#certainly did not intend to focus on this for over half a year

[apparitionism]

Tabled 7

And with this at-long-last final part, Tabled (my lengthy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange offering for @barbarawar ) comes to an end. Does that end justify the tortuous (and torturous) trip? Probably not, but something something journey destination... it all began with “Myka sits at tables and tells lies,” and part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 gave what I hope was a reasonable explanation for how Myka might have so fallen, as well as how she could have begun to scramble up (spoiler: with a lot of help). Anyway, she’s just got back to South Dakota—having come to a tentative understanding with Helena—only to find Mrs. Frederic waiting for her at the airport (!!).

Tabled 7

Myka has spent an evening, a night, and the entire subsequent day on her trek back to South Dakota, so her trip as a whole has now stretched to over thirty-six hours, during which she’s had emotional nadirs, shocks, and acmes; adrenaline overloads, ebbs, and re-overloads; minimal amounts of minimally palatable airport food; and far too much coffee, both interior and exterior. She desperately needs a shower, clean clothes, and, above absolutely all, some sleep lying down in a bed. Some sleep that way.

So she’s having trouble processing what she sees. Has Mrs. Frederic divined her ultimate intention and thus appeared here to prevent her from burning it all down? This possibility should strengthen her resolve; instead, it makes her want to turn and run away.

Unfortunately, she’s now through security, and she can’t turn around. Thanks a lot, DHS.

But please, she goes on to pray, not another table. And: Extra-please, not another lecture about children.

Can the people around her in the airport see Mrs. Frederic? They seem to be moving more slowly, less noisily, than reality usually offers. Or are they? It’s hard to know, here in this quiet, draggy little transit-place...

Mrs. Frederic puts a bow on the weird by pronouncing, “I have spoken with several people today. Yet you are my determinative interlocutor.”

That sounds like Myka might be a very few words away from being sent to a penal colony. Or, no: bronzed. The ultimate irony. Utterly Warehousian.

“I have for you the following salient information,” Mrs. Frederic continues, and Myka doesn’t even bother bracing herself, because she’ll have to take it, regardless. She might as well be rattled by the full impact. “I am prepared to have words with Agent Lattimer.”

She should have braced. “You are?” she asks, wishing she could sound indifferent about the prospect, wishing the idea of such words didn’t add fuel to her gut’s terror that Mrs. Frederic knows all about Myka’s meeting with Helena, a terror now compounded by the prospect of her telling Pete of it, and the further prospect that his having been told will be an additional, far higher bar over which Myka must clamber.

“Should those words occur,” Mrs. Frederic says, and now Myka does brace, “your brief liaison will seem but a dream to him.”

What... what? No bar, no clamber? Instead, deliverance? Myka, whiplash-befuddled, is struck dumb.

Mrs. Frederic waits. Her patience, as long as it lasts, is admirable, if surprising. Then she quirks an eyebrow.

It makes Myka think of Helena—and that allows her to breathe. To soften.

Mrs. Frederic softens too: she lowers the eyebrow. “Is that truly what you wish?” she asks, carefully, as if she’s prepared also to withdraw credit from the source who conveyed to her the substance of Myka’s wants. As if Myka, given one last beneficent chance, can surely be gentled into exercising her better judgment and choosing the certain path.

The sliver of solicitude allows Myka to consider Mrs. Frederic’s motives with a new charity: she may have been driven not by stereotype, as Myka has suspected, nor malice, as she has feared, but rather by a thoughtful assessment of availability—i.e., here are the Warehouse’s extant resources, and here is how they may best be deployed to ensure an acceptable balance of efficacy and safety.

Myka has spent a great many hours on airplanes and in airports preparing herself for the burn-it-down possibility, but the fact of the matter is that she, too, cares about efficacy.

She cares even more about safety.

The additional fact of the matter, however, is that she wants a future untethered from such calculations—except as reckoned by, and between, her and Helena.

So if Mrs. Frederic is willing to help fix what she had a heavy hand in breaking? There’s probably a downside, but Myka will suffer it for this unexpected upside.

“Yes. It is. Thank you,” she says.

“No,” Mrs. Frederic says, now differently severe. “Agent Jinks.”

“Steve? What about him?”

“Thank him.”

****

Myka finds the B&B dark and silent, lacking even a video-game glow and hum from Claudia’s room. Sadly, the quietude doesn’t yield sleep; rather than knitting up her exceptionally raveled sleeve of care, she tries and fails to keep “here’s how this might go” scenarios from playing in her head until she can reasonably go downstairs and begin making morning noises.

As the others appear, she tries to act as if nothing has changed.

Claudia enthuses, “Storms no match for you!” which is flattering but of course entirely untrue.

Pete is in his too-early-to-do-more-than-grunt mode, but he seems to care more about his bowl of Lucky Charms than he does about anything to do with Myka, which tells her that Mrs. Frederic has almost certainly had the promised words with him. The way that buoys her—her shoulders move down and away from her ears, where she hadn’t even realized they’d taken up residence—is probably unseemly, but she doesn’t care.

Then Abigail walks in, and her eye-flick between Pete and Myka suggests she knows everything, which she probably does, but even if she all she might have had were suspicions, they’ve probably been confirmed by Myka’s radical change in posture.

A twinge of guilt at having allowed her body to reveal her relief visits Myka... but she quashes it. That guilt is about parts of the past she’s supposed to be ignoring. Practice. Practice.

When Steve emerges, he busies himself with the first steps of making scrambled eggs. Myka reads this as a tactic, for on workdays Steve generally eats two unheated Pop-Tarts at speed. On lazier mornings, he might undertake toast, but eggs are the rarest of production numbers... and indeed, no one but Myka waits through his meticulous preparation.

“You want some?” he asks, but he’s already sliding his results onto two plates. “Airports,” he says, handing her one.

