#but at least at the moment i feel like some of the vitriol directed her way is because she's shipteased with reid.

[frankiebirds]

might get set on fire for this but. reid and seaver would be kind of cute...

[merrinpippy]

thoughts on malevolent "the king" that i wrote down while listening to it on my commute

arthur is so gullible lmao "faroe might be here because of this music box even though I KNOW many entities have already and will try again to use her to trick me" hon cmon

rip arthur lester you would have loved star trek deep space nine season 1 episode 1 and more specifically "no. it's not linear"

love this new freak. he called arthur "my love" therefore i am instantly on board with him. me too babe. wonder if by choices he means the out of universe patreon polls?? he makes references to things from different time periods and seems to have some control over the (out of universe?) sound effects soooo

also v curious as to what this thing is in arthur that supposedly makes him so special. i hadn't gotten the vibe before this that there was anything significant about arthur, i mean not in a chosen-one way

arthur is so certain that john will win between them- so all of his "this is MY body"s aren't actually egotism or selfishness but defensive lashing out in response to the powerlessness he feels because in arthur's pov, if push comes to shove, the body ISN'T his, it's john's

oh john's "NEVER" ugh so good. i love devotion

poor lily. poor john.

ARTHUR ADMITS TO LOVING JOHN????? WHAT i'm only 20 eps in how much gayer can they get?? (i know i'm wearing shipping goggles but i am capable of seeing this without them too- it's a really interesting character moment for arthur to admit this. i'll need to come back to it later)

arthur's 'yah's are so good btw

aw John being protective of arthurrrr i love it when arthur and john are separate and clawing to get back to each other

it's interesting that arthur is heartwrenchingly truthful to both kayne (yes i did look up this spelling) and the king in this episode, despite intimate knowledge of how those truths can be twisted against him. it's also interesting that these are not truths he's spoken to john first, actually they're the opposites of vitriol he's sent johns way previously.

it's a pattern of behaviour that arthur will feel helpless against a particular truth and then posture viciously in the opposite direction, whether that be in what he says to john or what he chooses to do, where he chooses to go, etc- like going to the city, smashing the bottle that 'frank' wanted him to drink and so on

really love the conversation with the king and how arthur acknowledges his and john's monstrous acts and yet chooses to believe in them anyway. malevolent's thesis statement right there. i'm getting the vibe of it may have all been for nothing but our choices mattered because we made them.

finally the arthur self throat slitting i'd been spoiled for! even having been spoiled for it, it's a fantastic moment, and i actually disagree with the person who mentioned it in the tags of my previous post- they seemed to interpret it as a suicidal impulse of arthur's but i think arthur has proven repeatedly that he isn't suicidal, or at least if he is he's fighting that urge tooth and nail.

actually arthur has been so desperate to live this whole time, clinging to life at every step even just in order to spite the king. meanwhile john wants so desperately to change and not be like the king, to be his own person with free will- you could argue this is his chief want- yet they both throw these things away instantly when the other is in true peril.

deeply fucked up to separate the pair. extremely excited to see where the hell this goes.

[ooooo-mcyt]

Yknow, that one scene in Yandere where Grian screams at Okami and calls her a terrible parent definitely feels like projection.

Like, I heard his multiple passionate rants about how if HIS kid was missing then HE would be on the streets looking for them and why the hell isn't Okami doing that, why is she standing around crying instead of doing something, how could she leave her daughter with three kindergarteners and expect things to work out anyways, what is wrong with her, she's such a terrible mother, etc. And I immediately went "Oh yeah. This is a kid who just got abandoned by his parents".

Like. He certainly had a genuine point there. His rant towards Okami wasn't entirely unwarranted. She left her three year old daughter with only some five year olds for supervision and expected it to work out then she and Rowan spent the next day or so sending glares at these three children as if it's actually their fault when they're literally kindergarteners. But Grian went off. And while I wouldn't call Grian blowing up on her entirely unwarranted, I would call it slightly out of place in just how heated and personally upset he was, not just about being blamed, but also about the fact that she wasn't doing enough generally to ensure her daughter was safe and with her. And contrary to some people's belief, Grian isn't actually usually reactionary enough to go off like that at people in an out of place way? He's definitely always had a tendency of falling into the only-sane-man role which means a lot of exasperated and annoyed jabs at the insanity perpetuated by the people around him. And he's always been assertive enough that snapping back at someone who's being irrational or a prick to him isn't abnomal. However screaming at a mother who's child just went missing that she's a terrible parent and reiterating the comment on multiple other occasions to the point of getting sideeyed and reprimended by the other people being unfairly blamed along with him? That's a step outside of his normal wheelhouse. That definitely reads as projected rage considering his own parents had very recently sent him away.

In fact a Lot of Grian's behaviour in Yandere seems to be tied to his feelings over being abandoned. Grian in Yandere is unique because of how generally angry and standoffish he is. Throughout his highschool years, Grian can absolutely be cynical and bitter. However not generally as a core aspect of himself.

In fact, he can actually be quite friendly in his highschool years, with moments of annoyance popping up in direct response to his frequent slating in the Only Sane Man role. Which if you don't know what that means, to quote the Tv Tropes article on the only sane man, "picture this: Alice is a psycho for hire, Bob is a cloudcookolander, henry is an empty shell, charlotte is a chaotic stupid prankster, daniel is the annoying younger sibling, emily is a jerk with a heart of jerk, maria rhymes on a dime, Franklin is a mad scientist, and Gardenia is a holier than thou lawful stupid. Looks like your standard dysfunction junction. But then you have Isaac. Isaac is actually a very well-adjusted individual. He reacts with appropriate horror to things like Alice's finger collection or Franklin's experiments to revive the dead with science, and the crimes against nature that Gardenia calls pets. Isaac is the Only sane Man and The Only Voice Of Reason in the room". Grian would be Isaac in this scenario. He isn't completely free of quirks but he fails to fall under the group delusions of the other's, often calls out the fact that their school should probably be teaching them, is the only one who seems too perturbed by the cops doing nothing to help anyone ever, and pretty consistently objects to doing crime (especially severe or really dumb one's). This along with Grian's tendency to hold deep vitriolic disdain for his abuser (*cough* sam *cough*) down to telling him he's "Literally The Worst Person Who's Ever Existed" can make Grian come across as pretty constantly irritated and volatile.

He's really honestly not though. At least not as an aspect of his personality. Assertiveness and rationality can make him appear volatile when he's in the environment yhs often provides. But we know this isn't his natural state and that when not being actively handed a reason to be upset he's often very polite. This is not the same in Yandere. In Yandere Grian is just plain standoffish, rude, and even sometimes explosive. He doesn't need to be pushed. Anger that in later years would typically be reserved for people who Seriously hurt him is extended a lot more easily. General irritation is also less a notable (if unfortunately frequent) reaction to outside bullshit and more just Grian's state of being in Yandere.

Which I think is, very sadly, a direct result of the abandonment he faced from his parents before the series. Grian makes constant remarks about how he was left and his parents don't love him and how he wants to go home, ranging from petty angry remarks on how he hates this stupid country all the way to teary eyed rambling about his parents leaving him even to the point kf explosive anger. Hell, he spends the first few episodes violently pushing away the only people who try to befriend him and doing his absolute best to salt the earth under them. To me it all just screams of a little kid with abandonment issues trying to avoid further hurt by lashing out after his parents left him, loudly proclaiming his disdain for the country, his class, and every specific person who comes into contact with him frequently enough. Which I just think is Very sad.

[jamespotterthefirst]

Prelude (Ethan x f!MC)

Book: Open Heart, Book 1 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1.5 K Premise: Three moments leading up to their fateful meeting.

Author’s Note: In which I try to explain why MC didn’t know what Ethan, her medical hero, looked like. Also, my (late) fic for the book 1 replay. Thank you @aestheticartsx​ for pre-reading!

Three.

Harper frowns down at the file in her hand, her sharp gaze burning into the collated papers as though coercing them to solve their dilemma once and for all. From the end of the table, Cyrus lets out an inpatient sigh.

“It's very simple, Harper,” he drones. Ethan's fists clench reflexively at his sides, urging to remind Cyrus that Harper is the chief now and warrants more respect than his insufferable tone is offering. “The last spot should go to the candidate from Harvard. We are the best hospital on the east coast, after all. It only makes sense.”

Harper looks unconvinced and still, her pensive expression remains fixed in the file.

“An ivy league degree does not a good doctor make,” Naveen adds sagely into the ensuing silence. His smile is placid enough but Ethan knows the older doctor well enough to hear the warning edge in his voice. Evidently, even Naveen disapproves of Cyrus's lack of respect for their new chief.

Cyrus scoffs.

“And if you need further proof of that, Doctor Cyrus,” Ethan begins dryly, eyes boring into him. “Then look no further than your side of the conference table.”

A few attendings—at least the ones who have become increasingly tired of Cyrus's boastful proclamations about his alma mater—laugh quietly at the jab. Cyrus splutters, his face an unpleasant shade of red as he glares daggers at Ethan.

“This candidate,” Harper says at last, unaware or uncaring of what she had just interrupted. Her two lone words are enough to command the room's attention at once, but her hazel eyes are on Ethan. “You're convinced she's the best fit for Edenbrook?”

Ethan meets her eye and pauses.

It's the first time they look at each other directly since he ended their relationship two weeks prior. Despite the brief time apart and an unshakeable resolve to be professional, his stomach sinks heavy, like a stone.

Harper looks as graceful and dignified as ever, keeping every emotion in check. Yet, as she holds his gaze, Ethan can see a small flicker or sadness and his stomach twists with guilt.

“I'm positive, Chief Emery,” Ethan responds. “This candidate exhibits the type of potential we look for at Edenbrook.”

The use of her new title seems to snap Harper out of a reverie.

“She graduated top of her class and ranked in the top percent among our chosen cohort of interns,” Ethan continues. “I've also looked into her research and it's among the most promising I've seen. I recommend her without reservations.”

With a single nod and a sense of finality, Harper closes the file.

“Then it's settled. We have our last intern.”

“You're joking, Harper,” Cyrus blurts out, incensed. “We're giving a coveted spot to the candidate from UCLA?”

He says the name of the school with so much derision, Ethan feels his ears flare up.

“That Doctor Ayala?” Cyrus continues.

“Doctor Allende,” Ethan corrects, jaw clenched.

“Don't we have enough charity cases in the cohort already? This is token—”

But the vitriol is quickly interrupted by several things happening at once: Ethan darting forward, fists ready; a startled, collective gasp from the other attendings; Naveen, quietly intercepting Ethan and halting his steps with a steady hand, a feat that is impressive for a man much older and shorter; and Harper, also on her feet, directing a disgusted look at Cyrus she doesn’t bother to disguise behind professionalism.

“I would think very carefully about finishing that sentence if I were you, Doctor Cyrus,” she says, her voice low but with the impact of a clashing gavel. “And I ask that you address me as Chief Emery moving forward.”

Two.

“If you end up marrying someone with a Boston accent,” Laurel is saying with a devilish grin. “I will never be able to keep a straight face when they talk. Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd.”

Her older sister peers at Lilac over the flaps of an open cardboard box, the glint in her eye growing wickeder still. “Imagine what they’d sound like in bed. You're so fucking gawgeous, dawctaw—”

Before her sister can escalate that impression into disturbing territory, Lilac silences her with a well-aimed pillow. It succeeds in hitting Laurel straight in the face but also in turning her laughter into a cackle.

“Are you going to help me pack or not?” Lilac says sternly, though the effect is entirely ruined by the smile that manages to break through.

Laurel raises her hands in defeat and returns to packing Lilac's books neatly. They work in companionable silence for a few minutes with nothing but their favorite music blaring from the speakers of Lilac's phone.

“Is this the book?” her sister asks suddenly, turning a worn textbook in her hands and studying it closely. “The one written by your medical crush?”

For some inexplicable reason, Lilac feels her face flare with heat. “He's not my crush.”

“You just worship the ground he walks on,” her sister returns, flipping through Diagnostic Principles. “Though, you're right. In order to have a crush you'd need to know what he looks like.”

Laurel reaches the back cover, frowning. “Why wouldn't he add an author picture?”

Lilac says nothing, biting the inside of her cheek. She can't blame her sister for being curious and a bit disappointed at the lack of visual representation. After all, Lilac had felt crestfallen when all she found in the author's information section was the green and blue Edenbrook logo.

“Maybe he's a private man and doesn't like his picture out in the world? Maybe he wants aspiring doctors to focus on his research and not his looks?”

“So he's either really hot or really ugly,” Laurel returns, unmoved by Lilac's impassioned speech. “Have you ever tried looking him up online?”

Lilac had been tempted many times, but she was fiercely adamant about keeping her medical hero a mystery outside of his work. It already felt invasive enough to track down his undergrad research and every other minor paper he'd ever written. When it came to Ethan Ramsey, Lilac had searched every corner of scholarly journals and databases, absorbing every piece of his work with an adoration that was already embarrassing enough.

Plus, she would never admit it out loud, but she was also afraid that knowing what the brilliant doctor looked like would somehow ruin him for her. Or at least, alter the image of him she had constructed in her head for so many years. It felt right to continue seeing Dr. Ramsey as the brilliant force that pushed her into her dream career and not as a definitive set of features.

“It doesn't matter what he looks like. He's the best and I'm going there to learn from him, not to judge his appearance.”

“I'm Googling him,” Laurel announces, already typing furiously into her phone. After a few seconds, her phone returns results and her eyebrows shoot up, staying suspended for longer than normal.

“What?” Lilac asks despite herself.

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Just… wow.” Laurel stares down at the screen with such awestruck amazement that Lilac feels a powerful wave of curiosity. “He’s shirtless in some of these.”

“What?” Lilac yelps, feeling her face flare up at once. 

“Yeah, apparently you’re not his only fan. Tons of people have taken his picture.” Her sister seems to blink out of a trance, turning the screen toward Lilac. “Here, see for your—”

But Lilac turns her gaze away almost out of reflex.

“No!” 

The word comes out far more impassioned than Lilac intended. Still, she resolutely turns her head. “That feels...invasive, somehow?”

“Come on—”

“I'm serious, Lau. I don't want to see. I'm already nervous enough about this whole thing without having to worry about this wow-worthy revelation. And besides, taking someone’s shirtless picture without their consent and posting it online is already bad enough. It feels wrong supporting that.”

Laurel rolls her eyes.

“I'm going to see him in less than a week anyway. With clothes. In a professional setting. As I should. If I waited all these years, I can wait that long.”

A knowing, devious sort of smile pulls at her sister's face. She mumbles something over the music and Lilac can swear it sounds oddly like: “...worth the wait.”

One.

Ethan should have taken the broken and sputtering coffee machine in his apartment as an omen. His morning definitely declined from then on, starting with gridlock traffic and ending with an infuriatingly long line at his favorite coffee place.

The ultimate lack of coffee is probably his fault because Ethan had spent too much time deliberating whether or not he wanted to go with store bought coffee on what promised to be a grueling day. When he had finally made up his mind, however, the line was already out the door.

Irritated and caffeine deprived, he drives back to Edenbrook.

“You're earlier than we agreed,” Naveen says as soon as Ethan accepts his incoming call. “What was the point of rearranging the whole schedule if you were going to come in when you pleased anyway?”

“I'm not even through the gates yet. What are you spying on me?”

“No need. You forget how predictable you are.”

Naveen chuckles as he says this which eases some of Ethan's irritation. The older doctor had purposely scheduled him later in the day to give him some peace on the first day of the new intern cohort.

Naturally, Ethan arrived several hours early, as per his custom.

“Or maybe you know me too well by now.”

Naveen's benevolent laughter turns into a dry but lingering cough on the other end of the line. Instantly, Ethan's insides freeze over, his stomach sinking unpleasantly.

He opens his mouth to question his mentor about this persisting symptom, when sheer reflex prompts him to stomp on the breaks so suddenly, his body jerks forward then slams against his seat.

“Shit.”

Something—or rather someone— had crossed the parking lot road right in front of his car, standing mere inches away from his front bumper.

“Ethan?” Naveen asks through the speaker.

When Ethan recovers and regains movement of his arms and legs, he feels the spike of adrenaline give way to pure annoyance.

The offending pedestrian is a young brunette clad in blue scrubs, a medical intern by the looks of it. She stands there in the middle of the road, her mouth hanging open in a way that would have been comical to Ethan if he wasn't so irritated.

They stare at one another, though Ethan is convinced she can't see much through the tinted glass.

Then, right before his eyes, she seems to recover from the shock. Drawing herself to her full height, she glares at Ethan. At least, he thinks she's glaring through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

Ethan almost scoffs.

She has the audacity to be angry when she was the one who made the rookie mistake of aimlessly crossing in front of him?

Who the hell does she think she is?

“Asshole,” she mutters, the word quite audible through his windows.

Before a stunned Ethan can respond, she turns on her heel and rushes toward the hospital, a curtain of dark hair dancing behind her.

“What was that?” Naveen asks, still on the call.

“I hate interns,” Ethan responds much to the older doctor's amusement.

Bonus:

Author’s Note: In other words, my MC was late to her orientation because of Ethan and that’s how she met him in the waiting room lol. Thank you so much for reading! 

*Tagging Separately 

[ryangosking]

Cuffs

Summary: Bucky is guarding / detaining you as a favour to Sharon, unfortunately she gets delayed and the two of you are forced to spend the night together.

Warnings: 18+ for sexual content. Fingering, frottage, mentions of light bondage. Spoilers for The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

AN: Set after TFATWS, reader works for Sharon. May be the start of a series. Masterlist

"These cuffs are too tight." You whine loudly as Bucky pushes you into the motel room.

"No they aren't." He grumbles. "In fact you could probably get out of them if you tried hard enough."

You look around the room, to call it shabby would be a compliment.

"Sit down." Bucky says shortly, turning on the TV.

You sigh and perch on one of the beds, wriggling your wrists in the cuffs.

Bucky pulls out his phone and paces between the twin beds as he talks. "It's me. Yeah, I got her. She was being a pain in the ass so I cuffed her. Don't worry, she's fine."

You look up at him. "Let me talk to her." You hiss.

He scowls and shakes his head, the crease between his brows appearing. It's adorable really.

You can hear Sharon ranting on the other end. Oops.

Eventually he sighs and holds his phone out. "She wants to talk to you."

You smile sweetly and take it, holding it awkwardly in your restrained hands.

"Hello?" You ask, apprehensively.

"Tell Barnes to go outside." Sharon snaps.

"Err, can you give us some privacy?" You ask Bucky.

He turns from his position at the window and rolls his eyes. "I'll just be outside."

"We're alone." You tell her, almost dropping the phone.

"I've been calling you." She says, briskly.

"I don't know where my phone is, Barnes kind of abducted me so-"

"You didn't stick to the fucking plan, did you?"

"Technically I didn't, BUT I made it even better."

"You got greedy."

"I did it for us, Sharon. More investment means-"

"Don't drag my name into this. Lucky for you I managed to reason with the people you stole from."

"I didn't steal....the plan was...." You trail off, knowing that it's pointless making excuses.

"The plan was perfect until you went rogue and pissed off all the wrong people!" Sharon yells.

"Sorry." You mutter.

"I'm coming to get you and bring you back to Madripoor, you need to lay low. I promised them you'd disappear for a while."

"Fine." You sigh, grudgingly.

"I can't get a plane until the early hours so just stay put. Barnes will be guarding you."

"GUARDING me?" You splutter.

"Yes, didn't you hear what I said? You pissed off some prominent....personalities."

"Right."

"Just sit tight and try not to annoy Barnes too much."

"Promise." You sigh.

Sharon snorts in response and hangs up.

You tap on the window to indicate that the the call is over, Bucky slips back in and takes his phone.

"Everything ok?" He asks.

"Not really." You mutter, holding up your cuffed hands. "Please can you take these off? I'm obviously not going anywhere."

He eyes you suspiciously before nodding and fishing the key out of his pocket.

As he leans over to unlock you, you discreetly inhale in his scent. You've had a crush on Bucky since the first time you met him, in Madripoor. Then he'd been with Sam and the Baron, you'd only met him briefly but oh, your pulse kicked up a gear whenever he looked your way with those soulful blue eyes. You had crossed paths a couple of times since (he and Sharon seemed to be constantly doing favours for one another) and he always had the same effect on you. Sharon even teased you about it. And it might be (probably was) your imagination but you'd noticed his cheeks turn pinker when he was forced to speak to you, his eyes lingering on you when he thought you weren't looking.

"Thanks." You murmur, rubbing your wrists.

He gives you one of his soulful looks and you feel it in the pit of your tummy. "You're welcome." He says, softly.

You had actually been thrilled when he turned up at the bar, and even more thrilled when he said lowly in your ear, "You need to come with me." You had known that Sharon would send someone to get you, but it hadn't occured to you that someone would be Bucky. The struggle was mostly for show, you just enjoyed the feeling of Bucky's big, strong arms restraining you.

"You may as well get comfortable." He says, not looking up from his phone.

"I'm hungry." You say, plaintively.

"In case you haven't noticed, this isn't the kind of place that has room service."

"I saw a vending machine in reception."

Bucky sighs impatiently. "What do you want?"

"Chips and soda? Barbeque and Sprite?" You smile, hopefully.

"Fine. Don't move."

"I've got some change in my pocket." You offer, jutting your hip out at him.

His eyes flicker over you briefly. "I got it." He grumbles.

You need a moment alone to process your conversation with Sharon - you had heard her go off at people plenty of times but her vitriol had never been directed at you. It had been you and her against the world for so long, she felt like your family. She must've gotten a lot of shit from those investment assholes. Like they couldn't afford to lose a few thou, you're surprised that they even noticed.

Bucky returns with your soda and chips, chucking them unceremoniously on the bed, and some salted chips and a Coke for himself. You're fascinated, you've never seen him eat before.

"Thankyou." You say, ripping open the chips. "I'm starving."

He sits on the other bed, his legs stretched out and crossed as he looks impassively at the TV. You can't help stealing glances at him as you eat. He's wearing all black as usual, leather jacket, jeans and boots, his bionic arm concealed. Your cunt aches at the prospect of being alone with him for an entire night, you want to feel his arms around you again, his strong thighs between yours and his mouth, well, everywhere.

"Did Sharon tell you what I did?" You ask.

"I didn't ask for details. I just know that you pissed her off." He says, still looking at the TV.

"She's taking me back to Madripoor." You say quietly.

"I know. Makes sense." He shrugs.

"You and her go way back, right?"

"I've known her for a while."

"How come you and Sam are always doing her favours? You owe her or something? She doesn't like to talk about it." You probe.

"Neither do I." He says, turning his unflinching gaze on you.

You can't help but laugh. "You've got a great poker face, Barnes, I'll have to take you gambling in Madripoor, you'll make us rich."

"I'll pass." He says, crumpling his Coke can in his bionic hand.

You turn your attention to the TV - some garish game show - and feel his eyes still on you. The ache is getting worse, now you're positively throbbing with need. What the hell, you're going to Madripoor in the morning, who knows when you'll see him again? You may as well shoot your shot.

"Sharon thinks there's tension between us." You murmur casually, glancing at him.

"I won't argue with that."

"Sexual tension."

"Oh." He mutters. "You believe everything Sharon tells you?"

"She's mostly right about things."

Not entirely true. Sharon's exact words were, "If you and Barnes don't stop eye fucking each other I'm going to puke." Then she muttered something about 'steering clear of super soldiers'.

"Maybe we should do something about it, get it out of the way." You say, feeling yourself flush and keeping your eyes on the screen.

"That's not a good idea." He replies, but the tone of his voice sounds different, husky almost. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift on the bed.

"I've got a proposition for you." You say, finally, turning to him.

Bucky clears his throat. "If it's an investment opportunity I'm not interested."

"It's not financial, it's physical."

He sighs and looks at you.

"So, what if we kiss." You say, as lightly as you can manage.

"No." He says, flatly.

"Wait, I haven't finished. If we kiss and it's awful, then we forget about it and don't mention it ever again."

"I like the sound of that." He murmurs.

"If it's not awful well, we've got a motel room and a night to figure it out." You say softly, biting your lip.

The pause before he answers is far too long, and you're so embarrased you actually contemplate making a break for it.

"If I say yes will it shut you up?"

You laugh, relieved. "Yes, it will literally shut me up."

Bucky gets up off his bed slowly. "I'm going to regret this, I can tell."

"And I'm going into hiding, for who knows how long. It's the least you can do, Barnes." You say, your heart hammering with anticipation.

Bucky sits next to you, and your mouth starts to water just from his proximity.

"How do-"

You don't let him finish, leaning over and grabbing his jacket, pressing yourself against him and capturing his mouth with yours. It's even better than you imagined; he's slow and gentle but firm, bringing his hand up to grip the nape of your neck, a soft growl escaping from the back of his throat.

You pull away, flustered. Bucky's eyes are wide, staring at you.

You gulp. "Awful, right?"

"Just terrible." He murmurs, his hand tightening on the back of your neck.

"I guess that's it then." You shrug, looking at him through lowered lashes.

"That's it." He kisses you again, and this time it's all consuming. His lips are so soft but insistent and he licks into your mouth, making you groan into his.

You just want to climb onto him, anything to relieve the desperate ache. Bucky pulls you onto his lap with a grunt and you straddle him, your kisses growing deeper. He's so solid underneath you and you rub yourself against him, feeling the bulge grow in his jeans.

"Fuck, you're needy aren't you?" He chuckles lowly, kissing your neck.

You make a noise of agreement, slipping his jacket off his broad shoulders.

Bucky unbuttons your pants, and slides his hand into your panties.

"Is this ok?" He asks softly.

"It's all ok." You tell him and gasp as you feel his fingers opening you up, your hips jerking in response when he finds your clit. He tongues your mouth again as he plays with your pussy, slipping two fingers inside you.

You moan his name as you fuck his hand, rubbing him through his jeans and feeling the flicker of heat blooming at your core. Suddenly Bucky withdraws his hand and you stare at him as he gets up of the bed.

"Get undressed." He swallows, pulling his t-shirt off.

Quickly you strip down to your underwear and sit back on the bed, Bucky stands before you naked, beautiful, his arm gleaming in the lamplight. You can't hide your alarm when you notice he's got the cuffs in his hand again.

"What are those for?" You gulp, eyes wide.

"For when I fuck you." He says thickly. "If it's ok?"

You nod eagerly, pleasantly surprised. It was a first for you but you trusted him and well, now was a good a time as any.

Bucky gets on the bed and reaches for you, pulling you close and kissing you roughly, his hand grabbing a fistful of hair, his dog tags clinking against your chest.

"How come you still wear these?" You ask, running your fingers over the metal.

"Don't worry about it." He murmurs.

Then there was no more talking.

* * * * *

The next morning you wake up, nestled into Bucky's back and feeling sore. Your pussy and your wrists had taken a pummeling the previous night, he had fucked you every way he wanted to and you had lost count of your orgasms. Quite a going away present before you were shipped away to Madripoor. You were contemplating waking Bucky to go another round when his phone vibrates on the bedside cabinet. Already awake, he reaches for it.

"Morning Sharon." He intones. "Yeah, I guessed that. No, she was fine, I made sure that she behaved. Right, ok. See you then."

You groan. "Great."

He turns over. "She just landed."

"But we have time, right?"

Bucky laughs, and gives you a genuine smile. "Time for what?"

Sitting up, you nod towards the bathroom and then touch his bionic arm. "Is this thing waterproof?"

[bluerose5]

First Impressions (Part 1)

Word Count: 1,726

Rated T (Warnings for Swearing, Canon-Typical Violence)

Summary: What if, after receiving that call from Garrus while he was pinned down on Omega, Castis tries to track him down?

"Are you sure it was him?"

"I'm sure." Alec's smile turned mocking, the vitriol directed more towards himself. "I'm no Shadow Broker, but I still have my list of contacts here on the Citadel, even if it's dwindling by the seconds."

"Alec—"

"I don't need your pity, Castis." His smile fell, a subtle frown curling at the edges of his lips. "Besides, I'm doing this as a favor for a friend. Father to father. You know how it is."

"Yeah," Castis Vakarian sighed, "so I do."

It had been quite some time since the elder Vakarian graced the Citadel with his presence, but ever since he received that call...

"You finish up what you have to do there, and then you come on home to Palaven. We have a lot to sort out."

Even now, the echoes of gunfire rang in his ears, but not as much as the resignation in Garrus’s voice.

"Target practice," Garrus had called it.

As if an experienced C-Sec officer with common sense couldn't tell the difference between target practice and an all-out gunfight.

Even now, Castis's chest tightened.

The thought of losing Garrus now, especially when his mother's condition wasn't showing any signs of improvement—

Castis couldn't stand the thought. He couldn't lose both his wife and his son all at once.

When Garrus never reported back, he had to do something. After he spoke with some old friends on the Citadel, Alec Ryder put out some feelers of his own at his friend's request. For a while, there was nothing.

Then, they got a hit.

The Normandy SR-2, arriving to the Citadel from Omega. A ship flagged by Citadel Control's security algorithms for having alleged ties to the pro-human extremist group known only as Cerberus.

It was under the command of no other than Commander Shepard.

Why was Castis not surprised?

Between his and Alec's contacts, they had been able to discern that there were indeed aliens listed as part of the ship’s crew. A surprising move, given the organization's history, but Castis was far from calling them friends. Just because they expanded recruitment beyond their own species did not make them allies.

Add in a Spectre miraculously back from the dead, and the whole situation reeked of trouble.

Alec agreed, so they approached the matter with caution.

Thankfully, Solana understood when Castis had to drop everything and go. All that she asked was that he return home with the knowledge that Garrus was safe. That's it.

Of course, that wasn't enough to satisfy him.

Castis knew that Garrus was alive now, but that wasn't enough.

The next time he and Alec were pinged, they received intel stating that Garrus was spotted poking around the shipping sector of Zakera Ward with Commander Shepard, seeking out a notorious forger. For what? Spirits only knew.

The only other info that they had was that there was a drell and a quarian accompanying them as well.

While they awaited positive IDs on those two, they continued following Garrus’s trail, questioning the loose-lipped volus who was more than happy to give up Fade's position after his lousy bodyguards wandered off for a break.

Eventually, they were led to Harkin's position. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out that Garrus had already been there, what with the trail of bodies and mechs they left in their wake.

