth.

Iida stays like that for a moment holding your legs and enjoying the post orgasmic bliss until you let out a little whimper. He gently pulls himself out of your abused hole, wincing when he hears a small groan fall from your lips.

After he puts your legs down, he leans over and cups one of your cheeks and kisses your forehead. “You did such a good job my dear, I will be right back to clean you up.” Iida stays there until you give him a nod and gets off the bed without jostling you and heads into the bathroom. When he comes back, he has a warm washcloth and with a light touch he wipes the insides of your thighs and your slick folds.

You still haven’t said anything, but he knows you like the back of his hand and doesn’t push. “Let’s take a shower love, need to clean you up.” Iida takes your cuffs off and rubs your wrists you slowly open your eyes and focus on his face. He smiles down at you and kisses your nose. “I love you dearest.”

“And I you Tenya.”

[fishmongeringstudies]

five: the ballad of the goose-girl

once upon a time there was a goose who wanted to become a man. or there was a man who wanted to become a goose. or there were both, or there were none, or there were many of the same spell. once upon a time there were ten thousand geese and they wanted to go south. why? because it was too cold up here, they said. too far from the equator. too lonely.

one of the geese was called jorge. jorge had been assigned the role of miserable family caretaker with an inferiority complex from birth but a brief spell of rebellion in their teenage years led to their official disengagement from the role and subsequently, the adopting of a new one. jorge was a philosopher. their favorite philosopher was kant. they had never read any kant because geese can't read.

dimitri could read. dimitri was a goose but there was, how do you put it, something a little off about her. sometimes dimitri woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her blankets kicked to the other end of the room, babbling about microeconomics and the supply-demand curve for cross-continental flying gear. dimitri was in a mad, one-sided love that consumed her body and soul, but this wasn't that bad in the broader scheme of things because this gave jorge, who couldn't read, something to do.

sometimes dimitri would read jorge poetry. dimitri had memorized every book of poetry in the main branch of the national library when she made a stopover there in her youth and could now be called upon to recite almost any poem from memory, as long as she didn't hate the poet. for example, dimitri hated sylvia plath. no matter how much jorge begged and pleaded with her as they flew over the skyscrapers of new york, the masses of writhing trees and open fields dotted with cows and sheep and death, she would not change her mind. 'please,' jorge would say while they stopped to rest on the fender of some college student's beat-up honda civic. 'read me a poem. any poem.' 'you mean,' dimitri would say, taking a drag from her cigarette. 'read me a plath poem.' 'that's not what i said,' jorge would respond defensively, because jorge was the kind of goose that assumes the world is out to get them no matter what and sticks their head in the gift-horse's mouth and then screams down its gullet for five minutes. finally, dimitri would laugh. 'that's what you mean.' then the conversation would end.

one day dimitri and jorge got separated from the flock. this was not unprecedented, as dimitri had been lagging behind for a few days now and jorge, being her designated attendant, had stayed with her. but it was just as frightening for jorge as it had been the first time, fifteen years ago when dimitri had pitched out of the sky halfway across philadelphia like an anvil and jorge had found her sprawled on the fender of some sad person's fucked-up lamborghini, looking like an angel in a bad insurance advertisement. it was always the fenders. dimitri had a thing for fenders.

dimitri also had a thing for letting her long, healthy history of communication problems fuck up her relationships with other geese, a habit she had picked up in her youth alongside smoking, lying, and reciting poetry. she was doing all three of the latter as they circled around the deserted shopping complex a fifth time, the sun a blurry white spot a few feet beneath their heads. 'did you know,' said dimitri, a cigarette clamped in her beak.

'no, i don't know,' said jorge.

'asshole. i haven't started speaking yet.'

jorge observed the setting sun with a detached kind of panic. 'yes you have.' they brushed something out of their eye with their wing. the smoke from dimitri's cigarette kept getting into their eyes. it was making it hard to concentrate on not being sad. 'you said 'did you know.''

'that's not the important part.'

'then what is the important part?'

'the important part is-'

south meant many things to many creatures. depending on who you asked and what time of the day it was when you did, you might get anything ranging from 'the southern tip of malaysia' to 'nineteen-seventy-five'. right now, in this particular snapshot of time, south meant the following things. for jorge, it meant freedom. for dimitri, it meant-

'-is that every shopping mall is a little haunted.'

jorge was unimpressed. most things were haunted to some degree or another. it was a very old world and the people that lived in it were all very broken, but that didn't stop the broken things from wanting to hang around, even after their ribs had cracked open and their lungs were smeared with soot. they told dimitri as much.

dimitri cleared her throat, which was hard to do while lying and smoking and flying in a circle around a deserted haunted shopping complex but otherwise feasible for a geese as competent as her. she turned to look at jorge, the trickle of her gaze sliding over their white, wind-tossed body like a cool hand over a flame.

'what i'm saying is let's spend the night there.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose named dimitri who was in a mad, requited love that consumed her body and soul. her partner was a poet, of course, because all geese want to fall in love with a poet, but here's the catch. jie ting never told dimitri which poems were about her. dimitri spent years trying to coax the confessions out of her, making her breakfasts in bed, bringing home cute little mice with their tails tied up in butterfly knots, kissing the spot where her wing met the curve of her body with the kind of reverence worshipers reserve for the day they meet their creator, but jie ting was stubborn and beautiful and kind and dimitri could never bring herself to do the truly horrible thing, to walk into her study and crack open the journals she kept those intimacies in. in spite of this, well, this thing between them, they were happy. they puttered around making cups and plates out of wet clay. they told stories about their cousins who had gotten lost in rain forests in the amazon and streets in taipei. every year they made the long journey down south, and then flew back up in the spring. and then jie ting died, and then there was no one left to coax anything out of.

the doctors said there was nothing dimitri could have done for her. for every million perfectly preventable deaths there are two to three freak accidents, faultless failures, broken vessels. and for every broken body on the pavement, trampled by cars bigger than the both of them combined, there was a broken heart.

dimitri closed up their old haunt in the woods. she broke all the mugs and gave all the bones back to their grieving micey relatives, who were horrified, and then angry, and then sad. then she flew all the way down to singapore and learned every poem in every poetry book they had in the national library, a looming glass building in the heart of the business district, and dragged her battered body all the way back up north, through miles and miles of snow-kissed nothing, and then jorge returned home in the spring with the rest of the good ones, the ones who weren't fucked in the head, who still had hope to speak of.

she can teach me poetry, thought jorge.

they definitely went to a liberal arts college, thought dimitri.

neither of these things are true. but neither are the stories that led them to each other. a lie canceled out a lie and after the dust had settled and dimitri had recovered from the ghost of death on her shoulder, they found each other standing right where they had started out, on opposite ends of the same crooked street.

;

the perfume store smelled like sixteen layers of hell distilled into a single bottle of wine that had been left to ferment for a few millennia and then smashed in a pool of vomit but it was the only place that wasn't so overgrown with vines that jorge could clear out a place for dimitri to lie down. they did so with an efficiency that startled even themselves, brushing dust and old receipts aside with one wing and spritzing the whole place clean with the other. dimitri was then coerced into the little sacred spot, though she was deeply reluctant and jorge was deeply embarrassed about the whole thing. desperate times call for desperate measures. when there are two geese and one perfume store and nineteen shades of bergamot and lavender, one learns to quieten their demons.

the funny thing about geese is that they are about sixty-percent neck and forty-percent everything else and yet a goose lying sideways occupies two hundred percent of the previous amount because geese are conceited like that. dimitri took up more than enough space on the shelf in the perfume store from hell, but with a little maneuvering she was able to make enough space to pull jorge down beside her. the funny thing about geese is they have very big egos, and very small dreams.

'imagine i am your mother,' said dimitri, waving one wing idly in the dark. 'singing you a lullaby as you drift off, packing your lunchbox for school, turning out the light in your bedroom.'

jorge's eye twitched. 'huh? i will not,' they said. 'that's disgusting.'

'oh. you think i'm disgusting?'

'no, that's not what i mean-'

'-but that's what you said.'

'-i said the idea of you as my mother is disgusting.' jorge hid their face in their feathers but their beak was too long and stuck out in a highly noticeable manner, therefore ruining the effect altogether. they grumbled to themselves, then spent a few minutes contemplating the fifteen feet of nothing that lay before them. a field of snow, ash, or flowers. darkness could be whatever you wanted it to be. that was part of the appeal of closing your eyes.

'hey,' they said.

'mm?'

'why won't you recite a plath poem?'

the sound of something soft against the wall. dimitri was brushing the flat of her wing along the wall behind her, over the faded labels and the peeling tiffany blue paint. 'because i can't.'

'but you know them, don't you,' jorge pressed.

'i do.'

'then?'

'how old are you this year, jorge?'

'old enough to read depressing poetry.'

'but not old enough to have fallen in love.' she withdrew her wing from the wall. it came away caked in dust and old memories. rich, gold-kissed families with kids in little bow-ties, babies forgotten in well-lit dressing rooms, the occasional stabbing. 'am i wrong?'

jorge bristled behind her. 'what does love have to do with this?'

'because,' dimitri mused, and jorge felt every sound that she made in their chest, where the heart was working furiously to keep blood circulating without end. 'all poems are love poems.'

'you know,' said jorge.

'i don't know.'

'good. you shouldn't.' jorge curled themselves tighter, so the two hundred percent became a hundred and ninety-five. 'i'm going to sleep. good night.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose who would do anything for her lover and then that lover died. once upon a time there was a goose who was really good at literary analysis, so good she could have taught at harvard if she hadn't wanted to be closer to her lover, who worked in non-profit and spent most of her time abroad, and then her lover died. once upon a time there was a goose. and she knew a lot of poetry. it was the last thing she did for jie ting, with the gray-dusted coat and the heather eyes. do geese have heather eyes? fuck it. this one did.

once upon a time there was a goose who really wanted to go to a liberal arts college, but their dad gambled all their savings away on a business venture which went bust moments before the big cash-out and so the college fund became a college black hole, a college financial aid form which procured miserably few sympathies from the financial aid office, a college nothing. this goose was really quite smart, though they couldn't prove it to save their life. but the other goose knew. the other goose wasn't as smart. she'd just had more money. and worse luck.

this isn't a love story. in this story there are no love stories because in some languages every story is a love story, and if everything is something then there is really nothing, no takeaway at the end of the parable, no shard of glass in the sand. imagine you're walking along the coastline in a white dress made from diamonds and you step on that shard of glass. there goes your foot. what will you do? the world is ending.

in the morning dimitri wakes up first. she touches jorge's forehead with the tip of one wing, then the flat of it, then the side. there's a bar of sunlight coming in through a gap in the moth-bitten blinds and it falls across jorge's face in rivulets of gold-leaf, liquid wonder. she watches them sleep for a few minutes, their chest rising and falling and trembling with all that infallible youth, with the faithless determination of someone whose body has grown older but whose soul has stayed as faultless, as clueless, as divine. if god were a goose it would be jorge. says who? says dimitri, who has god's number saved on her phone.

once, a few months ago, she wrote a poem. this she read out to jorge, while they were flying over the rooftops of san diego, each word falling out of her mouth like stars, like things she should have really kept to herself and in the safety of untouchable darkness and yet jorge was looking at her. she was reading this poem and jorge was looking at her and it wasn't the kind of look you gave someone you found by the side of the road, someone who had helped you with your college apps and tied your tie on prom night. it was the kind of look you gave an angel you wanted to pin to the sheets.

'is this poem about someone?' asked jorge, who was for all their cluelessness and cruelty, quite terribly perceptive when one wanted them least to be.

panicking, dimitry dropped her cigarette. she shook her head. 'no.' she shook her head again, for emphasis.

once, dimitri had a fit of coughs so bad she passed out right there in the lobby of that high school. the doctors said it was her lungs. her friends said it was the cigarettes. jie ting, who was long dead by then, said it was the heartbreak. put it back together, said the ghost of her dead lover. you can put yourself back together. maybe i don't want to, dimitri said, a sheaf of papers falling out of the pocket of her coat.

once, she didn't go south. she went up north in search of forgiveness, and when jorge arrived in the spring, they were as lovely as she remembered them being while she had gotten nowhere. still stuck in place, spinning in slow circles, watching god die on a white-gold stage. still mourning.

'i'll write you a poem,' jorge said the other day. 'to thank you.' for being the first person. for being the first person ever.

'don't bother,' she told them.

'i'll do it anyway.'

'i won't read it.'