“So hard to find something normal,” she agrees, “and even when you think you might have, you’re still in a place that isn’t.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about every day here.”

His affect effortlessly encompasses both “perpetually surprised new guy” and “perpetually resigned old hand.” Myka loves him for that facility. “Not about these eggs, though,” she says around mouthfuls, “so thanks.” She pushes her empty plate away. “And, also, thanks.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat food that fast, so thanks back for the demonstration. But also thanks why?”

“You’re welcome, and also you know why: I have you to thank. Or so I hear from someone who miraculously shifted her thinking about what’s best for me,” and she concludes, “you miracle.”

He gives a little smile and head-shake. “You said to protect you, so that’s what I did. Differently. Once I figured out you were telling me things had changed.”

His figuring? Correct, regardless of anything Myka might have intended to be saying. “Things did change,” she acknowledges, “like you said they would. But listen, what you did. The risk. You shouldn’t have taken that risk for me. In fact people in general should stop taking risks on my behalf.”

His smile grows wider. “We will when you will. Reciprocally.”

“No, no,” Myka says, “I need to take more. On my behalf and everybody else’s.”

“All the more reason you should have the right backup.”

“Well, so should you,” Myka says, fully aware, and fully remorseful, that she hasn’t provided any such thing.

Steve’s smile shifts in a way she doesn’t understand. “I think I’m going to. Maybe in not too long? You know Claud’s doing a lot more Caretakering now.” The doorbell rings. “Oooh, if that’s who I think it is, somebody’s timing is something.”

“Is it?” Myka asks. She trails, a confused duckling, behind Steve as he heads to the door.

“I think you’re about to meet my new partner,” he says.

Myka doesn’t bother asking “Am I?” as he swings the door open, because questions are not being answered sensically.

Her exhaustion is comprehensive, so it’s no surprise she’s hallucinating. She says it aloud, directing a slack-jawed “I’m hallucinating” at both Steve and the doorway-framed Helena as they stand before her, their smiles bizarrely rhyming blends of sheepishness and pride.

They don’t respond. This supports the hallucination conclusion.

Myka moves her right hand, minimally; in this way, she touches Steve, a little backhand to his torso. The purple cotton of his shirt is softer than her knuckles expect.

With her left hand, she reaches out, reaches through the doorway, and pushes, probably harder than she should, against Helena’s right shoulder. Nothing there is soft. The shoulder resists.

Fine. Not a hallucination. Not even a hologram. Everyone’s physically here, breathing and taking up space.

“Her timing,” Myka says to Steve. She’s not quite ready to speak directly to Helena. “It’s definitely something.”

Helena says, “Ssh. Let me reveal my shortcomings to my new partner in my own time.” She’s surpassingly beautiful, here in this moment: glowing with mischief and morning sun.

It’s too much. Myka squints and looks away, back to the comfort of Steve. “Your new partner?” she asks him. “Really?”

“Seems so,” Steve says, right as Helena offers, “As I understand it,” and Myka hears a harmony as their voices overlap. She hadn’t seen this coming, but she might have heard it, if she had thought to listen close enough.

But how could she have thought to, before today? “You both make the world turn a little faster than I’m comfortable with,” she tells Steve.

His smile persists. “Call me on that, no problem. But you really want to argue with H.G. Wells, who by the way is standing right here”—and he gives her a little “you really are, right?” look, which she answers with a minimalist palms-up “I suppose” shrug; more harmony—“about how time moves?”

“If history is any guide,” Helena says to him, “that and many other elements of the oeuvre.”

“I just didn’t think I’d be doing it this morning, is all,” Myka says. She’s trying to bring herself to speak to both of them, but Steve remains her direction of safety.

His brow wrinkles. “If this isn’t okay...”

It would be nice to be able to reassure him, but. “No idea if it’s okay.”

His face clears. “I appreciate your telling the truth. And I guess your voice is less agitated than it could be.”

This garners a snort from Helena. “My dear new partner. Your understatement is a balm.”

“We’ll see if I can keep that up,” he says, visibly nervous.

Myka is, now, able to address Helena. About Steve. “He can. Not always understatement, but the balm part.”

“I’m glad to know it,” Helena says, directing at Steve a formal incline of head.

That incline. Its sweet propriety. Glad. Glad. “I’m glad you’re here,” Myka tells her.

“Thank you,” Helena says. She doesn’t need to add “for saying.” Her hair is shining, here��here!—in this morning sun that illuminates the entryway. Such light visits this space every morning, but Myka has never before seen it ignite Helena’s hair.

This day: new.

“I have something in the car for you,” Helena goes on. “Wait.” She exits the doorway, moving out of the sunbeam’s path. A bright loss.

Myka turns back to Steve. “Wait,” she echoes, shrugging. “There’s not enough time in the world for me to explain to you why that’s ironic.”

“Your own private irony.”

“But you did spare me some waiting. Some not-knowing waiting. And way more than that,” she says, because it needs saying, “you spared me the hard part.”

“I don’t know her very well yet, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Myka says, because of course she’d meant detaching herself from Pete, but Steve is (also of course) wise and right: each day, however few or many she and Helena manage, will no doubt have its hard parts. Each day of those few or many might itself be the hard part. “But how did you... I mean, did you have this plan all along? Partner and all, and Mrs. Frederic started nodding along as you said it all out loud?”

“Oh god no. I was just trying to ease her away from the you-and-Pete thing, as gently as possible. Turns out she wanted H.G. back ages ago.”

No. No. “She what.”

Steve nods, looking sick. “But—and I hate to be the one telling you this—she thought you didn’t want H.G. back.”

Myka feels sick. The non-sense of this day... no: of these days. “She what,” she says again.

“Because you left her in Boone, she said.”

“Helena was forced to stay in Boone!” she protests, or tries to.

“But you didn’t fight anybody on it. So she thought you were okay with it.”