Seeing Harkin curled up on the floor, the bastard took one look up at them, then swore under his breath.

"Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me," he spat. "First your son, and now you? Haven't you Vakarians done enough?"

"Heh," Alec chuckled. "We're just getting started, tough guy."

Tapping at his omni-tool, Castis sent out an alert. While he dealt with Harkin, Alec approached the open console nearby, downloading all of its content, including the most recent call to a client.

"Have fun explaining yourself to C-Sec, Harkin, or is it Fade now?" Castis paused, crossing his arms over his chest as he peered down at him. "You can't resist making a fool of yourself for even a second, can you?"

"Hot take, coming from you." Harkin sneered. "You can't even keep that hot-headed son of yours on a leash. Bet C-Sec was glad to finally have his insubordinate ass off the force."

Castis saw red.

He took a step forward, but Alec's hand came down onto his shoulder, stopping him in his path.

"He's not worth it," Alec reminded him gently. As C-Sec swarmed the area, Alec jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "Come on. Let’s go find him before it's too late."

They strolled out together, heads ducked close and voices kept low.

"Did you find anything?" Castis asked.

"More than enough," Alec assured him. "Garrus is looking for a turian by the name of Lantar Sidonis."

"Can't say I've heard of him."

"Hmm..." Alec hummed thoughtfully to himself. "There was a location sent to set up a meeting. Orbital Lounge."

"Good work," Castis said, but Alec shrugged off the praise. "Let's go."

They stopped to make a quick change in a clothing store along the way. They got dressed in casual attire, posing as a couple of friends enjoying the sights.

By the time they made it to the lounge, Castis was already getting antsy. He struggled to maintain his cover, his eyes darting this way and that.

Alec elbowed him in the side.

"Calm down," he warned. He turned towards a random window display to glance over the selection of model ships. "Maintenance walkway above. Over your shoulder and to the right."

Castis snuck a peek as soon as he had the chance to.

He felt all of the blood drain from his face.

Turning quickly back towards the display, he hissed under his breath, "He has a rifle."

Alec shushed him before they could attract too much attention.

"I know, but do we really want to announce that little fact to the entire plaza?!" he whispered frantically.

Right.

Taking a deep breath, Castis composed himself. Usually, he wasn't this bad at remaining undercover, but the stakes were too high —too personal— to ignore.

It was hard to remain calm when your son was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

Killing in a public place...

What happened to make him fall so far?

"I spotted someone up there with him," Alec said, breaking Castis of his reverie. "Shepard, maybe?"

Looking around at the crowd, Castis shook his head a moment later.

"No, not Shepard. Look. To your left."

Alec followed his line of sight, then ducked his head back down.

"Her, the quarian, and I'm assuming that's Sidonis," Alec said, counting them off one by one. "Which means that might be the drell up top with Garrus. A lookout, perhaps?"

"Hmph."

That was when Castis noticed the spotting laser.

His pupils narrowed into thin slits.

"No."

Alec stopped him again, stepping out in front of him with his hands spread wide.

"Wait, wait, wait," he ordered. "Let's see how this plays out first."

Castis turned on him with a glare.

"My son is about to commit a murder in plain sight, and you want me to wait?" he snapped.

"I want you to think clearly," Alec corrected. "Take another look at who the spotting laser is trained on."

Staring him down, Castis huffed impatiently, but quickly complied. They couldn’t afford to be stuck at an impasse at such a crucial moment.

One look was enough to clear up the image that had been blurred by emotion.

What in the—

"No." Castis shook his head in disbelief, but that didn't change what he was witnessing. "No, Garrus is too fond of the Commander. He wouldn't hurt her."

The conviction with which he spoke surprised even himself, but Garrus's attachment to Shepard was undeniable, as much as he was loath to admit it.

Even then, he couldn’t deny what was right there in front of him. The spotting laser was focused on the back of Commander Shepard’s skull, clear as day.

However, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

When Sidonis moved, Garrus followed him, but the Commander was instantly there to block his opening.

There were a few tense moments where words were exchanged, far too quiet to hear from where Alec and Castis were positioned. They went back and forth for a bit, and Castis admittedly feared for the worst when both Shepard and Sidonis started to leave.

The second Garrus had a clear shot at Sidonis, Castis held his breath.

But the shot never came.

"Well," Alec muttered, "that was anticlimactic."

Castis glared and punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"That's my son, Ryder."

With a grumble, Castis dragged Alec along. Their hunt wasn't over yet.

"You should meet mine. I feel like if Scott would've let him go, then he would have somehow managed to pull the trigger by accident. A real stroke of bad luck, that one."

"Spirits."

Strolling through the crowds, they laid low for as long as they could.

By the time they found Garrus again, he was talking with the others by a skycar terminal, presumably waiting on a cab.

A whole flood of emotions came crashing down on Castis at once, and there was no holding back. Not anymore.

Ignoring Alec's warnings not to do anything rash, Castis stormed off in their direction.

Insane how, after so many years of being friends, the N7 was only choosing now to try to be the voice of reason when Castis wanted to be anything but.

Out of everyone, the drell noticed him first, regarding him with suspicion.

Before he could warn him, Castis called out, "Garrus!"

The other three instantly froze, right before they turned to face him.

Garrus’s eyes widened, his mandibles falling slack as he gaped.

"Dad?"

"'Dad?!'" Shepard and the quarian echoed, shocked by such an unexpected turn of events.

The drell, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit perturbed.

"Ah, his father," he hummed, nodding in understanding. "Your presence in the lounge makes sense now."

Alec's brow furrowed.

"Hold up, you knew we were there?" he asked skeptically.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call you two 'subtle.'"

"That doesn't matter!" Castis snapped.

Clenching his jaw, his mandibles were clamped down tight.

Time to get this meeting back on track.

"Garrus, we need to talk."

[bipercabeth]

48 for percabeth! I hope u feel better about the show

Annabeth has known that Percy was going to die from the moment she met him. Four summers. Best case scenario. 

Twelve-year-old Annabeth wasn’t particularly concerned about falling in love with the trouble-making son of Poseidon who drooled in his sleep. Freshly sixteen Annabeth sometimes wishes she had opted for the quiet life some children of Athena prefer: strategize, keep your head down, live a comfortable and unremarkable life. She hardly would’ve crossed paths with Percy outside of the occasional class or Capture the Flag. He and Grover could’ve found someone else to be their best friend, or maybe they would’ve bonded as a pair. And Annabeth would have kept her distance from Percy in the name of self-preservation, knowing they would only have four bittersweet summers together at best. 

The summer before the Titan War is not the best case scenario. Percy is hardly ever at camp except for quests and Kronos-related meetings. He chooses to spend what they both know is his last of their four measly summers away from Annabeth. Grover is nowhere to be found, Thalia is with the Hunters, Luke is hosting the Titan Lord, and Annabeth feels more like a scared little girl than she has in a long time. At least she isn’t the runaway. That title fell to Percy. 

It feels like an insult to Annabeth’s love for Percy to wish they hadn’t met. She is so much better for having loved him. For loving him—present tense. But she says this while he’s still here. His smile may not be directed at her that often, but he still smiles. Sometimes Annabeth can even stomach the jealousy of Rachel being the cause of that smile, because at least someone is giving him joy before this all goes to shit. When it does, maybe Annabeth will understand what it means to wish him away, if only to end the pain of having known and lost a person like Percy Jackson. 

The feeling isn’t new. Annabeth’s gut has twisted in previous conversations where someone would bring up high school and college plans. Percy would talk animatedly about getting his license at sixteen, and Annabeth was left with a dry mouth she could not twist into a smile. He would beam at Beckendorf’s plans to attend NYU in the fall and make the older boy promise to swing by Sally’s sometime. Even Beckendorf, who had never heard the full Great Prophecy, could not stop the microexpression of pity. 

When Annabeth first heard the prophecy, it was too much for her ten year old mind. There was no face to connect to the doomed fate, no cursed blade to reap the hero’s soul. Sometimes her young brain conjured an image of Thalia, but that was a nightmare of its own. Every night, Annabeth would watch Olympus fall at the hands of someone she hoped never to know. 

She still gets those nightmares, only the visuals have improved. Percy is in every single one of them, saving or razing Olympus depending on the night. He never survives. You cannot outrun fate. Annabeth has tried. 

Still, she is a daughter of Athena, and Athena always has a plan. When Percy dies, Annabeth will fall to pieces. In a lucky string of events, she might fall alongside him. It’s a war, after all. But she has a sneaking suspicion that she will outlive him. She has a plan for this as well. The shroud they made when he was stranded on Calypso’s island was nice and communal, leagues ahead of the one the Ares cabin shroud that still makes Annabeth’s blood boil. But deep in her soul, Annabeth knows that she alone will make his shroud. Just as she’ll burn it; just as she’ll care for Sally in his stead; just as she will lay blue roses on his headstone every time she’s in the neighborhood; just as she’ll be there for Grover, for Clarisse, for all of camp when he’s gone. She will do it alone. Annabeth held the sky, once. She will shoulder this as well. How much heavier could losing her best friend be than the weight of the world? In her anticipation, they feel the same. 

She will build a monument for him, something to last the ages as he was supposed to, as permanent as the love he has given her. It will overlook the gods on Olympus, a reminder of the boy they failed. The boy who was too good for them all. Regardless of how the war goes, this will always be true. 

He was never built to last. Nothing good ever can, and he’s been burning the candle at both ends for a while now. He was meant to burn bright, not long. 

Annabeth sits in the dark of the Big House rec room, the only quiet space now that camp is in full war preparation. Well, the only quiet space apart from the beach, but Annabeth knows the smell of salt air and the sound of waves will be her undoing. That is another key feature of her plan: never go to the ocean again. 

She curls her knees into her chest, feeling every inch the child that she is. But children are not supposed to have plans for their best friend dying. Children are not supposed to have their first kiss out of fear that said best friend will die before their four summers are up. 

The door opens, throwing the room into harsh shadows and blinding light. 

“Um.” Annabeth can’t see who’s talking, but she’d know his voice anywhere. “Chiron said there was a war council meeting today.” 

She raises a hand to block out the light and give her eyes time to adjust. “Yeah, later.” To Annabeth’s horror, her voice is hoarse. Her throat is clogged with tears. 

Percy’s sneakers stop shifting in the carpet. “Are, uh... are you okay?” 

He sounds hesitant to ask, like he’s expecting vitriol to spew from Annabeth’s mouth. And, in fairness, sometimes it does. But Annabeth doesn’t have vitriol in her right now. The awareness that she does not have many days left with Percy is painfully acute. To spend them angry feels like a waste. 

“No, I’m not.” By now her eyes have adjusted to the light, and she looks at him through bleary eyes. 

Percy stills when he sees her face, looking ready to bolt. He points to the door. “Do you want me to...?”

Annabeth sniffles. “I don’t want to be alone.” 

What breaks her is how quickly he is by her side. For all their faults, it is the one thing she can count on. As long as she lets him, Percy will come to Annabeth when she’s hurting.

She doesn’t tell him how deeply that statement is carved into her, that she is carved from loneliness the same way he is carved from guilt—the pitfalls of pride and loyalty. 

A kid carved from loneliness cannot plan to be held the way that Percy holds Annabeth. Such a selfless love was unfathomable as a little girl; how could she ever have accounted for it? He just... holds her. He doesn’t try to talk or look at her face. He’s just there, unwaveringly. It kills Annabeth to know he won’t always be. It hurts to be with him, but it will hurt so much more to be without him. 

The dam breaks, and Annabeth sobs into Percy’s shoulder. He’s taller than her now, grown only to be cut down young. Still, he is steadfast, grounded, secure in his roots. The way a towering oak has no reason to fear a chainsaw until the cutting has already begun. 

“You’re my best friend,” she tells him, because she’s not sure she’s ever said it and it’s something he deserves to hear. “No matter what, you’re my best friend.” 

Percy strokes a gentle hand along the back of Annabeth’s head. “And you’re mine,” he assures her. He doesn’t say you’re my best friend too. Just you’re mine. As if the fact doesn’t haunt her. She is his, irrevocably. 

A gentle knock at the door interrupts them. Annabeth recognizes Silena’s quiet footfalls and almost withdraws from Percy, but he makes no move to. 

Silena’s voice is soft, not smug like Annabeth expects. “War council in fifteen. Figured I’d give you two a heads up.” 

Annabeth meets her eyes over Percy’s shoulder. “Thanks.” 

The older girl ducks her head in something resembling shame. “It’s the least I can do.” She leaves. 

“How much longer?” Percy asks when the door clicks shut. It isn’t an impatient question. In fact, Annabeth doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking. 

She gives an honest answer. “However long we have left.” And the sun begins to set on the fourth summer. 

[tomtenadia]

A Little Braver ch.6

Here we go with chapter 6. I edited but if you see any typos I am sorry I had a long day at work.

During the call they attend in the chapter they mention a substance called ANFO. Click here for more info. I did some research hopefully it makes sense. I am no an expert but I needed something for the scene.

Our two idiots... well, I hope you will be happy (for now) *evil laughter*

I hope you will enjoy the chapter

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

Three months later.

Rowan landed back at the airbase in the morning. The carrier had docked on the coast a few hours earlier on and then they had flown back to the base with their jets.

He got off his plane and smelled the air of home. Winter had given way to spring and he could smell flowers and wondered if the kingsflames were in bloom already.

“Damn it feels good to be back.” Shouted Gavriel getting off his jet and stretching his back “I am dying for a very long relaxing bath. And peace, without you idiots annoying me.”

“Oh yeah,” said Fenrys “Not having to hear Connall and Vaughan snore will be so good.” He turned to Rowan and Gavriel “Not everyone has the rank to get their own quarters.”

Rowan pretended not to hear the youngster and started walking around his aircraft to do his post-flight checks. He had enough of their bickering and of Fenrys moaning in general.

“Guys.” He bellowed “Less talking and do your post-flight checks.”

“Someone is grumpy.” Added Fenrys.

Connall slapped him on the back of his neck “don’t anger the man even further. Now shut up and do your job. I am so tired of your voice.”

Rowan silently thanked Connall for putting his twin in place.

Once he was done, Rowan grabbed his duffel bag and went to the changing room and took a shower. He would take a proper one at home, for now he just wanted to remove some dirt from him.  

The changing room was busy and he opened his locker with a sigh. He definitely needed peace and quiet and not to be in close quarters for a while.

“I am so looking forward to my month off.” Commented Gavriel “and decent food. I want to sit down for a meal for more than ten minutes.” Then he turned to Rowan “Any plans?”

“Not really.” He shrugged.

“Are you going to see your captain?”

“I don’t know.” He said quickly. He did his best to put her out of his mind during those months away. To ignore those pesky feeling that had been taking root in him even while far away from her. He had hated how he left her and throwing himself into work had been the best way to try and forget. But now he was back and he felt as if he was stuck.

He put his uniform back on and grabbed his stuff “Just stay out of trouble,” he told them before leaving the room.

While walking to his office he pulled his mobile out of the bag, switched it back on and a barrage of notifications hit him and two voicemails awaited him. The first one was from Aelin and she was mad at him. How could he blame her. He had disappeared without a word. How could he even begin to apologise? When he listened to the second and a glimmer of hope appeared in front of him. She wanted to talk. He grabbed his stuff and blitzed out of the airbase. The taxi he had called arrived ten minutes later and once at the station he paid the driver and got off, his duffel bag on his shoulder. An array of emotions passed through him while he moved the first step in the direction of the firehouse, panic being at the top of the list.

He lifted his sunglasses on his head and took in the scene in the distance. Two fire engines were parked in front of the yard. Aelin and the rest of the team were washing them, the day was sunny and mild so the perfect occasion. He chuckled and noticed that she was standing. She was walking normally and he sighed. Rowan found himself staring at her walking around the truck and shouting orders. She was just as stunning as he remembered her. He missed her. He realised in that instant looking at her from far away that somehow, although there was nothing but vitriol between the two, he just missed her. Was his heart actually racing?

Aelin lifted her gaze for one instant and in the distance on the pavement she noticed a tall figure with silver hair. She squeezed the sponge and threw it in the bucket, then stood and marched to him doing all her best to maintain her cool to try and pass as aloof and not minimally interested that he was back. A lie to herself she struggled to believe.

“I am back safely.” He said when she was close enough.

“Well, at least you can do your job well enough to stay alive.” Her tone was hard and unforgiving.

Of course she was still mad at him, what was he expecting?

“Follow me.” She turned around and began walking back inside the station and Rowan knew she was headed for her office. Better have some privacy, he had a feeling he was not going not enjoy the conversation.

“Sit,” she ordered, once inside her office and he complied like a good soldier.

She moved around the desk and plopped on her chair.

“Aelin I—“

“No, you don’t get to go first,” annoyance quite thick in her voice “You left.” She sat up straight “you left me at the hospital and left again three days later for your mission and neither time you bothered to tell me why. You left.” She searched for his gaze and looked at his pine green eyes “Do you have any idea how I felt when I fully woke up and found out you never got back?” She told him unleashing all the anger she had bottled up while he was away “I went to your airbase and I was told by one of the guards that you all had gone for a week already.” She was not shouting but her tone was full of annoyance toward him.

Rowan had thought over and over again how he could apologise to her, but doing so it would mean reveal his secret and he was not sure he could. He should expose his fears and come clean with her, she had lost, just like him, she would understand his struggle.

Eventually he stood and started pacing “I heard what you said in the hospital… about your feelings. And I panicked.” He stopped for a moment “I freaked out because…” he collapsed on the chair, his head in his hands and Aelin knew exactly why but she had to hear him say it.

He had to do it, be a little braver and tell her why he fled, it was his only chance if he even contemplated the idea of being with her or to have any kind of relationship.

“I am scared of getting involved again.” He sighed deeply and Aelin saw pain in his eyes “Over a year and a half ago I lost my wife.” He confessed and Aelin gripped her hands under the table to avoid crying. “She died in a car crash. It was winter and the roads were bad and she just… lost control of the car according to the police.” He looked away for a second “Lyria was also pregnant.” His voice trembled for a moment. “I was away. I was on the other side of the continent when it happened. I left my pregnant wife alone.”

Aelin’s eyes became wet all of a sudden.

“She was going to leave me.” He admitted painfully and Aelin almost gasped at the unexpected ammission “a few days before I left I was looking for something for her in her drawer and saw the papers. She had all the documents ready to file for divorce, my signature was the only thing missing. She had also a letter from her lawyer saying that she would win full custody of our child since, because of my job, I was not fit to look after a child. I would probably win to see my child from time to time.” He stood again “I never told her that I had found out. I left for my mission and she didn’t even come to the airbase with me as she used to do in the past.” He ran his hand through his hair “I loved her. But apparently not enough.” He stopped again as if to gather his thoughts “I got a short compassionate leave and when I got back I just threw myself into work. It kept my mind busy. Since then I haven’t been with anyone.”

“I know.” Aelin whispered and he look at her in a strange way”About the accident, I mean.” She said softly.

“One day I was curious and I looked you up.” She stood and went around the table and sat at the front, facing him. No barriers between them “I read about your wife. Then I read the article about her accident.” She hoped she was not to mess up this one “I recognised our engine in one of the photos from the article.

His gaze widened.

“My team and I attended the accident.” And stared at him but his expression was illegible “It was bad. Only one person survived that night. I had nightmares about it for a week. She… your wife… I think she did not suffer much. I know it’s not much consolation, but from the dynamics it was probably instantaneous.”

Rowan looked at her and she saw tears in his eyes.

“I still have the file.”

“No.” He said calmly “I don’t think I can.”

She took a step to him and took his hand in hers “I know the pain” it was time for her confession. It was only fair.

Rowan looked at her and remembered about the man she had lost.

“His name was Sam. He was a firefighter and a captain at west station. I lost him over a year ago. He attended a call. We could not assist straight away because we were busy on another one. Once we were done we ran in their help. I was too late.” She buried her face in her hands “when I got there they were just carrying his body outside the building.” She looked at him “he did not die a nice death. He suffered and I was not there. I was too late to help him.” She squeezed his hand “I know your pain and your fears because they are the same as mine.” She took another step toward him “losing Sam almost destroyed me. I can’t go through that a second time.”

“How do you get out of the abysm?” He asked tenderly, both with eyes moist.

“One step at a time.” She added and her body was now almost close to his.

Rowan hesitated for an instant then his arm reached out and pulled her closer “Together, then” he whispered, leaning his chin on her head “we can try together.”

“Yeah…” she whispered, her hands against his chest “I am sorry I was mad at you.”

“Shhh… I deserved it.”

She leaned closer and inhaled his scent of pine and snow. He always smelled of home.

“I am sorry I was always so mean to you. I think I was just trying to push you away and keep my distance.”

Aelin smiled and with her fingers brushed his name tag “I think we both did our best to show our unpleasant side.”

She felt him tighten his arms around her “Can we please not? I don’t mean not fighting because I have a feeling that we might get into a few fights from time to time. I mean stop being actually nasty to each other.” He admitted and she felt his thumb tracing circles on her back “whatever this is… I want to give it a go. If you are okay of course,”

She looked up at him and saw a faint smile that reached his eyes. Even with a small smile the man was stunning. She didn’t want to think about with a proper smile.

“Yeah. I want to. I am still terrified, though.”

“That makes two of us.”

“So, where do we start, captain?”

“You owe me two so what about we start with me taking you out for dinner and then we move from there?”

Aelin chuckled “Do you have your mortgage ready?”

He smiled. He gave her an actual real smile and Aelin had to restrain her instinct to slam him against the door and have her way with him.

“The bank apparently does not offer mortgages to pay for meals.” He pulled back a bit to look at her “are you free tomorrow night? I am on my month off so I am totally free.”

Aelin nodded “yes, we will be coming off night shift around 9am. I can go home, sleep and I will see you at night.”

“I still have your address. Can I pick you up at seven?”

“I think I will be alive again by that time.”

“What do we say to our friends if they ask?”

“None of their business.”

He looked down at her “I like it.”

They pulled apart and Aelin went back to sitting on the desk and him on the chair “So your knee is okay again?”

“Yes, physio was a bitch but it’s getting better. The guys, as a joke, gave me kneepads.”

She saw him smile and she realised she would say all sort of stupid things to see that reaction in him. The result left her breathless.

“And you performance review?”

She gave him the biggest grin ever “We crushed it. Absolutely nailed it and I am so proud of my team”

“I had no doubts.” He leaned back on the chair “and I see that you got another engine. That must be great news for you guys.”

She nodded “we got it two weeks ago. It was all thanks to the protest after the embankment fire. Dorian pushed and he got it.” She took a pen and tapped it on her knee “we still don’t have a full team, so at the moment we use it if  the situation requires it and we split our team and Aedion leads it. It’s not optimal but the team is coming,” she explained “west is giving us half of their experienced team in their second truck and they are taking half rookies so we’ll both have a truck of mixed crews. Again, not the best but we can’t have an engine with all newbies.”

“That is wonderful.”

“You interview helped as well. The one outside the hospital.”

He looked away for a moment “they made me so mad. Giving all the credit to us when we did very little. I had to.”

“Thank you.”

In that instant the dispatch alarm went off.

“Shit.” She jumped off the table “Don’t go anywhere. There’s a tv, a kitchen. Stay here.”

He nodded and grabbed her hand “Be safe, please.”

She nodded and ran outside.

“There you are. You are the last one here.” Joked Aedion while they were both getting ready.

“She was with her captain.” Added Ansel with a wicked smile.

“Uh, getting nasty in the office?” Added Brullo.

Aelin opened the door and jumped in the engine at her seat “stop behaving like children and jump in the bloody truck right now.”

“Aedion, you lead the second one. ”

Rowan noticed the two engines and the ambulance drive away and once they were away he wandered around the empty space.

He walked around the deserted station and tried to discover more about that interesting team. He walked back the same way as her office and found a corridor that lead to their beds. On a wall there were pictures of the whole team. He stared at Aelin’s picture. She had the most beautiful grin and it was so like her. He smiled at her and traced his step back to the resting area. He sat on the sofa and switched on the tv and on the news he saw a raging fire as breaking news and he guessed that’s where they were going. The headline quoted a fire in an explosive warehouse near a quarry. It looked terrifying.

“Aedion,” said Aelin over the radio “we are going to the warehouse near the quarry. Explosives. This is your kingdom.”

“I saw it.  Dispatch confirmed west is coming as well. It must be bad for four engines.”

They arrived at the site five minutes later.

Aelin jumped off the truck “Fuck.” Was her first reaction at the scene in front of them.

In the distance she heard the evacuation sirens for the quarry. West station arrived a moment later.

The fire was raging. Luckily the warehouse was near a quarry and away from inhabited areas, that at least was a start.

She saw a man with a high visibility jacket and ran to him.

“Captain Galathynius.” She introduced herself.

“Captain. I am the manager.” He explained “We evacuated the quarry in time as soon as we heard the first explosion. The warehouse team was loading a new load of explosives to be sent to the quarry. Something must have gone wrong. We lost contact with the team in the north wing where we store the explosives.”

Aedion arrived a moment later “what are we dealing with?”

“Mostly ANFO.” Replied the manager “it was meant to be moved.”

“Do you store any other agent or fuels?”

The manager nodded “but in a separate section. Something must have gone wrong while carrying it away. ANFO must have been in contact with any of the other fuels we use. ANFO is just an oxidiser” the manager explained and Aedion nodded aware of how ANFO worked.

“How many people do you have in the warehouse?’ Asked Aelin trying to assess the situation.

“About 60 and I have 40 accounted for.”

“We’ll get them out.” She said. Grabbed Aedion’s arm and walked away.

“Still twenty people inside. You are the expert. What are the chances I can send the team in and make it out alive?”

“Heat will cause ANFO to detonate. The fire is spreading qui—“

Another savage explosion ravaged the area. The blast so strong that the aftershock was felt quite a distance away. Aedion had pulled Aelin down on the ground and when they lifted their heads they noticed the rest of the team had done the same.

“Thomas,” she shouted while standing up “Connect to the water supply and get the water going and keep the temperature down as much as you can.”

He nodded and spurred his team into action.

“Aedion, you and I are going in.”

The man nodded.

“Luca, Brullo, keep the water going as well. We need to cool down the place as much as possible.” Then she walked to Thomas “Aedion and I are going in. There are still twenty people trapped. We’ll see if we can do something. Call dispatch and order all the units they can send in.”

“You can’t be serious.” The other captain protested “Dorian will not be happy.”

“I am.” she said finishing to don her gear fully “we’ll se you on the flip side. Keep the water coming.”

He stared at her and Aedion ran to the area less affected by the fire. It was a suicide mission and Dorian was not going to be happy.

Back at the station, Rowan was on the edge of his seat. He had felt the explosion, heard it mostly. He kept staring at the screen where he had seen Aelin and Aedion running into the building and his heart raced to the point of pain. There was no way there was anyone alive in that inferno. Why was she risking her life like that?

The four engines were woking hard channeling as much water as possible on the building but from his perspective it seemed like the fire was not yielding at all. He stood and started pacing.

In that moment Lorcan called him “Are you seeing the news about the fire?”

“Yeah.” Rowan replied not removing his eyes from the tv.

“They are there.”

“I know.” Rowan felt sick “Aelin just went in.”

“Are you at home?” The man on the line asked.

“No, at the station.”

“Let me know when they are back.”

Rowan hung up and resumed his pacing.

Dorian arrived on the scene and ran to Thomas as soon as he noticed the captain.

“Where are they?” He asked with panic in his voice.

Thomas inclined his head and indicated the building and Dorian swore savagely.

“How long? I got an update on my way here.”

“Five minutes.” Added the captain directing the water to another area of the building “I have called for more units. Two more are on their way.”

“That is not enough,” raged Dorian grabbing his phone. He walked away calling someone. When he came back he was slightly less furious “Being the chief has its perks. All the units available are coming in. This is not—“ another explosion.

Much stronger than the previous one. A mushroom of yellow fire went up in the sky and the blast rocked the ground all the way to Orynth.

“Chief to Captain. Aelin please come in.” No answer.

“Aelin, damn answer that bloody radio.” He started pacing nervously and a hand ran through his hair “Aedion, come in.”

“Fuck, fuck.”

In that instant the sound of sirens filled the air.

Dorian turned and saw a long line of engines filing down the main track.

He ran to the station captains and started shouting orders. The other engines deployed around the warehouse and started tackling the fire.

Thomas joined Dorian “I am going in. My men are manning the engine and the hoses. I am going to get them out.”

“No you are not.” The tone in Dorian’s word was harsh “I am not having another one of my captains in that building. They should not be inside in the first place.”

“We have still twenty civilians trapped inside.”

“Captain, you and I have done this job for a while. You know better than me that with three such explosions the chances someone inside is still alive are slim. We stop the fire and hope they are safe.”

“Do nothing?” Thomas shouted “How the fuck do you expect me to do nothing?”

“I am the chief, I am ordering.”

Thomas stormed away and resumed his position with the attack lines with the rest of his team.

“Aedion?” Aelin’s voice was faint. She removed the pile of debris from her body and tried to stand “Aedion?” She called again, panic rising. The smoke and fire were making visibility non existent “AEDION.” She shouted.

A moment later she heard a groan and noticed his bulking figure sprawled on the floor. She ran to him and saw he was awake “answer me for fuck’s sake.”

He removed his mask “my oxygen tank is bust.”

She removed hers and passed it to him “use mine, I still have some juice left.”

“We need to get out.”

“We haven’t found anyone.”

“Aelin,” he breathed removing the mask and giving it back to her “we need to get out. Another explosion like the last one and we are roast. And the fumes are bad. We don’t have long.”

“Fine.” She helped him stand. Slowly they tried to navigate their way through the fire and smoke.

The radio crackled static as they took a few steps deeper in the inferno.

“I heard something.” Aelin moved to the sound and Aedion followed. They found a heavy door and opened it slowly. Inside they found the twenty workers still missing.

“Is anyone injured?”

A woman nodded and showed her leg that clearly had a fracture and then pointed at at another man who lay unconscious.

“We’ll get you out of here.” She looked at their scared faces “pull up you clothes and cover mouth and noses” then she crouched down and offered the woman a piggyback. Aedion placed the unconscious man on his shoulder. She started to walk but one of the workers stopped her “This way.” They walked to a door that was locked.

“It’s a secondary route. It will take us to some tunnels underneath.”