'you will.'

once there was a goose and another goose and they were all lovely and sad with long, elegant necks and hard, sharp beaks for cracking things open but all they ever did was crack themselves open, like if you hurt yourself enough times you could make the world give you back what it had taken away. but that's not how it works. you know this. you know this, don't you? dimitri? dimitri?

dimitri's still in that old perfume store. she's leaning closer and closer to sleeping beauty, with the lanky limbs and the merry-go-round smile, and she's whispering something, though she'll never tell you what and you'll never get the chance to ask, she's breathing like the air's made of glass. sea-glass. have you ever seen the ocean? she'll take you one day. your name is jorge and you're asleep. you're being kissed on the mouth by a very beautiful person. she's going to die.

but all living things die eventually, you counter. you don't get it. you are missing the point.

that's fine. miss the point. keep sleeping. the moon pulls away from you the way some people pull knives out of bodies, like she can feel every inch of distance she puts between yourselves in her chest, where the heart is working furiously to keep life alive. she pulls away and it hurts her, you know. did you know? you can fall in love twice. you can fuck yourself up twice. there's always room in the cupboard for more ceramic mugs. she made you one. she'll never give it to you. you never asked.

that's your first kiss. and your second, and your third, and as you grow older the kisses will meld together into this looming memory of touch, sensation, heat, softness, girls, girls, girl. girl with the cigarette between her teeth. girl with the sharpshooter eyes, the gunmetal laugh. girl walking you home, girl flying you across the starless city, girl singing you a lullaby when you're eighteen and the world hates people like you who give life everything you've got and have the audacity to think it'll listen.

girl walking out of the perfume store. girl stepping into the half-light. girl leaving you behind.

or maybe it's the other way around. this way you will be able to catch up to the rest of the flock, this way you will make it to the other side of the world before winter gets its hands around your ankles. she's giving you an opportunity. take it. i said take it.

south means a lot of things depending on who you ask. for jorge, it's freedom, new skies, sunsets drenched in whiskey. for jorge it's the second best thing about being alive. for dimitri, it's death.

once upon a time there was a goose and their name was jorge. once upon a time there was a goose and her name was dimitri. in another version of this story they meet each other before the accident and the hospitals and the house in the woods, the financial crash, the long, cruel winter. in another version they kiss with their eyes open, their hearts unspooling around the confession, the truth, the sacred thing that lets people be happy with each other. in another version of this story jorge says read me a poem and dimitri says i'll read you something sweeter, and then she reads them a love poem.

in this one, one goose dies, and the other keeps flying.

A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals - Surely they travel The world forever, I shall not entirely Sit emptied of beauties, the gift Of your small breath, the drenched grass Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies. Their flesh bears no relation. Cold folds of ego, the calla, And the tiger, embellishing itself - Spots, and a spread of hot petals. The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness. So your gestures flake off - Warm and human, then their pink light Bleeding and peeling Through the black amnesias of heaven. Why am I given These lamps, these planets Falling like blessings, like flakes Six sided, white On my eyes, my lips, my hair Touching and melting. Nowhere.

05.25.21

[tmngoose]

Some Assembly Required: a Rottmnt story

Remember this post? Well, I decided to clean up what I had and show it to y’all. This was supposed to be a much longer story, but back when I was writing it, I jumped ship for a different fic I was working on and never came back OTL Characters: Donnie, Mikey, Raph, Leo, April, Shelldon, Draxum, Huginn & Muninn (albeit super brief) Tags: Lab accidents, fires, minor injuries, hurt/comfort, obscure UHF reference I won’t be uploading this to Ao3, so you can read it under the cut :U

For the longest time, Donnie dreamed of the perfect lab partner. Though Shelldon was an impeccable assistant, there were moments where Donnie longed to work side-by-side with another scientist. Someone with a thirst for knowledge! Someone who shared his passion for all things technical and methodical; a scientist, just like he considered himself to be! 

To think Baron Draxum would be Donnie's long-awaited lab partner was not a scenario the Softshell had ever fathomed. Still, it was one he accepted with great enthusiasm. 

Draxum and Donnie saw no reason to doubt their capabilities. However, the rest of the family remained wary whenever the two of them went off meddling in the lab. With April's help, Raph, Leo, and Mikey devised a strict set of guidelines to ensure Donnie and Draxum wouldn't get into too much trouble. 

"Scoff!" Donnie threw the hefty packet of rules down at his feet, offended. "What do you take us for: a pair of unhinged Frankensteins? Y'know, it'd be nice if, just for once, you guys would have a little faith in our scientific endeavors!" 

"It's not that we don't trust you guys," April explained, "It's just... you guys tend to get a little carried away with your projects, that's all!" 

"What's that suppose to mean?" 

"The last time Barry was in a lab, he created the Oozesquitos," April folded her arms, "And don't get me started about the time you messed with your brother's brains."

"Okay! I get it!" Donnie sighed. He picked up the packet of rules and flapped the dust out from its pages. "We won't get carried away: Todd scout's honor." 

April smiled, "Thanks, Dee." 

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me, Draxum and I were just about to partake in our latest  scientific acquisition: Professor Philo's Chemistry Set for the At-Home Scientist!" Donnie started off for his lab, tucking the packet into a compartment in his battle-shell.

April shook her head, smiling as she headed inside the living room, where the sounds of 8-bit gaming welcomed her. Raph and Mikey were too invested in whatever racing game they were playing to notice April. 

"Soo, how'd it go?" Leo asked from his beanbag chair. "Is Donnie mad that we're afraid he'll bring Potatozilla into existence or what?"

"I say he handled it pretty well!" April plopped herself down in the recliner. "I told Donnie that we just wanted to make sure he and Draxum toned it down a bit, that's all." 

"See? I told you he'd listen to April!" Mikey grinned smugly at Leo.

Leo rolled his eyes, "Whatever." He went back to scrolling his social feed on his phone, "I'll believe it when they don't create a giant mutant potato or somethin'."

"Be nice, Leo," April swung her legs over the armrest. "We've gotta have a little faith in 'em. Besides, I've never seen Donnie this happy since-" 

KA-BOOOOOOM!!!

A powerful tremor shook the lair, taking everyone by surprise. The trinkets Splinter's 'Do Not Touch' cabinet rattled and shook, a few of the lighter items clattered to the floor. April held onto the armchair with Raph steadying it before it could topple over backward. Mikey hid inside of his shell out of reflex as Leo jumped to his feet, prepared to face whatever threat was upon them.

"Omigosh!" Mikey exclaimed, popping his head out of his shell. "What was that?!" 

"You don't think DIGG's tryin' to take down the Kaufman Coliseum again?" Raph frowned, trying to rub the ringing out from his ears. 

"Um, guys?" Leo sniffed the air, "Does anyone else smell something burning, or is that Raph's 'Taken-By-Surprise' stink?" 

Raph sniffed at his underarm, "Nope. It's not me!" 

April and Mikey took a moment to smell the air, their noses wrinkled at the familiar acrid odor of smoke. 

And smoke could only mean one thing: something was on fire. 

Oh no! Donnie! Barry! April's stomach dropped over the thought. She bolted out of the living room with Raph, Leo, and Mikey right behind her. "Please let it be a giant mutant potato!" 

It wasn't a giant mutant potato. 

By the time they entered the atrium, a thick cloud of smoke had spilled out from the mouth of Donnie's lab, billowing up into the rafters above. Although they couldn't see it, they could hear the fire roaring from deep within the lab.

"Mad Dogz!" Raph barked, "Initiate ‘Fire Safety Plan Alpha!’"  “FSssPAH!” Mikey pronounced the acronym from the back of the group.

But before Raph could lead the rescue, Draxum leaped out from the smoke carrying Donnie in his arms; their matching lab coats singed. Shelldon flew out, not too far behind, with Huginn and Munnin holding onto his back. 

"Barry!" April ran up to the soot-stained alchemist. "What happened?! I thought y'all we're gonna take things easy? Didn’t y’all read the packet?!" 

"We were," Draxum rasped, passing Donnie's limp body into Raph's arms. "If it weren't for a pair of idle hands." He gave his gargoyles a sharp look while removing the safety goggles from his face, leaving clean rings around his eyes.

Munnin's wings sagged, "The instructions weren't joking when it said 'everything in this chemistry set is a fire hazard.'"

"Yeah, including the instructions," Huginn hung his head, "Our bad."

"So, how're we suppose to handle this whole situation?" Leo asked, gesturing to the raging inferno that was (formally) Donnie's lab.

"I'm on it, dudes!" Shelldon replied, concentrating on his emergency protocols hardwired into his drives.

The fire-alarm system blared to life. Then came the hissing of the sprinklers going off and the gush of extinguishing foam spraying deep within the lab. Slowly, the smoke was beginning to ease up, much to everyone's relief.

Slowly, Donnie began to stir, groaning as he slowly regained consciousness, "Ugh... what? M-my lab..." His confusion morphed into panic as he realized the severity of the situation. "My lab!!" He squirmed feebly in Raph's arms, mortified.

"Woah, take it easy," Raph held Donnie against him, firm enough to subdue him yet careful not to hurt him. "That chemistry set of yours nearly got you guys barbequed." 

Donnie frowned, "No, you don't understand!" His eyes stung with tears as he thought of his life's work gone in a blaze of unsupervised stupidity. "Everything's ruined!"

"Hey, you don't know that for sure!" April gently touched Donnie's shoulder. "Besides, what's important is you're both okay!" 

"April's right," Mikey agreed, clinging to Draxum's side, "We're glad y'all made it out safely. A little flambéed, but you get the idea."

"But my lab," Donnie emphasized. 

"Lab shmab, we can worry about that later!" Leo nudged Draxum with his elbow. "For now, let's focus on getting you toasted marshmallows taken care of."

"Yeah, what Leo said!" Raph adjusted Donnie in his arms, heading for the bathroom where the first aid kit was kept. "Just you wait; maybe it's not as bad as you think!"

                                                            -x-

Raph's sense of judgment was always a mixed bag, and this time, he couldn't have been farther from the truth. 

The lab was a smoldering mess, virtually unrecognizable to the Turtles, Draxum, and April. The walls were blackened, and the smell of burnt wiring and computer parts hung sourly in the air. Puddles of foam and water gathered in parts of the floor, adding to the disarray.

Donnie searched desperately for anything salvageable, but the prospects were slim to none. The bandaged Softshell approached the remnants of his workstation, absolutely gutted. He reached for what was once a prototype for a new battle shell, but it crumbled into ash in his hands. 

"Alas, this must've been what it felt like to lose the Library of Alexandria," Donnie mourned poetically, sinking to his knees. Shelldon drifted up to his heartbroken creator, pressing his head against Donnie's side like the loyal drone he was.

"Okaaayyy, so it's a little charbroiled in here," Leo cringed. "But if anyone can fix this, it's you!" 

"Do you have any idea how long that'll take me?" Donnie moaned, overwhelmed by the daunting task. "It took me years of refurbishing junk and computer parts, and now I have nothing! Zilch! Nada! No equipment, no materials, no anything!"

Donnie's outburst left the others speechless. They had seen him upset before, but nothing to this extent. 

Quietly, Draxum approached Donatello, "As someone who has lost their life's work twice, I understand your plight," he said, joining the turtle on the floor. "However, unlike myself, you are fortunate not to face this endeavor alone. You have your friends, your brothers, and... your lab partner," Draxum looked off to the side, somewhat flustered by the sentimental mushiness his words implied. 

"Draxibald's right, Donnie!" Mikey beamed. He was so proud of Barry for stepping up to the plate. He popped up in between them, slinging his arms over their shoulders, "You've got us to help you! We'll have your lab up and running in no time!"

Leo smiled, "Yeah, with you bossing us around, we can totally get the job done!"

"But a total rebuild of this scope requires a certain level of technological sophistication!" Donnie deflated, "So unless you know of any tech-savvy geniuses out there, I don't see how any of this is possible."

"Oh, I know a guy," April answered, "And I'm lookin' right at him~" She smiled at Donnie, who didn't know how to process the compliment. "Have a little faith in yourself, Dee!"  Donnie blinked, stunned that his own words were used against him.

"Yeah, you said so yourself!” Raph joined in, “You and that big brain of yours built this lab out of nothin' but junk! If there's anyone who can build back better than ever, it's you! So whaddya say, Don?"

Donnie looked at Raph's hand extended out to him. He then glanced over at Leo, Mikey, and April, all eagerly awaiting his response. He turned to Draxum, who gave a curt nod.