Of course. Here’s Myka’s inaction again, kicking her legs out from under her. “But if she wanted to bring Helena back, why didn’t she just... do that? Once she decided it was safe to let her out of Boone?”

“Like I said, she thought you didn’t want H.G. to come back. So she was trying to make sure it wouldn’t matter so much to you. If it happened. If you had something else to focus on.”

“Pete,” Myka says, the very idea a heaviness. “Kids?”

“I’m not saying I can read her mind, but yeah, I think that’s how that went. I can tell you she was really surprised to hear you were meeting with H.G. yesterday.”

“In a hotel room in an airport in Chicago,” Myka says. The base fact of it. “Do I want to know how you explained that?”

“All I explained was the airport in Chicago,” Steve says. “I didn’t know about the hotel room part.”

Right. Myka hadn’t said that part out loud. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Interesting utterance,” he says, cocking his head, like he’s waiting for more. “Not an immediate lie, But the eventual truth-value, plus my possible eventual headache, depend on what you think I think it sounds like.”

It’s a privilege, this glimpse into the complications of his gift; nevertheless, Myka winces. “I think you think it sounds like what I think it sounds like,” she says. “Like I wish it didn’t. Because I swear to you, it’s not that.”

She prepares herself to dig in and hash out the truth-values, but Steve says, “I get it. No dirty work in those words.”

No dirty work: it’s a diploma. In reverse. Disqualification.

“Anyway I don’t think I made a lot of sense explaining any of it to Mrs. Frederic,” he finishes.

“Enough to save me,” Myka says.

“Yes. Because if you could be happy.”

“You said that before.”

“I did. But now I mean, if you could be happy.”

“If... then?” she asks, logic being what it is.

“Then maybe I could too,” he says.

Myka wants to put an immediate stop to the idea that he would look to her, for that can’t help but end in abject failure. But she gets out only a weak “Don’t” before he continues, “Because I was thinking of a saying: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”

“I’m not your wife.”

“Better for both of us. I’m just saying it’s a saying. About a person and somebody else. There might be a better word for where you and somebody else are—or, I guess, where you might be headed?—but it wouldn’t rhyme with life. And it’s probably important to rhyme with life.”

Myka’s heart hears him, but she shies away, scoffing, “That’s a leap. Not the rhyming. The saying.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I don’t want to give you false hope.”

“But if we could both acknowledge that there is hope.”

She’s not sure. She’ll probably never be sure, but in the face of doubt and fear (and “endless wonder,” that misleading canard), she determines to acknowledge it. For Steve’s sake. “Okay,” she says. “In the full knowledge that you’re the one who made the hope possible.”

“No,” Steve says. Serious. Simple. Unfraught. “That’s not what I did.”

Myka has no counterargument. All she can do is say “thank you” yet again, quick and quiet, for suddenly Helena is appearing in the doorway, taking over the space. Myka suspects she’s been waiting for their conversation to end—speaking of timing, this reminds her of the hotel lobby—and she doesn’t know whether to hope Helena was eavesdropping their words or simply their tones.

She’s holding two cardboard coffee cups. Myka gestures for her to hand one over, but Helena shakes her head. “You haven’t texted me.”

So Myka dashes to grab her phone, and “Gh” says the message, the first purchase her fumbling fingers could find, sent as fast as she could remind those fingers how to do that.

Helena sets the cups down on the hall table when her own phone noises (and now Myka doesn’t know whether to be pleased or distressed that a text from her yields a generic ding). She extracts it from the interior of her jacket and smiles. “I bought these, in hope, in the Sioux Falls airport,” she says, “but they’re now cold. No doubt terrible.”

“‘Worth every penny,’ I once heard someone say about coffee,” Myka says.

“Fewer pennies here. In any event, worth to be determined.” Helena is jaunty; it’s very her, but on the edge of too her, hinting that she’s less certain than her initial doorway presentation implied. As Myka now meets Helena’s gaze, she imagines—but hopes she isn’t only imagining—that their vulnerabilities might for once be commensurate.

Helena doesn’t look away.

Steve says, “You know, ‘I was making eggs’ buys you only so much late-for-work in this job.” It’s a transparent attempt to excuse himself, but he does add, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, partner.”

“I hope to impress you,” Helena says.

He snort-giggles, then composes himself. Minimally. “H.G. Wells—who isn’t lying!—hopes to impress me. Okay.”

Myka can’t begrudge him his surprised delight, even if it does delay his departure. “Welcome to a world of endless... surprise. She kind of wrote the book.”

“A lot of books,” Steve augments.

Helena waves a hand. “That was Charles. So wordy.”

Steve’s brow furrows—which Myka reads as a bit of confusion over how to negotiate the Helena/Charles disjunction. He says, “Okay. I’m going to the Warehouse,” clearly (smartly) choosing not to start now.

This time he does leave, though Myka is tempted to stop him, to cling to the surer footing afforded by his buffering.

Coward.

But. Then.

Alone, precariously so, Myka and Helena situate themselves across from each other at the dining room table, their promised-coffee cups before them.

Myka supposes she should have foreseen this arrangement—table, coffee—and she should at the very least have queried the book as to what would ensue. Not that she’s had any time for that, which probably means she should now do that, should go and do that, before she finds a way to undercut its foreseen future and make blunders that will prove unsatisfactory.

“Surprise,” Helena says.

“Yes,” Myka concurs, trying for Steve-ish understatement. It doesn’t work; she knows she sounds distressed.

“May I explain?”

“I wish you would.” That comes out better, but Myka realizes that she is literally on the edge of her seat. She sinks backward, trying to make the movement look like relaxation. That probably doesn’t work either.

“The invitation from Steve,” Helena begins, but upon saying his name, she stops. “Before I continue: ‘H.G. Wells who isn’t lying’?”