Aelin looked at Aedion and the man nodded. It was their only option. They deposited their victims on the ground and with their axes they started knocking down the heavy door. Once through they recovered the people and walked on “stay behind us. Do not walk away form the big man behind me. Hold hands and form a line like at school.”

The civilians nodded and followed. The tunnels were full of smoke. They needed to be quick. The fumes from ANFO were toxic. Her oxygen tank started beeping and she knew she had ran out of juice as well.

“This way,” said the man who seemed to know about the tunnels “these were used in the olden days when we still used dynamite to blast the quarry. They would carry it under here. Apparently it was safer than outside were there were people everywhere. They never had any accident.”

Aelin followed the man with apprehension, everyone had started coughing quite badly.

“How far?”

“Not long. We are almost out. My dad was a worker here in the olden days. He told me everything about the tunnels.”

She heard Aedion cough behind her and she followed next.

Then she felt it. The breeze and a few minutes later the tunnel opened up right in front of the quarry. Everyone collapsed exhausted and took great gulps of air. Aelin looked up and saw the fire was diminishing and gasped when she noticed the crazy amount on fire engines.

“Captain, Thomas,” she croaked, while her chest spasmed in another fit of coughing.

“Chief, captain, where are you?”

Fuck, of course Dorian was there. Lovely, a dressing down from him was all she needed “In front of the quarry, we found some tunnels. We have all civilians with us.” And her coughing resumed savagely.

Dorian walked to the manager “my men saved your trapped civilians. They mentioned some tunnels.”

The manager nodded “follow me,” they reached some SUVs, Dorian jumped in and they started driving. Not long after they stopped in a car park and Dorian in the distance noticed two firefighters uniforms.

“You damn fools,” he shouted when he was in close range “that was definitely one of the most stupid thing you two have ever done.”

Aelin coughed “Glad to see you too, buddy.”

Aedion stood “ two of the civvies are injured, the other ones just need to be checked.”

“Load them in the SUVs,” said the manager “we’ll take you all back to the main area with the EMTs.”

“Civilians first, Aedion and I can wait.” The man helped carry the survivors and sat back beside Aelin waiting for their turn and breathing deeply.

Dorian stood in front of them glaring “The whole fire department in the region has been mobilised for this.” He looked away “how did you two survive the two explosions?”

“We have super power.” She joked but from Dorian’s reaction she realised she had gone too far. The man was pissed.

“I should be mad at both of you and suspend you for being reckless.” He growled “Instead I will just keep on venting my displeasure for a few days more and also thank you for saving the civilians. But I am still displeased with you two. You do your job, you do not play heroes. Do you both read me in this?”

The two nodded silently without adding any comments to avoid angering Dorian even more.

The SUVs came back and both Aelin and Aedion made their way to the vehicles after the chief ordered them to get their arses back to their teams.

When they got back to where their team was cheers erupted.

Thomas passed his hose to a team member and ran to hug Aelin “you idiot. You damn idiot.”

“Such sweet words.” She joked patting the man on the back.

Aedion was dragged away by Lysandra for some checks and now Elide was pulling her jacket “come on, you will smooch later. Now I need to check on you. It’s protocol and you inhaled enough shit for today.”

Rowan noticed the black SUVs bring back some civilians and his worry grew when neither Aelin nor Aedion appeared. The flames were now under control thanks to the effort of all the engines involved.

Then he spotted her, her dirty blonde hair popping out of one of the SUVs that had just come back, and Aedion followed.

He collapsed on the sofa and finally let out the breath he had no idea he had been holding. She looked a mess but she was walking. She was fine. He saw the west captain ran for her and hug her and for a very brief second a pang of jealousy hit him. The he realised it was just a colleague being relieved to see they were alive. 

Elide dragged Aelin away to the ambulance and he hoped Lorcan was following the news. Elide was petite but he had a feeling the woman had just as much fire as Aelin.

He relaxed and then he had an idea. He grabbed the phone and rang Gavriel “Hey man, listen I have an idea and I need your help.”

Aelin sat on a gurney in an ambulance, with an oxygen mask attached to her face.

“I am fine,” she complained, trying to remove it, but Elide slapped her hand.

“You are violent.”

“What were you two thinking? You and that idiot cousin of yours? Going inside that hell?” The woman complained checking again her blood pressure and oxygen levels.

“It’s our job.”

“Not when the bloody place is about to blow up. You scared the heck out of everyone.”

“How’s Aedion?”

“Probably getting beaten up by Lys.”

Aelin laughed and more coughing wrecked her body. When she reopened her eyes her entire team was in front of the ambulance “Don’t you two do that ever again. You crazy bastards.” Were the loving words coming from Ansel. Everyone nodded “Dorian had to call all the fire trucks in the area.” Explained Ress.

“I guess you two will soon receive another invite from the mayor.” Joked Nox and Aelin gasped.

Brullo looked at her with a grin “that’s what you get at playing damn heroes. Police has been stopping people coming any closer all night. There is a sea of reporters out there.”

“Don’t you have jobs to do?” Groaned Elide “let the woman recover.”

“I always forget how scary you can be Lochan.” Ren shouted back at her while walking away from them.

“How are you feeling? Can you breath better?”

Aelin nodded.

“Your oxygen levels are back to normal. Does it hurt when you breath?”

“No, I am fine.”

It was much, much later when they did manage to finally get back to the station. Aelin got off the truck and then a wall of muscles slammed into her and enveloped her in a fierce hug. She looked up and noticed a pair of green eyes staring at her. She leaned her head against his chest for a second and the smell of pine and snow hit her. His scent.

“Don’t do that ever again.” He whispered in her ear.

“Where you worried about me, captain?” Then she pulled back noticing her team staring at the two. Fuck, no one knew they had sort of reconciled.

“What is the arsehole doing here?” Shouted Aedion pulling Aelin away from Rowan.

“He was here before the call. I told him to wait for me. That’s why he is here. And his name is not arsehole.” She growled back at her cousin.

Then a few more people came out of the station and they recognised Rowan’s squadron.

“We made food. Gavriel is a great cook. We helped. I just thought that you might all be starving.”

“Damn he is good,” said Ansel looking at Rowan from top to bottom.

Lorcan looked at Elide and the woman smiled at him. He tried to smile back but he was nervous and instead walked back to the station with the rest of the group.

“They need domesticating,” commented Lysandra when she noticed her friend’s dejected expression “Let’s go, I hope the food is as good as last time.”

Rowan and Aelin were the only two left behind “Sorry I hugged you in public.”

She shook her head “It’s fine. It actually felt nice.” Then smiled “I just hope you are now ready for all the comments that are going to rain on us as soon as we get back in there.” She brushed his uniform “I covered you in soot.”

“I don’t care. I have never been more terrified in my life. And I had some hairy experiences in my job.”

“Sorry,” she looked down but she felt his fingers lift her chin.

“You were amazing. Totally insane, but I am in awe.”

He took her shoulder “come on, you need food and we got loads ready.”

Together they walked back and Aelin walked to the sink to wash her face. She wanted a shower but she wanted food more.

“Aedion you could have at least washed your face.” She sat beside Rowan and noticed her cousin’s state.

“I am hungry.”

“Lys, did you kiss him in that state?”

“Hell no,” said the woman taking a bite of her food “I gave him a pat on the back and told him to get his arse in the ambulance.”

“Uh, someone is not getting any tonight.” Chimed Ress and the group laughed.

“Probably more than you, boyo.”growled back Aedion without rising his gaze from his meal.

“Well, someone is definitely getting some,” added Fenrys and nodded to Aelin and Rowan who were just sitting normally eating their food, not even brushing against each other.

Rowan growled at the man and Aelin laughed.

“So what is it with you two?” Asked Elide curious.

Aelin and Rowan’s head popped up from their plates.

“You hugged, he did all of this, are you two dating and pretending to fight so we don’t annoy you?”

“We are just us for now.”explained Aelin “before the fire we talked.”

“We are figuring things out. No labels. No rush. One step at a time.” He grabbed Aelin’s hand under the table and turned to her “we will let things develop.”

“That’s boring.” Comment Aedion, mouth half full.

Aelin snorted out loud “You pined after Lysandra for two years. Two years of driving me crazy because you were head over heels for her but could not make up your mind.”

“Aelin.” Shouted the man.

“Two years?” Asked Lysandra “why you never told me?”

“You know him. He always tries to do the right thing. He kept telling himself that it was not proper since you worked together. I had to read him the regulations and tell him that EMTs are not under our chain of command so he was in the clear. Had it be Ansel, now that would have been an issue since he is her superior.” Explained Aelin who enjoyed the shift of the conversation moving away from her and Rowan.

“You are an idiot.”

She noticed Lorcan throwing glances at Elide and she elbowed Rowan but he had noticed as well.

Elide stared at Lorcan, then blushed savagely and went back to her food “this is amazing,” she said out loud.

“Lorcan made those.” Said Gavriel and Aelin was sure that the man had noticed the exchanges as well.

“So you are a good cook as well?”

Lorcan grunted but Connall elbowed him. A very brave manoeuvre considering that Lorcan was his boss.

“I live on my own. I need to know how to cook.” He managed, never looking at her.

Aelin texted Rowan is he always this bad at flirting?

She could hear Rowan silent laugh this is actually going well for his standards.

Aelin rolled her eyes “who has a house big enough with a garden that we can have a nice barbecue? All of us? Just to get to know each other?” Announced Aelin.

Gavriel raised his hand “I do. I have a big yard and I haven’t used my barbecue since last year.”

“Awesome. What about this Saturday?We are off and you guys are on your month off. So it’s perfect.”

“How do you know about our month off?” Asked Fenrys, staring at Rowan.

“Ro— Captain Whitethorn told me.”

“Oh, of course he did, didn’t he?”

She was going to slap Fenrys.

“Lieutenant, I don’t see why it might be any of your business what the captain and I talk about.” Rowan had put on his captain voice and Fenrys went back to his food.

“The barbecue sounds amazing, spring is in full swing.”

“Good,” said Aelin standing and going to the fridge “I think we all need it after tonight.” Then she brought a bottle of coke to the table “we  can’t have wine because we are still on shift.”

“It’s fine,” said Vaughan “we are used to stay dry.” And he pointed at Rowan and Lorcan “their no booze policy is outrageous. We can’t even drink when we are off shift.”

“Blame the twins,” replied Rowan “they are the ones who got drunk, brought two girls on a heavily secure aircraft carrier, got busted and are still on active duty just because Lorcan and I saved their arses.”

“Oh yeah, that was epic.”

“So after that, Rowan and I decided to tighten things and now they can only drink once their mission is over and their arses are back on Terrasen.” Explained Lorcan.

“That’s brutal,” commented Aedion.

The twins had gone silent all of a sudden.

“It must be hard keeping big kids in place,” Elide asked Lorcan and the man attempted a smile at the woman.

“That’s why Rowan is the one who deals with that. He is the babysitter. The perks of rank.”

Rowan gave Lorcan a rude gesture and Aelin burst out laughing.

“You are lucky we are off duty, Whitethorn.”

“Why? Are you going to spank me?”

The group burst into laughter. No one expected the stiff necked captain to come out with such a remark.

“No, because you might like it and it’s gross.”

Aelin was in stitches, her stomach in pain from too much laughing.

“Who is the kinkiest?” Asked Lysandra.

The fire station team pointed at Ansel and the woman stood and bowed happy to be the winner of such a title.

The pilots group pointed at Lorcan and Elide blushed savagely.

“I think he and Essar covered every place of their houses and tried every position known to the human race.” Commented Gavriel.

Elide stared at Aelin in disbelief and Aelin knew the woman’s fears. Elide was the opposite and had no experience and could see why Elide was now panicking.

After their meal, the fire station boys had been put on kitchen duty and were washing dishes and cleaning, while Ansel, Lys, Elide and Aelin were having their meeting in the ambulance.

“I can’t.” Said Elide.

“Why?” Asked Ansel.

“Did you hear Gavriel? Lorcan is basically a sex god and I am the opposite.”

“There is no need to freak out now. All you are doing is staring at each other. When the time comes you just have to talk to him.” Explained Lysandra calmly.

“And tell him what? Sorry Lorcan I do not know what to do with men?”

“Yes,” said Aelin “if he is a decent man he will understand.”

“If he is not, I‘ll deal with him.” Aelin liked Ansel a lot. The woman wan’t always easy to get along with but when it came to them four they had formed their tiny support group and Ansel would back them up at all times. She was loyal and quite an awesome firefighter.

“Yeah but he might want to do things I do not feel comfortable with.”

“Consent, Elide.” Said Ansel sternly “If you say no it’s no. If the bastard pushes, you dump his arse straight away because he is not worth it.”

“Ansel is right,” said Aelin, taking Elide’s hand “If you want to go slow, you tell him. If he says no, well he can fuck off.”

Rowan was helping in the kitchen when he noticed all the women had disappeared “where did they go?” He could not see them anywhere.

“Girls meeting in the ambulance.” Explained Aedion “Aelin, Lys, Elide and Ansel sit in the back of the ambulance and have their girls meetings. Probably to gossip or complain about us.”

“Oh.” Was Rowan’s only comment.

“But I think tonight you and I are in the clear.” He finished washing the dishes “I got a feeling they are talking about Elide and Lorcan.”

“So everyone noticed, eh?”

“They were definitely not being subtle.” Replied Aedion “you tell you CO to go easy on her. He breaks her heart, I break him.” Then he turned to Rowan “same goes to you. You break Aelin’s heart and you are a dead man. She has been through enough.”

Rowan leaned against the counter “I know about Sam.”

Aedion’s mouth fell open.

“She told me.” Rowan admitted quietly while drying some of the dishes “We are taking things slow.” Confessed Rowan. He felt like he could talk easily to the man, although he was positive Aedion was not his biggest fan “I lost my wife over a year and a half ago. I know how Aelin feels.”

“I am sorry, man.”

Rowan brushed him off “Aelin and I are trying. But I don’t want to hurt her anymore.”

“You’d better.”

In that instant the kitchen became populated again and the two stopped talking.

“We gave the guys the tour,” explained Ress, happily “are the girls still in their meeting?”

“Looks like,” said Aedion and patted Rowan on the shoulder “guys I am going for a shower.”

“Go and make yourself pretty for your woman.”

Eventually the women came back as well and Lysandra cheered when she was told Aedion had gone for a shower.

Aelin walked to Lorcan “can I talk to you?”

The man looked at her with a questioning look.

They walked outside in the yard “do you like Elide? Are you interested in her?”

The man looked away clearly not comfortable talking about his feelings.

“Elide likes you, for some obscure reason. She is wonderful and a dear friend of mine. She does not have the same… experience you have. You are free to try and date her if she is okay with it. But you break her heart, you hurt her and I swear you’ll be flying from Terrasen under false identity because Lys, Ansel and I will come after you.” The man was a giant but she was not scared “do you read me on that, sir?”

Lorcan nodded.

“Now you stop playing side glances and go ask her out for a coffee.”

“Are you planning on managing my relationship with her?” He asked annoyed.

“No, but I will be watching you.” And walked away.

With her eyes she followed the man going to talk to Elide and once he was done she saw her friend giving her the thumbs up.

Happy with her job she went to find Rowan and found him sitting hiding beside one of the engines.

“Hey,” she said sitting down beside him “what are you doing down here alone?”

He replied with a heavy sigh “Our two teams together get along a bit too much. I just needed peace and quiet. I landed only this morning. We haven’t slept in a while and jet lag and all. I am a bit wiped.”

“You should go home.”

He leaned his head against the vehicle ‘you should too… after the night you had.”

“Can’t, night shift remember? I will go and take a shower though, and collapse on my bunk. But I am stuck here until tomorrow and hope no more emergencies.”

“It’s not fair though. After that fire you should go home and have someone relieve you.”

“That’s not how it works, captain.” She stood “go home. Sleep, I believe you promised a lady to go out for a meal.”

“Yes, and hopefully this lady will find some time to relax as well.”

Rowan stood as well and stopped in front of her.

“Thank you for the meal. It was awesome.”

“You deserved it.”

She grabbed the tips of his fingers and held them gently “I will see you tonight at seven.”

“Hopefully with less dirt on you.”

She flipped him off and walked away. Rowan chuckled and in the end took his leave as well.

TAGS:

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@jlinez

@swankii-art-teacher

@courtofjurdan

@whimsicallyreading

@tillyrubes10

[forcefully-awoken]

Summary: What she feels, so does he. It has its drawbacks, but mostly benefits.

Pairing: Loki x Sylvie

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: slightly dubious consent, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, angst, pining, idiots in love ™

It has to be wrong, the way he looks at her.

Morals stopped mattering to him a long time ago, after all what boundaries can be crossed that you can’t come back from in a few decades, one mistake is nothing in the scope of a life that never seems to end. Hell, he and Thor do the seemingly same song and dance every fifty years like clockwork but at the end of the day the only person allowed to kill Thor is him. Their brotherhood goes beyond petty grievances like pretending to be dead, or trying to take over Midgard.

But, he muses, if that’s how he is with Thor, what the hell is he meant to do with her?

Sylvie is… lovely, in her own way, he thinks. Sometimes it feels like looking into a mirror for the first time, being able to truly see what’s being reflected back at him. In her he sees his vulnerability, the desperation to belong, the harsh way she spits her words as if they can shield her from the world. He sees the softness, too, how fiercely she believes in what she’s doing, how her eyes widen seeing new parts of the universe for the first time, the wonder and joy at being a part of it. An extension of himself, a mirror that can touch back.

And therein lies Loki’s problem.

What is she, if not his? Certainly there’s something wrong, something not quite right about the way he looks at her- like he wants to eat her, wants to know if the same points on her body make her moan the way he does? Will she shudder when there’s a hand trailing up her back as he does? He wants nothing more to find some tiny corner of time and space and spend a week cataloging the differences in their bodies. No warning klaxons go off when he looks into her eyes, even when she’s yelling at him, because deep down they both know- it’s inevitable.

Sylvie feels it too, even if she won’t admit it, even if she stops looking in his eyes, turning her back to him when she finally takes a moment to rest. She’s more resistant to him than he is to her, a byproduct of their respective upbringings, he’s sure. She resists, and resists, and starts petty arguments that go nowhere and don’t mean anything in the end, because while Loki jerks himself off with quiet desperation every night, Sylvie only has this to release the tension.

“For being me, how could you be so stupid?!” Her voice is harsh, vitriol trying it’s hardest to seep into every word of it, but all he does is smile at her and think about the way those pretty pink lips would taste against his own. “Are you even listening to me?” Her hair is sparking, the magic too much to be contained, and he wonders if his ever did that without him noticing. There’s a quip on the edge of his tongue, something he knows will start another fight but instead he turns over on his side- for once putting his back to her.

Loki can hear her huff of frustration, something that oddly sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine, makes heat pool low in his gut. He hasn’t felt this way in years, the rush that comes with lusting after someone. He’s made his way through the realms just like a Prince of Asgard should, but after a certain point the names and faces blend together- and yet there is Sylvie, bright and shining like a supernova, a head above the rest with no comparison.

It’s quiet between them, for a little while, at least. Neither of them have been able to get in a decent amount of sleep in what feels like weeks, but time works differently here at the end of it all. He knows the others are somewhere close- Mobius never lets them out of direct sight it feels like, but if he closes his eyes it feels like it’s just the two of them by their little campfire. Everything seems to fade away, until all he can focus on is his incredibly hard cock between his legs.

“D’you know how twins sometimes have a connection?” Sylvie’s voice cuts through the night, a little bit too loud, drawing a little bit too much attention and she must realize because her voice soften when she continues on, “How they can feel each other’s pain? Well, I can feel that.” She spits the last word, before getting up to stalk off to who knows where.

It’s wrong then, how he sneaks his hand down the front of his pants, gripping his cock tightly, thrusting his hips ever so slightly into his fist. Now that he’s looking for it, he can feel the way his pleasure doubles, how it intensifies if he thinks about it too hard. How his hand doesn’t feel so large, how it feels so much softer than normal. How his breath sounds a little whinier, how the head of his cock feels so much more sensitive. He knows she’s feeling his pleasure as acutely as he is, knows it’s probably driving her crazy, but he can’t stop, he only wants more- more of this sensation, more of her, more of everything. It’s almost too much but he doesn’t stop, chasing his high with a practiced ease, biting his lip so his moans don’t escape him.

A thought occurs as he pulls his hand from his pants, trying hard not to get his release on his clothes. Usually he waves it away, off into nothingness without a second thought but now- if she can feel what he does then how far does that extend?

With a furtive glance around to make sure that truly nobody is watching, Loki’s tongue darts out, taking some of his cum into his mouth.

The taste of him explodes across her tongue.

It’s saltier than she remembers cum tasting, but fuck if it doesn’t just rile her up more. Fucking rat bastard- she knew she shouldn’t have confessed that she could feel the dirty things he did at night when he thought he was alone. What is wrong with him, demanding so much of her mental energy with such… mundane things when everything she’d ever worked for was at stake?

She has half a mind to go back over there and kick him, right at the base of his spine, right where she knows it’ll hurt the most (because that’s where it hurt the most for her) but then he flicks his tongue out again, and it’s all she can do to not shove her own hand down her own pants. She’s beyond such pedestrian things, hasn’t had to service herself like that in a while, not since she set herself off on this path.

Sylvie knows that he thinks that this is half her problem, why she’s so prickly, why she’s so downright mean sometimes. But there’s no time in her life for that, there’s only the drive forward, veering off track and into Loki has thrown things completely out of whack, and she doesn’t need to take anything else on. She doesn’t need to complicate things even more.

At least, that’s what she tells herself on nights like tonight, when there’s an electric current running through her veins, a hook behind her collarbone that pulls her in one specific direction. It won’t be worth it- he’ll look at her differently, he’ll expect too much, she won’t like him anymore after that. Her self loathing is too large and encompassing to let her mind rest even for a moment, and she thinks if she looks hard enough into his eyes that she’ll see that same loathing.

They’re the same person, the very thing that pulls them together drives her away, and that’s all there is to it, for her.

But, fuck, if she doesn’t want to give into it. He’s going at it again, somehow, and it’s so hard for her to resist the urge to just relax back into the sensation and let him carry her to completion without even trying. She can feel the way he’s taking his time now, stroking over his nipples, making hers pebble up in response. She bites her lip so hard it bleeds when he trails a delicate finger down his own throat. He’s not playing fair at all, she thinks, but that’s all she thinks before she finally caves.

She’ll show him who the true God of Mischief is.

One hand slides under her tunic, twisting at her nipple so hard it’s almost painful, and she thinks she can hear his tiny yelp of surprise off in the distance. It’s been so long that she almost has to learn her body all over again, but Loki has shown her so much of what he likes there’s a certain path that’s easier to follow. She pays close attention to one nipple, then the other, until she’s panting and she knows they’ll be sore in the morning- every brush of her clothes against them is going to send a thrill of pleasure through them both.

Carefully, quietly, she pulls her pants down just enough to be able to get a hand in between her thighs with no issues. She’s soaked through her underwear, she realizes when she presses her hand against her core. She slips a finger under them, trailing through her folds and collecting enough of her juices to lift her finger to her own lips, tracing them before sucking her finger clean. Her taste is better, she decides, much sweeter than Loki.

Once her finger is wet enough she slips her underwear down as well, rolling her fingers over her clit with an almost leisurely pace. She’s halfway there already, no need to rush anything at this point. This orgasm should be good enough to carry her on for another few decades if she plays her cards right. Pleasure shoots through her at the first brush of her fingers, an undercurrent she hasn’t indulged in years awakening like it was only yesterday. One circle becomes two, becomes three, becomes an easy rhythm that drives her slowly mad.

Her other hand has the more important job, opening her folds, one finger dipping into her cunt, testing the waters as it were. She’s tight, but so wet and needy that her finger slips in easily, teasingly until she needs to add another. Why doesn’t she do this more often? Her two fingers stroke in and out of her lazily, crooking upwards in search of a spot she knows will have her seeing stars, and Loki spilling all over his pants in shock. The thought of that- making him cum from nothing like a teenage boy drives her forward now.

It’s easy now, her fingers slip out as the others circle her clit. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes, and it’s certainly holding true. Every little movement she makes pushes her closer and closer to the edge, and she’s so focused on her own pleasure she ignores the world around her. She ignores the strange connection she feels to Loki, the way it seems to be vibrating, pulsing with life. She ignores everything but the heat that builds in her, under her skin, the addicting way she needs to feel hersel cum.

She’s so close now, so close to giving in, biting back a sob as her hips rock forward, fucking herself down onto her fingers one last time as she finally, blissfully snaps. It’s overwhelming, nearly, her head just above water. Just enough to come down, just enough to feel it-

She feels, as easily as her own orgasm, the moment Loki’s self control finally snaps.

It’s so easy, almost absurdly so, to track her down. She hasn’t gone far, hidden in a bus (which gives him a second of pause- what the hell?), and for fuck’s sake her pants aren’t even back up.

“What the fuck,” It’s a statement, not a question as Sylvie scrambles to correct her clothing. She could do it with magic- hell, he could use his own to make it all disappear but that wouldn’t satisfy the pounding of his heart, the need to tear at her, to claim her.

“Minx,” Loki growls out, hands coming up to stop her own. He doesn’t feel so much larger than her when they’re standing face to face but now that he’s on top of her, it’s completely different. His hands cover hers entirely, muscles flexing as he grips the front of her shirt and just pulls. She know he doesn’t do it entirely on his own but the result is the same, the material gives way and her chest is bare before him. He doesn’t bother to kiss her, dipping his head down to wrap his lips around one nipple, pulling it between his teeth.

Sylvie hisses in response, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, and she means to push him away, she really does, but all that happens is she pulls him closer, a moan spilling from her lips, loud and wanton. His teeth come into play as he growls, switching to pay attention to the other pert bud, one hand holding him above her, the other gripping the waistband of her pants to shove them down even more, pulling back just enough to look up at her and demand, “Take them off.”

She’s got half a mind to deny him, but it feels so good that she obeys without question. Her pants don’t even come all the way off, just one leg comes free but Loki takes the moment to fit himself between them anyways. He moves lower, one leg thrown over his shoulder to hold her open for him. It would feel embarrassing if it was anybody else staring at her so intensely. Now, though?

“Get on with it, or get out!” That’s all it takes from her for him to cover her cunt with his mouth, tongue swirling over her sensitive bud, going further down to tease at her opening, like he’s trying to drink her down. She lets her eyes close, head drooping back as he takes the lead. His clever tongue returns to her clit, two of his fingers pressing into her, scissoring her open, preparing her. His fingers find that sweet spot inside of her so much easier, and she feels it when he finds it, her groan matching his. He works at her for what feels like forever, keeping her on the edge until she can decide if she wants to cry in frustration or take matters into her own hands.

Loki finally gives into what he wants, making his way up her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the other pushing his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock. It’s long, thick enough she knows it’ll feel good, with a flushed red tip and pre-cum dripping from it. He doesn’t bother to ask, just lines himself up with her and starts the slow push in.

Both of them exhale a breath neither realized they had been holding when his hips were flush with hers. If the way she feels, and the way tremors run through his body are any indication, this encounter won’t last long. And so, Loki doesn’t hesitate, pulling back until just the tip of him is still inside of her and slamming back in, so hard she’ll feel it for days, and he’ll feel it for longer. It’s a brutal pace, him trying to carve out a piece of her for himself, to write his name in as many ways and shapes and forms on her until she finally gives into what he knows.

He fucks her like it’s a fight, and sucks a bruise on her neck where everyone will see just for the hell of it.

She, in turn, clenches around him just to watch his hips stutter and drags her nails down his back just to watch his pupils dilate.

It’s give and take, push and pull, two halves that are one.

There’s only their moans, the quiet slap of flesh upon flesh in the small space. The others might know what they’re doing, but Loki can’t find it in himself to care, not when Sylvie is making that face, not when her body feels so good. He has to keep fucking her, has to feel her cum on his cock because he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t.

“Please,” One of them gasps out, but neither can tell who. One of Sylvie’s hands snakes between their bodies, rubbing quick, harsh circles around her clit and that’s it for her- she’s cumming again, almost weeping from how good it feels, how complete she is, shuddering and shaking in his arms.

Loki doesn’t last much longer, after her, and the feeling does overwhelm him. He can’t tell where his pleasure ends and hers begin, but maybe it’s the same thing, in the end. He cums deep in her, unable to move back for even a moment. It’s too much, like a punch to the gut, and when it’s finally over he’s panting, breathing heavily like he’s been through battle. He feels like he’s been claimed, all while he thought he was doing the conquering.

Their eyes finally meet, but whatever Sylvie sees in his, she doesn’t like, flinching back away from him like she’s been struck. Something cold claws its way into his chest, making a home there despite how badly he tries to ignore it. He pulls his softening cock out of her with a soft hiss, oversensitive as hell from being with her.

They right their clothes in silence, neither of them looking at the other, though he can feel the way tension rolls off her shoulder in waves.

He doesn’t bother to look back as he leaves.

There’s only their way forward, into glorious purpose.

[ecrivant]

under the yoke | porco galliard

(porco galliard x reader)

an exploration of porco’s life after the warriors leave for paradis, told through a collection of vignettes.

word count: 2.8k

He sat, crumpled, clutching a hand which bore bloodied and broken knuckles, unfeeling.  His white clothes, once pristine and perpetually ironed and representative of honor and heroism and potential, were now marred by redness.  Covered in the eviscerated gore and dermis which, from his forelimb, surged.  The hole in his bedroom door, framed by splintered wood and dressed with remnants of that same sanguinary amalgam.  The air, once tenanted by irate bellows and gesticulation, stood oppressively still.  Occupied, now, only by his swallowed sobs.  From the window: the muffled, revelatory sounds of the Warrior commemoration ceremony one street over; and he, in his room, washed in the quiet, aching aftermath of ebullition.  Another roar, hoarse, abraded, a guttural eruption.  He launched forward in an attempt to lash out, again—at the door, the wall, himself—but his legs buckled beneath him and his palms, outstretched by instinct to catch his exhausted form, scraped against the floor, leaving bloody trails in their wake.  His corporeal pain, once numbed by rage, now crept along skin and burrowed into bone, and he cradled his own form, laid fetal, and wailed.  A prolonged, cathartic cry which propagated another, and another, until his lungs burned, raw and void of breath, and head thrummed, and soreness and anguish within him suffused.  From outside the window, a cheer; within, cries, spates of ‘why’s,’ directed at no one.  The Armored Titan, squandered—his own failure from which he already imbibed such abject and indefinite nemesism.  His mouth tore open in a disfigured cry; no sound emitted.  A breathless, silent whine; vision blurred by tears.  