Touched by the support of his family, Donnie wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, "I say let's order some pizzas and chop-chop! Rome wasn't built in a day, people! We've got our work cut out for us!"  He took Raph’s hand and was lifted up from the ground.  Yes, Donnie supposed he could have a little faith in himself, and everyone else as well.

[ssson-of-sparda]

Strawberry Sundae

Summary: It's story time! Have you ever wondered why Dante affectionate strawberry sundaes so much? Well Patty has and luckily for her, he is about to tell her. It will just cost her a small favour. A man got to pay his debts remember.

Tags: ANGST (but with some very cute moments) / Dante’s childhood /  childhood trauma 

Author’s note: This is my take on Dante’s origins and also my first time writing for the Devil May Cry fandom. I hope I did it right and that you will love it. Set whenever you want but definitely after the DMC Anime. I made the reader female (in case I write a sequel. I have ideas for one, just tell me if you want one), but it can definitely be read as Gen!Reader if you make some small changes.

           To most people Patty Lowell looked so cute and angelic with her girly lacy dresses and her silk ribbons in her baby blond hair they’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But to Dante, she was the most annoying brat that ever walked this earth and, even though he would never admit it, also one of his dearest friends. And like all his friends, he owed her big.             “I’ll erase that from your tab.” She said as she swallowed a spoonful of vanilla ice cream.   “Oh c’mon! You keeping counts now?” Dante harrumphed and watched the kid wipe her mouth like a very distinguished lady. “You spend too much time with Lady.”   “Not too much. Just enough to know you owe me a trip to the beach, two dresses, a dozen ice cream cones and six strawberries sundaes” She counted on her fingers and Dante sighed as he slouched in the fake-leather seat of Freddy’s diner. “Well, you can’t have it all now, can you?”       “You’ve been saying this for months. And for months you’ve been eating hundreds of sundaes and bought none for me.” She grumbled, staring at him with a pout as he nonchalantly took the strawberry on top of his sundae to eat it, eyes closed to savour the sweetness of the fruit in his mouth. “What’s with your obsession with strawberry sundaes anyway?” She asked, genuinely curious. After all, even after spending so much time with Dante, watching him evolve in his natural habitat (meaning the Devil May Cry) and coming to the conclusion that Dante was a very unique species of man, one that whose diet was only based on pizzas and strawberry sundaes and that knew nothing of women, Patty still hadn’t figured why he was the way he was.   Dante opened an eye to see her impatiently waiting for an answer. “If I tell you, would you consider erasing … let’s say six sundaes of my tab?” He smirked, knowing Patty would not resist the curiosity to know more about him.             “That could be arranged. But your story better be good!”

STRAWBERRY SUNDAE

                 One more step and this would be the furthest Dante had ever been from his house. Of course, he had dared follow Vergil down to that weird old man’s house to secretly spy on his brother, wondering what was so interesting and fun in keeping a wrinkly company but he had never stepped a foot in the city. Never could. The only time he had tried and had somehow managed to go down the hill of his red home without tumbling down the steep rocky stairs and lay even just a toe on the urban pavement he was now standing on, his father and his sharp demonic earring had found him and brought him back home with a firm grip around the collar of his white shirt. Sparda had scolded him so much that day that even Vergil hadn’t dared smirking.       But here he was. Wet, trembling and cold, under a pouring rain, wondering where to go, what to do, both feet on the pavement, his tiny arms holding on tight to his father’s sword which was way bigger than he was. He had never been so terrified, so alert, his blue eyes widened and scanning all his surroundings in every direction possible like a poor defenceless animal fearing for its life, wondering if a deadly predator was secretly watching him crouched in the thickest shadow, the same kind of predator that took his mother and brother away from him.                 He wanted to call for help, ask someone, anyone for guidance but he didn’t know whom to trust or if he could trust anyone. All he knew was that he had to be strong, that he had to be a big boy, a man. That’s what his mother had told him before leaving, before … A tear streamed down his childish face. Not the first one tonight. He wiped it with his sooty knuckle but a new one appeared, bigger and more painful. It stung his eye and he cried harder. A devil should not cry but he was so tired. And he wanted his mama. And he wanted his big brother. But they were gone and behind him, his house up the hill was just a pile of smoking ash and burnt bricks.            

“Why are you crying?” Dante jumped and his small yet strong grip grabbed a hold of Rebellion’s hilt. It took his eyes a short second to fall upon the face of a little girl holding a green frog-shaped umbrella above both their heads. “Are you lost?”  She said as she tried to catch a glimpse of Dante’s face hidden behind layers of soot and wet hair. “Is it a real sword?”         “Don’t touch it!” Dante growled, pressing his father’s sword tighter against his chest, shielding it from the curious child as she tried to put her fingers on the legendary weapon. It had seen Vergil do that countless of times. And though it never worked with him, it formidably worked with the child in front of him. “It’s my dad’s.”         “Is your dad a knight?” She questioned with amazed (colour) eyes, imagining heroes in shining armours resembling the ones in the stories her mother would read her before bed. “My dad is the Legendary Dark Knight.” Dante spat, scowling behind his silver hair falling over his eyes, a pitiful and vain attempt at sending the little girl packing. After all, to her eyes, he didn’t look impressive at all, more like a wet small kitten that someone had abandoned in the street.     She shrugged “My dad doesn’t have a sword and he is not a legendary dark prince or whatever but he has a mighty spatula and his strawberry sundaes are the best in the whole kingdom!” She exclaimed with an over-the-top enthusiasm that made Dante’s weary frown even more pronounced. “That’s the name of my father’s diner.” She pointed at the pinkish red neon sign across the street. Kingdom’s diner. “You’re hungry?” Dante thought he wasn’t until he heard a rumbling in his tummy. Yes, maybe he was even though his heart was preoccupied by other things than hunger. “Come on. Follow me.”         He hesitated for a few seconds, watching the girl cross the crowded street in her way-too-large yellow oilskin - which was probably not hers now that he thought about it – and feeling the rain pouring on his shivering body again. “Well? What are you waiting for?”           With one last look at his destroyed home up on the hill, Dante finally took a step towards the girl waiting for him by the warm neon lights of the diner. And he took another step, and another, feeling a weird weight forming in his stomach. A mix of apprehension and hope. Apprehension of what’s waiting in this unknown land and hope that his father would suddenly appear and bring him back home. But once more, Sparda never showed up and the child was left alone.   Dante had never ventured that far away from home but he had no home anymore, right?

                 The diner was warm and cosy, with red plastic booth seats and speckled grey linoleum-covered tables that were incredibly clean and shiny. On the walls there were vintage-like pictures of old cars, old advertisements and old Hollywood stars who were almost all complete strangers to Dante apart from a glamorous blond woman with a weird mole and another one with a tiara and a cigarette holder. Pretty sure he had seen them both in some boring movies he had seen – or slept through - with his mother and Vergil. Mama. Vergil. He missed them already. Terribly.

A new tear fell along his cold cheek and Dante looked down, devastated that he would never see them again; guilty that he could not save them, angry that his father had not been there to protect them. And with his wet sorrow came scorching flashes and piercing screams. But soon they were covered by the sound of weird music sizzling in a machine that looked like from another time. “I always listen to music when I feel bad. I like music. Do you like music?” She was impossibly chatty but deep down Dante knew it was only to take his mind off whatever she thought he was thinking about. After all, he would use the same trick on his brother. “There are a hundred of songs in this jukebox.” So that was this hellish machine was. A jukebox. “Pick one. I’ll make some strawberry sundae” She smiled and disappeared behind the counter which was way too high for Dante to see what she was doing. “Oh but don’t play the music too loud. My parents are sleeping upstairs.”  

He didn’t know how it worked but he thought that pushing a button would do the trick. And so he did. And he almost fell on his butt when the jukebox started shaking and doing weird sizzling noises. Had he just broken it? “I… I” He mumbled pointing at the machine and the girl’s childish head popped up from behind the counter a bit like a funny rabbit leaves his hole. “Kick it!” She said and Dante looked at her, harrumphed and unsure he had heard right. His mother never allowed him to kick anything … especially not Vergil … and he kicked Vergil a lot … because he deserved it.                 “There!” The girl approached and gave the dying machine a small yet firm kick that made it come back to life. “It does that sometimes.”

“What’s with all the racket?” A loud voice growled and a man with tousled and sparse black hair appeared from upstairs. Only wearing an old navy blue robe over a white t-shirt and a pair of checked slippers, he looked asleep and yet angry. “Y/N what are you doing … up?” His somewhat aggressiveness turned into confusion when he saw Dante standing next to his beloved daughter.  He blinked a couple times and shook his head to make sure he was perfectly awake and not dreaming. What was this boy doing in his restaurant? All wet and covered in soot? “Who are you?” He managed to voice.       Dante opened his mouth though unsure what to answer. “He’s my friend.” The girl replied. “Your friend?” She nodded vigorously. “I was making him a strawberry sundae.”

If there was two things Mister Y/LN had a soft spot for, it was food – sugary and greasy food – and his precious daughter Y/N. She was his little princess, his only daughter, the apple of his eye (even when there was sleep crust in its corner like right now). He could not refuse her anything and could not stay mad at her for more than a couple of minutes to the great disappointment of his wife.  And even though he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t help it.           “Y/N” He sighed and went to kneel in front of his daughter. “You cannot invite a little boy that late at night. I’m sure his parents must be very worried.” He glanced at Dante who looked down his brown boots hiding his eyes yet again behind his silver hair. What curious hair. “But since he is here, let’s eat those strawberry sundaes.” The little girl grinned and ran back to finish her creamy dessert with an enthusiasm that made the man smile for a small second.

Even though Mister Y/LN was weak for his daughter he was still a man of reason. Something deep in his guts was telling him something was wrong with that kid and the last thing he wanted was trouble. Who was he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? Where were his parents? Was he some kind of street kid? A child of drug dealers from the rough areas of Red Grave? Should he call the police? Maybe so. Certainly so. They would certainly know what to do. It was their job after all. He was just a cook, a sleepy cook. What could he do, except offering that scrawny kid a strawberry sundae? “Why don’t you sit, boy?” He waved at the stool and Dante climbed on it without saying a word. “I’ll be right back.”

“So what’s your name?” The little girl said as she placed two coupe glasses filled with cream, ice cream and strawberries right before Dante’s eyes that immediately ogled at the dessert with greediness. So much sugar, so much cream, so many strawberries. He loved chocolate, but this, this looked like even better than chocolate and his stomach seemed to agree.       Excited to taste it, he went to grab the spoon that was placed by the couple but was immediately stopped. “Wait. I’m not done.” Y/N shouted and, with a frown and the tip of her pink tongue out, cautiously topped both sundaes with a cherry and two pink wafers. “There. Now you can eat it.” She barely had time to finish the sentence that Dante quickly stuffed a generous spoonful in his tiny mouth. OH GOD! If his mother saw him right now eating so much sugar in the middle of the night she would be furious. But this was the most delicious thing in the world. After pizza of course.       He ate another spoonful, and another, humming after each, as he was slowly reaching a comforting sugary paradise. “I’m guessing you like it.” The little girl giggled, laughing at his mouth as round as a balloon and the cream running from the corner of his lips. Dante froze at the laugh and stare at her with a blush creeping up his inflated cheeks until he swallowed with a big gulp. “Yeah.” He confessed and Y/N smiled at the small amount of joy she caught in his childish voice.   “You still haven’t told me your name. I’m Y/N by the way.” She reached out to shake his hand and Dante stared at it for a few seconds, remembering what his mother had told him as she hid him a wardrobe.

You must change your name. Forget your past and start a new life as someone else. But who could he be? And could he be someone else? After all, he had always been Dante, the restless daredevil son of Sparda and Eva and annoying little brother to Vergil who always picked a fight for fun and found ways to be involved in new kinds of mischiefs.               There was a silence, heavy and pregnant, as the boy tried to answer the questions in his confused little head and as the girl patiently waited for him to talk. And only the lively music from the jukebox could be heard in the room. And it sang to Dante ‘Hey there Anthony boy. Why are you in such a rush (go!). The girl, she wanna talk to you. Look at him, how he blush (go!)’ giving birth to his new identity. A new beginning.               “I’m Anthony.” He finally grabbed her hand and she shook it with a smile that he tried to mimic. An effort he thought he would have never done tonight but that he did for her. Calm down, Tony me boy. “Tony for short.”         “Well nice to meet you, Tony. I’m sure we’re going to be good friends.”