“He can tell if you are,” Myka says, and she’s gratified to see in Helena’s ensuing eyebrow contortions that she’s conducting the “what exactly have I said to Steve” inventory everyone does when introduced to that fact.

Its result: “Well. Then it’s fortunate I haven’t. To him.” She seems inclined to reflect on the revelation’s full compass.

Myka does love (love!) to watch Helena think. But right now... “Explanation?” she prompts.

“It isn’t complicated,” Helena says.

“That’s unusual.”

Helena bows her head; she smiles, from that bow, up at Myka. It’s flirty. It’s beautiful. “It is,” she says, and she seems to be affirming Myka’s words and her thoughts. “Steve and I had a conversation during which I explained how you and I had left our... situation. And then, a bit later, came his invitation, which I understand was extended at the behest of Mrs. Frederic. The opportunity—the freedom—to be myself again? It was too enticing to refuse. Of course I never would have accepted in the absence of our rapprochement, but given that? Steve was so convinced, and convincing, that all would be well.” She raises her head fully now. “And it cut short the waiting.”

“I said I would hurry,” Myka says, resentful, unsure of why she’s jumped to that.

“Your return required so many flights. Any number of delays might have ensued.”

“Due to the flights?” Myka asks, but she can’t unhear the clear disjunction between those sentences.

“And everything else,” Helena acknowledges, with a head-duck.

Myka knows that duck; it’s worry. “You didn’t trust me?” she asks, but in the question she finds the reason behind her resentment: offense at the idea that Helena had such worries to begin with.

“Can you blame me?” Helena asks this with a little flinch, as if Myka’s judgment must be harsh.

“Yes I can,” Myka says, but soft. “You were supposed to be ignoring all that.”

Her answer causes Helena to raise her head again and smirk—or, no, this isn’t her smirk; rather, it’s a lip-twist that’s more... conspiratorial. She says, “And yet the foundation of trust is past experience. If I ignore the past, on what basis could I trust you?”

Playful, but a jab. Myka retreats into sarcasm, acknowledging it hit the mark: “There’s a flaw in my big idea? Shocking.”

Helena nods, slow with a sigh, as if in sadness at Myka’s imperfection. But she turns serious to say, “In any case, after all that’s happened, I certainly didn’t trust fate either.”

Fate. How they’ve been subject to it... but are they now trying to chivvy it, in a way that will backfire? Myka pushes her fear into words: “What if it’s too soon?”

“Then regret will haunt us to the end of our days,” Helena says, and Myka has to nod to the truth of it. “But consider this: rather than wasting precious time on such questions, shouldn’t we rather be grateful that, after such complications, there is even a whisper of a chance that it may not be too late?”

Too late, too late, too late. Those words have truly haunted Myka. Miraculous that they might not apply. “I don’t want coffee,” she says. Truly.

“What do you want?” Helena asks, like she might really not know.

Well, maybe she doesn’t anymore, given the vast conceptual distance between Myka’s initial saying and now. “I did tell you. I don’t know how many hours ago; I haven’t counted. I’d have to use my hands.”

“Save your hands, but tell me again. I challenge you, however: change the vocabulary.”

Myka can do that. Only a little, here and now, but she can do that. “To save the world. Our world.”

They are breathing at each other and the table is in the way; Myka ideates the drama of grasping its edge, flinging it sideways, clearing her path—but that’s not who she is. Now, more than ever, she needs to be herself.

She stands up and steps decorously to the side and around, slow, savory, even as her body threatens to effervesce.

“Can we do this?” she asks, but she knows, through her inexorable movement, with all its effervescent potential, that they will. Regardless now of consequences.

“I have no idea,” Helena answers.

These could be words of delay, but not here and not now, because regardless, regardless, they will—and at once they’re both moving, as if pressure from a familiarly heartless authority will relegate Helena yet again to disembodiment if they don’t make this fast, and thank god, god, god this once they’re fast enough; they meet and hands are at waists but they’ve touched with hands before... even so, the infinitesimal pause they both take before those hands pull and define is understandable but then over, and their at-last kiss begins as an action but swiftly transforms into a state of being: pressure, presence, soft, sharp, warmth, weight, low, lasting...

After some time—how much time? is this kind of time measurable?—they break apart into staring silence, in the stunned after of the prospect they have spent so long before.

“I can die now,” Myka is moved to murmur, even as she feels its banality as a response to this experience, this knowledge. Because she has at last truly gained the knowledge: she had hoped to gain it, and yet she now understands she had never fully believed she would, if only because fundamental questions—e.g., “what would it feel like to kiss Helena?”—aren’t often answered.

“You most certainly cannot,” Helena ripostes, bracingly practical. “One kiss is no culmination.”

Myka might object to the description of what just happened as “one kiss,” but she’s too busy being unable to process how an actual culmination might feel.

In fact she’s unable to process anything. “I have to sit down,” she says. Of all things, lightheadedness had not been among her expectations. It should have been: because of course her blood is nowhere near her brain.

Passing out will help nothing. Probably. So she backs awkwardly around the table, her logic, such as it is, being: I have to sit, and that is my chair; if I reach it, then I can sit. Fortunately, her reasoning bears out. She breathes into the relief, as she sits, of still being conscious.

Helena says, “If you can’t stand, then I’ll sit beside you.” More logic, here spoken as indulgence.

She situates herself in the closest chair and scoots it nearer, inch by accommodatingly sweet inch, and then she’s in fact sitting beside Myka, like they’re on a carnival ride together, and now they’re both turning sideways—with Myka devoutly grateful for her continued (seated) consciousness—as they steal (back) these kisses, these presses and exultations, that should so long before this have belonged to them.

“This is not enough,” Helena breathes, sultry against Myka’s mouth.

Myka makes a noise of agreement, and she moves for more, to start the movement to more.

Her hands have made their way to Helena’s shoulders, and are anticipating her hair, when she and her hands are startled by a crash-clatter from across the room.