Sight and sound dissolved as blood poured from his wounds, relentless.  Numbness returned—he remarked from afar the peaceful exit from his own body.  He was vaguely aware of his door slamming against the wall as it opened.  His name, a hazy and distant vocalization, repeated, urgent.  A violent shaking of his body.  On his cheek, a soft touch.  He maybe saw your face.  Concerned, no, fearful eyes.  His own voice, thick in his throat, pathetic and begging and desperate:

“Please just let me die.”

The tremors of footsteps on wood, of weak limbs.  Then his brother, his mother.  You.  The vague feeling of being lifted to his feet, of being stripped of his clothes, of being laid on the bed.  A cloth, cold on tender skin.

Marcel’s embrace.

Sleep so abnormally dreamless and pitch that he was sure he had died, pervaded by a feeling of absence.

He awoke in the darkness of night and felt he was not alone.  Eyes adjusting, he saw one body in a chair next to him, another in his brother’s bed.  His entirety complained, aching.  A low groan escaped him.  The one in the chair stirred at the sound and eyed him in the dark.  He could all but see the scrutinizing gaze.  A grip on his uninjured hand, squeezing.  His brother’s whispered apology.  

Marcel rose from his seat and roused the other, who groggily sat up and listened for a moment before rushing over to the bed.  Another hand in his, this time soft and un-calloused, and timid.  He, now acclimated to the dark of the room, saw your scrunched face and teary eyes and quivering lip.  You bowed your head to hide them, instead bringing his hand to your forehead, still trembling. As if in mourning.

“Let him sleep.”

A gentle command, for your sake and not his.  He wished for you to embrace him but could not bring himself to say it.  

—

He woke to his mother’s insistence that they see Marcel off.  He first thought of you.  

“Mom, don’t make him go.”

He felt his brother approach his bed, slow, timid.  A kiss on his temple.  A whispered promise:

“I’ll be home soon.”

—

He staggered as he climbed out of bed.  The bandages on his hand and forearm, the hole in the door—ugly reminders of his abortion.  Weak fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.  Fresh blood seeped through the gauze around his knuckles, spreading over the fibrous surface like a creeping, infective redness.  

He made it to the port just as the boat undocked and withdrew from the shore.  He saw you in the crowd, hand excitedly waving in the air as if a flag enlivened by breeze.  

He returned home and undressed himself and laid back in bed and closed his eyes just as his mother reentered the house and forthwith tended to her sleeping child’s wounds.  

—

A knock at his door.

“Porco?  It’s Pieck and Zeke.”

“Tell them I’m alright.”

His mother bit her lip before shutting his door again.

He did not wish to see them, though he thought of them each day.  Becoming less like people and more like deformed effigies begotten from his own envious thoughts.  Though a given, since the beginning, that Zeke would claim the Beast Titan, he considered that he could have inherited Cartman.  A moment of clarity told him Pieck was more than deserving of her inheritance, and he flushed with guilt.  The candidacy, Reiner, they had made him so spiteful.

Still, he did not wish to see them.  

Another knock at the door. He repressed the annoyance that flared in his chest.

“Yes?”  

He could not help the edge that slipped through.  

His eyes widened when you stuck your head around the door.  Eyes asking for permission to enter.  He moved to make room for you on his bed, granting it.  Mattress dipping as you sat.  Your hands gently turned his injured arm in inspection—its gauzy covering now gone and replaced by a dusting of red-rimmed scabs and pale, white scars.  The haphazard gash in his wrist nearly but a memory.  The touch, gentle, nearly imperceptible.  Again feeling guilty, as he had not thought of you in weeks, though you should have been the first to which he turned.  Your non-affiliation with the Warriors was something he unknowingly craved.  Soft fingers grazed his arm and the sillage of your scent hung in the air, calming him. He needed your touch, a same and even greater need than that night before the Warriors’ departure.  

You did not speak and instead wrapped your hands around his.  Heedful of his injuries.  Even in the dim candlelight of the room, a ray of moonlight flooded through the window and struck his floor—an expansive stain of red, impossible to fully remove, illuminated.  You gazed at him, sad, as if you pitied him.  He wished he had not seen it, perhaps he was not meant to, and he asked you to leave before he could suppress his anger.  He spurned your pity.  

You were surprised but not hurt: instead, he was met with a melancholic look, one of understanding.  As you walked out, shutting the door behind you, he wished you had been hurt—he envied your emotional control, your empathy. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and they blurred his view of you leaving the front stoop and walking down the street, swallowed by the night.

He grabbed his pillow and hurled it at the wall.  It landed with a dull thump.  If he was anything like you, he could have controlled his anger and kept you with him.  Spent the night in your presence.  He gritted his teeth and slammed back onto the mattress, taking notice of the missing cushion.  He rolled to the side and slept without it.

—

He could not say when he finally rescinded the grudge he held against Pieck and Zeke.  He began talking to them again, finally caving on his self-imposed strike after realizing he was lonely, but it felt more like a return out of necessity.  He was not sure he truly missed their companionship; though dulled, the spite and anger and jealousy were all still present.  

At the same time, he immersed himself further into Marley’s all-encompassing military-industrial complex. Endearing himself to Magrath.  Continuing his training.  Helping where he could.  As if to fulfill some sick, vicarious fantasy where he was a Warrior, as well, only left behind with Pieck and Zeke.  The schmoozing felt insincere, dirty, yet he continued, to what end?  He was worse than Reiner—a fucking ass-kisser with no goal in sight.  Subconsciously aware his constant exposure to Marleyan army affairs only exacerbated and prolonged the pain of his failure.  

“Why still be involved?”

He frowned at your question—a large part of him assumed you would support him, regardless.  At least support him based on the fact it was somehow comforting for him, a twisted form of self-actualization.  He narrowed his eyes as you continued.

“Maybe it’s better this way. You—”

You cut yourself off, hesitant.  He urged you to say your piece, an edge in his voice.

“If you’re not a Warrior, you can live a long life.”  With me, the implicit addendum.  He ignored it, quiet long enough that you felt emboldened to continue.  

“Sometimes this war, it feels so pointless.”

Faced with futility.  Your extrapolated silver lining.  Something repressed urged him to give in, to agree.  Whether flaccid will or a desire to live with you, he could not be sure.  You had always felt so nice.

Though he could not, could never, bring himself to despise you, he convinced himself to despise the words you spoke.  

“What are you, a fucking pacifist now?”

You shrunk away, the vitriol in his voice, a disarming blow.  To serve Eldians was his life’s purpose, and you were meant to support him indefinitely, it being in your nature.  You began to speak, but he ignored it.  Anger flaring.  The more he thought on it, the easier you became to hate.  All the years he had known you, you were nothing but a backgrounded entity.  His very antithesis.  Your affinity for pacifism was no surprise to him—it was very much like you to sit to the side and wish for things to happen instead of taking it upon yourself to actualize them. You moved through life without purpose, a passive body with no real substance.  It was a wonder he had ever liked you at all.  

“You know it should have been me.  I should have been the one to go to Paradis, not Reiner.”

The hurt in your eyes urged him forward, though, in hindsight, he wondered if it was your own hurt, or hurt for him, which shone in your gaze.  A sadness, pity, that he could not let go of his apparent past transgression, could not overcome his own self-hatred. Were there truly many differences between you?

He lashed out once more, another jab.  A sadistic self-projection.  

“How can you live a life so devoid of purpose and meaning?  Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.  I was meant to be a Warrior for humanity, so that’s what I’ll do.  And I don’t care how I get there.”

He flinched, less at the words and more at the way some form of the truth so willingly poured from his mouth.  Quiet, eerily pervasive.  A surge of guilt in the pit of his stomach.  Like bile.  Your tears stung his throat.  

“Never would humanity’s true savior be so selfish.”

You stood and turned at the heel and strode off, quickly wiping at your eyes.  It was his turn to be winded by your words.  

—

He slammed his fist against your front door, rapid and repeated like a heartrate.  Your father answered and saw the raw desperation in his eyes and led him to your room.  He opened the door and collapsed before he reached you.  Spoken through choked sobs—the pain, cotton forced down his throat:

“Marcel is dead.”

Your arms were around him as if your last shared moment, at this point years ago, was not one of bitter vitriol.  He, eviscerated by guilt and all but gutted on the floor before you.  Your unrelenting sympathy, so willing to forgive his malignity—to think you had nothing but love to give in return for his spite.  You held him unflinchingly as he disintegrated in your arms.  Unafraid to shoulder the weight of his tangible unraveling.  He thought of that moment years ago, alone in his room, bleeding out, a result of his own rage, and realized true pain was nothing like it.  To be so utterly excavated by grief and pain that your own form has no choice but to erode into itself.  His screams caught in your shirt.  He bit down on the fabric, tasting blood.

He lied in your bed that night and felt nothing.  Your touch, once so verily craved, was unaffecting.  Still, you ran your hands along his sides and caressed the shapely variations of his form, and you pressed your lips to his neck and back, and he allowed you to straddle him and kiss his face and chest and arms and endeavor to extract his pain through your ghostly contact.  He knew you felt nice, even if he himself could not tell.  Your comfort reached him and dissolved on contact, yet he still indulged and met your touch with his own.  Nevertheless unfeeling.  

—

From you, he had never seen true anger.  Though, when he told you he was to support Pieck in Paradis, he saw it—it was quiet, nothing like his violent, external fulminations.  Instead, your stare held unprecedented intensity, some amalgam of rage and fear that made him instinctively flinch; and, for once, it did not seem like selfless emotion.  He sadistically reveled in the way you finally felt fear for someone other than him.

He was leaving Marley with some naïve intention of returning, to be with you upon doing so.  Yet, you both knew your shared life was a moot point after his inheritance of the Jaw Titan­—he had betrayed you, and in some way, his own selfish wishes.  He had not matured at all, forever and always a slave to his desires.  To die for Marley, you informed him, and no matter how many times he countered with his ambition to save the Eldians and salvage the remnants of his past failures, he invariably, though subconsciously, acquiesced to your position.  His ultimate objective: to die for a cause.  

Your anger, short-lived, ephemeral, even.  It gave way to such harrowing sorrow.  He wondered, as he held you, if you finally allowed yourself to cry selfishly, to cry for the death of your own desires.  

You kissed him, desperately. Long and sweetly brackish from tears. He laid you down his bed, the one in which years ago he lied as well, craving your embrace in the darkness, and touched fingertips to bare skin.  His despairing memorization of your body.  Your breathy murmurs, tearful; yourself, a numinous beauty he sought to worship.  He could not elude his adoration for you, and as you made love that night, a shared intimacy so imbued with and pervaded by heartache, he knew he would die regretful.  His pain and yours, fatefully pre-written.  He had always been destined for stagnation, abjection, sorrow, loss—driven by some cruel divinity and jejune, self-sacrificial desire to fulfill his own doomed fate.  The cruelty of fatalism.  

“Come back to me,” you had whispered.  

—

In his last moments, he thought of that night.  He did not deserve a final thought so pleasant.  He instead thought of you presently, home in Liberio, waiting for his promised return.  Is this how Marcel felt, as he breathed his last breath?  Did he think of his little brother to which he promised return?  He all but laughed at the ironic cyclicality of life.  Falco would inherit his thoughts, and his brother’s thoughts, and one day see the reality of anguish and broken promises and futile desire, perhaps on the evening of his own violent death.

—

Through his love, he also immortalized you—forcing you to live on as some perpetually degraded image and, eventually, simply an ephemeral feeling of comfort in those who would inherit his memories.  He figured you would hate the thought.  Part of him wished he could loose you from this eternal cycle, freeing you from his memory and thus the endless lineage of memory you would come to inhabit.  Or maybe he wished for this selfishly, wanting you to be experienced by no other.  

—

You would hate his last words, spoken at Reiner out of abject spite, selfish, though they were more of an assurance than anything.  A closure for his younger self, whose apparent failures haunted him until this moment.  

—

He wished you had not asked him to return; he wished he had not believed he would.  

—

He was surprised by his own fear.  As he allowed himself to be eaten, he only thought of dying.  It would be too painful to think of anything else.  Yet, you somehow slipped through, one final time.

—

hey, my first request!  thank you @casualityrantfun​ for your porco suggestion!  fleshing out porco’s history was honestly so much fun; exploring side characters’ arcs may be my new favorite thing.  also, i’m sorry that this probably isn’t exactly what you wanted; you asked for fluff but i can’t seem to write anything that isn’t tinged with some kind of melancholia.  

anyway, thank you all so much for reading!  i hope you enjoyed the piece!  i kind of fell in love with porco while i wrote this, so expect some more writing for him lol.  feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated!  

also also, merry christmas to those who celebrate it!  and regardless, i hope everyone has a great holiday weekend!  xoxo <3

taglist: @flam3bird

[beccarooni]

The End - Chapter 1

(Infinity war AU: Loki lives and leaves the Statesman with Bruce Banner. Multi chapter fic, enjoy the ride babes xo)

taglist: @woahthisguy (ask to be added if u like!)

When Loki woke, part of him still thought that he was on the Statesman. Still aboard that cursed vessel, with smoke filling his lungs and the maddening glare of the stones shining before his eyes. Rays of sunlight filtered into his vision, and he felt broken wood under his fingertips - but part of him still expected to see Thanos’s golden boot step into his vision. Still expected to see his brother, bloodied and bruised, a lifeless body tossed beside him. Expected to hear his last pained scream as the power stone touched his head, to smell the ozone building in the air and to see the final flash of lightning that would signal his brother’s journey into Valhalla.

What he heard was the sound of birds.

Muffled by walls, but there. Birds, nature, the faint sounds of traffic and conversation bleeding in through the ringing in his hears. He opened his eyes, grunting slightly as he felt splintered beams digging into his side from where he fell. A neat hole in the ceiling signalled his entry; he stared up at the familiar sun and sky, and let his eyes fall shut again with a groan.

Midgard.

But not just anywhere in Midgard. He inhaled the musty air, coughing out the dust from his throat. Magic - he could sense it everywhere. It clung to every surface of this place, seeping into the floorboards with a familiar sense of order and learning. Not just magic - sorcery.

Loki sat up. Pulled himself out of the hole he’d created in the floor, and almost buckled under the weight of the familiarity of this place. The Sorcerer’s Home. Where he’d been suspended in animation for over half an hour, only to be dropped onto the marbled floor and told that they were going to see Odin. He remembered Thor’s voice, then. That was one of the last times he’d sounded like himself. Before the Norns had twisted the last few strands of their monstrous tapestry, and brought their world crashing down around them. Around Thor, to put it more aptly. Loki had shed no tears for Odin. Hadn’t felt the same coiled rage in the pit of his stomach as when Frigga had died. But it had signalled the beginning of the End, for them. The beginning of Ragnarok. The twisted path that had dragged them from Midgard to Sakaar to Asgard and finally to a barely held together spaceship crawling through the stars.

And then to oblivion.

Loki flexed his fingers, stepping onto the cold marble floors, and allowed himself a moment of respite. This wasn’t good. Out of the frying pan, and into the proverbial fire. Midgard may have meant refuge for Thor, but not for him.

Voices sounded from outside the doors. Loki stepped quickly, pressing himself against the wall - not that it would do any good. The Sorcerer had sensed them from oceans away, last time. He could pluck him out of thin air if he so chose, and deposit him at his feet. But it felt right, at least. Sensible. Slinking his way in and out of the shadows was what he was used to, and he needed some familiarity right now. Stability in any form; even if it was just a repeated motion from a lifetime that was now obsolete.

“The Avengers broke up. We’re toast.” Smooth, honeyed tones from beyond the door; a voice that could have been roughed with anger, but the edges smoothed down into something more palatable. Stark.

“What do you mean, broke up? Like a band? Like the Beatles?” Another voice sounded off - this one inquisitive, confused, but still with a certain fog - like someone coming out of a long sleep, trying to recount a dream that was fading rapidly. Banner, then.

Loki leaned back against the wall, silently cursing his luck. Of all people he encountered, it had to be Stark. Someone who Loki’s last fond memory of was tossing him out of a window - and even that was marred with the faint blue tint of the mind stone’s power. He couldn’t even enjoy throwing Stark out of that window. Couldn’t even take credit for it, really.

He shifted his fingers again, feeling the familiar steel of his dagger morph into life in his hands. That brought a little comfort, at least. Even if he knew in his heart he wasn’t in much shape to fight off the Avengers right now.

He had Banner to vouch for him - maybe. But Banner didn’t have the same trust in him that Thor had. And Thor wasn’t here to echo that sentiment to his allies, because Thor was dea-

“Thor’s gone.” Banner’s voice resounded off the walls again, subdued and uncertain.

Loki didn’t know why that word suddenly made him so angry.

Gone implied things. It implied uncertainty; that they didn’t know where Thor was, or what had happened to him. Gone implied that Thor could come back. Gone implied hope.

It wasn’t Banner’s fault. He didn’t know any better, didn’t know the full extent of what Thanos could do.

Loki did.

And maybe that’s what drove him out of the shadows, moving just beyond the doorway to stand in the light.

“Thor isn’t gone. He’s dead.” Loki almost winced at his own voice - rough and jagged and far from the silver tongued smoothness he was used to.

But the look on Stark’s face almost made up for it. Alarm creeping into the eyes beneath the sunglasses, a memory of when Loki had last seemed glorious. Unstoppable. A raging inferno fanned by the mind stone, laying waste to Midgard’s streets with an army of monsters at his side. Memories of grand speeches and golden horns. Stark’s hands twitched, grabbing onto a small cord at the collar of his shirt that would probably unfold into some trinket or other, meant to blast him across the room with a quippy one liner to follow it.

Banner’s eyes widened for a moment, but softened just as fast, and he took a few steps forward. Not all the way - he was still too smart to move all the way - but enough. Enough for a placating gesture, at least.

“We don’t know that, Loki. He could’ve escaped, he could’ve-”

“Correction - you don’t know that. I do. Thanos wouldn’t leave someone like him alive.” Loki shook his head, a hollow laugh forcing its way out of his lips. “He was too much of a threat.”

“The Tesseract?” The voice of the sorcerer from his side caused Loki to turn, meeting Strange’s scrutinizing gaze with what he hoped was a mask of steel.

“Thanos has it. And the power stone.”

“Then he’ll be coming for the rest.” One gloved hand drifted idly to the necklace around Strange’s neck, his face setting in grim resignation.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something? Why are we all standing here talking to this guy? Last time I checked, he was working with Thanos, and was very much in favour of - I don’t know, murdering us all?”

Stark finally jarred himself out of whatever train of thought he’d been following, moving forward to grab Banner by the arm - like a mother, reaching out to snatch her children from sticking their hand into a campfire.

“Tony, it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine. But Loki’s with us on this one.” Banner shrugged his shoulders, batting at Stark’s hand with a twinge of embarrassment.

Stark scoffed, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

“So I’m just supposed to trust him because, what? It’s a ‘long story’?”

“Oh, God no. But he is on our side.” Bruce frowned, gesturing at Loki listlessly. “Look, do you think he’d look like that if he was working with Thanos?”

Loki shot him a glare, but tilted his dagger upwards to try and catch a blurred glimpse at his reflection. Even in the unclear mirror, he couldn’t deny that Banner was right. Soot smudged along his cheeks, rimming the glaring red cuts on his face with black. Dark circles stamped under his eyes, there was blood beneath his fingernails. He looked unhinged.

A stretch of the neck, a flex of the fingers, a flash of gold, and he was whole again. The grime still clung to his skin, but it was hidden now, at least. He tilted his chin up, spreading his hands out wide.

“I am not here to pick a fight with you, Stark. Nor any of Midgard. But Thanos must be stopped, and you’re going to need more than the Avengers to do it. You can kill me, or imprison me, but buried beneath that colossal ego of yours, you know you need me.”

Stark’s jaw clenched, and for a few moments Loki expected the flash of a cannon and the impact of a missile hitting his chest. What he got instead was a sigh, tight and constrained, and a small nod in Banner’s direction.

“Fine. But if this blows up in my face, you owe me like...a million cups of coffee.”

Banner shrugged, and the three Midgardian’s continued their discussion.

It wasn’t a discussion Loki wanted to participate in - and by their hunched shoulders and wary looks, it wasn’t one he was privy to, either. Which was just fine by him. He tapped his fingers against his elbows, and wandered about the room.

So many artefacts that he hadn’t paid attention to last time. This room hummed with magic, every table, every chair, every floorboard was steeped in it; like fragranced smoke clinging to a curtain.

He overheard some of the conversation, of course. Talks of a great battle between their Captain America and the Iron Man; a rift between the team that had grown into a chasm - one that strangely he hoped would be mended. Not for their sake, of course; it would just be easier to fight Thanos if they all united as one, and fought together rather than apart, and -

Norns, he was starting to sound like Thor. He shut his eyes, shrugging his shoulders to try and rid himself of the sentiment. It was funny what a few moments of desperation could do to you. The death of his mother, and he worked with Thor again. The death of his father, and he saved a world he swore to hate. The death of his brother, and now he was talking of comradery with the Avengers.

Banner kept casting looks at him from across the room. Worried looks, but not for his own safety - at least, not entirely. Banner looked worried for him, and for some reason that filled him with vitriol, anger that was acidic and spiteful.

Banner thought he was exaggerating. He still saw Thor as a golden hero, unbreakable and untouchable. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that it was better for Thor to be dead. That when Loki said that Thor’s fate was sealed, it was not out of spite or doubt of Thor’s strength; it was out of hope. Loki would rather kill Thor himself than have him die at the hands of Thanos.

At least Loki’s steel would have been kinder. The flash of silver and the seconds it took for the blood to leave the body would be a mercy, compared to the dazzling pain of the gauntlet. Seconds still felt like seconds, when you were stabbed. The infinity stones stretched those seconds into hours. Loki knew from experience.

Before, he might have relished at the thought of causing Thor pain. Wherever this sentiment had come from, these feelings of care and brotherhood, he wanted them gone. They’d settled on his skin with the dust from Asgard, baked into the clay of his being in the fires of a supernova, watched from a spaceship window. If he had nothing from the beginning, he would’ve been fine. If Thor had died at his hand, hating him, he would’ve been fine.

Thor had died believing in him. And that was so much worse.

Screams erupted from outside, and all four of them glanced towards the doorways.

“God, already? It’s been what, five minutes since you two crash through the window and now we’ve got more party guests?” Stark rubbed at his forehead, probably nursing an oncoming migraine.

“I guess they move fast. Let’s go.” Strange and Stark headed towards the doorway of the sanctum, but Banner lingered behind.

The scientist paused at Loki’s side, looking at him with a gaze that was suddenly inscrutable. No easily provoked anger that Loki could stoke into a wildfire to keep the sadness at bay. No mistrust. Just a hint of sadness, and a twinge of concern in his voice when he asked:

“Are you alright?”

Loki’s hand lifted to his face, feeling the wetness of tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He stared at his fingers, before wiping them against the material of his jacket.

No time for this. Not right now.

“I’m fine.” Loki gritted his teeth, flipping his dagger in his hand.

Loki didn’t take much stock in legacy. He’d had his fair share of prophecies and purposes, and none of them had quite worked out the way he’d wanted - or expected. Fates could be changed with the flip of a dice - his birthright had been to die one moment, inherit the throne the next. He was destined to be the doom of Midgard and the saviour of Asgard and somewhere along these severed threads of prophecy he’d realised that it was all just chaos. He’d rather be an agent of that, than a warrior honouring the stories of someone else.

Thor’s story felt different, though. If he was going to honour anything in his life, maybe his brother could be the exception. Maybe he could help protect this fragile blue planet from this destruction; just this once.

Loki gripped the dagger harder, until his knuckles turned white.

Midgard waited on the other side of that door. A place that he had chosen to conquer, and Thor had chosen to care for.

If it didn’t die today, he knew it’d be a matter of time before it died from something else. But he wouldn’t let it be lost today.

Thor believed in him. He’d died believing in him.

Honour that, then. Honour his stubbornness, if nothing else. What better legacy was there to leave Thor with, than postponing the dying light of a planet just because?

Chaos and stubbornness. What better combination was there than that?

[cheryls-blossomed]

I will say regarding your post about hate towards candice- she truly is not getting hate anymore at all, at least on Twitter. Meanwhile tons and tons of wa fans call dp terrible names and tag her in these tweets and as an exclusively iris and wa fan I don’t think this is right whatsoever

Are you fucking kidding me, right now? You are either being willfully ignorant or intentionally fallacious, and both are equally as bad. Alright, nonnie, since you think my information is out-dated, as if I don’t literally get sent tweets from that horrible Jennifer person on Twitter who spews racist filth at Candice on a near daily basis (which I know y’all see), I went through the comments of Candice’s birthday post on the CW Flash’s official Twitter page.

Here are three tweets that I found:

Once again, using the We are the Flash line to peddle misogynoir against Candice.

Tagging her in this absolute bullshit.

I also saw an extremely misoynoiristic tweet directed at her personally, that I don’t even feel comfortable posting. Under her birthday post.

And these were just the remaining tweets under her birthday post about a week since her birthday. We know the Twitter account deletes some of the hate, although not all, because the account doesn't do a great job at that. Plus, I didn’t even go though the QTs.

You’re not a fan of anything, if you really think I’m going to buy you minimizing and erasing the vitriolic misogynoiristic hate Candice gets, and how people weaponize an innocuous line Iris said to be hateful not only to Iris but also to Candice.

Not only did you minimize the hate Candice gets, but you claimed that the hate Danielle, a white woman, gets is somehow worse on Twitter. I don’t think anybody should be tagging Danielle in hate. If you don’t like someone, that doesn’t mean you should be tagging them in hate. But you lost all credibility the moment you came here claiming Candice doesn’t get hate on Twitter and that Danielle gets way more hate on the platform.

[consumedkings-archive]

i. devour ✤ helmi x jestiny

full cult au + “i’ve dreamt about this” requested by @adelaidedrubman

word count: 1.9k

warnings: canon-typical drug use, cults run amok, dubious consent because of the drug use (but it is safe i promise), lots of allusions to cannibalistic imagery, excessive use of the word "want" and "hungry" (sorry), hints of helmi/jestiny/kajsa if you squint, canon-typical descriptions of gore and violence : ^ ) obviously this is elaborating on some themes of emotional manipulation (as cults do) so please do not read if you are uncomfy!

Helmi has always been a completionist.

It’s not that she’s a particularly competitive woman; she’s just efficient. There’s no task set out ahead of her that she cannot get done, large or small. A problem is presented, and Helmi solves it. Sometimes it’s an easy solution. Sometimes it requires brute force. This part, she always plays by ear.

Jestiny is no different.

She would almost be frustrated by the existence of the other woman were she not so interested. There’s weeks of back and forth. She can’t afford to lose track of what the true task is: wrench, slice, gut. Empty them out onto the snow. Paint it red, red, red. But if there’s something that drives her away from her duty—heart, heart, that’s what you are, pumping blood out of our last dying breath, spill it onto the earth for our Mother to feel—it’s the incessant, obnoxious chattering in the radios from the deputy. She cannot stand to have her work undone, and yet: there is an undoing, in human shape, burning in the back of her mind until her molars are grinding together.

It is frustrating to have her attention so raptly caught, so fiercely entrenched in a net of thorns she cannot possibly pull it away without causing irreparable damage, and especially for Kajsa to notice.

She can still remember the first time she had come back to the others, radiating irritation because as much as she likes the cat and mouse, she wants contact. Fingers and teeth to meet in the flesh. And she hadn’t been sure how to reconcile this feeling with the knowledge that one day, the Father of Many Faces may ask her—through Kajsa—to rip her ribs open and clean her out.

And as though she can read her mind (perhaps she can, you know, she always seems to See Us), Kajsa had looked at her and said, “Do you want her?”

Helmi knows her expression had crumpled. Twisted up, mouth downturned viciously, quickly directing her eyes elsewhere so that Kajsa cannot see the ache in her.

“It’s not my job to want,” had been her reply.

“Do not be foolish.” Kajsa had cut a piece of her apple, pushing the piece departed from the apple’s body into Helmi’s hand. “Get her.”

Her heart had felt sticky. Hot, jumping up in her throat. It had been a long time since she had wanted. “Kajsa—”

“Now it is your job, no?” And Kajsa waved her knife, wet with apple, dismissively. “And maybe I want her. Get her.” And then, planting the flat edge of the blade against Helmi’s lower lip to quiet the oncoming protest: “For me.”

Of course, she could not have refused, even if she wanted to. Even if the cool metal of the blade had not reminded her of who it was she answered to, even if the sticky-wet of Kajsa’s voice did not tell her there was no arguing to be had.

So she does: get her.

It takes a long time. Longer than, normally, Helmi would like. It’s impossible not to rush where the redhead is considered, anyway; Jestiny pushes all of her buttons, goads her, coaxes and shoves and bites and kicks her way through every interaction (sometimes, literally). But each time Helmi leaves their coincidental run-in with a bite-bloodied lip, she’s hungrier.

Wanting.

She spends their time apart wondering how sweet she will be when she finally acquiesces. There’s no lack of Jestiny spitting out fuck yous and get the hell outs, but one day—Helmi knows this—it won’t be so much vitriol. She doesn’t want it gone, just...redirected. Used more intentionally. And she thinks about what it will be like to grab a fistful of that red hair and tilt her head back and have all that skin just for herself.

Well, herself and Kajsa.

It’s so frequent that the moments in time permeate her sleeping hours, too. She dreams about it; dreams of the submission, acquiescence, of the redhead tilting her chin to give her more skin to kiss, digging her nails in and saying more, Hel, give me more, I’ll take more, of kissing her. Gods, does Helmi just want to kiss her.

But when it takes a little too long, when the days are dragging by with no deputy swaddled up in their family, Kajsa says, “Enough playing, Helmi.”

She’s halfway to the truck when the woman speaks, stopping with her hand on the handle and the keys dangling from her fingers. Helmi looks back at her black-haired paramour.

“I’m not,” she says.

“I know you,” Kajsa replies. “You play with your food.”