And with a new spoonful of strawberry sundae he said goodbye to Dante. Hey there, Anthony boy!

***

“That was a lovely story, Dante. Sad but lovely.” Patty finally declared after being incredibly silent during Dante’s childhood story. A first. “Glad you liked it.” Dante said with a small smile that was barely concealing the sadness that this memory had brought back. “So does that mean those six sundaes are off my tab?”               “I guess so.” She shrugged as she drank the ice cream in her coupe. “Great.” He winked and stood up, throwing a bill on the table before putting his long red coat on.  “So … you love strawberry sundaes because they were the first things that gave you comfort after you lost your mom?”           “No, I love strawberry sundaes because they remind me why humans are sometimes worth fighting for.”

But mostly, he liked them because they reminded him of someone who had helped him build a new life, someone who had given him kindness, generosity and love when he thought that all he could expect from life was sorrow and pain. They reminded him of you.     Yes, that’s why he loved strawberry sundaes.

[labyrinth-runner]

can we be alone for a bit? For obi wan x reader, please? 👉👈 thank you

Title: A Royal Flush

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: None

Summary: Reader is a Queen returning home after war. Much has changed and she must learn whether she will change for it, or fight against it.

I know I use this gif a lot, but he just looks so soft in it. Thank you, @coredrive​ for posting it because its truly lovely.

Because I’ve watched way too much Bridgerton, I shared a yearning list, so here’s some yearning. Thanks, @the-mandalorian-clone-lover for putting up with my incessant questions.

The battle had been long and tiring, but eventually it was won. You’d lost so many, and there were still so many more wounded as he siege to take back your kingdom came to an end. Your kingdom was yours again, free from the clutches of your enemy. Now, you were to negotiate a deal with the Republic, represented by the man at your side. Their assistance for yours. It was simple enough after the months of fighting, but you knew the fight was far from over. While you knew you owed the Republic everything, you also knew that some of your court would not feel the same. That would be another battle entirely.

Walking up to the castle across the bridge felt odd. The scorched earth on either side of the path left an acrid smell that stung your nose. It mixed with the singed smell of your dress from where you’d narrowly avoided becoming one with the Force multiple times over the course of the week as you traveled with the warriors to rid the world of the last few holdouts. Your knight and protector had insisted this was no place for you, but you had reminded him that you were not defenseless, knowing your way around a weapon.

“It will be a while before the earth is viable again,” you commented to Master Kenobi as you walked side by side.

“Unfortunately,”  he agreed with you, “We can only limit the damage so much.” His brow furrowed as he struggled to ask you something.

“Speak, Master Kenobi,” you bade him, “You know I’ll always listen, even if I don’t take your words to heart.”

“Are you nervous?”

“About coming home to my people?” you asked as you stopped to look up at the palace in front of you. It was large and imposing, towering well above the landscape and leaving you swathed in its shadow. The shadow of the crown that had always been heavy on your head, but even more so now with the deaths of your people on your hands because you had been too naive. “Yes. I’d be foolish if I didn’t worry about them blaming me for all of this.”

“Why would they blame the one person who fought the hardest for them?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously.

“Because at the end of the day, they were left defenseless. I should have known that the kingdom would be invaded. I was too naive to think that being neutral could have spared us. In the end, the people suffered. My people suffered,” you said emphatically. “Now, come on, my people have been waiting long enough.”

You walked faster, pushing your way into the throne room where the rest of the court waited. A hush fell upon the room as they all turned to look at the intruder. There was a man in your seat. You set your chin in a hard line. 

Obi-Wan came to a stop behind you as you started to stride forward. One by one, heads bowed down and knees bent for their fierce warrior queen. You were covered in soot and ash, and your hair was falling out of the intricate braids they had been woven into, but you were relentless. Your footsteps were confident and sure as they carried you back towards your throne. The man vacated, stepping to the your left. You sat, looking out over the awed assembly.

“Welcome home, your Majesty,” your advisor to said.

You leveled him with a gaze, “It is good to be back at court. However, our presence brings with it some conditions.” You looked up at Master Kenobi, your lip tugging up ever so imperceptibly at the sight of him. “We owe the Republic our lives, and that is a debt we intend to pay.”

Master Kenobi held your gaze until you broke it, turning to address the people around you. “We will have a treaty drafted by the end of the week. That will give the troops enough time to recover before they are sent somewhere else.”

“They have earned that much,” a man said from the doorway as he strode over to you.

You raised a brow at the man, having never seen him before. “And you are?”

“Kane Gridlow, your Majesty,” he said, dipping into a low bow at the foot of your dais.

You cast a look on your advisor who cleared his throat. “Lord Gridlow has kept the court together in your absence, your Majesty.”

Your eyes flashed with slight anger and hurt that some man could give your people the strength you could not. “Well, we thank you for your service, then,” you said as you sat up straighter.

“Your Majesty, I was hoping to get a moment of your time,” Lord Gridlow murmured, looking up at you imploringly.

A pit of dread formed in your stomach as you caught your advisor’s eye and nodded. “Leave us.”

The court filed out, jostling Obi-Wan with it and you were left with your advisors and the man who had ruled in your place.

“State your purpose, Lord Gridlow,” you ordered with a dangerously even voice.

He shared a look with your advisor. “Your Majesty, the advisors and noblemen seem to think that it would be best for the stability of the kingdom if we wed.”

You almost scoffed. Almost. Until you noticed that your advisor looked gravely serious. “You wish to corner a queen into a marriage.”

“We just think-”

“Not we, you,” you corrected. “We are the acting authority.”

“You were absent.”

“We had no control of that,” you shot back. “And we do not appreciate being spoken to like this.” You stood up and came to stand in front of him. “We will not be forced into things. Not by our enemies, and certainly, not by you. Dismissed.”

“Your Majesty-”

“Dismissed.” You repeated.

Lord Gridlow hung his head, giving you a mocking bow. “As you wish, your highness.”

Your eyes narrowed at his retreating figure. How dare he insult you by using the wrong honorific? Rounding on your advisor, you saw him wither in the crosshairs of your eyes.

“Your Majesty, I can explain-”

“Oh, can you? You can explain how you were willing to just give us out to the first nobleman that came knocking? Is that it? You were going to whore your queen out for the good of the kingdom?” You asked, voice rising in pitch. It was rare that you were mad, but beneath it all, you were hurt.

“The nobles will not support a treaty if you are alone,��� your advisor simply stated.

You looked down at your folded hands, feeling quite young despite the power you held. You dropped all pretense and all formality, becoming the woman in a man’s world who was the only heir. The only option. You’d always known that they had never really wanted you, but you never quite felt that until now. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave him a sad look, “I fought for you. I only ever ask that you should do the same.”

You gave him a nod of dismissal before crossing over to your balcony to look out over the courtyard. Leaning on the rail, you took in the people milling about below. They were preparing for a ball to mark your return. Perhaps they also thought it should mark the announcement of your betrothal as well. You looked up to the heavens as if asking for strength to get you through it all. You’d always told yourself that you would do what must be done for your people, that in the grand scheme of things, you were but one, the sole guardian of the many.

The weariness in the people passing by was apparent upon second glance. Young women wore the worry lines of widows who wondered how to feed their children. Children laughed in sparing doses, the knowledge of the world weighing down their mirth with the absence of their innocence. They looked how you felt: tired. The campaign had been hard on all, but on your people most of all, you could now see.

Yet, could you commit yourself to that odious man who had prostrated himself in public, yet dared to berate you in private? Was that the man you were expected to grow old with? Your eyes fell to the statue of your father in the middle of the square. He had married your mother for love, turning down multiple arrangements before you could even talk in order to give you a fighting chance at the same. A sigh passed your lips at the realization that it was all in vain.

“If I could choose,” you murmured wistfully as you looked down at a young man in a brown robe who had stooped to smell a rose, “I’d choose you.” 

As if sensing your gaze upon him, he turned to look up at you. The action dropped his hood from his face, shining the sun on his auburn hair. You gave him a sad wave and his brow furrowed in concern. His eyes held a question in them that you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You never wanted to lie to him, but you couldn’t burden him with the truth either. Casting your eyes down, you backed away, retreating to your rooms in order to finally take the bath that you should have had days ago but never seemed to have the time for.

You dismissed your attendants as soon as the water was filled. Having spent months on the battlefields, you had learned to take care of yourself. You knew it was an honor to be a part of your retinue, but right now all you wanted to do was be alone with your thoughts. 

Lazily, you took your wash cloth and ran it over your skin. With your eyes closed, it reminded you of the time you had cut your arm during a fall and Obi-Wan had cleaned you up. He had teased you for being so stubborn and actually fighting, telling you that he never met a monarch with a death wish before you. He had been so gentle with you that night, kind. A kindness you might never know again. Slowly, you let yourself slip below the water, exhaling a barrage of bubbles as you opened your eyes. The light refracted along the water, glinting off the gilded tub. Only when your lungs started to burn did you resurface, sputtering water as you did so. Your lungs heaved at your stupidity, and you soon found that you were crying as more water droplets splashed into the water. You looked down at your reflection in the water and threw the wash cloth into it, sending ripples through the water. Taking a steadying breath, you got out and wrapped yourself in a towel before heading into your room to be dressed.

“Your Majesty, it is good to see you,” a voice murmured as you sat down at your vanity. You met the owner’s eyes in the mirror and smiled.

“Not as good as it is to see you,” you reassured her.

“It’s been too long,” she squealed before going to find you the perfect gown. “But, I must ask, what is the story of the man who came in with you?”

You turned on your stool to face her, “Liz, he’s off limits. Their kind don’t take wives.”

“He doesn’t look at you like he’s off limits,” she said coyly.

You felt your face heat up at her words. “It doesn’t matter now,” you sighed sadly, “They wish to marry me off to that Lord.”

“What they wish and what you do should not always be the same thing,” Liz said pointedly. “They do not have to live with all the consequences of that decision. You do. You are their Queen. Make your decision, and they will surely fall in line.”

“They won’t support the treaty otherwise,” you replied. “With the Republic at war, they need safe passage through the kingdom. They helped us defeat their enemies on our soil. It only makes sense that we should pay that good will forward.”

“I’m sure they’d understand if you couldn’t,” Liz replied.

“I gave them my word,” you replied. “I need him- them, I need them to know that means something.”

Liz looked down at the dress in her hands and sighed. “Well, should this be your last night of freedom, then we will make it your best. We will make you look so good that they will still believe in the divine right of kings.”

You cracked a smile at that, “Well, I’d certainly like to see you try.”

“As the old monks used to say, ‘do or do not, there is no try,’” Liz winked as she set about to work a magic that was often unappreciated by other nobility, but not lost on you.

By the time she was done, you were exquisite. Your hair was a series of intricate twists and braids that cascaded in all the right places to frame your face. Your dress sparkled in the light as you tentatively ran a hand down the intricate beadwork. It was white and pure. You looked like an angel that had descended from the heavens specifically to save them all. To add further evidence of your right to be there and the fact that you and you alone were their cause for freedom, Liz nestled your crown atop your head.

“Lest they forget who their true ruler is,” she remarked.

“I had almost forgotten how heavy this was,” you mused.

“Heavy the head,” Liz murmured as she pinned it in place, a hairpin held in the corner of her mouth as she added, “If he doesn’t confess tonight...”

“Lord Gridlow?” you asked in confusion as she finished and stepped back.

“No, Lord Kenobi,” she said pointedly.

You blushed, “Obi-Wan isn’t a lord.”

“Obi-Wan? You use first names, your Majesty?” she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.

You shook your head slightly at her as you got up from your seat and slipped into your shoes. “Titles mean nothing on the battlefield. All are equal when on the end of a blade or a blast.”

“Do you view him as an equal?”

You looked at the crown on your head, “Yes. I do believe I do.”

Music drifted up the corridor from the ballroom down below. 

“I believe that is my cue,” you sighed as you went towards the doors.

Your footsteps were light as you followed the melody, but your heart was heavy. As you came to a rest at the top of the stairs, you could see the party down below. Murmurs ceased and heads bowed in deference as you floated down the stairs. All eyes were on you, but your eyes scanned the crown for a familiar brown cloak. Disappointed when you could not find it, you reached the bottom of the stairs, casting your gaze to your feet.

“Your Majesty, may I have the honor of your first dance?” a lightly accented voice inquired.

Your eyes flicked up to the owner and you allowed yourself to smile. “I believe the honor would be all mine.”

Gently, you placed your hand in his. He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world as he led you towards the middle of the ballroom. He bowed. You curtseyed, and then you danced.