Myka wishes she could simply ignore whatever such noise signifies... but that wish is unrealistic. She removes her hands and opens her eyes.

Claudia is standing in front of the sideboard. Much of the china that had previously adorned it lies around her in ruins. “I swear to god, this is not what it looks like,” she says. She glances down, then shakes her booted foot. A teacup handle falls from it, producing a tiny clink of pain as it hits the floor.

“It looks like you were trying to blink in but got the coordinates wrong,” Myka says. “That’s happened before. But this time you got tangled with the plateware?”

That yields an eyebrow-raise and a finger-point, then: “What I should’ve said was, ‘This is not what it looks like even to someone who knows all the words to my extensive back catalog of Caretakery mistakes.’ The thing is, I blinked in, saw something I was in no way supposed to be seeing, turned my back on that—faster than fast, and I swear I would’ve tried to blink back out but I can’t reset that quick—and I guess I did Wonder Woman arms, because...” She waves down at the china. “This stuff. Or ex–stuff. Unless you’ve got a lot of glue? Which you might. You were pretty stuck to H.G just now, like in a way I’ve never seen before and like I said was in no way supposed to be seeing, but it’s the most spectacular news of this century or any other because all the feels I can’t even!” She clasps her hands up high and squeezes her eyes shut, as if the scene Myka and Helena are presenting is too glorious to behold.

Myka turns from this emotional show to look at Helena. A half-beat later, Helena turns to Myka. Lacking any ready response, they both turn back to Claudia, who opens her eyes, drops her hands, and says, “Your faces are telling me all those words happened out loud.”

“Unfortunately,” Helena says.

“Hi?” Claudia offers, with an apology face.

Helena smiles. “Hello, darling,” she says, warmly.

Their interaction is lovely to witness, but: Warm, Myka thinks, because that’s how Helena’s body is, next to hers. Why, why, why has Claudia appeared now?

“I’d run over and hug you,” Claudia says, “but I see that seat’s taken. Instead I’ll just say I missed you.”

Myka can’t help herself; she accuses, “Not enough, you spy.”

“She called me. Was I supposed to be like ‘oh, it’s H.G., I better not pick up’?”

Myka’s immediate thought is YES. She says in its place an umbrage-laden, “You could have told me.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what you looked like every time you came back from seeing her,” Claudia says. “You think I wanted to make you look like that?”

Helena shifts position beside Myka, legible as a “you are failing to ignore the past” caution; Myka adds to it a self-admonitory on this day of all days. “Fine,” she says. “Not fine at all, but fine.”

“Anyway Artie’s already shouting about how you’re both late for work,” Claudia says.

Myka sighs. “Artie. Shouting. So everyone knows?”

“Well not about this. Which I double-pinky-swear I never meant to know about, even though it was always something to hope about. All Artie knows about, and probably even hopes about, is who works here. There. At that place. And is late. For it? So I guess we should get going?”

Myka can easily imagine agreeing that yes, yes they should get going: result being that she and Helena would proceed to the Warehouse. That place. Additional result, as history has shown, being that something would happen to once again put the promise of this day out of reach.

She sees, now, that she has to act against such results. Act against them. Act.

And she sees something else, something both sickening and enlivening: all her lies, those interventions against truth? They were acts. Sinful ones, but her agency in telling them has fortified her with the necessary heft for this moment.

Her lies were practice.

Morally inexcusable practice, but: she was a feral little fabulist. Now she must put ends before means. Use the muscle; ignore the exercise by which it developed.

So. “No,” she says.

Her refusal disturbs the space, shaping it into a new kind of silence.

In its wake, Claudia offers appraisal: eyes narrowed, jaw tilted. Eventually, she says. “Not entirely sure who I’m talking to now.” She squints tighter, sly-red-fox. “By the way,” she says, calculatedly casual, “your book buddy says hi.”

If anything could knock Myka out of her certainty... certainly, it’s guilt. “Oh god,” she says.

Claudia’s narrow tension relaxes. “Steve and I figured out you were the one doing ‘unauthorized use.’  And it took us a while, but we also figured out what you were unauthorized using.”

“Thanks for not telling on me,” Myka says.

“I literally would never. And neither would Steve.”

Silence again, until Helena breaks it with, “Myka used an artifact? Was this for personal gain?” She doesn’t look at Myka.

Myka wants to say Could we ignore that too. Instead she confesses, “For personal... desperation.”

Now Helena looks. “So at last you understand,” she says. It’s a softer condemnation than Myka might have expected, not that she had expected anything, because until this moment she hadn’t made the connection. Not through the clean line of “so at last.”

But then a new connection, or rather consequence, strikes her: “What’s its downside?” she asks Claudia.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t care.” At that, Helena grasps Myka’s hand, tight, and Myka knows she’s going to have to think very hard at some point about this newly realized kinship between them. Right now, though, she’d rather think about the fact that Helena is holding her hand. But for that niggling consequence. “Do I need to care?” she asks.

“It’s a downside, so yeah? But with this guy, it’s a downside-with-a-twist.” She pauses, as if waiting for... guesses? Applause? When neither Myka nor Helena responds, she says an aggrieved, “Anyway, it’s the same as the upside.”

This baffles Myka. “Seeing the future? How is that a downside? I mean maybe in the Cassandra sense, if nobody believes you, but—”

Claudia interrupts, “OOC of you to get that wrong. But I guess OOC is your new IC thing, Ms. ‘No’? Anyway I don’t think you grokked what the artifact is.”

“A book,” Myka says, because... it is? “A future-seeing book.”

“Book, schmook. And future-seeing... schmuture-seeing? It’s an oracle. It doesn’t see the future; it predicts it. Literally, it says in advance: you ask it a question about the future, and it answers. It says it. In advance of that future.”

Helena chuckles. “Etymology strikes again.”