Yes, Helmi thinks, willing her expression still. I do.

“Make a meal of her if you are going to,” Kajsa continues, “but I am tired of waiting, Helmi.” Her head tilts, slate-gray eyes dark sharp. “Tonight.”

And that is how Helmi finds herself in a room filled with the overwhelming scent of lavender and smoke, rich, wet earth pummeling her senses. She had wanted to bring Jessie around without it, but what Kajsa wants, Kajsa gets—so here she is, standing in the doorway of a room filling with smoke, vents stuffed with wet herbs and radiating the fetid smell throughout the house.

It’s clear that Jestiny has had very little exposure to it, despite their frequent run-ins. Her eyes are a little glassy, hands curling into fists at her sides. She looks pissed.

“What—” Just that one word is already slurring. “What the fuck did you—are you doing to me?”

Helmi takes in a slow, measured breath. It’s potent, even to her, even when she’s been dosed on it in exponentially larger amounts to build up her tolerance. “Opening you,” she replies after a moment.

“Fuck you,” the redhead spits. “No-fuckin’-vacancy. We’re closed. Closed the-fuck-up, compadre—”

She’s rambling already, too. Helmi rolls her eyes. “To the influence,” she clarifies, as though she doesn't also want to open up Jestiny for her, taking a few steps forward. The sound of her feet hitting the floor bounce in light waves around her, even as her heart rate stays slow against the drug. She can taste it coating the inside of her mouth, it’s so wet; and when she gets within touching range, Jestiny blinks, flinching and recoiling, like she hadn’t seen her coming even though their eyes had not once left each other.

She rasps, “Get out.”

Helmi’s eyes narrow. Normally, she would have obliged. For the game. “No.”

“Get—” Jestiny sucks in a sharp breath. “Get the f-fuck—”

“Aren’t you tired of playing this game?” Helmi demands, channeling what of Kajsa still roots itself in her mind. “You don’t belong with them. The Resistance, the Seeds—they don’t want you. You can see it now, can’t you? Now that all of that garbage is pushed out of the way, all of those pesky walls pushed down, you can see that they’re using you. You’re nothing more than a checker piece in their fucking backgammon game.”

“Shut up—”

“They don’t want you,” she repeats, and the room is so hot, so fucking hot it’s sweltering and she wishes she’d shucked at least some of her layers before coming, if only for temperature control. Oh, well. Too late. “Not in the way you deserve.”

She reaches up, hand landing on the juncture between Jessie’s shoulder and neck. She had foregone the gloves, at least, but that had been for selfish reasons; because she wanted to feel. All that skin.

The skin-to-skin contact had a strange, wild little sound crawling up Jestiny’s throat. She sounds upset. Distressed.

“They don’t want you,” Helmi says again, pitching her voice lower, so close so close so mine, “the way that I do.”

She imagines it must be scary. The first time being opened always is. But vulnerability is scary; openness, seeing, is scary. The drugs allow for true sight, but it’s not always what the person wants to see, just what they need to see. And Helmi can tell that Jestiny is panicking, does not like seeing the truth in Helmi’s words, because she makes a sound like choking.

Helmi kisses her.

The woman stills, freezing ramrod-straight. She doesn’t return the gesture, not right away; instead, she stands there and just lets Helmi kiss her. It’s not until she starts to pull back that the redhead finally reacts, reaching up and grabbing the wrist closest to her neck, digging her nails in again. Helmi only pulls back far enough to leave breath between their mouths, but Jestiny is gripping her like she’s going away forever. For good.

“Again,” Jessie manages out, hoarsely. “S-Say—Say it—”

“I want you,” Helmi says when she realizes what it is Jestiny is asking for. And she is asking, which she has never done before; it’s always only demanding, ordering, commanding. So Helmi glides her hand up the woman’s neck and threads her fingers through her hair and says, against her mouth, “I want you, little snake.”

That strange little sound comes out of the redhead again—but it’s clearer this time; a moan, agonized and distressed, like she wants and wishes she didn't.

The air is thick between them, wet and humid and riddled with the overwhelming darkness of the earth. She watches the woman’s bubblegum-pink tongue dart out, wetting her lips, and Helmi feels that emotion gnawing at her insides again:

Hunger.

She has spent years stifling her appetite; she’s tired of it. She wants to hunger, to be caught wanting, and she doesn’t mind—Kajsa had said she could. Had ordered her. It was her job to want, and to be hungry, and she feels it now more than ever. Absently, Helmi twists a lock of copper hair around her finger, watching it coil tight and then slip loose again, falling from her fingers; embers embers embers, in the dying light, and she can’t look away. She’s always had a thing for fire, anyway.

“You won’t believe me,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes to meet amber ones, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards, “but I’ll say it anyway.”

Hel dips her head down, guides her mouth across warm skin; hungry, wanting, but she doesn’t care to be seen like this—prefers it, actually—so she says, “I’ve dreamt about this.”

“Shut up,” Jestiny manages out, her voice breaking a little. “Sound so f-fucking stupid.”

Hel tightens her grip on the copper hair again and tugs. “Brat.”

A most unbecoming squeak comes out of Jessie, her brows furrowing in irritation and face flushing a gorgeous high-colour. “Feel like shit,” Jestiny slurs. “You made me feel like shit.”

“I know,” Helmi whispers back, the closest she will get to apologizing for making her see the truth. “But you belong with me.”

She knows the way the Resistance and the Seeds talk about Jestiny. It’s always belong to, not belong with, but she’ll show Jestiny that it’s different now. They’re different.

She’s different.

And there’s nothing quite like kissing her, Helmi decides, as sweet as she imagined that it would be in her dreams, because now Jestiny is kissing her back—parting her lips and fisting the dark fabric of Helmi’s sweater, rambling something against her mouth that Helmi can’t quite make out over the sound of her blood rushing through her head.

Later, she will dream about it. Later, she will roll over in her makeshift bed, and pull the then-sleeping redhead against her, to assure herself that she’s there, and every bone in her body will sing at last, at last, we’ve got you at last. Later, she will bury her face into the crook of the redhead's neck and indulge herself in warm skin, hers for the taking. Later, she will trace every single dip and curve with her fingers. It will be as sweet as kissing.

But nothing will be quite so sweet as the way it feels when Kasja turns to see them coming from the truck, hand-in-hand, a smile curving her mouth as she watches them and says:

“Welcome home.”

[kitkat1003]

Hearth, Home, War, and Politics.  For Kids!

 Chapter 2: Prologue Part 2

It’s time to take back what Salazar stole from them.

That is, if they don’t fall apart on the way there.

AO3 Link

@asilcorner

The room erupts into a frenzy.

“We’re WHAT?” Yakko hears Dot shout. Dr. Scratchansniff is muttering in German, Hello Nurse is shouting, maybe screaming in shock, Wakko has his hands over his ears.

Yakko takes a deep breath.

“HEY!” he stomps his foot on the ground, hard, and his shout makes the room go silent.  He rarely has to get that loud—in fact, he hates doing so, because it freaks out everyone around him.  It had to be done, though.

“You have the resemblance—how did I not see it?” Dr. Scratchansniff puts a hand to his mouth in shock, and then goes pale.  “I operated on the princess—oh no, this is the not good, I...,” he trails off, and Hello Nurse helps him to a chair.

“I don’t see what her status has to do with your quality of care, Doc.  What, you fix up poor people worse than royalty?” Yakko says it more nonchalant than anything else, but his eyes sharpen at the thought.  Would he—?

Dr. Scratchansniff frantically shakes his head, and Yakko shrugs.

“See, no harm no foul,” he turns, to the guard.  

“And, uh, thanks for the heads up, but I don’t know what you expect us to do about that.  Last time I checked, fourteen year-olds can’t overthrow the government,” because he would have loved to kick King Salazar off of his high and mighty throne, but keeping his sibs safe always came first.

“We’re gonna stage a coup, man,” The guard says it in a hushed whisper.  “Most of guards are sick of that guy—and I found the old royal portrait, and now that they know, they want Salazar out of here, man,” Yakko knows why the guard is whispering—if Plotz in the other room hears, if any of Salazar’s supporters hear, they’re done for.

“What do you want us to do about it?” Yakko crosses his arms over his chest.

He sees Wakko kneel down and pick up the dropped coin out of the corner of his eye, and when Wakko goes to grab it Yakko notices his hands are shaking. Yakko knows a lot about his sibs.  Wakko hasn’t been scared enough to be that shaky before.

“We need you to be there, man.  We can do the fighting, but a kingdom needs its rulers, man.”

 Yakko feels a headache coming on.  If he hears man one more time—“Just….stop.” He raises a hand and rubs his temples.  “When is this happening?”

“Within a week” is the reply, and Yakko turns to Dr. Scratchansniff.

“When can Dot be moved out of the hospital?” He needs these pieces to figure out a plan.  God, and here he thought they could have a semblance of normalcy for two seconds.  What a joke.

“Um,” Dr. Scratchansniff seems put off guard by the question, fumbling for an answer.  “I think she should staying overnight, but after that she can go home.”

“Okay,” he takes a deep breath, stands up straight.  The world settles on his shoulders, like it always does, and he deals with its weight like he always does.  For a moment, the whole room can see him in a crown, the crest of the warnestock family emblazoned on his chest.  Maybe it’s less because he was born royalty and more because he’s grown used to caring for his family as if they were his kingdom.  Maybe it’s muscle memory. 

He points to the guard.   “Wherever you need us to go, we’ll leave tomorrow when Dot’s able. Now,” he sighs, trailing off and waving a hand at every adult in the room.  “Can everyone just-just give us some space?”

It takes a few moments for the words to register, but Hello Nurse helps Dr. Scratchansniff up, and leads the guard to the door.

“Let us know if you need anything, sweetheart,” she says, and then they all leave.

Yakko collapses into a chair.

What a mess.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dot is reeling through the entire conversation, as Yakko deals with all the adults that are vying for their attention.  She feels a bit guilty, but she’s once again too tired and weak to do anything herself, and if Yakko’s good at anything, it’s leading a conversation in a desired direction.

But there’s something wriggling in the back of her mind, asYakko talks.  Because she thinks back on the expression Yakko had on his face, when he heard they were royalty.  It wasn’t surprise.  Shock, at the admission, but not surprise.  And he took the news quickly, moved on quicker, took charge of the situation.  She knows that part of it is probably because he felt the compulsion to, the need to.

But also...it makes her think.  Because Yakko, despite their poor social standing, always had them hold their heads high.  He always had them believe they were better than how they were treated, and maybe that was just him wanting them to not think of themselves as nothing, but it could be something else.  Because they’re the Warners, they command the space, they always take charge, pull the town into musical numbers, and being leaders has always felt right.

She watches him slump into the chair, looking exhausted beyond belief, and a part of her just wants to let him sit.  She isn’t cruel, she doesn’t want to see Yakko stressed.

But she’s also ten, and curious, and confused, and Yakko knows more than he’s letting on.  And that part of her, that needs to know, makes her open her mouth and push.

“You didn’t look surprised,” she says, and Yakko looks up.

“What?” Clearly, he’s off his game, because if he was on it he would have a snappy comeback ready the moment the sentence left her mouth.

“About us being royalty.  You didn’t look surprised.” Wakko looks at her in confusion, but Dot doesn’t feel like backing down.

That’s her issue, she knows.  She never backs down from a fight.  Never knows when to let something go.

“I mean, you’re the mouth of this family, but even you ought to have been speechless, right?” She can see Yakko’s eyes narrow, before he shrugs with a nonchalant grin.

“Nah.  I got a quip for everything.” She puffs up her cheeks in frustration at his deflection.

“Yakko,” she growls out.

“What?”

“You knew!” It’s shouted with a vitriol that makes Wakko take a step back from her bedside, confused and worried.

“Knew what?”

“You knew we were royalty!”

Wakko blinks in surprise, Yakko flinches like he was struck, and Dot trembles in her bed.  Her chest hurts.  She shouldn’t be yelling yet, doesn’t have the breath for it.

“And?” Yakko squares his shoulders, like he’s getting ready for a fight, and Dot hates that he feels the need to defend himself from her, but he knew, he knew and he didn’t tell them.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out more pained than angry, and Yakko deflates at her tone.

“There was no point,” he sounds so defeated.

“No point?  We-we could’ve-we—” she tries to argue, never one to back down, but then Yakko looks up at her with a fire in his eyes that scares her.

“We could have what?  Staged a coup?  Yeah, that would have gone over well.  Let’s us, a six year old, three year old, and two year old go up to the man who killed our parents and ask him to give us the throne back.  Right?  Because Salazar seems so charitable,” The way he’s saying it, she knows this has been on his mind for a long time.  That for—for 8 years—he knew for 8 years, and he could only swallow the injustice as he kept them safe.

What did that do to him?  How much did that hurt?

“Mom and Dad told me to keep you two safe.” He says it  like a mantra,  like the thought has been repeating for years in his head.

And for a moment, Dot hates her parents.  How could they task Yakko with that, how could they place that responsibility on his shoulders, how could they do this to him, make him think that all that mattered was her and Wakko, and not himself?  What kind of parents are they, to teach Yakko to forget that he’s important, too?

“I took care of you—or at least, tried to.” He runs a hand through his fur, mussing up his cowlick. 

His voice sounds so self deprecating that she wants to strangle him.  His whole body is a bit puffed up, she realizes.  He must have been so stressed out it made his fur fluff, to make him bigger, to make him more intimidating. Because she made him feel like he needed to be.

Her and her big mouth.

“It’s okay,” Wakko speaks up.  “I get it.”

“Sorry,” Dot manages, because there are a million things she wants to say, there is a world of fury she wants to unleash, but those things aren’t for Yakko to hear.  She wants to tear the world the pieces, find whatever deity decided to give them the life they have, to give Yakko the life he’s dealt with.  She wants things to be fair. “It’s just—”

“It’s a lot,” Wakko finishes for her, an expression on his face very familiar.  She can recall it from when she would hide a cough, when she would feign being healthy for a day.  That facade in service of stopping concern from taking root in those around you.  His hands are hidden, she notes, and he has this look in his eyes, like when you place your hand in front of the sun and the streaks of light still burst through the spaces between your fingers.

Like he’s covering up something. Did he learn that from Yakko?

When did her brothers start hiding so much from her?

“But hey, we’re gonna go back to the castle, right?  You think they’ll have a royal chef there?” Wakko changes the subject with ease, tongue lolling out of his mouth with a grin, and he definitely got that from Yakko.

Yakko doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does, too tired to care.  He huffs out a laugh that’s more wet than humorous, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, arms propping his head up.  He wipes his eyes and leans back, against the wall.  

“Last time I remember being there, you sure gave the royal kitchens a run for their money with how much you ate,” Wakko beams at the comment, and Yakko seems to relax, now that he’s not thinking about the logistics of it all.

Dot can play this game, too.

“You think they’ll give me a new dress?”

Yakko opens his mouth, to regale her with another piece of near forgotten trivia, and Dot listens, letting Yakko forget just for a moment everything he’s been through, all the things he’s done.

Banter is always a distraction.  She files away that information, and decides to be the perfect distraction, whenever Yakko needs her to be.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They have dinner, a few hours after the guard leaves.  Yakko tells enough jokes and stories to make Dot cry with laughter, and Wakko’s tail wags so fast it’s practically a blur.  He settles them into bed a few hours after that, opting for the chair because the hospital bed is just a bit too small for three.

He expected Dot to be angry.  She backed down quicker than expected, though.  He hadn’t meant to get so snappy, but he’s exhausted and he doesn’t want to have to explain himself to anyone.  He did what was best for them, always.  Knowing would have just made them despair, mourn the life they didn’t even remember.  Without the comparison, their lives didn’t seem so bad, right?  Why give them that wake up call?

He stretches, yawning, and heads towards the back door.  He needs to collect their things if they’re leaving tomorrow morning, and the quicker he gets it done the sooner he stops worrying about it.

A hand grabbing his own stops him.

He turns, and Wakko is standing there, looking as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Where are you going?” Wakko looks...there’s something off about his gaze.  Yakko can’t decipher it.  Whatever it is, it isn’t good.  Yakko files that away and aims to figure it out when he has the time.

“Gonna go get all our stuff from the house,” and isn’t that a joke, calling the abandoned orphanage a house.  “Since we’re moving and all that.”

“Can I get it?” Yakko blinks at the question, which is why Wakko seems to stumble over explanations.  “It’s cold—I have my sweater—”

“And no pants.  I got pants and no sweater.  What’s the logic there?” Yakko interrupts.  “Besides, I need you to stay back here and keep an eye on Dot.  Don’t want anything to go wrong while I’m out.”

“I—” There’s a flicker of that something, something that Yakko can recall seeing earlier.  When Wakko came back from his year long work trek, the day before, even.  Fear?  He can see Wakko’s tail curled around his one leg, a sign of anxiety, but he doesn’t understand.  Since when was Wakko nervous about keeping Dot safe?  He always took a shine to that, proud that Yakko would trust him with such a responsibility.  

“Okay,” and just like that, the fear is gone, like someone had taken the crudely drawn etch-a-sketch that is his brother and shaken it to clear the slate.  It’s startling.  When did his brother learn to do that?

Why would he need to?

“I’ll be back quick,” he assures.

Wakko nods, that simple, dumb look on his face that Yakko thinks for a moment is real.  Wakko can be a bit oblivious, and you can see it on his face, but this. This isn’t that.  And it frightens Yakko, more than he can articulate, that he almost thought it was.

He disappears out the door, watching Wakko walk over to Dot’s bedside over his shoulder as the door swings shut.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko doesn’t have the time to be upset when he finds out who their parents are.

Everyone starts shouting, and the sounds fade into the crashing noise of tumbling rocks, the world crumbling around him as the ground shakes.  He covers his ears and almost cowers, and he can hear the rock above him, cracking off of the ceiling, and Sir is shouting something, and—

Yakko’s yell snaps him out of it, and he is a tensely coiled spring of something as Yakko talks.  Honestly, he doesn’t hear most of it.  There’s a dull ringing in his ears that blurs the sounds around him into white noise.  The adults leave, and it goes quiet, and for a moment Wakko feels like he can breathe.

And then Dot gets upset.

Wakko doesn’t blame her.  If he had the time, he might be angry too.  They’re not supposed to have secrets, not between each other, but Wakko’s a hypocrite so he doesn’t have anything to say.

He speaks up when Dot fumbles.  Is this how Yakko feels, when he needs to talk his way out of a situation?  It’s terrifying.  You don’t know if what you said is gonna work until a moment after you let the words go, and that one moment is pure adrenaline.

Maybe it gets easier when you’re better at it.  Wakko wouldn’t know.

Scratchy brings them dinner with small cups of his newest recipe of his elixir on the side, a few hours after all the adults clear out.  It makes Dot hiccup, and Wakko lets out a belch that rattles the walls and startles a laugh out of Yakko.  The food is soup, warm broth with potatoes and meat that forces the chill from their limbs, and Wakko can’t help but be grateful.

Scratchy isn’t so bad, for an adult.  But he’s still one.  So there’s that.

And then, in the night when they’re supposed to be sleeping, Yakko leaves.  He has to get their stuff, and he’s going to leave Wakko alone, with Dot, as if Wakko could keep her safe.  Wakko can’t do anything, certainly not keep his sister safe!  He couldn’t even keep himself safe, he got Sir killed, he can’t keep her safe.

But Yakko goes, anyway, and Wakko sits beside her bed and doesn’t let the idea of rest cross his mind.  His eyes dart towards any of the entrances to the room, vigilant.

He’s a prince, he realizes.  The thought is...it comes to him unbidden, and he tries to imagine it.  Him, a prince.  Tasked with helping keep a kingdom safe, its people safe.

He’s already failed, and he didn’t even know it.

He laughs, quietly to himself, and wipes his tears before Yakko’s back to see.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Dot is discharged.  She’s practically glowing with joy, jumping out of bed before she stumbles a bit.

“I would not do the jumping, ja?  You need to still be careful.” Dr. Scratchansniff’s hand is gentle against her back, but Yakko pulls her away anyway, keeping her close to him.  Dr. Scratchansniff seems surprised at the action, glancing over at Yakko in confusion, but Yakko narrows his eyes and shrugs, nonchalant.

Wakko is quiet as always, chewing on the lollipop stick that once held a lollipop.  Hello Nurse gave it to him, so now of the two adults here, she’s his favorite.

“Be careful, you three,” Hello Nurse waves them goodbye, and Wakko laughs.

“Never are!” Yakko returns with that trademark grin.

They meet the guard at the edge of town.  He has a caravan, and there’s another guard who’s driving it.  He ushers them inside, hidden from the world.

Yakko has his claws out.  Wakko notices it only because one of Yakko’s gloves is missing a finger, so it’s easy to see.  But Yakko has his claws out, something he’s never seen Yakko do.  Toons don’t like to use their more...animalistic features unless it’s funny or if they’re in grave danger.  Wakko guesses that Yakko is adhering to the latter.

He keeps them out as they sit in the caravan, and as they depart.  Wakko doesn’t think he’s ever seen Yakko so tense before.

“What’s the plan?” Dot asks.

“There are some guys—they support Salazar, man,” the guard explains.  “We got numbers, but still.  So we’re gonna fight them, and you’re gonna show up and kick Salazar out when he’s all alone, man.” What a plan.  Very detailed.

“You do realize he killed our parents, right?” Yakko’s voice is quiet, even dark.  “I don’t think we’re going to be exactly prepared to kick him out ourselves.”

“Dot’s still recovering,” Wakko adds.

“He won because he cheated, man.  Had Dip and everything—” Yakko flinches at the mention of it. “But we got it locked down, man.  He won’t be able to do anything.  It’s performative, man.  You have to take back your kingdom.”

There’s a question on Wakko’s tongue.  He wants to know how exactly his parents died, which is stupid, because the answer will only hurt.  But doesn’t the absence of knowledge hurt too?  He can certainly make a guess.  Everyone knows what Dip is, it was outlawed in all the lands for its torturous properties.

It’s acid for toons.  Strips them down, layer by layer, from color to line to sketch to paper to nothing.

A part of him wants to know for sure.  Wonders if Yakko was there to see.

He glances over at Yakko, and by the expression on his face, likely not.  There’s grim realization, not recognition.  A small mercy, he thinks.  Yakko doesn’t get many of those.

“Well, I think we can handle it,” Dot pipes up.  She’s holding Yakko’s hand, running her fingers over his claws.  Yakko doesn’t so much as twitch a finger, worried of hurting her. 

As if he’d ever.

“I guess we have our vote of confidence there,” Yakko chuckles.  “Wakko?”

Wakko shrugs.

“Why not?” he doesn’t have a lot of strong feelings on the matter.  “What have we got to lose, really?  And it sounds easy.”

Sounds, at least.  Wakko isn’t sure how easy it will really be.

“Guess we’re in, then.” Yakko puts his arm around Wakko’s shoulders and pulls him close.  He still has his claws out.

The rest of the trip is relatively silent.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They arrive at the castle in higher spirits.  Yakko spends the last ten or so minutes of the ride cracking jokes that have Dot giggling up a storm, and even Wakko has to break eventually.  He’s curled in on himself, laughing before they’re shushed as they reach the castle gates.

“Cargo delivery,” The guard driving the caravan says to the gate guard.  Yakko thinks he sees the two share a look, a wink, and then they’re moved on through.  They’re brought around to the back of the castle, into the loading area, and are ushered out into the castle.

“We’re going to the servant’s quarters,” The guard whispers, and Yakko keeps his sibs in front of him.  If they’re gonna be double crossed, they’ll have to go through him, first.

They’re brought into a small room, with a bed and dresser.

“This one is empty.  It’s not being used since Salazar fired a bunch of the servants,” They’re told.

“Fired them?  Why?” Dot asks.

“Were they too flammable?” Wakko pipes up.  Yakko snickers.

“He’s been on a short fuse since the wishing star, man.  One wrong step and you’re toast.”

Yakko snorts at the phrasing.

“You’re making this too easy for us,” he snarks.

The guard blinks, bewildered.  Yakko sighs.

“Soooo, do we just wait here until you guys holler, or...?” Yakko crosses his arms over his chest and looks on expectantly.

“Yeah-uh-I’ll come get you,” the guard fumbles over his words and plans, and Yakko raises a brow.

“Alright.” He shrugs, and leads his sibs to the bed.  “It’s nap time, then.”

After the guard leaves, they settle on the bed.  Dot is out quick, snoring softly as she leans against him, and Yakko supposes the trip must have taken more out of her than she let on.  She is still recovering from surgery, she’ll probably be tired for the rest of the week.  He makes a note not to throw her into many extravagant activities if he can, at least until she’s recovered her strength.

Wakko...well, it sounds like he’s asleep, but he isn’t doing the thing where his legs kick and twitch, and his arms barely move.  Every part of him is tense and still, even as he snores, and Yakko can’t imagine why Wakko would fake sleeping.  Wakko likes sleeping.  Who doesn’t?

He wants to stay up until he feels Wakko actually rest, but he’s more tired than he wants to admit, and his eyes slide shut without him meaning them to, worried thoughts carrying him off to a fitful rest.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko knows he should sleep. He's exhausted. It's a feeling deep down into his bones, this tiredness, because it’s more than just being tired, of staying up too late, of working too hard all in one day.

He hasn’t been sleeping well enough even when he does, and there’s a constant thrum of anxiety that sits in his chest, makes his heart stutter with every unexpected event, and as time goes on unexpected events become the expected.  He’s so exhausted by being awake, but his dreams don’t leave him feeling rested either, so he just can’t win.

At the very least, Yakko has put away his claws, fallen asleep.  He and Dot are safe and resting, and Wakko can be their guard.  Dot’s been sick for so long, and Yakko’s been protecting them since forever, so Wakko can pick up the slack.  He always has, regardless of what he wanted or needed.  He just needs a good meal and smiles on the faces of his siblings, not in that order.  

Wakko watches the stars, and hums a tune under his breath.

“Wishing star, so bright and true, our world has changed since meeting you,” he whispers with just enough melody to be called a song.  “So many things are happening.  Don’t know what it all is so I just sing,” he sits up, gentle enough that he doesn’t jostle Yakko awake.

“Is this all really my dream?  We’re back home but what does that mean?” he fidgets with the sleeves of his sweater, starting up another verse.

“Wishing star, so bright and clear, was it a mistake to come back here?  In a world we’ve never known, told it’s time to take our throne,” he’s a prince, he’s in charge, and yet.

“Wishing star, can I believe?  This is where I deserve to be...” He trails off, light of the moon shining against his face, casting his shadow on his siblings and the bed behind him.

Time moves slow, and he just stares at the countryside, waiting.

There’s a crash from above, and he jumps, tumbling off of the bed.  Yakko shoots up as if he were spring-loaded, and he frantically looks around for Wakko, pawing around the bed for him until Wakko pops back up from the floor.

Dot is up a moment later, rubbing her eyes and clinging to Yakko as if he’s her teddy bear.

There’s a knock on the door, and Yakko motions for Wakko to get behind him.

Wakko doesn’t move.

The ever familiar guard—they really ought to learn his name at some point—pops his head in, looking haggard and sweaty.  Wakko doesn’t miss the smear of blood on his sword.

“C’mon,” There’s no time for ‘man’ apparently, as he motions them to the door, and Yakko’s claws are out again.

Wakko lets out his own, so he can be just as formidable.

They disappear into the night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The flickering of the torches in the hallway add to the eerie atmosphere, and not one of the 3 children trust that they’re being brought to anywhere besides a trap.  Wakko’s mallet is out, and Dot has her mace, strong enough to lift it so it doesn’t scrape against the floor.  All Yakko has are his words and his claws, and he keeps himself in front of his siblings as a shield.  

They pass by a body that doesn’t move, or breathe.  They don’t know whose side the soldier was on.

“We have the throne room surrounded, man,” the guard whispers, and his breaths are harried.  His hands are shaking, and they would be worried for him if they had the energy or time to worry about anything else besides each other.

They can’t waste their time on other people, emotionally or physically, not when everyone else is out to get them.  That doesn’t mean they want everyone to be in pain, to suffer, on the contrary.  They just aren’t going to make an effort to help everyone else when they can barely help themselves.  They still try, and Wakko’s desire to use his money to help the town as much as to help themselves is proof of that, but they have to stay distant, because people leave.  People backstab.  People lie.  

People kill.

“Well, sibs,” Yakko breathes as they head to the throne room back door, “Ready to take back our throne?”

Dot’s grin is feral, her fur sharp enough to cut as it fluffs up, and Wakko’s hat has never looked more intimidating as it lengthens his shadow.

“We were born ready,” Dot says, and they head in.

Salazar is on his throne, seemingly unaware of the assault upon his guards, though he does take note of the sound of the door opening and closing behind him.

“Finally, a servant competent to check on me.  Being a King is not easy work,” his condescending complaint grates their ears.

“Oh Salzy~!” They cheer, and Salazar jumps out of the throne—it’s not his, it’s theirs, doesn’t matter if they don’t feel like it is yet because they’ve staked a claim and they will fight for it—turning on the dime and backing away from their voices.

“Sally?” Yakko hops onto the throne, hand under his chin, his brow raised as if in a silent question.

“Sandra?” Dot pops up on Salazar’s side, and the monarch yelps, stumbling back.

He trips over Wakko’s leg.

“Salisbury?” Wakko adds, and at the thought of it starts to drool.  “...Steak...”

“Salacious?” Yakko tries.

“Salamander?” Dot pipes up, her and Wakko closing in, weapons raised.  Salazar crab walks backwards until his back hits the wall.

“Sacrilegious?” Wakko taps Salazar’s foot with his mallet, as if testing his aim.

“That outfit, maybe,” Dot sneers.  “Whoever your royal tailor is, fire them.”

“Hey, don’t put someone out of a job like that.  Besides, if Saltine’s taste is anything to go by, it’s probably his fault,” Yakko sprawls out on the throne, as if he was born to sit there.

Well, he was.  Funny how that works.

“It’s Salazar you-y-you miscreants!” Finally, Salazar finds his voice, and the three turn away from their conversation with each other to stare at him with gazes that shut him up quick.

“Honestly, Salarts, your name is the least important thing here,” Dot puts her hands on her hips.

“I think being deposed is probably more important, Saltana,” Wakko shrugs.

“Deposed?!” Salazar all but shrieks.  Yakko snickers.