“I almost thought you didn’t come,” you murmured, “I hardly recognized you.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve worn clothes like these,” he admitted with a smirk that didn’t meet his eyes.

You wanted to melt into him, but instead you just allowed yourself to be as close as was proper.  “You look very handsome, but uncomfortable.”

“I could never hide anything from you, could I?” he asked softly. “And neither can you hide from me. Darling, what happened earlier?”

You wanted to admonish him for the use of that pet name. After all, it wasn’t proper, but you loved the way it rolled off his tongue. He hadn’t always called you darling. It was a term of endearment that you had earned about halfway through the campaign on one of the instances you had almost died. A blast from a canon had knocked you clear off your feet and into the dirt. Your ears had been ringing and you could feel the blood trickling down your face from where you had hit a rock. In a minute, he had been at your side, begging you to hold on.

Darling, stay with me.

“Darling?” Obi-Wan asked.

You blinked, refocusing on his face. “Hmm?”

“Stay with me, I know I’m a horrible dancer, but it’s almost over,” he grinned, but his eyes showed concern.

“There’s nothing horrible about you,” you replied as the song came to an end.

He was left speechless in the wake of you as you withdrew to mingle with people you hadn’t seen in over a year who you were certain could not care less about your presence here tonight.

In your bones, you had known this wouldn’t be the triumphant coming home that you wished it would be, but that still didn’t make it sting any less. An inconvenient queen without a King. That was all you were.

Lord Gridlow asked you for a dance and you could not refuse, however every spin around the room had you searching for Obi-Wan’s eyes. When you deemed it proper to take a break, you went to stand by the sidelines as you sipped a drink.

“He seems dreadful,” Obi-Wan murmured as he stood next to you.

“They would have him be King,” you replied absentmindedly.

Obi-Wan blinked for a moment at your indifferent attitude to it all. “Does the Queen not have a say?”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye as you felt the warmth of his hand next to yours. Your smallest finger brushed against his. His hand moved to envelope yours, but then you remember not only where you were, but also who you were. You cleared your throat and prepared to make your rounds. “Excuse me.”

After the lukewarm reception you received from the majority of your nobles, you began to feel the weight of your crushing reality. You had won the war for them, but in doing so had lost their respect. You wanted to laugh, but most of all, you needed air. 

It felt wrong to stand in the stuffy high society after experiencing the hardships of war. There were villages that were decimated, children who starved, and yet here they were practically throwing wealth out your gilded windows in your absence. They wouldn’t notice you were missing, not with Lord Gridlow taking care of their interests and protecting their investments. The nobles, you realized, were content to watch the world outside the palace burn so long as the flames stayed far away. Hell, you thought, they might as well use it to warm themselves without remorse as well.

Slipping out of the crowd, you made your way into the night. The air cooled your skin and filled your lungs. You wanted to scream. You weren’t cut out for this. Not anymore. You stood on your balcony as you looked up into the starry night. A feeling of disappointment settled in.

“You can see less of the constellations from here,” Obi-Wan mused as he came to stand beside you.

“Light pollution,” you replied, remembering how clear the sky was when you slept under it during the campaign.

“Can we be alone for a bit?” he asked softly.

A breath of relief passed through your lips, “Yes, please. I need a moment.”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, offering you his arm. You wanted to laugh at the formality of it all as you slipped your arm into his.

“You followed me,” you murmured as the two of you started down a path towards the hedges.

“I’m always following you, darling. If you blaze so many trails without looking where they lead, then I have to,” he said with a small smile.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” your face burned at his comment. The two of you came to a stop next to a fountain. It was all perfect. The stars above, the hedges around, the faint music heard over the bubbling of the fountain. He was your prince and this was your fairy tale. Except it wasn’t. You knew it couldn’t be. 

You settled on the edge of the fountain, taking the crown off entirely and holding it in your hands. “It’s so silly,” you murmured. “One circlet of precious metals and stones represents my station.” You tossed it into the fountain.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened and he pulled up his sleeve to fish it out.

“Are you alright?” he asked, knitting his brow as he reached up to fix your crown on your head.

“Do you ever doubt your duty?” you asked him, turning to face him, to study him as he answered.

“I fight for freedom and peace,” he replied. “There can’t be a nobler cause than that.”

“What about love?” you asked softly.

“I suppose at the root of it all, I fight for love,” he admitted, looking at you as if in a new light. “Do you fight for love?”

You paused, drowning in the depths of his eyes. You fought for the kingdom that you so dearly loved, and now you found yourself willing to stop that fight when it came to the person that you loved. 

Averting your gaze, you murmured, “No. Not always, at least. Sometimes I fight out of duty.” Like now, you thought, as you were fighting your feelings for the man in front of you.

“Where is this coming from?” he asked softly, tilting your chin up to look at him. His eyes searched yours as he looked for meaning.

You licked your lips, feeling your mouth go dry. Your cheeks burned under the scrutiny of his gaze. 

There had always been a pull towards Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was a pull that made men follow him into uncertain situations. It was a pull that made conquered villages want to thank him. Now, that pull was making you want to leave your kingdom behind for him if that were the only way for you to be with him. 

His gaze flicked to your lips as you leaned into his hand on your cheek, allowing yourself the comfort of his touch for the briefest of moments as you closed your eyes. In that moment, you could see it all: the two of you, together, happy and laughing arm in arm as you took on the world. A dream that could not be. His nose bumped yours and you pulled back. 

“I... I can’t do this,” you breathed out, feeling like your lungs would collapse in on themselves. Getting up, you raced to get away, but a hand came around your arm to stop you.

You swallowed, looking up at the owner as his eyes pleaded with you. There was a fire there that threatened to consume. It spread through his body and into yours where you touched, licking up your arms and sending a wave of shock through your spine. Your eyes locked into each others and in that moment you made a decision.

Regardless of what happened after the dust settled in your kingdom, you wanted to know Obi-Wan in a way that only a few did. 

Your hands slipped up into his hair as you pulled him into you, crashing your lips against his. His arms encircled you, pulling you flush against him as he kissed back with the same ferocity as he fought. You wanted to lose yourself in this moment, to hold onto it forever, but you knew it could not last. It was the nature of a moment. They were short, fleeting. To hold onto singular moments was to miss the grand scheme of life, but moments, too, were pivotal. You could see where things had changed between the two of you so very clearly now. In hindsight, it was, in fact, a gradual fall. A domino effect of hundreds of tiny moments that led to the two of you crashing together like two planets on an inevitable course of collision. You could only imagine what wreckage would be in its wake. Should people find out, you thought. So they just mustn’t find out. You pulled back, knowing that to continue to prolong this moment would only risk further exposure. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened at the sudden retraction. The crown felt heavy on your head.

“Darling-” he started to say, reaching back for you.

You ran. 

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen (ao3 only, smut) | chapter fourteen

chapter 14 - prince

SFW, around 4.7K words. Heisenberg is a man of absolutely no feelings I guarantee you

Heisenberg has never done this before, not in almost a hundred years of existence, this tangling of limbs and shirking of duties. He has never once given in to such base urges without careful thought and consideration, instead preferring his encounters planned, short and sweet, in and out before anyone could get attached. He racks his brains looking for things to say once she is awake, for ways to tell her that this means nothing and that they will go back to being flirty acquaintances who spoke to each other in riddles. He digs deep into his thoughts to bury his feelings, refuses to acknowledge their existence long before they can rear their ugly heads. He breathes in, eyes closed, to gather his confidence, to build his persona like he did with the dawn of each new day. Whoever Karl Heisenberg truly was, truly wanted to be, he died every morning and was replaced by a driven, heartless monster.

She was a smart woman, she would get the hint. He will unwrap her arms from his torso, put his clothes back on and make some stupid comment about how she had a pair of tits to die for, but he had already been far too generous by gracing her with his presence this long. Then he will smirk and exit stage left, hold the mask until he is out of sight and has entered the forest, and will finally be done with the theatrics. Perfect plan, until his breath catches in his throat when she first stirs, fingers sleepily caressing his chest like she did the night before. He curses her for never making things easy on him.

She seems confused as she pulls away from him, her lazy stretch reminding him of a cat after a long nap. Her face has softened some, the usual furrow of her brow relaxed, deviant smile replaced with one of pure serenity, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good morning, my lord,” she greets as she rubs sleep away from her eyes, and he is glad to notice her tone has changed, away from the throes of their passion and back to the casual nonchalance they had become used to treating each other with. “Did you sleep well?” He has no intentions of answering and she does not expect it, either, slides off the couch to gather their clothing scattered about. She hands him his without looking at him, dresses in silence as he does the same. The silence is tense but not awkward, like they were both content to ignore the existence of the other and of everything that had happened between them just hours prior. “Are you staying for breakfast?” The implication that she did not expect him to is crystal clear. If there was any hope of staying longer in his mind, she had quelled it quickly with that question, like she was done with him for the day, perhaps enough to last her a lifetime. It stings, but he is glad for it.

Heisenberg busies himself with putting his clothes back on - whoever’s clothes those were in the first place -, oblivious to her pacing around the house. He believes he is out of the woods and her reserves of kindness have run dry, only to lift his head and find her holding a basket with a loaf of bread in one hand and his trench coat in the other. From afar he can see it looks ten times better than it did when he walked in wearing it, cleaner, for one, holes stitched back together. He doesn’t stay and she sees him off with the same joy she has always shown him, watching him as he grabs the trench coat and food, then his hat from a hook next to the door, waving him away like she has done every time. They sign an unspoken contract that dictates they never speak of it again, though the fine print reads that it is not off the table and might once again come to pass if the opportunity ever presents itself. His journey back to the factory is quiet and uneventful in more ways than one, the forest sleeps away the early hours of the morning and his mind is void of thoughts and worries. He cannot help but notice that the world feels different, brighter, more vibrant even, the wind not hostile and instead a gentle breeze.

Heisenberg seems enveloped in a mist of cheer and placidness for the days that follow, all he has set in motion moving along like clockwork. Sturm awakens unbidden one night, for good this time, both a blessing and a curse upon him. He manages to study its performance and sketch improvements, however finds that he has forgotten to install an off switch on the damn creature. The freak hums and whirs night and day like it is singing him the song of its people, sometimes joyfully, sometimes in mourning, and that he is able to identify when the fucking thing is happy or sad is a clear indication that he has been listening to it for far too long. A stab of guilt hits him every time he yells down towards the bowels of the factory to tell the monster to shut it, he needs to work and the noise is maddening, but he is always reminded that he is the reason for it all, he has bestowed them all with a new lease of life and now has to deal with the consequences. This is all for a good cause, he reassures himself, and once the rebellion is over he will see to it personally that those who remain are given a humane dismantling and burial.

Every now and again he visits his little witch in the woods, when his days could have been better and he needs a pick-me-up. They never speak of the stormy night and the things they had done, not unlike he had planned, but speak of everything else, and they slowly climb the steps to an awkward friendship that is never truly allowed to blossom. It felt as if every time they would give each other a key, an intricately designed, golden key that would open the lock in their hearts. And every time one would try to open it, they would find yet another, stronger lock, closer to the end but not quite, mystery maintained. It was infuriating and addicting all at once, and he had grown quite fond of the back and forth that had become the most exciting part of his life.

Happiness is a drug that he should not indulge on, he decides. Amidst his work he plans something other than rebellion, other than murder. Sketches something other than machines, looks out the window on the top floor of the factory to daydream about the cabin that stood long abandoned at the edge of his land. It was large for a home in this ass-end of the world, two floors and an attic, a cellar that was used for coal storage and doubled as secret entrance to a tunnel connecting the house and the factory. A fenced garden in the backyard, a shed for tools and firewood. The outhouse was awkwardly placed, too close to the edge, but he had always thought it gave it some extra charm. Answer nature’s call while being dangerously close to it, as it were. The masonry oven outside had not been used for at least half a century, and the well had probably dried up by now. It had been his home for many years, before Miranda took away everything that was theirs and his life with it, before he began dedicating his life to rebellion and dreams of freedom. His room was the one at the end of the corridor upstairs, with a view of the river and the forest extending beyond the confines of the village. It was cramped and cold, a single floorboard always rattled during the night when the wind hit it, the window never fully closed and his father never bothered to fix it. Still, it was home, or it had been, and he sometimes found himself thinking of the good memories he’d had before it all went to shit.