To which Claudia nods. “Right?”

“I still don’t get it,” Myka says. “Saying versus seeing? In my defense, I’m very tired.” She is sorely tempted to put her head down, heedless, here on the table, but she feels Helena tighten her handhold again, a press intelligible as Stay with me. She breathes deep and refocuses.

“Its answer is a decision,” Claudia says. “About the future.”

Helena looks at Myka, then at Claudia. “Now that is power.”

“Also right,” Claudia says. “But it can’t make that decision if nobody asks it to. Myka.”

“I did ask it,” Myka concedes, “but now my head hurts. Are you saying that if I hadn’t asked, then none of this would have happened? Would be happening?” She can’t argue with the outcome, but: upside, downside? Her head does hurt.

Claudia’s face empties. She says, “Asking questions has consequences, Agent Bering.”

Has Claudia been taken over by... something? Myka can’t help it now: “What?” she asks. The word rings a little less desperate, here at home, as a thing she tends to say. But she’s no less lost.

“Sorry,” Claudia says, turning back into herself. “I was trying on my spooky-Mrs.-F suit. Bad fit so far.”

“The art of the gnomic utterance,” Helena intones. Her own utterance doesn’t quite rise to gnomic, but Myka can see more clearly than ever the helios toward which Helena-as-Caretaker might have troped. Losses. Gains. How can Myka place herself in relation to so many competing ledger columns?

“Did you just insult Mrs. F?” Claudia asks, her obvious confusion breaking into Myka’s reckoning. She might as well have said her own Myka-esque “What?”

“What?” Helena then asks, thus squaring that circle.

“The red hat?” Claudia says, gesturing at her own head. “And doing magic or whatever in your garden?”

Sense at last. Myka doesn’t quite suppress a laugh. “Gnomic,” she says. “Means terse. Mysterious. Not gnome-related... or actually, it is, but not those gnomes. Different derivation.”

“Etymology strikes yet again,” Helena says. She suppresses her own laugh—Myka hears it behind that overly serious observation—but not her smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Myka tells her. The fact and experience—correct, appropriate—of their speaking together. “Claudia,” she says (and Claudia is looking at them like they’ve both lost their minds, which they probably have, but not about this), “go to the Warehouse. Keep everybody there. All day. Please.”

Claudia brings her hands together once again in a dramatically audible clap. “I get it. I mean I’d say something about a booty call, but I know that’s not it. You need your day.”

Our day? Our days. Our days, our weeks our months our years.

“Yes,” Myka says.

Helena follows up with, “We do.”

“Hey, but I’m no oracle,” Claudia says. “No predictions here.”

Myka and Helena give her incomprehension again.

“Not ruling out booty call,” she clarifies, laughing, but she backs away as she speaks, now blessedly making her exit—unlike her entrance, through the B&B’s front door.

That means Myka and Helena can—must—make their move. And they do, rising from the table, stepping toward the stairs—but not yet up them, for Myka can’t wait; her hands are at last finding Helena’s hair, and as they do, as she touches and feels, she says, in wonder, “It’s just us. It’s never been like this.”

“Why would you comment on it?” Helena demands, as if Myka taking even an instant to reflect threatens to make the entire situation evaporate. Her hands are busy too, running along Myka’s arms, not quite grasping, but then grasping, and then Myka can’t comment on anything, because her lips are busied, back in that new state of being.

The journey to her bedroom: she had in the past allowed herself to imagine such travel, but carefully, the fantasy within strictures. Policed possibility. The walk, but not its end... not, in fact, the culmination, the sense of which had increasingly eluded her, a frustratingly constant receding of possibility, as if her body were teaching itself over time to echo Helena’s incorporeality, her sensation waning, from body to limbs to fingertips alone, until all vocabularies of touch became words not near enough the tongue.

But now everything is nearing, nearing and blurring, boundaries dissolving, everything her body, her body everything, the stairs the hallway the room the clothes the hands the lips the skin the stumble the fall...

****

Myka slow-motions into consciousness, unable to discern where she is, knowing at first only that wherever it is, she was exhausted before she got there. Got here.

That’s mostly because she can’t remember the preceding events, and experience has established that extreme fatigue is one of the few states that interferes with her otherwise reliable recall.

So she begins to sort it out, blinking sleep-weighted eyes. Her initial perception is that she’s lying in a bed—a bed blessedly recognizable as hers—yet she also seems to be perceiving something else, something absurd: that Helena, of all people, is speaking to her. Speaking unclear words, near to her, while she is in this bed that is hers.

I’m dreaming.

The words resolve: “Are you all right?” Helena asks, and Myka snaps to.

Not dreaming.

She is in her bed, and Helena is here. Their skin is... together. Helena, propped on an elbow, is regarding Myka in full recline.

Myka wants to answer Helena’s question with a strong “yes.” But she isn’t at a table and she doesn’t want Helena to be reminded of her feral fabulisms, not here not now, so instead she dares to ask, “What happened?”

“I believe you fell asleep,” Helena says. “In the middle of things.”

Myka’s first thought is that she can’t imagine a worse blunder. Her second is that of course she can. Her third, which she formulates second by second and piece on piece as her memory returns, is the one she says out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Helena shakes her head. “I brought you coffee. That was all.”

It’s a damning pronouncement. “You’re saying I could have caffeinated, but instead I ruined everything.” Myka raises her left hand to cover her face. She’d use her right one too, but Helena’s body is trapping that arm. Move, she wants to say. I need both hands. To cover her shame.

Helena uses her free, unpropping hand to remove Myka’s, revealing her face. She interlaces their fingers. “Your sleep has addled you. I’m saying that I brought you a small gift, but in return you’ve given me a far greater one.”

New bafflement. “I have?”

“Witnessing your fulfillment of a bodily need.”

What could possibly be sufficient penance here? “Not the right one.”