“Surprise!” He throws his hands out and grins.  “Thanks for keeping the seat warm, Seesaw, but we’re taking it back.  It is ours, after all,” Salazar pales at the reminder.

“What, did you think you could get away with it forever?” Dot rolls her eyes.  “Men.”

“Your men are zilch,” Wakko sets his mallet on his shoulder, grinning with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.  “We made a few friends.”

“Turns out robbing a country blind doesn’t make you popular,” Yakko shrugs, as if it was a shock to him, too.  “So, sorry not sorry, you’re arrested.  Guards!”

On their cue, guards come out and surround Salazar, two grabbing him by the arms and forcing him to his feet.

“Traitors!  I’ll have you beheaded!” Salazar kicks his feet and struggles.

Yakko looks on, bored, and Dot swings her mace up to hit where the sun don’t shine.  Salazar lets out a whine that makes everyone else in the room wince, and goes still, knees scrunched up to his chest in pain.

“That’s for Yakko,” she tells him, because she knows she should be angrier about her parents, about the ones she never got to know, but she only has the one, now, and Salazar is the reason why Yakko never got to go to school, why Yakko worries about if they will be able to eat that day instead of if he’ll get in trouble for his room not being clean.

Wakko hops up and slams his mallet down on Salazar’s head.  Salazar sees nothing but stars and says nothing that can be deciphered as language.

“Mom and Dad,” he says, simply, and then whispers another name she doesn’t catch.

“What should we do with him, your majesty?” One of the guards asks, eyes trained on Yakko.

It takes Yakko a minute to realize that they’re talking to him, of all people.  He blinks, sits up.  Your majesty, huh.

“To the dungeons, I guess.  Do we have dungeons?” he looks over at Wakko and Dot, as if they would know.  They both shrug.

“We have dungeons, sir,” another guard replies.  Yakko nods, not really decisive, more just as an acknowledgement.

“Cool.  Take him there, then.”

Salazar vanishes out the door, and Wakko and Dot scamper towards their eldest.  They hop onto the armrests of the throne that seems too big for just one of them to sit in.

“We won,” Dot whispers, like saying it louder will break the illusion.

“That was easy,” Wakko nods to her statement, and Yakko laughs, but it sounds more exhausted than happy.

They sit like that, silent for a moment.  The guards stare at them as if they aren’t sure what to think of them.  And the Warners, they’re used to that.  Being unknowns, being oddballs.

And yet they’re also being looked at as if they have power.  Wisdom.  Leadership skills?  There’s so much that is expected of them now.  Where do they even begin?

“What now?” Dot asks, and, like usual, Yakko finds himself being looked to for answers he doesn’t have.  They’re royals now.  Monarchs.  In charge.

“Guess we get fitted for our crowns,” he replies, and they wait for the changes to come.

[mothdalf]

DAY TWO: Findis and Írimë Lalwen

@finweanladiesweek​

So this mainly focuses on the relationship between Findis and Fëanor rather than Lalwen but I’ll get to her later in the week.

Pics in order are:

Fëanor and baby Findis, Findis finally snapping at Fëanor, Findis and Lalwendë, and Findis gathering herbs for Estë in the Gardens of Lorien. 

I’ve put todays rant under the cut but I’d recommend reading it because it really gives the pictures context.

As mentioned in my previous post Fëanáro is like the equivalent of a pre teen (like 10-12) when Finwë marries Indis, and he elects to travel for his studies rather than living with them full time.

He is a young teen when he gets a letter to tell him that he’s going to be a brother, and to say that he takes it badly is putting it mildly. He’s crushed. He’s been angry that his father is (at least in his mind) trying to replace his mother, but now he’s going to replace him? So he doesn’t send a letter back and throws himself into every distraction because he’s going to make damn sure that he’s better than anyone his father tries to replace him with.

Finwë turns up and half begs half drags him home in time to meet his sister the baby. He doesn’t want to and turns up to the nursery (not his old one) in his traveling clothes before being promptly turned around and told to put on something clean at least.

He plans to give a quick glance into the crib (also not his) and a curt “congratulations” before returning to his room to sulk. But it doesn’t pan out like that.

Because his new sister is perfect. Not that Fëanor has been around many children but he’s sure that she must be the most perfect one ever.

Later he will try and rationalise this to himself by pointing out that she’s so different to him that she could never be a replacement. For one, she’s a girl, he’s still his fathers only son, but even aside from that; she has green eyes and golden hair and long Vanyar ears. Nothing like him. Not a substitute. There can be enough room for them both. That’s why he likes her.

Whatever the reason, she’s beautiful, every tiny detail from her fluffy golden hair to her grasping, miniature fingers. So what he says is more of a strangled “wow” after a long pause.

Indis asks if he would like to hold her and sees a beaming smile on Fëanor’s face that she never thought would be directed at her.

He hesitates at first because he realises he’s faced (for the first time in a long time) with something he doesn’t know how to do. But Indis points him to a chair and places Findis in his arms, hands gentle as she positions them.

He coos to her instinctively and she squirms and wiggles and blinks up at him. That’s the moment Fëanor decides he’s going to have kids of his own someday, as many as possible.

Indis is surprised when he breaks the silence and addresses her “well done,” he says without looking up “she’s wonderful, perfect”

The phrasing is a little strange but Indis understands; he’s complimenting her on craftsmanship, for all their differences he’ll always acknowledge that.

It’s quiet again until someone comes to call him away for supper. Fëanor kisses Findis’ head before passing her back and, almost shyly, asks if he can come back to see her later.

So Findis spends the first few years of her life with an adoring big brother. He sends her gifts from his travels, or things he’s made, and dotes on her when he’s home.

Everything is great for a while, so no one is worried when Finwë and Indis announce they’re expecting their second child, not even Fëanor. But things don’t work out that way.

This post isn’t about Fëanor and Fingolfin though.

Fëanor gets distant. His vitriol for Fingolfin doesn’t extend to Lalwen and Finarfin but neither does his soft spot for Findis.

For her part Findis struggles with the tension. When she’s older her parents explain the situation, her heart aches for her big brother. She loves all of her siblings and she hates the atmosphere so she spends most of the time playing peacekeeper. She thinks it’s ridiculous for someone older than her to have such a problem with a child, especially one she herself loves so much. It’s much better when Fëanor is away, but she misses him.

So like her mother in looks and temper, Findis is composed and calm and shoulders the burden of trying to keep them all happy.

Fëanáro is now a young adult and an apprentice under Mahtan, so he’s not around that much, but when he is the fights are always the same. This time however something he says clicks for Findis.

“So that’s it, the reason you hate him and like me? Because he’s a threat and I’m not? You only like me because you’re glad I wasn’t a boy! I wasn’t important enough to be a problem for you!”

Fëanor being Fëanor it devolves into a screaming match. It ends with Findis swearing to show him how much of a threat she can be. She’s going to be better than him at something one day, just you wait and see.

She tries for a long time to find that something. It’s never going to be any craft with her hands and they’re pretty evenly matched musically, so she tries politics, that should really make her a threat.

Findis reads everything she can from the library, asks her father 100 questions a day, attends councils and meetings. She learns a lot, planning to catch Fëanor out one day, call him out for something in front of the council, actually oppose him. Only that day doesn’t come. Fëanor hasn’t quite gotten to the point that we know he’ll eventually reach, so Findis can’t find anything to actually oppose him on at the moment. Frustrated, and getting more bored by the day, she draws back from politics.

Around this time Indis is planning a trip to visit the Gardens of Lorien (read, Miriel), and asks her eldest to come with her, lightly hinting that it will be good for her to get away.

It’s during this trip that Findis finds exactly what she wants to do. She sees how happy her mother is to be able to be close to Vaire again (see my last post about how Indis is a devotee of Vaire) and starts to seriously consider doing the same. Fëanor would never do that.

But when she sees the Maiar and Elven devotees of Lorien and Este, the (admittedly very few) tired or injured people finding rest and care and peace there, she knows in her heart that this is for her. Findis will be a healer.

She goes to Este immediately to apply to join her followers.

Este denies her. She has no more knowledge or experience of healing than the basic studies of her youth. Yes, the work they do here is usually routine and calm, but before devoting her eternal life to it, Findis should really try to think whether healing is for her. Can she handle injuries? Blood? Has she ever seen someone in pain? Really in pain? Not a younger sibling tripping and grazing their knee, but a hunter thrown by a spooked horse? A smith burned in the forge? Did she watch her mother give birth to her younger siblings? Did she hear the screams?

She hasn’t, Findis acknowledges, but she’s more than willing to learn.

She journeys home to Tirion without her mother to begin her studies. She starts at the bottom, back to reading books she can barely understand, stubbornly pestering the healers guild with letters until she can find a teacher. She attends lectures and eventually demonstrations with other students, usually far younger, in plain clothes, and most politely pretend that they don’t know who she is. She dissects animals and identifies what she sees. Bundles all of her scrolls and papers and books on politics into a cupboard and starts refilling her study with labelled diagrams, notes from lectures, samples of herbs.

The books start to make a lot more sense.

For some time each year she visits Estë again, just as a volunteer. She also visits Valimar and Alqualondë to learn from healers outside of the Noldor.

She starts to practice, assisting more experienced healers, in between lectures.

She joins a healer on a trip to the forest of Oromë; and returns with no fear of blood or broken bones, unbothered by a piercing arrow wound or the black bruises of a kick from Nahar.

There’s a drive in Findis now that was never there for politics, she’s all but forgotten that this started as a way to stand out against her brother. There’s a burning passion and a satisfaction to what she does. Her mother smiles and says that it’s the Noldor blood coming through.

Findis starts to come into her own with herb-lore and medicines. She commandeers an area of the palace gardens for medicinal plants. Writes report after report, learns to administer what and when and how. She’s almost settled on this as her focus when she is asked to assist her current supervisor with the birth of a baby.

She knows the theory. She’s recommended certain herbs and supplements to expecting mothers. She has vague memories of her younger siblings just after they were born. But this is different. This is her focus. So she switches track, asking questions of her tutors and colleagues. Requesting to assist with births wherever she can. She seeks female healers, midwives, and the input of her mother and her friends with children of their own. She makes notes and studies of their experiences.

Findis excels. Eventually becoming a healer in her own right. Only then does she approach Estë again. For something special this time. Yes, she appeals to join Estë’s devotees, but she wants to keep her focus on women, and pregnancy, and birth. She learns even more now, the Noldor passion propping her up as she learns that Vanyar ways of healing song from the Ainur.

Often, she visits the body of (Auntie) Miriel. She asks for stories of her fading from those in Lorien, seeks the insight of Estë, Irmo, and Nienna, and finally questions her parents. Piecing things together, she reaches out to other mothers- those who she attended at birth, her friends, those whose children she’s treated. She asks them about their experiences, asking them to be honest, to fear no judgement and feel no shame. Did they ever feel as Míriel did?

Some did, some didn’t. Either way she assures them that they are not alone. Over years she builds notes and papers and case studies as she works and follows her path in the Gardens of Lorien.

Findis becomes revered and respected for her work.

One day she gets a letter from her brother, he’s heard about her work, inspired by his mother. He asks if he could read it, so she invites him and Nerdanel to Lorien, so that he can read her papers. When they arrive it’s clear why he wants to do this now. Fëanor is afraid that his wife will share his mother’s fate at the birth of their first son.

Before they go home they get a lot of assurance, a list of recommendations, and signs to watch out for, all courtesy of Findis and her research. She promises to be there if they have any questions, and to assist in the birth personally.

Her brother embraces her for a long time before he leaves. He tells her how grateful he is for her help, how much more peacefully he will sleep now. Fëanor has never been happier that his sister out did him at something, and Findis has never felt less competitive. Healing, she thinks, is about always learning and getting better. Smithing, she supposes, is much the same.

[nemo-draco]

The First Step

Hi all! Bit of a crossover piece here, courtesy of some amazing art on behalf of @rose-junk-junky on Tumblr, and @a-rae-of-sunshine, whose characters feature here along with my own. Long story short, saw some amazing animatics and art with Rae's characters in a Frankenstein-like scenario, and my guys jumped in with a cry of 'new friend!'.

To read off our cast, Whimsy, Fancy, and Whimsy's 'creator' (this AU's version of the Mayor of Burnsville) are the characters of a-rae-of-sunshine. The AU itself was thought up by rose-junk-junky, who I also have to thank for showing the Frankenstein Musical album in the animatics. All the rest are mine.

Hope you enjoy!

A First Step:

"If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake I would make peace with the whole kind!" Adam Frankenstein, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Their dreams were racing, blurred things, fraught with frantic energy and a sinking sense of wrongness that made them feel sick to their stomach. It was like they were stuck on a top, whirling from images of crackling electricity, to fire, to the ripping of stitches, to the sounds of people screaming in both anger and fear. But rising above it all was that one face, that one person, who's attention they had coveted the most, and the one they hated all the more for what HE'D DONE TO THEM-

"I should never have given you breath…"

-Awakening in a dark room, empty, filled with books and beakers, devoid of anyone-

"You're a beast to be feared…"

-Wandering in the wilderness, cold and alone, seeing others but always being met with screams and vitriol-

"By heaven we'll drag you…"

-The brief respite of the blind woman and her company, ruined when the others came and saw-

"And haunt you…"

-Fire leaping, climbing higher and higher, growing out of control-

"And banish your soul…"

-His face, their own creator, staring at them with such revulsion and hatred-

"From this earth!"

The nightmare went from formless to something concrete, Whimsy all but slamming down into their own body just in time to feel a rope slip around their neck. Immediately it tightened, yanking the reanimated faerie towards…

…A creaky, rickety platform of wood. One that somehow filled them with more dread and fear than they'd ever thought possible. The fear became something real, forming fire that leapt around the construct like it was some specter summoned up from Hell. A shadowy crowd appeared in the billows of smoke, voices like howling wolves as they screamed.

"Kill it!"

"It's a demon, a monster!"

"Be rid of the awful thing!"

They spun, pulled, tried everything they could to get away from the noose's pull, even slipping their fingers around the rope to try to yank it off, but nothing worked. And worse still, a numbness was seeping into their body, starting from their feet and working its way up to their ankles.

A face in the crowd leapt out to them, their eyes widening as they recognized their creator standing among the throng. Before they could even think, or read into the neutral, blank expression on their maker's face, they cried out like a drowning man casting about for a lifeline.

"Help me! Help me, please!"

Their legs grew stiff and cold, only weighing them down as they struggled to escape the noose, the fire, the awful drop...

"I'm alive!" They screamed, eyes tearing as they sought out their creator's emotionless stare, as cold as the deadening sensation creeping up their body. They were being pulled up the stairs, up to the gallows...

But somehow, even over all the screaming, the jeers, the fire, and the creaking pull of the hangman's rope, they could hear their creator whisper as though he were right next to them.

"No, you aren't."

"You made me!" Whimsy cried, feeling a slight give in the boards under their feet, hinting at the presence of a trapdoor. The fire climbed, the crowd howled for their death, the feeling of the end pulling their hands away from the lethally light weight of the noose. "YOU MADE ME!"

But with no inflection, no emotion, came the cold response.

"I reject you."

And with a snap, then came the short drop...

...And the sudden stop as their body thudded against the floor, thankfully a carpeted one that masked the noise.

Not that Whimsy, for the moment, had much mind to be thankful.

For the time being, their mind was frozen, limbs shakily drawing in to curl out of some instinctive reaction as they tried to figure out whether or not they were once again dead.

The feeling of their heart galloping in their chest, as well as the frantic gasping rushing in and out of their clenched teeth, contradicted that idea. Well, that and a slight sting radiating through their hip given that had smacked into the floor before the rest of them.

Sitting gingerly up and untangling themselves with a trembling set of arms, Whimsy sat in the dark for a spell, before deciding that this wasn't helping and stumbling to their feet. Their hands only shook a little as they found the doorknob, though as they stepped out into the hall the faintly cooler temperature jolted them to something that felt a little more in control...and drew their eye down to a plate that had been left next to their door. A quick sniff brought the scents of beef, some kind of vegetables, maybe bread? All of it was a little dulled though, the plate itself cool to the touch. This had been left a while ago, that was for sure...

It made them realize that they weren't even fully aware of what time it was. The most they could say was 'night' but the house around them was dead silent. Everyone else must already be in bed.

The notion was surprisingly relieving, Whimsy picking up the plate and deciding to head downstairs. Even the faintly chilled food was somewhat appetizing, especially since this would be the first time they'd eaten all day. Or…night? Whenever.

Despite their height, the reanimated (corpse) faerie was able to move stealthily down the hallway, to the stairs leading down to the larger part of the house. The…guy, Cab, who had brought them here had said that it was an old firehouse. When they'd gotten it set up, they'd moved the pole, somehow got a spiral staircase, and made the whole downstairs open to co-join the garage with the rest of the first floor, barring a little section for a bathroom and closet. That was a design choice that Whimsy'd been a little confused by, Cab's words that it was for 'Bee's benefit not really helping to illuminate much.

At least, not until the car sitting in the garage space started talking, during which that little mystery was cleared up in short order.

Whimsy had just come down the stairs when a faint noise caught their attention, their head jerking in the direction it had come from to see a very small figure sitting at the table. The most eye-grabbing feature was a small streak of silver running through a head of otherwise black hair, a tired shadow in the tailor's face despite the brief flash of nerves at the sight of the towering, stitched-together faerie (reanimated corpse). The pair stared at each other, Whimsy belatedly remembering that this was the person who owned this house, what had Cab called him again?

Either way, they couldn't exactly ask with their mouth full, so they made an effort to swallow a rather large mouthful of chilled beef and bread. He ended up beating them to actually talking though, voice quiet with an attempt at nonchalance.

"Glad to see you liked the food. We did have dinner a while ago, but you were asleep. We didn't want to wake you."

"Thanks," Whimsy muttered, once their mouth was free to reply, though they realized that they didn't really have anything to add or say. Funnily enough, Fancy seemed to have the same issue too, drumming his fingers on the table for an instant as his eyes cast around before lighting on the softly steaming mug in front of him.

"Do, you want some tea?"

Tea. Whimsy had a vague memory of it from when they'd spoken to the blind woman. A bit bitter, but warm. And, if something were to go wrong, then they could just leave, right?

So, even with the mistrust nudging at the back of their mind, Whimsy edged cautiously forward, carefully watching for some sign of underhanded play. It was a nervousness that was echoed a little in the tailor, Fancy looking up to meet Whimsy's eyes and, consciously or not, huddling down a bit like a fox that had come too close to a bear.

The faerie themselves edged quietly into the seat, nearly approaching calm before a metallic, humming voice spoke up from behind them.

"'Ey Whims."

Oh, right, and the car, the thought of which immediately had Whimsy changing seats to keep both Fancy and 'Bee' within view (and noticing with a silent shiver of bracing tension that the sleek, not all together large but still not small black car had rolled closer). Not that Bee himself seemed to take much offense, given his next, calm words.

"Thanks for switchin', by the way. Easier to talk when I'm not hollering over someone. Guess it's the exterior, dunno. Not many people expect the car to hold a conversation." Despite the easy tone, Whimsy couldn't feel relaxed, like there was a trap somewhere that they needed to keep an eye out for. They might not have been run out on a rail yet but it had barely been twenty four hours.

"People…ignore you?" Whimsy still asked, faintly piqued by the implication. Though they really couldn't guess what was worse, to be shunned or ignored. A faintly vindictive part of them hissed that to be shunned was worse, an ignored person could at least live among other people.

"Eh, sometimes. Though bein' innocuous enough to escape notice does have its perks. It's how I was designed after all."

Immediately Whimsy's brain got stuck on that last bit, to the point where they couldn't help asking.

"…Designed?"

"Originally I was made to be what you'd call a 'cursed object'. Maker just decided to be more ambitious and cursed a car rather than something like a toaster or doll or whatever. Demonically-charged rituals can be a mite bit unpredictable, apparently, 'cause I ended up with enough 'me' to say I liked the guy I was supposed to be causing trouble for a lot better. 'Course I couldn't stay when I kinda revealed I was alive, but, y'know, nice while it lasted."

"We're glad to have you either way, Bee." Fancy spoke up, it just striking Whimsy then and there that the tailor didn't seem surprised by any of what Bee had just said. Granted that could make sense, considering they had known each other longer. Things like this had probably come up before. It definitely seemed like it considering that Bee's tone was casual, even wistful in some spots, when talking about this person that he'd supposedly been sent to cause trouble for.

"Same. Great to be in a house where I can actually talk to people."

It was almost relieving for Whimsy to drop into the role of a spectator, but inevitably, the talk had to turn back to the last conversation partner that was sitting at the table.

"So, Whimsy, were exactly have you been? Thought I knew all the myths around here. Granted, most of them live in this house, but, well…" Though Bee trailed off, and certainly didn't sound like he was anything but calm and faintly curious, Whimsy couldn't help but feel the edge of an interrogation in the words.

"I, I've been…traveling…" Even to their ears, it sounded incredibly feeble. But they didn't know what else to add so they stayed quiet. At least, what they could say without getting into some worrying territory.

"Blew in from outta town?"

"Yeah." The faint grumble from the reanimated faerie completely contradicted the easier, flowing tone that the car employed, Whimsy remembering what they'd just learned about Bee and feeling…a sort of discomfort. Bee had sounded like he'd at least known something about what they went through, at least on some level, how on earth could he sound so put together? So calm?

It wasn't fair.

"What made you decide to come here? It's not exactly a prime tourist spot."

"…I wanted to meet someone."

"This a myth or a person?"

"Person. Didn't work out." To put it mildly, their memory flashing to a twisted, destroyed frame hidden partially under a sheet, sightless eyes staring up at them as that voice screamed about how they would not be tricked or cowed by a demon, a shambling wreck of a faerie-

"Sorry to hear that."

Whimsy didn't have an answer, and looked down as Fancy came back with a mug of tea. It was too hot to drink, but the warmth from the mug was more than enough to create a comfortable heat, soaking into their hands and driving the memories away. At least for the time being.

"Do you have anywhere else to go? I know Cab's probably said you could stay, but… do you have someone that might be waiting for you?" Bee asked, the somewhat quieter, hesitant tone a definite tell that this was a question that the car was aware might be difficult.

"…No."

Alone. All alone. Anything they might've had gone in a blaze of fire and all because of some bad timing. Anything they could have had gone because of a selfish, stupid creator that only cared that they'd taken their first breath, and not any of what came after.

A flash of pain went through Whimsy's temple, causing a wince that had them bringing their hand up before they realized what they were doing.

"You alright?"

"Fine."

The sound of something rustling off to the side caught Whimsy's attention, the reanimated faerie nearly jumping out of their stitched skin as they looked in the direction of the noise, only to see Fancy having reached to the center of the table for a napkin. The sudden movement on their part made the tailor jump too, though something in Whimsy's face seemed to catch his attention.

"Whimsy?"

They weren't fine. This wasn't fine. They felt horribly off kilter and the questions and constant presence of people were starting to take their toll. If it was just Bee, or just Fancy, Whimsy felt like they could have handled it better. But the fact that there were two relatively sharp individuals here, moving around and poking at them, stoked their nerves. Even though they knew that there was no immediate danger, that no one had lit fires or gathered up weapons, a part of them was consistently on edge, looking for some sign of trouble.

And they didn't want to! It was making their jaw clench, their head zinging with overstressed aches and pains. They were jumping at shadows and it made it hard to concentrate.

They knew that the full answers would only provoke suspicion, and perhaps an eviction. It wasn't like they'd told everything to anyone here. Though, the memory of the blind woman, and the distinct difference in how that had felt versus this, tugged at Whimsy, making them wonder both just what had changed in them to create such a feral anxiety, and also knowing exactly why.

How long before this ended too…

Another faint pain twanged at the muscles in their temple as a result, the feeling making Whimsy wince and murmur to themselves as they tried to knead the sensation out.

"What's, what's wrong with me...?"

There was a pause, Fancy seeming to shore up his nerve before taking a seat next to the steadily devolving faerie, a hand tentatively resting on their arm.

"I think, that there's a lot you're grappling with, and you need some time to process it all. I could be wrong about this, but it doesn't seem like you've really had anyone before Cab brought you here, and part of that might be due to your appearance. Which, isn't fair to you, you can't control that sort of thing, not completely. I would say it's normal, even expected, for you to feel angry, to feel hurt, and... perhaps even a little afraid."

The notion that they were, or had ever been afraid caused Whimsy to recoil, turning a hard look Fancy's way as the tailor jumped and also withdrew, his face a mask of tension. Bee too remained quiet, though Whimsy could just faintly hear the noise of his tires rolling closer by a half-inch. The standoff lasted for all of a few moments, before Whimsy remembered that Fancy did not have to let them stay in his house. Besides, he had drawn off, and didn't look ready to try touching the reanimated faerie again.

So, Whimsy let him be, and turned back to stare into their tea.

But the sight of their own reflection merely stirred those thoughts up again, the defiant bark of why would I be afraid answered with a smaller, insidious whisper of because your existence is singular, and you will always be alone. You don't even like the sight of yourself in the mirror, remember? Your creator wanted nothing to do with you, you were a mistake from beginning to end...

And when death finally claims you, who will even bother to mourn?

A small droplet of water splashed into the tea from above, Whimsy's grip on the mug handle so tight it was quivering.

"Whimsy...?" Fancy's voice came from the side, still worried sounding but there was a new edge of care to it that still felt so alien for Whimsy to hear directed at themselves.

"Oh geez…" Bee's voice murmured, with the same sort of softer, concerned tones.

"Damn that stupid, selfish..."

It was quick, a hissed few words on Fancy's part, but Whimsy had heard them clear as a bell.

They weren't able to move, much less address those words, and Fancy didn't acknowledge them either. Instead, he rested his hand atop their arm again and continued to speak.

"Whimsy, I need you to take deep breaths, just a few. Can you do that for me?"

They tried, but what came out were hisses that turned into gasps that felt like far too much effort for the simple act of breathing.

"Alright, that's a good start. Now I want you to try breathing in through your nose, and out through your mouth, Whimsy. It'll help you feel better, I promise."

Though there was that instinctive nugget of mistrust, there was also the part of Whimsy that was starting to believe that they were being smothered somehow, and the way Fancy had spoken before tipped the scales in favor of trusting the little tailor.

And, in spite of everything, the advice was helping. Whimsy found air coming easier and easier after a moment or two. But the whole experience had left them winded and exhausted, which made it a little difficult to hear what Fancy asked at first.

"How are you feeling?"

"I," Whimsy started, swallowing around a dry throat. "I feel…"

It took a moment to really parse through their physical symptoms, though eventually words came to describe the strange mix of light-headed and completely worn out.

"Dizzy. Air, I need, outside…"

"It's alright, there's a window next to you, I'll open it. Just stay sitting down, please. I don't think I could carry you if you fall."

Whimsy glanced to the side as Fancy moved to the window in question, getting it open with only a small bit of effort. The rush of cool air was a balm, Whimsy turning in the direction and leaning as much on the chair as their towering frame would allow.

"Just take deep breaths, it'll pass." Fancy's voice came, the faerie's eyes fluttering open for a moment and locking straight on the tailor's gaze. There was a slight flinch that went through Fancy as their eyes met, Whimsy frowning and looking away first.

Something in their face must've leaked to Fancy, because he spoke up again.

"Do you, want to try drinking some more of your tea?"

With nothing else to do, Whimsy did take a sip, the lukewarm liquid still having a soothing edge to it. There wasn't much left, but the whole episode had taken a lot out of the reanimated faerie, leaving them rubbing at their eyes and blinking blearily as they set the mug down.

That eventually turned into them letting their head rest on their folded arms, though they still tried to remain turned towards the window. It was later in the year, but the faint chirping of crickets was still prevalent over the dark nightscape outside. The sound was a calming, and vaguely relieving one, reminding the faerie of those times when they'd lived off the land and spent long nights under the stars.

Before they realized how…different they were. It was definitely an easier time.

They must've dozed off at some point, because a new voice speaking up brought them back to reality.

"Aww, lookit that. All tuckered out."

It was a voice they only somewhat remembered, given that the person in question had been present when they had been brought in to be introduced. A concealingly-dressed figure that had been quietly leaning back in his chair, looking them up and down with a set of luminously colored eyes that flickered through bright, sharp hues. Everything about this otherwise gray shape was nonchalant, from the way their frame settled to the way a similarly colored smile flickered into being over the wrapping covering the lower half of the face, there and gone. After everything Whimsy had been through, it was a different way to be greeted, and they still weren't sure if that was a good thing.

So, carefully, they opened their eyes and turned their head in the direction of the voice, and immediately caught sight of the same figure simply lounging in the chair next to them, even going so far as to tilt it onto its back legs.

"Tagger, please don't break the chairs." Fancy's voice came, the tailor gathering up the mugs before stepping away.

"Alright, alright. No fun," 'Tagger' replied, and performed the somewhat odd feat of dropping the chair back on all four legs with barely any noise. Though, as it landed, those oddly-colored eyes happened to see Whimsy's, and immediately there was a flicker of that smile again.

"Oop, guess somebody is awake. Hey, Whims. Think maybe you wanna catch some 'z's in your own bed?"

On some level, that should have been a good idea, though there was a part of Whimsy that definitely remembered why they'd come down to the kitchen to begin with, and therefore was not so ready to just head up to lie in bed, jumping at more shadows and quite possibly have more nightmares. So, instead of acquiescing, they settled in and closed their eyes, turning their head away.

"No, good here."

"But, you're gonna go back to sleep." Tagger pointed out.

"Maybe I will," Whimsy growled back, still refusing to open their eyes.

"Inna chair."

The rather frank observation did get a more venomous look from the faerie, though Tagger didn't look the least bit worried by the much taller Whimsy staring him down. It was such a strange switch to what would usually happen that they honestly weren't sure what to do, so they ended up breaking off the impromptu contest first to stubbornly shut their eyes, huddling in their arms like it was some sort of impregnable fortress.

And they knew exactly what Tagger thought of that given that the sound of him chuckling to himself wasn't long in following.

"Oh, you are just a treat, aren't you? Can see why Cab liked you."

Cab being the one that had brought them here, that had opened the door to his home. Admittedly, he'd neglected to mention the presence of folks like Tagger, or Bee, but he did mention the fact that he knew two faeries. They'd already made the decision, but it definitely helped things along. Still didn't endear them much to Tagger right now though.