Could it be home again, he wondered? It would be one hell of a spring project, between clearing the debris, dusting and fixing everything up. Nails and the corrugated metal roof would not be a problem, naturally, and the stonework of the first floor was still intact. But he hadn’t fixed a fence in many years, hadn’t sawed nor sanded a plank of wood in longer still. He had never been very good at cleaning anything except weapons and machines, and interior decorating was simply something that had never gone through his mind. It could be a home again, he mused as he brought the blowtorch close to his face to light his cigar, and maybe it would do him good to step away from the damp vapors of the factory every once in a while. But then again, would it be worth the effort and upkeep? He doubted the haulers would make good housekeepers, and he was content enough with his independent, bare, unkempt bachelor lifestyle. But those had never been his intentions, had they? A home but not for him, a home for her, right where he could see her, where he could walk a few minutes and knock on her door whenever.

All strictly professional, of course. She would be effectively isolated from the village and the outside world. Effectively isolated from everyone but him, and he could keep tabs on her and call upon her services when necessary. It was a proposal she would be dumb to refuse: a home easily three times bigger than the one she owned, a larger plot of land for her animals and garden, peace and quiet, access to the Duke for supplies, and even some fun every now and again if she played her cards right. There was also the matter that she would be… Safer, living so close to him, but that was of little importance. Naturally. It had only just occurred to him. He had not begun at that, no. He will give it some more thought over the next few weeks - neither of them would be going anywhere, now would they?

Mother calls him later that day to inform of a family meeting two weeks and a half away, to discuss usual business. They will gather at Donna’s this time around, and it should give them all an opportunity to parade themselves to the public. This is important, you see, she begins like she always does, for their worshipers grow restless with their absence. Heisenberg often feels like she has trained the villagers as one would a dog: starve them for long enough and give them a meager treat to keep them going, teach them that their devotion is rewarded with small miracles brought by hellfire and the tearing of flesh by lycans. He has spent far too long away from the public eye and it is always good practice to remind the villagers of his splendor, she continues. He agrees to strut down main street, bless every crafter that he comes across, and kiss the top of the head of every snotty child pushed in his direction by their parents. He even agrees to wear his Sunday best: the same thing he wore every single day, but with a shiny pin in the shape of his house’s crest.

He conceives his greatest idea yet in the meantime, a soldier that combines the combat capabilities of Eins and Zwei with the mobility of an aircraft. He has Sturm to thank for it, the incessant spinning of the blades having given him the spark to try and create a flying machine. No propeller blades, he decides as the very first thing when he begins drawing the schematics. He has had enough of the noise to last him a good couple of decades. Unsurprisingly, he is caught in a trance of working and passing out and waking up to work some more in the weeks that follow, entire days spent combing through the scrap heaps to find the right materials. He is reminded that the goddamn bed had done wonders for his back every time he deadlifts another engine to pick apart, but still refuses to say goodbye to his uncomfortable armchair and the wonderful massage of its loose springs.

He figures the name for it will strike him at the right moment, and for now focuses on adjusting the thrust speed, ensuring the soldier will land adequately and not simply crash while airborne, as funny as that would look. While Sturm required a sturdy specimen, this will need someone lighter, lankier, and he finds the perfect specimen in Miranda’s latest failed experiment, a young boy of some twenty years who had been orphaned long ago and had turned to the Black God for guidance. In truth, he was nothing more than an errand boy for Mother, bringing messages to and fro, collecting tithe and offerings for her. Heisenberg is curious to know what horrible sin has led him to where he is now, dead and open on his operating table, a wound bigger than his fist where the top of his spine should be. Cadou had begun to take hold when he passed, tendrils shooting out of the infection, and he saved the recently dead nematode for further study later.

Removing the organs is always the messiest part, and he drops armfuls of guts into a nearby bucket to discard later. The boy has broken ribs and is missing his heart, a sign that he had greatly felt Mother’s wrath. Heisenberg almost pities him, alone in the world with nothing but his faith to keep him going, but sooner or later he would have to learn that was the way of the world. It had worked just fine for him, painful but invaluable. He had played the cards he had been dealt and come out on top. Perhaps in another life he would have reached out to give the kid a hand, take him in and give him a job, so long as he stayed out of his way and kept his mouth shut. But then again, perhaps in another life circumstances would not have turned him to a ruthless bastard only out for himself.

Setting up the tubing always takes the longest, delicate work that requires his full attention and steady hands. It feels like fighting an octopus at the best of times, and it is a fight he does not always win. He blows away a hair strand that insists on obscuring his vision, but all he succeeds in is having more of it fall onto his face, beads of sweat also finding their way down his forehead to pool on his brow and slide onto his eyelashes. He wishes he had an assistant every time he does this, every time he pulls a corpse open and finds that his body seems to get in the way every time more than the dead one does. He wishes he had an assistant, remembers the offer he never made her, and regrets it an instant later.

Suddenly his mind has wandered away from his subject on the operating table and has wandered off into a fantasy world, where his little witch gently pulls his hair back to tie it securely away from his face, where she dabs away the sweat on his face with a cloth that smells of wildflowers. She stands patiently next to him, takes notes and follows orders, brings him refreshments and even gives his shoulders a good rub when she feels he has been working too hard. A world where she awaits him every night after a long day, where she greets him with the comfort of home and a hearty meal. His focus is lost from that moment onward, for he is taken with the need to see her, to spend time sitting quietly beside her near the fireplace. To hold her and watch her fall asleep in his arms, to hear her laughter and exchange glib lines with her after dinner.

Goddamn witch.

The poor boy suffers the brunt of his annoyance when Heisenberg punches the side of his ribs, the body resists but does not complain and helps none with doing away with his wishes. What was he thinking, losing sight of his goals because he wants his cock sucked? This is why it was always so much better to stay indoors, to kill such annoying roaches on sight. His carefully constructed mental balance has tumbled, his nirvana disturbed. He was doing just fine before she decided to kill some random lycan and forgot to hide the fucking body. Bored, but just fine. Lonely, but fine. Incredibly depressed, but f-i-n-e. He tries in vain to return to his work once, twice, and gives up on the third time, finally accepting that it would be impossible.

Perhaps it is best if he gets it over with, no? This was but a momentary stumble. He had all but forgotten about her for the better part of a fortnight, having instead turned inward towards his work and growing his intel network by skulking around and reading through papers Miranda had ‘lost’ in transport. Just as quickly as he had latched onto her, he had let her go, back to the hum-drum day to day of developing his metal army.

Or so he thought, faced now with a burning need to walk, almost run towards the forest to catch a glimpse of her again.

He looks down at himself, for the first time conscious of how presentable he was, and decides that it is probably best if he wears something that is not covered in rotting chunks of flesh. Somehow he does not think she will mind it; she strikes him as the kind of woman who would think it adds to his charm. He changes into cleaner clothes regardless, the same moss-colored shirt she had given him the day he showed up at her cabin. An idea shines upon him as he tightens his shoelaces, and he is soon giving orders over the comm system to all haulers: clean the damn place up. Throw the garbage up and over the railings onto the scrapheap, hide it under a carpet, it doesn’t matter. He wants the place presentable enough for him to bring his little witch over - he will tell her a little bit of what he intends, he will show her some of his plans, and he will ask her to work for him. The cabin would take a while but she could always drop by for a visit. All that he has decided in the span of less than a minute, and he hopes there will be enough time for everything to be set up when he makes his way back, holding her hand tightly as he shows her all of the wonders he has created. He also hopes he can keep up the momentum and not soil the plan by chickening out a while later, though something in his mind tells him that might be best.

Heisenberg stops in front of a mirror-like metal plate to check out his hair and wipe the blood of his face, at last satisfied with his appearance and ready to make his next move. He almost skips through the factory on his way up and out of the garage. He is getting laid tonight, goddamn it.

He is surprised to find the Duke’s carriage standing just outside. It must be a Tuesday, though he feels like he last saw the man yesterday; the merchant always completed his regular schedule around the village by making a last stop near - and in - his humble abode. He had much to discuss with the Duke, things of both professional and personal nature, but now was not the time, and he walked by briskly and greeted the man with a tip of his hat, intent on simply passing by.

He knows something has gone terribly wrong when the Duke cackles, and he spots the familiar tail wag of a furry hoofed animal beside the carriage. Heisenberg stops dead on his tracks then, a cold tingle running up his spine, his mouth dry. He stares at the man, mouth agape, trying to form his question but failing miserably. Had something happened? Had the Duke known about her all along? Had he done something to her? The Duke is the first to speak, his usual jolly self, oblivious or uncaring for the situation that has begun to unfold in front of him. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg! How’s the day find you?” There is a pregnant pause as Heisenberg looks at the merchant and back at the tiny goat that bleats at him incessantly, and the Duke roars in laughter, his massive frame shaking the entire carriage. “Oh, it seems the little one likes you! Two hundred lei and it is all yours, my lord. Should be quite the tasty dinner.”

Prince seems to understand its predicament, and cries ever louder, until it is all they both can hear and the sound almost drives him insane. “Where the fuck did you get it?” Is all he manages to say, his tone vicious, but the Duke does not seem to mind it. He looks around for any other signs of her, the dog, or the horse, a chicken, anything.

“My friend in the woods has sold it to me, of course. She no longer has any use for it where she is going, and thought it best to rehome it.” The merchant’s hand reaches out to pet the goat on the head and the whole carriage almost topples over with the weight.

“You know her.” It is not a question, and though there is much he needs to ask there is little he is able to process.

“Indeed. We have been friends for many years, her and I. Since she was a malnourished little girl living under Lady Heisenberg’s protection. Since long before you were born, my lord.” The man takes a long drag from his cigar as if to give Heisenberg enough time to go through his words, and he is glad for it, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. A hundred and something years, the mention of his grandmother’s name. “She has always been quite the ravaging beauty, however. Although I’m sure that has not escaped your notice.” He can hardly contain his exasperation, not at all used to the feeling that currently boils within him. If that man had ever touched her- “She is quite a talented healer, you see. For many years now she has supplied me with the most wonderful of concoctions.” As if to prove it, he lifts up a bottle of the antiseptic he has become so famous for, gives it a little shake and flashes Heisenberg a bright smile.

“She’s gone.” Again he doesn’t ask, simply repeats the information he has been given, and wishes he had his hammer close by to crush that smirk off the Duke’s face.

“Why yes, she has left, of course. It would not be the first time,” the merchant says with a shrug. “A free spirit she is, always has been. Off to find herself some excitement and adventure, I’m sure. I have told her many a time that the village life does not suit her,” he puts the bottle down and interlaces his fingers in front of him, resting on his enormous stomach. “Yet she has come back every time. Sweet, idealistic Morganna, always so kind for her own good.” In his confusion, Heisenberg realizes he has forgotten to breathe, and inhales sharply, blow after blow though he tries to recover, and the Duke is relentless. “Ah, that reminds me, she has left something for you.” He is no longer listening after the Duke’s mouth closes, far too stunned to process what is happening. The blond man hands him a small wooden box that smells like her, and Heisenberg does not care that he can see how much his hands are shaking as he pushes off the lid. He does his best to swallow the rage and the tears that well up in his eyes, the bittersweet thought that she had remembered him before she parted. The woolen slippers lay perfectly arranged inside the box. “If you wish to find her, I am sure she has not made it very far.” Heisenberg continues to stare down incredulously, and the Duke continues to yap like nothing has happened. He has tuned out completely by the time he closes the box again and raises his head to face the merchant. He might as well have been a shadow, disoriented as Heisenberg was, his face a misshaped blob in his eyes. There is no space for thoughts and he lets himself go instead, anger bubbling so close to the surface underneath his skin.

He grabs the goat before the Duke can protest, tucks it safely under his arm, box secured in the other as he marches back inside the barn and closes everything behind him. Gone? The way down is hazy and red, one foot after the other, instinct taking him through the halls and down elevators. Gone. He feels the haulers’ gazes upon him, and hopes they won’t dare showing vestiges of humanity now, or he will kill every last one and set fire to the corpses. The door to his quarters is kicked with entirely too much force and flies off its hinges, he places Prince gently on the floor in the last showing of kindness he would ever allow himself. Gone! The box is thrown across the room and shatters against the wall, tears in his eyes, a strangled cry coming out of him before he can stop himself.

“She’s gone.” He repeats and the words feel like sand in his mouth. He knows them to be true and it only serves to hurt him further. Behind his eyelids, she takes him by the hand and skips down the stairs ever onward towards the darkness, and he knows he is far too weak to stop it now. He has no tools to explain any of it, the crying and yelling and the way his body has slid against the wall and onto the floor like a puddle of muddy, gooey, revolting water. One last bit of control tells him that he should not care, that she is not important, that this is good, that he is free from her grasp. But its screeches are drowned in the uproar within him, and all he can think of is that she is gone and he misses her.