Helena offers a considering head movement, a cerebral back-and-forth. “Isn’t it? Proof that you trust me enough to lose consciousness—in this way—so near. Differently meaningful, but meaningful all the same. Particularly to someone who, as you know, occasionally forgets to ‘ignore it.’”

Her words have such depth, in sound and meaning, that Myka can barely process any of it. Particularly given that they are lying down in privacy... and far more.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. Blunder some more, the book would no doubt reiterate... but she’d rather get her guidance, here in this moment, from Helena.

“Enjoy it.” Helena says, and she laughs—this sound not deep but high, high and so happy.

Myka has never heard this laugh from her. It’s as much a directive as her words are. “Enjoy it—I didn’t know,” she says. That comes out more terse than she intends... because she can barely speak. The joy in the room—occasioned by everything, but especially by that new, new laugh—is so thick, interior and exterior to bodies and souls, that forcing words through it takes great effort.

“Know what?”

Myka would worry about her answer sounding too intellectual, if this were anyone else. In her bed. But it’s Helena. Thank god, it’s Helena. So she feels safe to say, “It’s a corollary. Follows from ‘ignore it’? I think?”

“Yes,” Helena says, gratifying Myka immensely, “yes, ignore it, about the past; enjoy it, about the present; and thus one additional corollary, this one about the future.”

“Ask an oracle about it?” Myka tries.

Helena frowns—exaggerated, comic. “That doesn’t follow, either poetically or epistrophically.”

“It does follow epistrophically.”

“Minimally so,” Helena sniffs. The acknowledgment, itself minimal, further pleases Myka, even as Helena goes on, “But it should scan as well. My proposal does.” She pauses, doubtless for effect. Myka tries to think out what the teased proposal might entail, but she doesn’t get far before Helena pronounces, “Absolve it.”

“That does scan,” Myka acknowledges.

“Thank you. This next doesn’t, but I know you’ll want to take on blame for how our future unfolds, so I add: absolve yourself as well.”

Ignore it; enjoy it; absolve it. These strategies—despite Myka’s having insisted on the first—are all antithetical to her way of being in the world.

But she’s been unhappy, being in the world. Unsatisfied.

Now she is being satisfied, a new state that only this skin-to-skin with Helena could possibly have brought about.

She deliriously doesn’t care whether Claudia has kept, did keep, is keeping everyone else away.

This is hers and she can and will enjoy it.

This is hers and Helena’s and she can and will see to it—she can and will ensure—that they both enjoy it.

She has never before ideated such power—could never have, but here it is, in her hands, in her body, in giving and taking: power. And if she’s still too tired to remember, on next waking, that she had it, it’s all right. She’ll have another occasion to exert it. More anothers.

“Did you just say ‘more anothers’?” Helena asks, speaking and breathing with exertion.

Apparently there’s still room, in and amongst the joy and the power, for embarrassment. “Out loud? Are you sure?”

Helena calms enough to say, with indignation, “My hearing is quite good.”

“Evasive answer,” Myka says, recovering a little. “I’ll take it as a no.”

“Evasive?” More indignation.

“It wasn’t a yes,” Myka points out.

Helena runs a hand through her hair, as if in preparation for more argument. “I propose we table this debate,” she says instead.

“Good idea,” Myka says. “Because instead of talking, or asking about talking, you should be kissing me.”

“So should you. Vice versa. Me. Kissing.”

Transportingly charming near-incoherence... “You’re right,” Myka says, her heart overflowing. “So be quiet.”

“You first,” Helena ripostes, with what sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

Myka wants to keep that sound active, so she doesn’t comply. And they continue to speak together. Through it all.

This time, Myka stays awake. That’s probably a blunder too—but it’s most satisfactory.

****

In the weeks and months that follow, Myka takes time, as she finds it, to visit the book. Often, its pages ruffle and sigh, their invitation clear: Don’t you want to know? To know more?

The temptation is real, compounded by what she feels as an exertion of pressure from the volume: Did I not gift you this future? it seems to whisper. Surely you could gift me the opportunity to exercise. To provide still greater definition.

Then again, that could simply be her guilt—her ongoing struggle to absolve it—talking.

On one such occasion (though not the only one), she hears footsteps. The rhythm, the particular ring of heel-strikes: she knows the confidence of those strides. The knowing is calming, if not itself absolving.

“Back already?” she asks without turning around.

“Absurdly simple retrieval,” Helena says. “Steve found the entire exercise an insult to the considerable intelligence he and I bring to bear on any mission we undertake.”

Helena’s interpretations of Steve’s thoughts are often baroque—often, seemingly, more suitable to her own thoughts. But when she offers such interpretations in Steve’s presence, he doesn’t wince. “Really?” Myka says, just to make sure.

“He said aloud that he was bored.”

“That’s something,” Myka concedes.

“And you?” Helena asks. “Have you contrived to place new parameters on the future?”

“I keep telling you I won’t.”

“And yet I continue to find you here,” Helena says. More seriously, she offers words that have become customary: “If you could be happy.” Steve’s utterance, shared among the three of them, has become a mantra.

“You know that’s a work in progress,” Myka says, and although that’s customary too, it’s also true: while she knows she can be, and while at certain times she genuinely is, she is by no means consistent in that achievement.

Nevertheless she has to admit, now as always, that the book has been right. The blunders—the many, many blunders, even as she’s perpetrated them, even as she’s dealt with their aftermath—have been satisfactory. Such are the components of that work. Of its progress.

Helena nods. She lays her hand upon the book, as it lies there on the shelf, as if swearing an oath. “Everything is,” she says.

****

Myka sits at tables. She tells lies. But the sitting and the lying, as activities, are now uncoupled.

Coffee, too, has shed its significance; it’s a beverage, not an event.