"Bit of a backstory moment here, Whims. I was the first."

"…What?" The reanimated faerie couldn't help asking, their gaze turning back to Tagger just to see if they could spot some falsehood. A bit hard with a mostly concealed face, but for the most part it looked like he was telling the truth.

"The first one Cab made friends with. The very first. We've been paling around together for years! Think after that it was Patches, then we found Bee, then Sunny, and finally Manny. Oh, and then Fancy." Tagger elaborated, just as the tailor walked by and glanced over with a fondly sardonic look.

"Thanks for remembering."

"Welcome. Anyway. Guess we can add you to the list. That's if you plan on sticking around, a'course." Whimsy honestly wasn't sure if the implication that they would just up and leave was insulting or not, and ended up giving off at least half a surly glare which was probably why Tagger continued. "Well, you don't gotta make a decision just yet. It's only your first night. Plenty'a time if you decide you're sick of us an' wanna split."

Yeah, that language really wasn't helping, Whimsy's stare towards Tagger turning a touch more spiteful. Though, instead of being bothered by that, he gave a theatric shiver before slipping back into his seemingly normal, at ease persona.

"Yeesh, if looks could kill… Tone down the eyeballs kid, it's casual conversation." Then a brief flicker of that same, glaringly colored smile appeared over the wrappings covering Tagger's mouth, further conveying the mischievous smirk in his following words. "Though I guess someone does need to go back to bed. A certain grumpy someone."

And back to this again, Whimsy growing fed up enough with the whole encounter to just resettle their head on their arms and close their eyes. Though, in doing so, they completely missed the somewhat conspiratorial, and equally impish grin that Tagger flashed to both Fancy and Bee.

It made the feeling of being swept up into a pair of arms all the more jarring, Whimsy left blinking as Tagger arranged the reanimated faerie in a bridal style carry and spun on his heel for the stairs.

"H-Hey! What're you-?!"

"Wouldn't squirm too much, Whims, the staircase is only so wide."

A very good point, and while Tagger was apparently strong enough to carry someone that definitely was a good few inches taller that didn't mean that the stairs were necessarily going to alter their proportions to make it easier.

So, out of a perceived sense of self-preservation, they scrunched in their towering frame as much as possible, warily eyeing the metallic edges as Tagger easily ascended. After what felt like a harrowing few minutes, they both made it to the upstairs hall, though to Whimsy's surprise and more-than-slight annoyance, Tagger kept going until he was standing next to the door of their room.

"…You can put me down now."

"Whatever you say, Whims," Tagger replied with shadows of that same amused chuckling, to the point where Whimsy had the honest impulse to just scramble away and figure things out from there. Tagger's approach to them may have been novel, but the novelty was quickly turning sour. They weren't a child!

Still, Tagger was both deft and careful, setting them down on their feet and heading past them to a door down at the furthest end of the hallway.

"Night, Whims. See you in the morning."

And he was gone, leaving Whimsy standing like a silent sentinel in the hall. With nothing better to do, they went back into their room, quietly clambering onto the bed and staring at the night sky they could see from their window. The sight brought to mind the window downstairs, from which those familiar sounds had emanated that had provided a brief spark of respite.

Whimsy got up to crack the window open, sliding under their covers and looking in the direction of the small square that looked out to the outside world. The sound of crickets and the rush of wind through the trees accompanied them as the world grayed out, and they slid into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

A knock at the door snapped Whimsy awake, though it only felt like they'd just closed their eyes. Blinking bemusedly, they stared in the direction of the window, seeing a blue sky and trees losing their red and yellow leaves, not quite sure what was going on before the knocking came again.

Yeah, they…probably should answer that, shouldn't they? The thought of which was what teased them up, causing Whimsy to reel to their feet and plod around their bed for the door.

A familiar face was there, a more unique set of features given the black and white, checkerboard-like pattern that was stamped into the other person's skin. Cab was wearing the same primarily white pinstriped suit as yesterday, a not-totally open grin on his face that somewhat disguised his teeth, which Whimsy couldn't help noticing yesterday given that they'd resembled the sharper ones in their own mouth. Cab was tall, lean, though even a six-foot-tall frame didn't have much when compared to Whimsy's eight feet in height, and therefore he'd had to crane his neckless head back a little to look them in the eye, reaching up to hold his boater hat on his head.

Not that Cab seemed to mind, an ever-present grin on his face that sharply contrasted Whimsy's barely awake stare.

"'Ey Whims! Sorry for wakin' you up, but I figured you'd wanna get some breakfast. Ever had pancakes before?"

It took their wakening brain a few moments to figure out, firstly, what had been asked, and secondly, that no. Pancakes were a somewhat foreign concept.

"It's a food…right?"

"Yep, it's a food, a breakfast food. Wanna come down an' try some?"

Their curiosity had been piqued, so they did say yes and made to follow Cab. Whimsy found themselves waking up a little bit more, enough that they couldn't help noticing the confused look Cab passed them just before making it to the stairs.

"…What's wrong?"

"Nothin', nothin', it's just…did you sleep in your overalls?"

Were they being insulted? It was a little hard to tell, though from what they saw Cab wasn't the sort to just poke a beehive just for the sake of it. But, if it was sincere then what was even the point of the question?

"…Yes?"

"We could try givin' you some pajamas if you like."

"What are… pa-jamas? Is that even a word?"

"It is too a word! They're clothes you wear when you're sleepin'."

"People wear special clothes just for when they sleep?"

"Well, yeah, they're meant t'be comfier. Fancy could make you some if you like!" Cab's offer was nice, though Whimsy was decently sure that if they tried to go to the tailor to ask for anything they might end up giving the poor guy a heart attack. Hopefully, they thought as the pair reached the bottom of the stairs, Cab wouldn't bring it up with Fancy because they sure weren't about to.

"What're we talkin' about Fancy makin'?" The sudden presence of Tagger's voice made Whimsy jump, head swinging around to see the whatever-he-was in question leaning on the railing like he might as well have been there all along. Even though Whimsy knew he hadn't been just a moment ago.

"Hi, Tagger! We're talkin' about pajamas! Fancy could make Whimsy some!" Cab replied, as though the sudden appearance just didn't bother him.

"Oh, are we?" Tagger's reply had Whimsy preparing for more demeaning mockery, though they were somewhat thrown when Tagger instead looked them up and down before coming to a decision.

"Green or red. Maybe blue. But not light, definitely darker colors."

"You think so?" Cab's frank question was also somewhat disarming, to the point where Whimsy finally had enough and decided to break in.

"Wait, wait, what are you talking about?"

"If you were gonna get new clothes, those colors would probably look the best on you. Your fur's darker, so lighter stuff would just clash. And make you look pale. Paler. You get what I mean."

"Tagger's an artist!" Cab jumped in, the 'artist' in question looking more flippant.

"You can see my work around town sometimes. Usually at night. I've, ah, 'tagged' a lot of buildings." Tagger's expression clearly hinted at a joke, though as to what the actual joke was, Whimsy couldn't help not knowing. And Tagger didn't seem too primed to explain, muttering about how 'it didn't land' and turning away, heading out to the kitchen.

The kitchen at which Fancy was quietly helping a much taller figure, a similarly patchwork shape that was handing him plates to put on the table. Whimsy had seen this one too, back when they'd first come in. They'd been given a name, they knew, but the sight of a figure even remotely similar to them had caught them off-guard.

Though, as the moments of that first meeting had worn on, it became clear that there were differences.

This other creature, this other faerie, did not seem to need to blink, for starters. Pale blue eyes ringed in black faintly glowing and constantly staring, almost as if their owner had been trying to pick apart Whimsy by sight alone. They, no, she, was also considerably shorter, with the top of her head coming up to the middle of Cab and Tagger's faces. In physical shape, she resembled a doll with a simplified face, jagged-edged mouth and all. But, much like a faerie, she had more animalistic features mixed in, namely small but noticeable claws, legs that resembled a dog's or a cat's, along with two points coming out of the top of her head that resembled a pair of ears. Though, given that her skin appeared to be a sort of canvas material, Whimsy wasn't sure exactly how well they worked. Then again, maybe they did, faerie logic being the way it was. Whimsy had tried to read into it, but the general consensus was that people generally didn't know how faeries worked. At least, not inside and out.

Their creator might've known. But the ship had sailed on asking.

Before Whimsy could even have a hope of sitting down, a pair of fast-moving shapes dashed past their legs, hurrying to the table with the same frenetic urgency of a starving animal that had just been presented with the prospect of food. And they were both chanting 'pancakes' like the apparent breakfast would need some sort of summoning ritual.

"Hold on you two." Fancy's calmer tone hinted that he had no fear of either, despite the fact that one was a literal skeleton but dressed like a child they might see walking down the street, and the other looked like an uplifted wolf puppy, dressed in what looked like some sort of medieval garb. A tail wagged through the seat of the canid creature's pants, mirroring the flicking movements of a pair of batlike wings poking through the wrap covering the upper part of the small body. Somehow Whimsy knew, without being told, that this was another faerie.

Granted, they had the same feeling that they did when first looking at the canvas-made fae, that, just maybe, they might be too different to fit in with another faerie. The fact that this little one was so bouncy, full of life, didn't help that notion any.

They felt like a note in a song that didn't fit, Whimsy's feet already sliding back before an arm at their back caught their attention. A glance to the side revealed that Cab was the culprit, the sharp-toothed grin turning softer at the edges as they gave the reanimated faerie a little nudge; it's okay.

So, taking a deep breath, and feeling like the act of moving their own limbs was a momentous thing, Whimsy put one foot in front of the other and started moving towards the table. They weren't exactly making a lot of noise, even with their larger size, so they weren't sure what exactly made the little faerie-puppy's ears swivel around to them. Her head followed the movement, cherry-red eyes growing wide as she looked up and up…

I should say something, right? Whimsy couldn't helping thinking, the feeling of something squirming in their stomach as they stared down at the faerie-puppy's face, the mask-like fur around her eyes starkly contrasting with that bright scarlet.

"U-Uh, h-"

"You're tall…"

This hadn't come from the faerie-puppy, but from the little skeleton who had turned around while Whimsy had been focused on what exactly they were going to say. The small, child-sized skull had bright lights set in the sockets, glowing blue pinpricks that also stared up and up at Whimsy with the same stunned shock.

"Yep! This is…" Cab started, before trailing off and gesturing with theatric dramatics to Whimsy, inviting them to introduce themselves.

"Whimsy."

"…Whimsy! They'll be stayin' with us ferra bit, so, don't give 'em too much trouble, okay?" Cab continuation may have been meant well, but it seemed to hammer in the notion that Whimsy had done their introduction wrong. Not that they had much experience, but the emotional knife had already been pushed in, and twisted all the more by who exactly they were being introduced to. They didn't exactly have the best luck when it came to people, never mind children…

An image flashed through their mind, of a small child clutching his arm as they tried to skitter away from the faerie, eyes wide and liquid-y at the edges as they stared at Whimsy with nothing short of complete fright.

"Why did you do that? I-I was trying to help you!"

-a limp little figure in their arms, before a CRACK-BOOM rang out and pain blasted through their shoulder-

They blinked, hard, the images vanishing though the sight that greeted them when they opened their eyes didn't seem much easier. Both the little skeleton and the faerie-puppy were still staring up at them with frankly unreadable, worrying awe, and Whimsy felt fresh out of possible conversation. Thankfully Cab came to their rescue, though the reanimated faerie felt like a coward as they accepted his reminder of pancakes as an excuse to get away from the pair, and actually sit down.

However, the trials for the day were not done, as the one that slid in to sit on Whimsy's other side was the other faerie, the taller one with the staring eyes. It didn't help that once the dishes were all laid out, this faerie was taking over the actual doling out of the pancakes, and while Whimsy was trying their best to mirror what they saw the others do, it didn't keep them from feeling a twinge of nerves when those unblinking, unreadable eyes turned to them.

It seemed to take an inordinate while of them staring at each other for the other faerie to figure out that Whimsy needed a little help, a much softer toned, feminine voice speaking up and somehow very audible to them despite one of the children laughing about something nearby.

"Did you want one pancake or two?"

"…Can I get three?" Whimsy's request was answered as she doled out three pancakes, though they couldn't help the brief glance at the plates around, mentally doing the math as to whether or not they'd taken too much. It seemed fine, but their brief spate of figuring was interrupted as they realized that the other faerie had not stopped looking at them.

"…Wh-What is it?"

"You never mentioned your name."

Though the specific language wasn't used, this still felt like a request for a name, and not in just the 'what is your name' kind of fashion. Whimsy had certainly not forgotten that this was a faerie, a faerie that, even with their more placid demeanor, probably held to at least some of the old standards when it came to behavior. So, squaring their shoulders a little, they replied.

"You can call me Whimsy. I don't think I got your name either?"

"Do you want to know it?"

Wasn't that why they were asking? Maybe they should have phrased themselves differently…

"…Yes?"

"Then you can call me Patches." The frankness with which the words were delivered made it hard to tell if the other faerie was upset or angry about what they'd said, Whimsy feeling that uncomfortable, cornered-animal-type squirming settle in their gut as they maintained eye contact. Patches was the one to look away first, turning to her two pancakes and leaving Whimsy to awkwardly consider their own three. The pancakes themselves were warm, the smell more than appetizing though the sight of the faerie-puppy trying to slice hers with her fork while partially shoving them in her mouth caught their attention briefly. Fancy's efforts to get her to use the knife something that Whimsy paid close attention to. While there was a surlier, more combative part of them that groused who cares how we eat it, a part of them couldn't help pointing out that if they wanted to avoid attention, they'd at least have to give some semblance of good manners.

Though when they finally tasted the pancakes for the first time, Whimsy couldn't help the immediate impulse to scarf them down. They were good, the one with the little dots of blue in it quickly discerned to have blueberries and wasn't that just a completely welcome surprise.

Non-sarcastically meant. At this point they were seriously considering asking for more, though a quiet chuckle from Tagger cut through the euphoria.

"You enjoyin' the pancakes, Whims?"

Of course, their mouth was full when he asked, leading to them throwing the neon-eyed figure a glare as they considered the notion of whether or not they could rush through swallowing this. Deciding that no, they wanted to savor the pancakes, Whimsy instead made to turn their attention back to their food, and ended up having another distraction in the form of Cab proffering what looked like some kind of jug.

"Syrup's real good on those. Here, give it a try."

Whimsy watched with a growing-less-wary sense of curiosity as the golden…liquid (?) was poured onto what remained of their pancakes. And a hesitant taste turned into pure bliss as Cab had been proven completely right. The rest of the pancakes were quickly scarfed down, though a quick glance around the table showed that there were other things to pick at. They recognized the small bowl of berries, snagging a few and quickly eating those, though the one with the bacon going too quickly for them to have a hope of getting anything and with everyone reaching for some they weren't too sure they wanted to bother.

But, just as Whimsy had dropped back to more or less consider their empty plate, Cab reached over and placed down a few strips of bacon. At their surprised look, he pointed to his other side, to where the little skeleton boy gave a bright wave to go with his fixed grin. Whimsy's lips twitched, though the sight of the relatively normal-looking teeth brought to mind their own, sharp-toothed grin, and they kept their smile small. It didn't seem to deter the little skeleton at all though, the small bones clattering as the child jittered around with pure happiness at the simple show of gratitude.

It did help, a little, though Whimsy found themselves drifting towards a silent backdrop, more listening to the words of the others rather than contributing. They didn't think they would have very much to say anyway. At least, not things you said when everyone else was talking, laughing, telling jokes, and overall being far more light-hearted.

Was this what it was like? To be…normal? To have a home and a family? It was vaguely reminiscent of what they saw through the cracks in the walls of the blind woman's family, the strangeness of the current cast aside, and it made the role of the watcher feel all the more fitting and familiar. Safe.

"Whimsy," someone started, the faerie feeling like that veneer of security just tumbled down around them as they were yanked into the conversation. The source turned out to be the nearly silent Patches on Whimsy's other side, their eyes yanking to her like she'd brandished a knife. "Have you ever done this sort of thing before?"

Their brain stuttered out a little, because they knew the answer and also had the very certain knowledge that perhaps telling the whole group in any detail how that went likely wouldn't end well.

"I, uh, yes. A long time ago."

Not so long though, the reanimated faerie avoiding everyone's eyes as they drew inward, closing off from the rest of the group. It didn't stop them from hearing the somewhat awkward pause in their wake, the conversation stuttering to life with some sort of joke from Tagger that blurred in their ears. They didn't really feel like paying attention much anymore, the earlier, calmer feeling gone by the wayside as things seemed to move on around them. Before they knew it, everyone was getting up, doing their respective parts to gather up the dishes as Cab took over the washing of said dishes.

It felt like the rest of the group moved on like a hurricane, taking their warmth and energy with them. Whimsy was left clumsily fumbling along in the aftermath, glancing around in askance before handing their plate off to Cab who'd practically all but entreated the reanimated faerie to give it over.

Just as the porcelain left their fingers, a tug on their overalls caught their attention, Whimsy looking around before dropping their gaze even further, and finally catching sight of the faerie-puppy staring up at them.

"Y'smell really funny." Her voice had such an odd accent to it that it took Whimsy a few moments to realize that the words weren't altogether flattering.

"Uh…"

"Y'smell like a lotta different things. It's weird."

"Uh, Sunny…" Cab tried to interject, though he was still up to his elbows in the dishes from breakfast.

"They smell like apples, Cab!" Sunny insisted, before closing her eyes and taking in another deep breath through her nose. "An' trees. An' dirt. An'…"

Another inhale, and Sunny's eyes opened again, looking more puzzled.

"…Lightnin'. You smell like dead things an' live things. Which one are you s'pposed t'be? Are you like Manny or are you like me?"

It felt very much like the child was asking the question 'are you alive or are you dead?'. It was one that Whimsy couldn't help asking themselves sometimes, especially given the fact that the only side of the spectrum they'd ever see were the people in the villages, the towns. The very much alive, and the dead things were lying in their worm-infested, decomposing beds. Seeing Manny was definitely a first, but Whimsy knew that they weren't the same as the little skeleton.

"I, I don't know. I don't think I'm…either…"

"Why don't you know? Wasn't anyone there t'tell you?"

No, but the word wouldn't come to their mouth, as it came with ranting about how their own creator hadn't wanted them, had taken one look at them and fled, leaving Whimsy to deal with the world alone. Even with distance, and cares, that still stung worse than physical wounds. But, as they tried to figure out how best to answer, Sunny seemed to come to her own conclusion, reaching out from her perch and pressing a hand to Whimsy's front.

"…It's okay. No one told me either. But if you're smart, you won't need tellin'. You'll figure it out. That's what Tagger said. But Patches said I could ask an' so did Cab an' Fancy. Maybe they can tell which one you are." Sunny said, with the gravitas of someone delivering a prime solution, punctuated in the conciliatory pat they gave the leg of Whimsy's overalls. It was the sort of thing that they really didn't have any words for, but in lieu of just sitting there like a dullard Whimsy did try to add something to the conversation.

"That's…that's some nose you have."

…Didn't mean that it didn't sound any less lame to their ears. Though, thankfully Sunny didn't seem too off-put by the switch. If anything, she seemed proud that Whimsy had pointed it out.

"I've got the best nose. Ask anyone."

"It's the best. Can find a rabbit in the whole forest." Cab pointed out, Sunny grinning happily at the support.

"Yep!"

But, even with the lighter switch, the question that the little faerie-pup had asked stuck in Whimsy's mind, beating like a drum.

Are you alive or are you dead?

It was one that, for all their efforts to wrangle an answer, they couldn't quite manage it.

They ended up retreating to the couch again, settling down on the leather fabric with a quiet sigh. Was there a right way that that was supposed to go? It hadn't felt right at all…

The faint sound of someone walking caught their attention, their head turning to see Cab approaching, a somewhat nerve-edged smile flickering over his face as he came near.

"'Ey, Whimsy. You doin' alright?"

"Yeah, fine," they mumbled, looking away to consider their knees and feet yet again. It seemed to provoke something in Cab, his tone changing from moderately upbeat to quietly apologetic.

"…Hey, just wanted t'say sorry. Forgot the kids can be a lil' inquisitive sometimes, realized that y'prob'ly didn't want t'deal with that just after wakin' up. And don't worry about Sunny, she's just curious. An', hey, Manny seems t'like you."

Which was, reasonable, and a little bolstering, but Whimsy couldn't help a recriminating thought from slipping out.

"…Don't think most people would want their kids being around me…"

"Hey, hey no, none of that now," Cab suddenly murmured, sitting down on the table in front of the sofa just to be within the reanimated faerie's field of vision. "Whimsy, no one here thinks you're a bad person, y'hear?"

Whole mobs of people felt differently, Cab, Whimsy wanted to say, though the more biting thought wouldn't quite make it to their tongue. Instead, something a bit more lame slid out, the faerie letting their chin drop even more as their shoulders rolled inward.

"…yeah, sure…"

"Whimsy, look at me? Please?" Ordinarily, they might've rankled a little at the thought of anyone telling them what to do. But Cab's behavior, his tone, everything felt like he was actually trying to be nice, like he thought of them as a person. So, even though they didn't quite relinquish their hangdog, beaten-down demeanor, Whimsy did look up to meet Cab's eyes. The look they saw there was enough to give them pause, only having seen something like it once before. Beaming sincerity and emotion, to the point where the eyes glimmered faintly at the edges. Cab's hands came up to grasp Whimsy's shoulders, the touch only getting the faerie to look away for the briefest instant before their gaze immediately snapped back to Cab's, somehow sensing that what he was about to say was something that he wanted them to properly hear and absorb.

"Trust me, I know. This is hard. And it's okay to be freaked out about it. But, Whimsy, no one here thinks you're a bad person. And, if you want to, you don't have to be a bad person. You don't have to be. You can be just as good as anyone else, just as good a person as you want to be. Nobody can force you t'make a choice, only you do that. And, Whims, I don't know a whole lot, I'll admit it. But, anythin' anyone said, anythin' anyone did to you, it's not your fault, okay? That's on them, what they do, what they say. Not on you."

It was nearly everything they'd wanted to hear, but somehow, there was doubt. There was a part of them that couldn't help looking for falsehoods and tricks, that thought that what Cab was saying couldn't apply to them. And maybe it didn't. It wasn't as though Cab knew about what happened to the blind woman's house, or that child's arm, or a similarly patchwork shape underneath a sheet…

"…Why do you care? Why, why does this…matter so much to you?" It was an honest question given how suddenly Cab had come in and just started, offering them things like friendship and a place to stay. Though while Whimsy couldn't fault themselves entirely for asking it, a part of them couldn't help feeling just a little like they'd done something wrong as Cab's hands fell away, his eyes glancing around as though for help before he just seemed to decide to come out with it.

"…I, I've been there, before, Whims. Maybe not exactly where you are, but…I've been somewhere near it. And, in a lotta cases, what I'm tellin' you was, I didn' exactly have that many friends to start out. Pretty much none, actually." Cab's eyeline dropped, his whole, lanky frame drooping as though held down by weights. But he didn't stay that way for long, quietly looking back up to meet Whimsy's eyes though there was still a careworn shadow in his face as he smiled. "Kinda, y'know, when you see someone goin' through somethin' similar, makes you wanna stick up for people like that. T'help them out. Heh, sorry, prob'ly not makin' much sense."

"No, I, I think I get it." Whimsy replied, feeling a faint, nearly involuntary grin tugging at the corners of their mouth. "Thanks…Cab. Thank you."

"Welcome. Also, Whims, we're goin' out, by the way. Just takin' a walk. Wanna come with?" As Cab spoke, his hand reached out to Whimsy, gloved palm up with the fingers a little outstretched. There, if they wanted. But...

More crowds, more people, more feeling out of place.

"...No." They should say something else, right? "No thank you."

Though there was a slight downturn to Cab's smile, he nodded in that understanding sort of way before heading back into the kitchen.

"Okay. I'll see you later, okay, Whims?"

"…Sure." Whimsy more murmured back, a faltering feeling in their stomach that Cab probably couldn't hear them. The thought that the group would have to come back through the room, and would therefore have to walk past them, forced Whimsy up and back to the spiral staircase. Not to mention, Bee was right beyond the door, and if he were to come back…

Well-meaning or not, Whimsy didn't want to deal with really anyone right now.

They were nearly to their room when they saw a faint ribbon of light playing across the floor, from a door that was a little further down the hallway than theirs. A wary sort of curiosity pricked at Whimsy's conscious mind, the reanimated faerie skirting down the hall with a stealth that was a little disarming given their eight-foot-frame.

It was a skill well honed, though, and put them right next to the door in question. And, with the way it opened, they got a rather good view of the room beyond. It was a space filled with color, different reels of fabric here and there, gatherings of sewing material, a rack full of completed and partially completed clothing. There was a desk directly across from the door, a familiar figure there and quietly at work. Fancy was bowed over what looked like a mess of warm colored fabrics, hands a constant blur of motion as he carefully stitched one of the seams. Whimsy honestly could not have said what it was, both because of the angle and just by looking, they were hardly any sort of expert on clothing.

But, the more they watched, the more they found the motions, and the overall atmosphere of the room, soothing. Perhaps it was the fact that it was quiet, but warm, and perhaps it also had something to do with the stitches running through their own frame, but somehow it was enough to keep Whimsy rooted there, quietly watching, for what felt like a good few minutes, their eyes quietly roving over everything from the clothes themselves to other things scattered about the room.

On one of the upper shelves of the desk, standing out because it was different from the other nooks and crannies filled with sewing supplies, were a bunch of what looked like random objects. Small stones, what looked like some sort of porcelain figure of someone dancing, an apparent amulet with a piece of some kind of crystal, a small mechanic's wrench, and a folded piece of paper with a smaller, colored piece pinned to it.

They were too far away to really look at any of the other objects, but the wrench immediately brought to mind Bee. Had Bee given Fancy that? Were the other objects all gifts too?

With the added layer of detail, the view into the room almost became a mirage, something that Whimsy could almost imagine themselves stepping into and claiming as their own. Someplace warm and inviting, with objects here and there that had their own stories, their own place.

Their own home…

Though unfortunately, the spell was broken with a too-loud creak coming from the hallway, Whimsy not sure if they'd accidentally shifted or not but seeing Fancy pause and make to look up. Without thinking, they turned tail and tried to hurry back down the hallway as quietly as they could, closing the door of their bedroom behind them.

For a brief instant they stood there, listening, before realizing that there was light coming in through the window behind them, which would illuminate the fact that they were standing there. Stepping back, Whimsy moved closer to the window, and happened to catch sight of movement in the yard below.

Out of instinct, they drew back, but it still didn't mask the sight of Cab, Tagger, Patches, Sunny, and Manny all heading off for their walk. The younger children skirted around the older three, clearly in good spirits with Cab more readily following along. Tagger and Patches were going at a more sedate pace, though were clearly part of the group. Despite the strangeness of the people, it was much like what Whimsy had watched from a distance.

What would it have looked like if they had gone too?

It felt foolish, not to mention horribly vulnerable, to just stand there staring out the window, so Whimsy instead turned to the bed, still rumpled from the nightmare-fraught sleep of last night. It looked just as lonely and forlorn as they felt, the reanimated faerie letting their eight-foot-tall frame thump onto the mattress. They didn't want to sleep, for a multitude of reasons, but, really…they had nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go.

It was…frustrating. Wasn't this supposed to be better? Were they doing this right? Was there a right way? They didn't want to go on the walk. Cab hadn't tried to force them, but he'd seemed… not bothered, but maybe a little put out. Had he wanted them to come?

But, they hadn't wanted to. Should they have agreed anyway?

The thoughts were more maddening than helpful, and getting tumultuous enough that Whimsy forcibly cut them off with an irritated growl as they pressed their face into the pillow.

Of course, cutting off their own air really didn't help much, so after a few seconds the reanimated faerie quietly pulled their face away and looked to the side instead, fixating on the blue and the tops of the trees they could see through the window. They had the thought to open the window again, to hear the sounds of the nature outside given that so far, it had been the only comfort. Though the thought was in their head, and they could easily picture getting up to do it, for some reason, they couldn't make themselves move. Instead, what happened was that Whimsy rolled onto their side, eyes lazily focusing on the trees outside as they gently swayed in a breeze.

Time melted by like that, and they easily could have slipped into a doze that thankfully was too light for dreams. But, as they flopped onto their back, a knock came from the door.

It brought to mind Cab, though in a twist, the one standing there when Whimsy opened the door was Tagger.

"Hey, Whims!"

"Hi." Whimsy wasn't about to force more than a politely neutral tone, though Tagger's voice still kept that calm, devil-may-care lilt that showed he wasn't the least bit intimidated by anything, never mind the eight-foot-tall faerie staring him down.

"Missed you on the walk, but Sunny and Manny wanted to get you some stuff. Think you might be able to come out and play next time?" They weren't sure how it happened, but somehow Tagger moved past them, setting down a few objects on the dresser across from the bed. Two rocks, one lighter colored and with rounded edges, the other jet black with sharp angles. As Tagger placed down the little souvenirs from the hike, it struck Whimsy just how plain and bare the place was. Fancy's room had been littered with personal touches, but for them the only thing in the room was the furniture.

Well, it wasn't like they'd set up shop anywhere long enough to really acquire things of their own. The fact that they had an actual bed still felt like a marvel. Tagger was currently sitting on it but it still counted.

Still, Tagger's tone, and words, rankled enough that now Whimsy actually felt a rebuke coming to their tongue.

"I'm not a child, you know."

"…Funny you should say that. T'me, pretty much everyone in this house is young. Well, younger." Tagger's tone had softened a little as he turned back, the look in those oddly-colored, glaring eyes easing down to something a little less blinding. It brought to mind the conversation that Whimsy had sort of participated in, where Tagger had divulged that he had been the first one that Cab had befriended, and more or less kicked off the formation of this strange group. Perhaps then would have been a good time to actually dig in and find out more, but, well, they were here now. No time like the present, right?

"…How old are you?"

"Rude." Given that it was more than a little hard to read Tagger's face, Whimsy couldn't help the immediate apology that leapt to their tongue. It didn't help that Tagger's body language could have been either mock-affronted or real-affronted, his arms crossed and upper body turned away with his head back a little. Had they said something offensive, it wasn't like they would know…

"I, wait, I wasn't…"

Thankfully, Tagger seemed to get that facing in the opposite direction wasn't helpful, turning around and actually facing the reanimated faerie as he replied.