He is once again alone in the world and, for the first time, he knows what heartbreak feels like.

[beebubbly]

Ever After

Prince Ethan x MC  

A twist on A Cinderella story 

SUMMURY: Casey, a beautiful young woman, is treated as a servant by her stepmother and stepsisters. One day, she crosses paths with Prince Ethan, heir to the kingdom, who falls in love with her.

There are those who swear that Perrult’s telling of Cinderella with its fairy godmother and magic pumpkins would be closer to the truth than many of the other versions, one including the legendary slippers to be made of fur.

Perhaps its time to set the record straight; what’s that phase?

Once upon a time...

There lived a young girl who loved her father very much. Her father was a merchant who went abroad and often brought a tribute back for his darling daughter. Casey missed him terribly when he was away, but knew he would always return. 

Casey’s mother had passed away not long after Casey was born. Her father had started to believe it was time for change, hopefully for the better. Upon his travels he met and fell in love with Baroness Rodmilla de Ghent and the two married quickly making their little family complete with the addition of Rodmilla and her two stepdaughters.

But like all stories, there is an unhappy event. One day as Casey’s father was leaving for a new trade, he had a heart attack and sadly passed away. It would be ten years before another man who would enter her life, a man who was still a boy in many, many ways.

In the years that passed since her father’s passing Casey became more of a servant than a member of the family. She worked hard, allowing the hard chores as a distraction from the grief of losing her father.

Luckily, she still had the other servants who she had grown up with and loved like family. Unfortunately, Rodmilla was used to the luxurious lifestyle and the household fell into debt, one of the servants- Elijah had been sold in attempt to pay off some of the debt.

Casey found herself in the forest that was near the house, she picked apples for the household to enjoy. Casey picked an apple and was studying it when the sound of hooves caught her attention. The palace guards rode past her paying her no heed.

Once satisfied with the apples Casey made her way back to the house when a horses whining caught her attention. Curiously, she paused in her walk.

“Come on, you stupid beast” she heard a man’s voice follow.

She watched as a man on the back of one of the families horses jumped the hedge and galloped near.

“Oh, no, you don’t” Casey shook her head running towards the man, dropping most of the apples from her hold.

Taking one of the apples Casey threw it hard at the man effectively knocking him from the horse. The man tumbled from horseback and fell into the hay. Casey grabbed more apples from the ground.

“Thief!” she yelled at the man, attacking him with apples. “This will teach you for trying to steal my fathers horse!”

Another satisfying hit to the man, who attempted to scrambled to his feet, a cloak covered his head and face.

“Please, my own slipped his shoe. I have no choice” The man said as Casey attacked him with more apples.

“And our choice is what? To let you?” Casey asked him.

“I was borrowing it!” 

“Get out, or I’ll wake the house” Casey warned him pelting him with another hit.

“Ow!” 

The man managed to get the cloak from his head, and stand up enough for Casey to see his handsome face, dark hair and blue eyes. Imminently, she recognised him to be the prince. With a gasp, Casey fell to her knees, dropping the apples.

“Forgive me, your highness. I did not see you” Casey said bowing her head to the ground, not daring to look up at the man before her. Prince Ethan looked down, realising he was wearing the royal coat of arms- clearly visible.

“Your aim would suggest otherwise” Ethan said, rubbing at the welt that was forming on his head. She had a powerful arm.

“And for that I know I must die” 

“Then er-” Ethan hesitated, he was not about to be caught by his guards. “speak of this to no-one and er- I shall be lenient”

Ethan climbed back onto the horse, he glanced down at the young woman. She had long dark brown- almost black hair with a thin braid. She glanced up at him for a split second.

“We have other horses, Highness” she told him. “Younger, if that is your wish”

 “I wish for nothing more than to be free of my gilded cage.” he found himself telling her. “For your silence”

He tipped a number of gold coins onto the ground in front of her, with one last look at the young woman he clicked his tongue and rode off.

Casey looked up watching the dark haired prince ride off with her horse. She wondered what had brought him to  run away from home. Glancing down at the coins before her, Casey sucked in a deep breath.

There was a lot of money, quite possibly enough to buy back Elijah! But the only problem was her stepmother, if she caught wind of money- it would be gone in a heartbeat. Casey picked up the gold coins, carefully tucking them into her dress before she stood and started to pick up the apples.

This might just be her lucky day, first the prince speared her life and now she would be able to help her family, with Elijah back, his girlfriend would be reunited with him and that would mean the world to her.

Casey made her way quickly to the house once she finished picking up the apples. She had just entered when she heard her name being yelled by her stepmother.

"Coming!" Casey called back, tipping the apples into a basket.

"Ooh, she's in one of her moods." Jackie warned her as she entered the room with the two older women.

"Did the sun rise in the east?" Sienna asked looking at Casey's bright smile.

"Yes, Sienna, it did" Casey said tipping the gold coins onto the table. "And it is going to be a beautiful day."

The two women gasped at the sight, taking a step closer to the table.

"Look at all those feathers! Child, where did you get this?" Jackie asked.

"From an angel of mercy. And I know just what to do with them." Casry smiled at Sienna.

"Elijah?"

"If the baroness can sell your boyfriend to pay her taxes, then these can certainly bring him home." Casey told her. "The court will have to let him go."

"But the king has sold him to Cartier. He's bound for the Americas." Sienna shook her head.

Casey moved around the room, picking up a cup of salt and the bread.

"This is our home, and I will not see it fall apart." Casey told her firmly, putting a hand to her shoulder.

"We are waiting!" Rodmilla called.

"Oh, take heed, mistress, or these coins are as good as hers." Jackie warned her putting the coins back into Casey's dress handing her another plate.

"Morning, madam." Casey greeted as she entered the room where her mother and two stepsisters sat eating breakfast. "Marguerite. Jacqueline."

"Hello." Jacqueline replied softly.

"I trust you slept well."

"What kept you?" Rodmilla questioned as Casey put the salt carefully on the table.

"I fell off the ladder in the orchard, but I am better now." Casey told her.

"Someone's been reading in the fireplace again. Look at you, ash and soot everywhere." Marguerite commented in distaste.

"Some people read because they cannot think for themselves." Rodmilla said as Casey put the bread onto the table.

"Why don't you sleep with the pigs, cinder-soot, if you insist on smelling like one?" Marguerite told Casey.

"Ooh, that was harsh, Marguerite. Casey, come here, child." Rodmilla grabbed Casey's hands. "Your appearance does reflect a certain crudeness, my dear. What can I do to make you try?"

"I do try, Stepmother. I do wish to please you." Casey told her. "Sometimes, I sit on my own and try to think of what else I could do, how I should act-"

"Oh, calm down, child. Relax."

"Perhaps if we brought back Elijah, I would not offend you so." Casey suggested.

"It is your manner that offends, Casey. Throughout these hard times, I have sheltered you, clothed you and cared for you." Rodmilla said. "All that I ask in return is that you help me here without complaint. Is that such an extraordinary request?"

"No, my lady."

"Very well. We shall have no more talk of servants coming back. Is that quite understood?"

"Yes, my lady." Casey nodded as she turned to leave.

"After all that I do, after all I have done, it's never enough." Rodmilla turned to her daughters as Casey left the room.

If Rodmilla wasn't willing to help get Elijah back, then she was going to do it herself. Casey had a plan.

Dressed in a nice light blue dress and her face clean, Casey made her way to the castle where she knew Elijah would be. She spotted the cage where men were being pushed into. It set off.

Casey ran up stopping the men from leaving by grabbing the rein of the horse.

"I wish to address the issue of this gentleman." Casey told the man on the waggon with the cage, motioning to Elijah.

"He is my servant, and I am here to pay the debt against him."

"You're too late. He's bought and paid for." The man told her.

"I can pay you 20 gold francs."

"Madam, you can have me for 20 gold francs. Now drive on!" the man ordered but Casey stood her ground.

"I demand you release him at once, or I shall take this matter to the king." Casey demanded.

"The king's the one that sold him. He's now the property of Cartier."

"He is not property at all, you ill- mannered tub of guts." Casey said furiously. "Do you honestly think it right to chain people like chattel?"

"I demand you release him at once." Casey repeated stepping closer to the cage.

"Get out of my way!" the man yelled in her face.

"You dare raise your voice to a lady, sir?" a voice called out to them.

Casey turned to find Prince Ethan sat on a horse watching them. She bowed her head at him respectfully.

"Your Highness." the man chuckled. "For- Forgive me, sire. Uh, I meant no disrespect."

"Uh, it's just, uh, I'm following orders here. It's my job to take these criminals and thieves to the coast."

"A servant is not a thief, Your Highness, and those who are cannot help themselves." Casey turned to look at Prince Ethan. The attention of the many people were now on them.

"Really? Well, then, by all means... enlighten us" Ethan motioned a hand for Casey to continue.

"If you suffer your people to be ill- educated, and their manners corrupted from infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them" Casey told him passionatly.

"What else is to be concluded, sire, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?"

"Well, there you have it. Release him." Ethan ordered the man after a moment.

"But, sire-"

"I said release him."

"Yes, sire. The man nodded getting down to release Elijah. Casey followed behind, but sent Ethan a thankful smile over her shoulder.

"I thought I was looking at your mother." Elijah said as he hugged Casey, she handed the man the bag of gold coins.

"Meet me at the bridge." Casey whispered to Elijah.

"Prepare the horses. We will leave at once." Casey announced in a louder voice. Elijah, curious nodded and walked off quickly.

Casey made her way over to Prince Ethan, she curtsied slightly.

"I thank you, Your Highness." she told him sincerely before she set off wanting to get away in case he recognised her or someone realised she wasn't a courtier.

Ethan climbed down off his horse and followed after the woman that had peeked his intrest.

"Have we met?" Ethan frowned at her.

"I do not believe so, Your Highness."

"I could have sworn I knew every courtier in the province." Ethan told her.

"Well, I am visiting a cousin" Casey said thinking quickly as Ethan walked alongside her.

"Who?"

"My cousin."

"Yes, you said that. Which one?"

"Th-The only one I have, sire."

"Are you coy on purpose, or do you honestly refuse to tell me your name?" Ethan almost huffed.

"No. And yes."

Casey paused for a moment before she continued walking briskly.

"Well, then, pray, tell me your cousin's name, so that I might call upon her to learn who you are." Ethan said walking in front of her and backwards so he could still see her.

Ethan stopped for a moment letting her brush past him.

"For anyone who can quote Thomas More is well worth the effort."

This made Casey stop and turn to face Ethan. She was intrigued that he knew of the book.

"The prince has read Utopia?"

"I found it sentimental and dull." Ethan told her as he took a few steps towards her.

"I confess, the plight of the everyday rustic bores me."

"I gather you do not converse with many peasants." Casey noted as Ethan stepped closer again.

"Certainly not. No, naturally." Ethan gave a light scoff.

"Excuse me, sire, but there is nothing natural about it." Casey shook her head lightly, frowning at him as she walked away.

"A country's character is defined by its 'everyday rustics,' as you call them. They are the legs you stand on, and that position demands respect not-"

"Am I to understand that you find me arrogant?" Ethan raised an eyebrow as he stepped in front of her again, standing close to her.

From this distance Casey could see the prince had bright blue eyes and feel the warmth from his body.

"Well, you gave one man back his life, but did you even glance at the others?" Casey glanced back at the others who were still imprisoned, Ethan followed her gaze.

She had a point.

Casey started walking again making Ethan follow.

"Please, I beg of you. A name. Any name."

"I fear that the only name to leave you with is Comtesse Sophia de Lancret." Casey told him.

"There now. That wasn't so hard." Ethan smiled at her.

"Ethan!"

The pair paused again for a moment, Ethan turned to find his mother heading their way.

Casey used this distraction to slip away from the prince. A small smile stayed on her face as she and Elijah made their way home.

[creative-de-stuck-tion]

Introduction

TW: dystopia, mutilation, child death.

The burning sun, the moons of pink and green, and below them the nations of Prospit and Derse; great masses of land, gold and purple, twisted teardrops hooked one to the other and separated by the narrowest of ocean channels and millennia of war. The tempests rage along the coasts, and the clouds and the lands turn in their endless dancing spirals.