"No, no, it's okay. I'm kidding, Whims. Don't be so serious. And, honestly? Couldn't give you an exact, numerical answer. I just know that, in terms of age, I pretty much rank ahead of everyone, Fancy included."

The notion was honestly a bit of a shocking one, though it stoked to life Whimsy's curiosity. And, if Tagger hadn't been too bothered by that one question…

"What exactly are you?"

"Well…you know that feeling you get when you're out at night, alone, and you keep having the feeling that someone's behind you even though you're pretty sure no one's there?"

"…Yeah?"

"That's kinda in the same ballpark as me. 'Course, you might be a little more familiar with the rest of the family. The Call of Cthulhu mean anythin' t'you?"

"…No, not really."

"Don't worry about it. For reference's sake, think of it like the blackness between the stars, or like when you're swimmin' in deep water an' just happen to look down at all that nothin'. Just, all the stuff out there that's too big to know that might keep you up at night if you think about it too much because, as it turns out, there's either no answer, or there's one you might not like all that much. Point bein', there's a reason I keep all this paraphernalia on."

Well, that was something of a revelation, even though Whimsy felt they really could only guess at exactly what Tagger was eluding to. Something unknowable, something too old to really pin down a proper age to, something that couldn't even show its true face or form around anyone. How on Earth did Cab even befriend something like that?!

"So, now that you know somethin' about me, can I ask somethin' about you, Whims?"

Seemed fair, though they weren't too certain they'd like where this was going.

"…Sure."

"Y'can sit down by the way, not gonna bite. Alright, my question is…where've you been, exactly? I can tell you're a faerie, at least on the outside and before whatever happened there, but somethin' like you doesn't just sprout up overnight."

"…I, I was, I've been traveling. Around. I…I spent some time in a village, a good ways north of here." Whimsy haltingly replied, sinking down to sit next to Tagger.

"Yeah? Spent a while up there?"

"Yeah. I, I was staying with a family…they didn't really know I was staying with them." This felt like the start of a chain reaction, Whimsy fully aware that this was, while not the worst of their crimes, a good lead into the destruction they'd wrecked.

"Guessin' the family might not have reacted well to their house guest, huh?"

"…One did. There was an older woman who lived there. She was blind. I thought if I could make my case to her, then, maybe they'd let me stay…"

"Didn't work out?"

"No. Her family came back, and they saw me, and chased me away, and when I'd gotten back they'd left and I-" Fire, fire had happened as the little cottage that they'd been so fond of burned up around them like some portion of Hell had risen to devour it. Whimsy had been angry, true, but there'd been something so soul-chilling in the sight that it had sapped them of their anger like a bucket of water to the face. Their efforts to put out the flames had ended in burns, burns that hadn't stopped stinging until they'd been able to douse it with water from the well and despite their best efforts, the whole thing had gone up. They'd had the thought in the back of their mind before, but especially now as they relived the memory, they couldn't help wondering what happened to the family. Did they come back? Did they see what the faerie had done?

"…I burned their house down."

"You don't sound proud of that."

"I wasn't, I'm not, I just…I got angry." A deep sigh, before Whimsy went with the first thought knocking about in their stitched-together head. "Doesn't matter anymore. Wouldn't have worked."

"Maybe you didn't find the right people."

"There aren't any right people. Nobody cares about me."

"You sure?" Tagger's voice had started to take on that semi-teasing lilt again, the reanimated faerie finding that they had barely any patience left for that nonsense, thank you.

"…Look, whatever you want to say, just come out and say it."

"Don't know the specifics, but Cab didn't have to say he'd be your friend, right? Fancy didn't have to let you stay in his house. I didn't have to carry you back up to your room last night. But we did. Kids didn't have to get you presents either. But they did. Know your experience is a little skewed, but…what'dya have to lose in tryin' again, Whims? Besides, you're not dealin' with some run of the mill, salt of the earth types. We're all pretty weird. Think I just demonstrated my own case decently well. And, if you're runnin' around with a crowd of folks that're weird, d'you really stand out?"

It was a good point, Whimsy going quiet as they considered it. They were, unique, for sure, and they were pretty sure that there wasn't anyone else in the world like them, but, considering what they were learning about their new housemates, maybe someone exactly like them wasn't needed.

"We're a stubborn bunch, Whims. You ain't gettin' rid of us that easy." The words, in and of themselves, were something to think on, but what grabbed Whimsy's attention was the fact that Tagger, did something. Made some sort of motion like he was going to reach out to the reanimated faerie, but as Whimsy stared and leaned away, Tagger pulled back.

"Alrighty then, suit yourself," he murmured, almost sounding dismissive. Though as Tagger made it to the door, he glanced back to the faerie. "And, if and when you're ready, c'mon down. We'd like to see you sometime."

They'd all like to see them. There was nothing in Tagger's voice that suggested a falsehood, which made the knee-jerk, resulting thought that no, no one wanted to see them, feel very much like a double-edged sword. Keeping anyone else away, but cutting deep somewhere inside.

"Oh, by the way, Whims," Tagger spoke up, twisting around in a way that didn't look altogether right as the neon pie-cut eyes glimmering from underneath the hood glanced back at the reanimated faerie. "Left you a surprise on one of your gifts, but you gotta turn the lights off and close the curtains to see it. Anyway, see you 'round!"

And with that, he was gone, leaving a somewhat confused Whimsy in his wake. Bemusedly their eyes turned to the little stones that were now sitting innocently on their dresser, the faerie even resorting to going over and picking them up for a closer look. Left something on them? What the heck did that mean?

Though there was the added stipulation of the lights, Whimsy quietly putting the stones back down before going to the light switch and then crossing the room to get the curtains.

It was when they turned back to the stones that they saw the glimmers of light, almost like paint, dotting the surface of the darker one. But it was only when they got close and picked it up that the reanimated faerie could read what had been scrawled over the rock.

A simple message, written in brilliantly neon colors with ever letter being a different shade: Hi Whimsy!

And a sort of design underneath it that, as they turned it around, looked like a small, simplified face winking at them.

It was such a small thing, the kids not having to think to get them a present but Tagger also had not had to add in the extra message. But it felt both lightening, and a little worrying. Like Whimsy was standing on the edge of a precipice and couldn't see the bottom of the pit they were looking to jump into. They'd seen groups of people, both friends and presumably families, that looked to have that perfect happiness.

It had been a strong lure, as perfect and content as it looked, to tease Whimsy from the trees and pique them to try talking to the people they saw. But it had never worked. Even when the other person couldn't see how they looked, it never worked.

Whimsy was weird, Whimsy was wrong, Whimsy was disgusting, a monster, unwanted, not supposed to be…

In a snap, they realized that they had started to squeeze the little stone, and immediately loosened their grip with a worried grimace. The present, and the message written upon it, were thankfully unharmed, Whimsy looking down at it for a moment before carefully placing it back on the dresser.

Their attention was grabbed by a brief shuffling noise in the hallway, Whimsy wondering for a brief instant if Tagger had come back to see if his gift had been warmly received. The door had been left open a crack, a few strides taking them over to it and a brief nudge opening it enough for them to look out into the hall.

Which was empty. Whimsy peered left, then right, seeing no one.

They pulled back into their room, thoughts turning to what Tagger had said before. Maybe, maybe they would try to go downstairs in a little bit. Just to maybe explore the place a little more, though they couldn't help a mental block on the notion of what they would do if they actually encountered anyone. Maybe better to tackle that in the moment rather than try to plan ahead, planning ahead didn't seem to do them much good…

Whimsy ended up being so engrossed in their own thoughts, that they missed seeing the door to Fancy's workroom, which had been open a crack, surreptitiously slid shut as they returned to their own room.

It took a few hours before Whimsy felt ready, heading down to the landing and ending up a little relieved by how quiet the main area was. Bee, it seemed, had left, and though the sight was calming, they were still on-edge given that just because the more-visible car had apparently stepped out didn't mean that the others weren't here somewhere.

Though, thankfully, at least from the higher-up vantage point, Whimsy could safely say that they couldn't outright see anyone wandering around in near the couch below, or in the kitchen. Listening around revealed that things were quiet, though a quick glance to the windows drew Whimsy's eye to the fact that the sky had gone gray, the first of a rainfall pattering against the glass.

It did kill the fleeting impulse to actually wander around outside, though Whimsy was loath to just return to their room. Not after they'd come this far. Maybe, even with the possibility of someone coming along, they could just sit for a while.

So, with that thought in mind, they slipped the rest of the way down the stairs, walking past the little kitchen area to the sort-of living room.

It was a good thing that Whimsy had gotten into the habit of watching where they were putting their feet, otherwise they might've traipsed all over the two little forms simply sprawled on the living room floor. As such, they simply stood there for a moment, a foot handing in the air as they stared. Sunny was predictable enough, the little canine-gargoyle faerie arranged like a sleeping puppy, but Manny was…more interesting, to say the least. At least, Whimsy was fairly sure that when things looked all disjointed and, spread out like that, they were supposed to be dead. Actually dead, but then again, Manny being a little skeleton, maybe the rules were different?

Either way, this was a little more weird than they felt equipped to handle, especially from children, so the reanimated faerie turned on their heel. Thankfully, Patches was just coming out of the back room, though the other faerie's lighter tread meant that Whimsy nearly ended up running into her when they peeked out. Immediately both recoiled, Whimsy with an apology on their lips, though they ended up truncating it, given that Patches had that ever-present serene look as she considered them. The kind that barely seemed to get ruffled, it was almost maddening given that it made it difficult to tell what she was really thinking.

But it would be…wrong, to simply judge the other faerie for a trick of her demeanor, something not able to be really helped, so Whimsy simply bit their tongue and stayed quiet on their internal thoughts. Instead, they turned, gesturing to the scene in the living room as they tried their best to convey the issue at hand.

"I just, I found them like this, is Manny supposed to be…?"

Patches peeked around them, pale, unblinking eyes immediately lighting on the slumbering pair. Perhaps it was relieving, in a way, that the cloth-made faerie didn't immediately blanch, or scream, but that calm serenity was a little maddening. This was precisely why they'd been so slow to integrate with anyone, Fancy was easy to read, Cab was too earnest to have ulterior motives, the children were children, Bee was a demon, if not an easy-going one, and Tagger was…Tagger. Whimsy still had yet to figure that one out, but at least he had more visible moods, unlike Patches who seemed to skate through life with a strange sort of distant coolness.

"This happens sometimes," she was saying, lightly skirting over with barely a noise. "You can just pick up Sunny. I'll show you what to do with Manny. Just watch my hands."

"If you just give him a little help, he'll come together on his own." To illustrate her point her gentle motions of picking up the somewhat discombobulated skeleton caused Manny's bones to jolt back into place, Patches carefully scooping up the small monster and tucking him close, like Whimsy had seen mothers handle their children. Manny himself barely woke up, automatically snuggling in to Patches's shoulder, though the reanimated faerie felt themselves bristle as those unblinking eyes turned to them.

"You can try picking up Sunny. As long as she's comfortable, it should be fine."

Though there was a part of them that bristled at the notion, especially since Sunny could easily fit in an arm, Whimsy still knelt, reaching carefully out to the small, winged body. It was only after they'd carefully plucked the wolf puppy-like faerie off the ground that they realized that Sunny had been sleeping on top of something. It was a sheave of paper, along with some pencils, though what drew Whimsy's attention was what was on the paper.

"Sunny likes to draw," Patches said by way of explanation as Whimsy picked up the paper, though something in their expression caught her eye. "Is something wrong?"

"I, she drew me."

And it was so, Whimsy able to more feel than hear Patches coming around to look, but for the moment they had no space left for their knee-jerk guardedness. They only had eyes for this, picture. This child's creation that had them as a part of the group, standing under a bright sun and blue sky, amongst what looked like long, yellow grass. Strangely enough, Tagger was the tallest of the group, Whimsy competing with Cab for second-tallest, and what was probably Bee looked like more of a jumble of red and black than a proper car, Sunny, Manny, and Fancy looking similarly blobbish, but it was all recognizable. And they were a part of it.

"Patches told us," Sunny spoke up through a yawn, having woken as Whimsy had picked her up, ", 'bout the fields she used to live in, when she scared the crows. She said it was like a dream, when it was sunny, and the winds blew through the fields. It's her best place. She said I could use it. Wanted you to be there too. No more bad people, just us. All of us."

"Wh-Why…?" Whimsy forced out, their mouth feeling very dry as something about the word, or perhaps the emotions behind it, stuck in their throat. But Sunny merely looked up at them with her cherry red eyes, beaming that sort of empathetic heaviness that most children didn't have. Maybe Whimsy might've considered it more, though right now, their emotions were bubbling up their throat, coming out in a soft sob at what had simply fallen in their lap.

"If I had known…I would never have given you breath!"

"You're an object of shame, without soul or a name!"

"You…no place but…THE GRAVE…"

"No," Cab had said the other night, when they'd first met. "You don't need him! You don't need someone that don't want you! He's hurt you, cut him out of your life! If you need somewhere to go, you can come with me, with us."

"You're a little late offering me friendship," Whimsy had replied, a sneer curling their lip as they glared at the bizarre…thing, a creature dressed very much like a man, that stood before them. But, a strange thing was happening, had happened. Even as Cab had spoken, tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes, like he'd meant every word of what he'd been about to say.

"But I'm doin' it. Late or on time, the point is in the doin' of the thing! An', if'n you saw someone who you know felt as lonely and as hurtin' as you do now, would you just stand by? Knowin' what you know, and havin' been through what you've been through, would you, would you just let them suffer?"

They hadn't an answer, but when Cab had held out his hand, they'd taken it with only a faint bit of hesitation. Cab had tried more to steer them along, but the way he'd been keeping a grip on Whimsy's hand made them wonder if he thought they might bolt if he let them go. But then he'd turned to them and said something that had been sitting quietly at the back of Whimsy's mind.

"Everythin' in life is a choice, an' while you've gotten one hell of a raw deal, you don't hav'ta stay there, you hear? You won't be alone, not with us."

A choice. Whether they'd been aware of the significance or not, they'd made a choice. And it had brought them something small, but heartfelt, and precious. This, not small, but simple life that accepted them so readily as one of their own. That accepted them as…

"Whimsy, it's okay, I just meant that we're family now, see? Patches, Cab, Tagger, Bee, Fancy, Manny, me, you, we're all a family now." Sunny's voice trembled with upset, though Whimsy felt completely unable to answer. But, like a calm wind, a ray of sun in darkness, Patches's calm, whispery quiet voice spoke up.

"I think Whimsy needs a hug, Sunny. Can you give them a hug? One of your very best?"

The small arms wrapping around what they could of their frame snapped the last, delicate thread holding back the emotional floodgates, Whimsy doing their best not to crush the smaller faerie as they cradled her, and cried. Deep, heaving sobs that came from somewhere far down inside as a wail stayed locked behind a set of clenched teeth, their stitched together frame feeling like it might shake itself to pieces from the maelstrom raging inside.

We're a family…

"No soul or a name!"

You don't have to stay there…

"Corruption of biology…"

You won't be alone…

The feeling of another small frame, this one bonier, coming to hug them caused Whimsy to start, wide eyes finding the equally tumultuous ones of Manny. They must've woken up the little skeleton, but before they could even think to apologize the boney little arms were wrapping around their own arm, Manny tucking in in his own effort.

Whimsy looked up just in time to see Patches kneel in front of them, something beaming through as they made eye contact. That calm serenity swirled with a compassion that loomed as large as the open sky, Patches quietly reaching out to the reanimated faerie, and carefully brushing their tears away with a hand made of course cloth. They were quickly replaced by more, though for the moment Whimsy only bowed their head, shoulders helplessly shivering as they tried their best to ride out the storm.

What they weren't expecting was for Patches to reach out, gently easing them to lean into her shoulder. Her hands, with their faint suggestion of needle-like claws, carefully combed through the topmost layer of their curly mane. Their head rested against Patches's shoulder, folded down enough that even their eight-foot-tall frame could rest comfortably while still not crushing the two children doing their best to give the overwrought faerie a hug.

A soft hum caught Whimsy's attention, Patches's whispery tones rumbling low in her ribcage before it blossomed into a lulling song.

"You'll remember me, when the west wind moves, 'pon the fields of barley, you'll forget the sun in his jealous sky, as we walk in fields of gold…"

The 'best place', a field of pure gold that rippled in the movements of wind like something alive. But peacefully so, like the soft rise and fall of breath. It felt so antithetical to what they had known before, the shouting, the strife, the loneliness, the abandonment…

Though there was a part of Whimsy that wanted to push back, to withdraw until they felt safe, they found they couldn't. It felt so foreign, and yet there was a part of them that couldn't help staying right where they were. It was also the part of them that seemed to be the center of the emotional storm, this screaming, wailing, crying thing that grasped at the physical comfort like a lifeline. Patches's voice blurred in their ears, a lulling hum as their mind moved away from the images of darkness, lightning, mobs, screaming…and to a field of softly waving gold.

The thought caused a soft, near-involuntary sob to rattle through Whimsy's frame, Patches briefly breaking in her song to murmur some soothing words that was probably meant to be nonsense, but somehow, Whimsy couldn't take it that way.

"Shh, shh, we're here, we're here…"

A few moments of that, and carefully rocking them a little, and the scarecrow faerie went back to her tune. Whimsy listened, holding onto it like it was a part of the stitches running throughout their skin as the world dissolved into an exhaustion-dulled haze.

"I never made promises lightly, and there have been some that I've broken, but I swear in the days still left, we'll walk in fields of gold…"

"Hey, Whimsy…" A voice spoke, piercing the calm stupor that had drifted in. In the moment, Whimsy had no other thought apart from that they particularly liked where they were and didn't want to move, burying their face in the material as they tried to get away from whoever this was.

"G'way…"

"Would, but you're kinda pinning Patches to the floor. Wanna try gettin' up on the couch, probably be comfier?" At first, Cab's words were confusing, Whimsy's eyes blinking groggily open before they realized that, well, he was right. Turning their head brought Patches's face into view, the calm, even stare a little softer as she looked down at the reanimated faerie. With a somewhat sheepish flutter in their chest, they realized that they were still using Patches's shoulder and upper body as a pillow, with Sunny and Manny still held close in a careful but firm grip. Whimsy straightened, pulling away from the relatively vulnerable position, but they couldn't make themselves let go of the pair just yet.

With nothing else they could do, and a glance around telling them nothing, they couldn't help asking a somewhat hesitant question.

"H-How long was I asleep?"

"About ten minutes. Not very long at all," Patches replied, stretching now that the weight of all three had been removed.

"Hence why we're bringin' up the couch." Cab pointed out, about to reach down to help Whimsy up before Tagger nudged him aside.

"They got two heads on you, noodle-arms. Lemme do it."

Though Tagger was definitely more than ready to haul Whimsy up, it was a little difficult given that their hands were full of sleeping children. Patches and Cab tried to make it easier by taking at least one per each of them, but Whimsy had a moment of conflict as they looked between the offered hands and the little forms nestled against their front.

"It's okay," Cab spoke, catching Whimsy's hesitation. "They're pretty much out. You wanna take five with 'em?"

The question provoked a shy, eye-avoiding nod, though no one seemed to begrudge Whimsy an iota as they clambered up onto the sofa, and quietly scooted inward to make room for the sleeping Sunny and Manny. Instead, there were just quiet words on the part of Cab and Tagger, varying levels of affection in the pair's voices as Cab handed Whimsy a blanket and wished them a good nap, and Tagger's neon grin rife with rough warmth as he said he'd see the faerie later.

Sleep well, see you later. Was that normal to hear, and to feel like it was being meant? They weren't sure if they wanted to ask, but it definitely was a first for them. But, as Cab and Tagger were moving away, it suddenly struck Whimsy that Patches was still standing by, and apparently had something to say.

"You can come to me again if you need to talk, I don't mind. Also," she murmured, kneeling down next to the couch to look Whimsy in the eye. "You have brambles in your hair. I got about three out but there's probably more. We can try to fix that later if you like."

The faerie in question wasn't sure they could offer much to that, but Patches thankfully didn't seem to need an answer, getting up and leaving without any prompting. Whimsy was left blinking in the wake of that, before deciding that, well, they didn't need to really decide anything now and settling into the pillow with a sigh.

The slight movement made both Sunny and Manny move around, twitching and squirming for a moment or two. Without thinking Whimsy reached out and placed an arm over the pair, mostly for the sake of keeping them from rolling off the couch, but found themselves surprised when Sunny turned to huddle into them, Manny's arms reaching over Whimsy's and wrapping around like the limb was a stuffed animal.

It made the realization hammer in all the more that these little creatures, these kids, trusted them. Trusted them enough to sleep peacefully next to them, trusted them enough to let them into their home, draw pictures of them like they were one of the, the family.

The thought had Whimsy swallow another lump in their throat, a prickling at the corners of their eyes stubbornly forced back down because they were sick and tired of feeling miserable. Besides, if they started up again it might wake the kids.

"Shh, go to sleep, you're safe with me." They found themselves murmuring anyway, a faint tremble eating at their voice as they huddled around Sunny and Manny.

The sounds of the rain pattering on the windowpanes formed a soothing backdrop, Whimsy's eyes lazily drifting to see the water as it ran in rivets down the glass. It didn't quite banish the sounds of fire, of screams, that lay burned in their memory, nor the ghostly feeling of a noose tightening around their neck…

…But it was some space. It was a start. Maybe that would be good enough for right now, the thought bringing enough peace to the reanimated faerie that they let their eyes slip closed, breathing growing slow and deep as they slipped into slumber.

It made them miss when, a little while later, a much shorter figure came round the sofa to look at the little huddle gathered there. Fancy looked upon the otherwise sweet scene, a slight furrow in his brow as his eyes turned to the hand and arm Whimsy had used to keep Sunny and Manny close, covered in stitches that he knew so very well. Because he'd sown them with his own hands, slaved for hours over the eight-foot-tall frame that now belonged to the sleeping faerie on his couch.

Briefly, the tailor reached out for the fingers in some knee-jerk impulse to inspect them, before the thought of what if Whimsy woke up, how on earth he would explain what he was doing made him draw back. Thankfully none of them moved, but it left Fancy standing there, awkwardly staring, and wondering what on earth to do.

The sight of a light flashing from behind the sofa, out in the garage, quickly caught the tailor's attention, and he followed the nonverbal signal all the way to the car innocuously parked in the far corner of the garage. The door opened silently in an invitation, Fancy climbing into the driver's seat with an exhausted sigh and feeling more tired than he'd felt back when Cab had simply brought his 'new friend' right to their doorstep.

"You gonna tell them?" Bee's voice spoke from the radio, quiet but questioning. Not accusing, or forceful, but like a nudge on your shoulder to get you in gear. But right now, Fancy very much did not want to 'get in gear'. Instead, one of his arms folded over his front, his hand coming up to knead at his forehead to dispel the growing ache there.

"Okay, different question," Bee started, "what'dya think of them? It's been a few days, you gotta have at least some thoughts."

"I think…they've had to deal with far more than they should have. That that stupid idiot…made some very big mistakes in handling them. That they've probably been alone for a while. I'm glad they're connecting with people though, be it Cab, or Sunny and Manny, or Patches. It should be good for them."

"Alright. Gonna let 'em stay?" Bee asked, the sudden question catching Fancy off-guard.

"Huh?"

"Whimsy. It's your house. Is it okay if they stay?"

He could tell that this wasn't meant to cast doubt on Whimsy or their character, but if the tailor were to be any judge he would say that this might be a way to make up for the downright shock that Cab simply bringing the reanimated faerie home had been. Especially given that it was practically unannounced, which was something that tended to throw everyone when it came to Cab. In a group of supernaturals that had to adhere to some strict etiquette rules, the one that behaved the most like a mortal, with all of the spontaneity that came with, tended to stand out like a sore thumb. Even if, to this day, Cab was something of a mystery. A mystery that tended to be danced around, given that telling someone like Cab that they were 'different' was usually a recipe for the checkered-skinned toon to just avoid the issue and then for him to burn out a few days later from how much he tried to avoid dealing with it.

And, either way, it wasn't like Whimsy had destroyed his house or anything, so Fancy didn't feel too much conflict over his next words.

"Don't think I could throw them out now even if I tried. The kids would be too upset if their new playmate left. Cab wouldn't like it either." It also probably wouldn't be very good for Whimsy to be just acclimating to a new place and then be thrown out. If anything, it would likely undo that bit of progress that Fancy had just seen. And, though Fancy might not admit it to anyone other than himself, there was a slowly growing sense of responsibility for the reanimated faerie. If the mayor would not look out for his own creation, then maybe the only other person aware of the circumstances behind said creation should.

"Good point." Bee's voice rumbled through the speakers, before taking on a somewhat more hesitant air as he asked his next question. "You, uh, holdin' up okay?"

"I'll be fine. You're not worried, are you?"

"Think Tagger an' I have been sorta worried since you called us to come get you. First time I saw you that freaked out by anything. Second might'a been when Whimsy came in."

To be fair, Fancy ruminated, both instances had been firsts for him too. The fact that a reanimated myth had simply been brought to his doorstep was a shock in and of itself, but the fact that it was the same myth that he'd been more or less forced to slave over, put together from dead bodies, and whose creator pushed him to the point of a nervous breakdown, now that was enough to perhaps add to the gray streak in the tailor's hair.

The nervous breakdown itself had been something, given that while Fancy could say that he'd had rough points in his life before, there was nothing quite like the experience he'd had when one of the bodies that Whimsy's creator had been working with turned out to be a little more rotten than previously thought. Mostly because trying to take anything from it had resulted in a horrid, absolutely putrid smell filling the room, Fancy having gotten a glimpse enough of the rotting features that he'd about lost whatever little he'd been able to eat beforehand. He'd run out, managing to get a call home and getting Tagger, and of course he'd come with Bee for expediency's sake.

The ride home was an ordeal, given that by the time Fancy had been sitting on the curb for a good fifteen minutes, trying to banish the stench and sights from his mind, he'd become uncomfortably aware just how acquainted he'd become with the dead. The sight of dehydrated, blackened flesh no longer enough to sicken him but in retrospect it was all the more horrifying. He'd tried to focus, tried to buckle down, tried to tell himself that it was just a job and he'd make it through, and the mayor had definitely been paying good money that could be put to good use.

But in the end it wasn't enough, and Tagger had been coming just shy of outright putting his foot down in stating it. It wasn't enough to justify poor sleep and worsening health. It wasn't enough to make up for the fact that Fancy knew, in his heart of hearts, that what the mayor wanted wouldn't be so easily obtained. Some 'conditions' just weren't curable, and death was unfortunately in that category. And while the tailor had been able to ignore the niggling concerns in the back of his mind about just where these bodies were coming from, there was the part of him that wondered if they were all being obtained by 'legal' means. Or, if any family involved might be aware of what was happening to their loved ones.

There was only one body that he'd felt more or less sure about, the one that the mayor had had set up on that main table, the one that had been having the most alterations done to it. That one had clearly died not that long ago, still with a shadow of life in its features. In the right light, it almost looked like someone languishing under an illness, their face frozen in a look of quiet but poignant resignation though their neck had been a little oddly bent.

Perhaps it was to be expected, given that it was a faerie's corpse, though there had been a part of Fancy that had been a little put off by how dismal the expression was coupled with what the mayor had been doing. Perhaps it could be partially blamed on the fact that he knew faeries, Patches and Sunny, and to see either of them in this position would have been gut-wrenching. But he hadn't known this one, so looking at them had just brought a sort of melancholy irritation for their situation.

You look like you've suffered enough. Can't he just let you rest?

But then that night had happened, and Fancy had taken a break for a few days to come back to a note on the door for him, explaining that his services were no longer required. There was talk of a payment, the mayor had sounded apologetic regarding the whole incident, but Fancy's mind kept going over what had happened when he'd asked why his services hadn't been needed anymore. The mayor's exact words were that the experiment had been a failure, but he didn't elaborate.

Maybe that should have been a sign that not all was well, but Fancy had believed the whole endeavor impossible. How was he to know it had actually succeeded in creating something?

Though, as Fancy snapped out of his thoughts, he realized that he'd more or less been sitting in silence, ruminating, for a good minute now, with Bee patiently waiting for him to reply.

"…I'm doing better, promise. Startled me, definitely, but I'm feeling more…balanced. Definitely less 'freaked out', as you put it."

"Good to hear there. Though, Fancy…I get 'not now', but, be careful with that kinda secret. If anything just because it'll end up sitting like a rock in the trunk."

"Fair enough. Worried I'll get more gray hair?" It might've been a bit of an unfair thing to joke about, as while Fancy had adjusted to the streak of gray in his hair following the whole incident with the mayor, the supernatural cast of characters in his household…really hadn't. At least, not until everyone was sure he wasn't about to keel over given that they'd all made the somewhat correct assertion that 'going gray' could mean that you were close to the end of your life. It had taken at least a few weeks for them all to back off, though out of all of them, Tagger and Bee were the only ones that knew the full circumstances. Still, there was a laugh in Bee's tone as he replied, hinting that while there might be a worry it wasn't nearly as strong as it had been.

"Hey, don't even go there, mister. Not until you're at least pushin' fifty."

"Alright, alright, I'll be careful. And, I probably will tell them. Just not right now. Thank you, Bee." The words were punctuated with a gentle pat on the steering wheel, the lights flickering like a grin in reply.

"Welcome. Gotta work on stuff?"

"As always."

"Can you show me sometime? Can't exactly make it up the stairs…or wear clothes, but it looks fun." It might've been an odd request for a car to make, but Fancy was decently sure that Bee had made similar ones before now, about various things that though he knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of him being able to participate he still wanted to know about. Ergo, it wasn't too hard to agree.

"Sure thing."

As Fancy was about to cross the living room, his path brought him within viewing distance of the huddle still slumbering on the couch, the tailor pausing for a moment to sort of re-take in the sight. Whimsy's face was quietly relaxed, arm still in that careful, protective position over Sunny and Manny, the pair just barely visible though Fancy could see Manny's much smaller arms still wrapped around the darker, stitched-together limb.

It was a surprisingly sweet sight, even with the unusual-ness of the cast of characters. Fancy gave a quiet, calm smile, before heading for the stairs.