Noontide City, in sandstone and clay of yellow and white, simple and smooth in shape, decorated more than enough by the blossoming vines crawling up every wall. The roads are beaten earth, sprouting more grass every day, turning yellow in the baking sun. The people, dressed in airy cotton, smile and laugh as they go about their work, as merry as the day is long - and oh, the days in Prospit are long and long indeed.

Midnight City, in basalt and agate of purple and black, not a leaf to be seen, ornately carved and trimmed in amethyst and jet. The roads are paved and polished, tidy slabs scrubbed clean. The people, wrapped in warming furs, diligently focus on their work, their stares intense, their eyes and thoughts only on what they do, that they might do it well and finish it before the long nights come.

Watch them. You can see it...

Prospit bustles most in the night. The sun beats down so hard a being will crumble under its weight, and the clouds provide not half enough cover; under direct light at noon, bare skin will blister, then boil away. All that can take the sun is the plant life and the already dead, and in the heat and damp they grow and grow. Everyone sleeps with windows tightly covered by layers of cloth nailed to the frames, no matter the heat. In the worst times, with a summer rain, green growth cut back to ground can creep in through cracks and fill a cottage overday, or fungal spores can form wet festering growth on every piece of bare wood, and that would be a mercy for then the kingdom's many predators would be slowed down on their way in. 

Derse stirs most in the day. The ever-thickening layer of smoggy cloud blocks the sun, leaves the inhabitants sickly-skinned. The winds blow cold, and even the rain is salt and soot and acid. The soil is volcanic, but near-useless. It once was fertile, as the great coal and oil deposits show, but not for many centuries has the land birthed much more than stone. The people scratch out a living from scrubby plants in stony soil, and gather closely together in their homes for warmth, burning dried dung in place of wood. Predators roam here too. The people, desperate, eat them, and wear their skins, and block the cracks in their walls with their fur, to keep the whispering of what else lurks in the night away.

Reach out. You can feel it...

The last child of the last jadeblood line in Midnight City lies awake and listens to her mother weep. No one else born to the task is left to nurse the city's Mother Grub with them. Carapace pawns do what they can, but they are created fully-formed; they have no natural urge for childcare, no in-built knowledge of the task. The Grub lays fewer and fewer eggs, smaller ones, and the drones grow more aggressive. Out in the countryside, the Mother Grubs are dying one by one. Trolls are the warriors of Skaia. With so few born, what will they do? She dreams of Prospit outbreeding them, the city overrun.

At dusk the jadeblood grubherds of Noontide City urge their charges out in a flood that packs the streets from side to side. The grass has grown through the trodden earth since yesternight, watered by the humid air, and the grubs mow it down to nothing. They suck dew from stones and moss from walls, and gobble down the foot-long worms and slugs and centipedes and the fist-sized spiders and the nests of rats and mice from every crack and crevice. They swarm the bigger beasts, stray cats and dogs with festering wounds, and in turn the beasts devour or kill many of them. The grubs turn on their own wounded brethren, or those addled by the toxic weeds and mushrooms they have found, and consume them too. The grubherds let it happen. The weakest ones die first. The runts and mutants have already been culled long before.

Breathe deep. You can smell it...

Outside the city walls of Noontide lie the fire trenches, ever burning, making the daytime all the hotter. Rotting and dampening wood is culled without mercy from the buildings every day, and dragged out here. So too come funeral processions, the bodies burned in colossal metal dishes over the flames to save the ashes. The workers wear masks; in Prospit, spore and virus alike can spread so fast and hard even the fires can't cleanse them all, and disease dances on the air with the soot. The filthy, smoking clouds pour upward, and the prevailing winds carry them over the Skaia Channel to Derse, as if the kingdom spits on its ancient enemy. Still, Derse's clouds could hardly be filthier already.

Outside the city walls of Midnight, every spot of land which can be made to grow something will be made to grow. Fields are dug and dug, stone battered into soil by force of the workers' will. In Derse, there are no funeral processions, except for those of the very highest ranks. Even they will be buried in earth beneath the stunted fruit trees and the grass grown as green as it gets over them. Once there were tombs, but no longer can bodies be wasted outside the hungry soil. Near everything that grows in Derse grows on a grave. The poorest's dead don't even make it that far. Hunger gnaws, and the cold keeps them from rotting long enough.

Swallow. You can taste it...

The river of Noontide rots within its banks, and stinks from miles away. Recently, sewers have been installed, magic and engineering combined to keep them sound, channeling out on the seaward side; it's not enough. Fertile loam clouds the water from its very source, and the plants within it feed and grow. The creatures which feed on the plants grow too, until the river chokes with bodies or with algae. Workers clear the scum, but not as fast as it can grow. So much life births and shits and fucks and dies in the river that they'll never get it clean.

The river of Midnight is cold enough to burn, and black as death. Nothing lives in it; all that moves in it are reflections in its oil-slick top. Soot and sludge and who-knows-what taint it all throughout its course as it passes mines and factories, and by the time it reaches the coastal city nothing that lived or died in it is left. The dead things might rot further up, or wash downstream perfectly preserved by the chemical taint, as if in resin. It smells faintly sweet and smokey, pleasant even, of coal and gasoline.

Listen. You can hear it...

The market's bustle is pierced by wails. A brownblood youth has fallen to his knees, sobbing his heart out, from fear or exhaustion or some deep sorrow; none around him will ever know why. There is no shortage of reasons, in Noontide City. The crowd ignores him. If he had a moirail, it would be their duty to stop the disturbance. He does not, or they are not here. The carapace peace officers are, and he is restrained, though now he wails even louder. Too late to run. Causing a disturbance through rejection of Mirth. The law is the law. The carapaces' tealblood master takes a short knife and slits the brownblood's cheeks from ear to ear.

Coins clatter on stone, drowned out by shrieks. A corner of the Midnight City town square is roped off; highbloods in their carriages and litters watch the show. In the arena, troll and human children in rags claw and bite for pennies thrown at them hard enough to bruise their bony bodies, and bets of more money than the children will ever see changes hands in wagers. Today, for the first time in many months, a human is triumphant. She's a rangy little thing, maybe ten years old, hollow-eyed and wielding bottle shards, and she's the last one standing while others groan and bleed. She picks up all the coins and limps away. She will die tonight, slowly and agonisingly and alone; her last troll opponent was old enough for her venom to come through in her bite, and it already burns within the human's blood. The surviving children will take her coins and her clothes and the trolls will devour her, bones and all. The humans cannot eat the venom. They hunger still.

Listen. Closer. You can hear them...

And the screams sound exactly the same.

[mihidecet]

Tibi’s MCYT WritingTober, Day 9

Wilbur angst? Wilbur angst anyone? His acting was STELLAR, so incredible that it prompted me to speedrun this fanfic. I actually wrote it a 2am “today”, after the stream, but I forgot to post it because I am a dum dum.

Anyhow, I’m cashing in another “Free Day” from @the-only-gamer-gost ‘s list of prompts, even though the unofficial title is “In the end, once more”.

tw: mentions of injuries, which are not described in the story. mentions of violence. Lots of angst.

When the time comes, he falls. 

It all comes together so perfectly, everything goes according to plan - and it is the worst outcome possible. 

Wilbur kneels in the ash and dust left in his wake and thinks it poetic. How poetic, that his journey ends like this, just like it started but oh so wrong.

His diamond sword fell to the ground a moment ago, when he’d spotted Fundy emerging from the rubble, coughing, struggling to hold up the limp body of Schlatt. Both covered in soot - and wasn’t that ironical too? - except for the twin lines, one for each of Fundy’s cheeks, that his tears left on his cheeks. 

His son, eyes wide open in shock. How long has Wilbur ignored how old his eyes look, how mature he is? Has he been blind for long, or did Wilbur age him in an instant, with just the press of a button?

There's a ringing in his ears, but Wilbur doesn't know if it's from the explosion or from the shock. 

Still, he can hear Tommy crying. Heart-wrenching sobs as Niki holds him back, while Eret and Bad fuss over Tubbo's body. The kid - god, he was just a kid, a spy working for them, for him, his secretary of state - had been right in the middle of the podium. He'd gotten the brunt of the explosion.

Will felt sick.

He looks down at his hands. Still so clean, despite the chaos around him, yet he feels- 

His vision blurs. 

He just wanted his nation back - hadn't he gone through enough? Hadn't his people gone through enough? Didn't they deserve some rest?

And he still remembers.

How they started out, all fresh faced and bright spirited. 

Building walls of bright colours, the most eye-sore looking walls he'd ever loved. Making their smuggled slice of territory their own home. 

Writing big words on too small books.

And he remembers the war. 

The first war: how it hurts to know that they caused them, that after all it was their own choice not to surrender, but how could they have not? How could they kneel, when all they wanted was their nation? 

Wilbur remembers the fear, the plans, the insurmountable effort his men put in. 

He remembers the betrayal.

And after that, it all went downhill. 

Bad feelings mixing up with each other, piling on top of each other, stacking up so much around him that they became the only thing he could see.

His country, built with walls high enough to keep the rest of the world out.

His constant testing of all of his men - the few that remained, those that had stuck together with him, and what did they have to show for it? 

The election, rigged from the start - why, when he'd always been there to lead them? Did he not trust them to make the right decision? 

What if the right choice hadn't been him? 

It certainly felt like that at the moment.

Wilbur most of all remembers snapping. 

He remembers deciding that no, he wasn't going to be noble anymore. No more good guys. 

Most people would think that the event, and all that followed, felt like a blur to him. 

Instead, Wilbur doesn't remember anything more clearly than this in the past few months. 

That, and the crowd's terrified screams at the explosion. 

Maybe that's why his ears are ringing.

There's a crossbow bolt pressed against his back, just a bit to the right in respect to his spine. 

Wilbur suspects it's Punz, from the way the bolt is not piercing his shirt, nor wavering. He's a good man. 

There's an arrow pointed at the ground on his left, and it keep shaking. Deep down, Wilbur feels sorry for the kid that got to see this.

There are footsteps coming from behind him. 

A part of Wilbur still hopes it's Techno, who was supposed to follow him into battle: he'd gone and pulled a Dream there, over-preparing for battle, readying to crush his enemies to the dust. 

It hadn't really been a flawless execution, considering how his enemy hadn't been expecting anything other than a festival, but still.

What happens instead is that Wilbur feels the bolt in his back move slightly, then stop. Still pressed against his back. Not pointed to a newly arrived and more dangerous target. 

A moment later, cream coloured pants and a dark green jacket reach his view. 

His heart sinks.

Wilbur watches through glossy eyes - he's not going to wipe his face, not with arrows pointed at him - as Phil hurries towards the group gathered around Tubbo. 

With one arm around Tommy, he produces something from his bag. 

A couple of moments later, Tubbo takes a few rasping breaths and Tommy launches himself into him.

When Phil stands up, he doesn't turn towards him - and it hurts, but he stomps it down, he's the bad guy now. 

He instead makes his way towards Fundy - and Schlatt, who is also still unconscious. 

A couple of minutes later, his enemy is still breathing. 

Schlatt jumps upright, eyes wide open in terror, and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is "Is Tubbo alright?!".

Wilbur's face contorts in pain, and he fights his body which is straining to crumple onto itself. 

His head lowers of its own accord, and all he can see is grey. 

It's fitting. 

Oh, how low he's fallen. Was he ever higher up than the ground? 

Schlatt winning pushed him down but Wilbur- Wilbur built himself a pickaxe, and dug lower.

Reached the molten core of the earth and released it to the surface. He said "if I can't have it, nobody will".

There's green in his field of vision - and red, but those are just stains. 

Then a gentle hand on his cheek, raising his face. 

Phil is kneeling on the ground in front of him, looking at him like one would look at a lost, scared, abandoned puppy under a thunderstorm.

Wilbur hadn't realised how much he'd been crying. 

"I'm sorry-" he tries to say, but his voice is too thick with tears and his throat collapses on itself around the words. 

Phil rubs his thumb under his eye, softly, trying to wipe away the tears that will just keep on coming, and Wilbur's shoulders shake with the force of the sob that is wrenched out of him.

"I know, Wil." Phil murmurs. 

"I- I just wanted my nation back." Wilbur stumbles over his words, furious at how his own sobs constantly interrupt him and at how he has to keep inhaling deeply because the air just won't stay inside his lungs. 

Phil pulls on his cheek, gently, always so gentle, and lets Wilbur fall against his chest, wrapping an arm around him to hold him close. 

Keep him safe. 

Make him think that it's all just a bad dream. 

"I know, son, I know."