However: she keeps a stained shirt in her closet as a reminder of earlier, pained, connected times—of, also, the work that was even then in progress, even as she was failing, spectacularly, to recognize it as such.

She needs the reminder, because with regard to the past, “ignore it” doesn’t always work. Nor does “absolve it,” as the future unfolds.

But on the best of present days, ignoring and absolving intersect. And on those best days, Myka does, in fact and in practice, enjoy it.

END

Instead of shoehorning thoughts into tags, here’s what I’ve got:

Did both Myka and Helena get let off the hook too easily? Your call... but I’m inclined to embrace the idea that instances of grace might manifest as the reward for hard work, and acknowledging culpability may be the hardest work of all. I mean, Elton John wrote a song about it, so put that on whichever side of the ledger works for you. Also, I like it when people help Myka in ways she doesn’t know how to ask for. She seems (to me) to be very bad at asking for help. Or maybe I mean that she seems disinclined to ask for help even (or especially) when she should.

Generally the only way to come out the other side of the hard stuff is to go through. But sometimes you do have to set some things aside if you want to move forward... and that’s what this story, at base, has been about. I hope. I offer all gratitude to @barbarawar for giving me the impetus to think it through in this particular way, at my snail-in-a-school-zone pace.  Finally, if there’s a timeline in which Helena becomes an agent again and she and Steve don’t become partners, I don’t want to know about it. The potential perfection of their pairing thrills the bejesus out of me.

[smilesatdawnmain]

Eternal LMK Au (Part 16) Interactive Story

I am reminded of the story of Eurydice and Orpheus

The rules are simple.: I will give the written passage, and then at the bottom there will be a vote on how the characters act next!

Story; Eternal Au

Ship; ShadowPeach

Gulping nervously, Wukong gave a sheepish laugh as he turned on his heels, “N-Now where did I put that thing?” he wrung his hands together, peering through the piles for the Khakkhara.

As he rummaged through the scattered treasures, the tickle of nostalgia caught him off guard, wrapping around his heart like a vine. The memories came rushing back—the days spent by his Master’s side, learning the sacred arts, the ways of the world, the ways of mortals and demons—everything felt simultaneously beautiful and painfully distant.

“Focus, Wukong,” he muttered to himself under his breath, shaking his thoughts free of lingering sentimentality. His hands brushed over shiny baubles and odd trinkets, but there it was—the khakkhara. It glinted in the light as he lifted it, blowing a bit of dust off the top. “There you are.”

He cradled the sacred staff between his palms, feeling its weight settle into his bones, “Okay,” he said quietly, glancing around for any sign of Mihou. He was around, he was sure- h-he hoped he was, but he spoke to the empty air, “This will work. You’ll see, everything will be okay.” There was a tension, one that he tried to smile through.

Yeahhh, his mate was definitely pissed. The search gave Wukong a bit of time to figure out why. At first he thought perhaps it was just the mention of his Master. That was a sore spot between then certainly, but that didn’t quite feel right to what Macaque was angry with.

As he lifted the staff, he began to realize.

His Master used this to vanquish demons, purge evil, summon the celestial powers in the air, and teleport them great distances.

…Teleport.

In all the long years they had been travelling, his Master could teleport. It was a thought Wukong himself hadn’t lingered on, as his Master only ever used it in dier situations. Yet, that was the thing, wasn’t it? He could remove himself out of dangerous situations, prevent catastrophe from occuring- m-maybe could have brought himself straight to the Buddha to deliver the scriptures….haha….

B-But that wasn’t how his Master was! He would never find the easy way out. He wanted to do things the way they were intended and learn the lesson from the journey so- so surely Macaque could understand that, yeah??

“Rightttt?” Wukong murmured more to himself than any unseen presence. He brushed a hand across the surface of the khakkhara, feeling every groove and etch that had been worn into it by years of his Master's grip. “Mihou… if you could just understand…”

But the room remained stubbornly silent, the chilly air wrapping around him like cold fingers clutching at his resolve. He dared to glance back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Mihou's ethereal form standing there, arms crossed and eyes blazing. Instead, he found nothing but shadows cast by flickering candles, each flame dancing merrily as if to mock him.

Yeah, best he try not to justify it. He knew his Master well, but that did not mean he should expect Mihou to understand in return. So instead, he spun the khakkhara like his own staff, imagining the Monk’s squeaks and pleas for him not to wave it around like this. Holding it before him, he focused. Best they just get to the moon. With an exhale, he closed his eyes and focused.

Finding the pull of energy at his fingertips, he tapped the khakkhara down, recalling the hundreds of times his Master had done the same. A circle of energy swirled at his feet, forming symbols and glowing. Thinking of their destination, his eyes opened.

Suddenly he was surging, moving at speed faster then his eyes could follow, surging them through realms and planes- a bubble of light covering them in a protective glow before dropping them off on the barren tundras of the Moon’s surface.

“Ugh-” Wukong stumbled forward, the momentary disorientation causing him to teeter on the icy ground before he regained his balance. “Been a while since I did that.” The khakkhara trembled in his grasp, radiating a gentle warmth against the biting chill that clung to the lunar landscape. "Well, here we are," he said, forcing an upbeat tone into the stillness.

The vast, silver expanse of the Moon stretched endlessly before him, its surface dotted with craters. He could feel an echo of power humming through the ground beneath his feet—this place was steeped in ancient magic, a place where celestial beings danced and shadows were born. In the distance, he saw buildings and life- Chang’e’s domain.

“Undershot it a bit,” he clicked his teeth, realizing they weren’t quite at the right spot. He started walking, knowing it wouldn’t take long to get there. “A little Moon stroll hm, Mihou? Just you and me?”

He would have offered his arm with a flirty arm if he knew MIhou could grab it- even if he knew which direction to lean. Ah but...

....Where was Mihou around him right now? Behind? To his left? His right? Ahead?

He stopped walking.

"Sure is quite," The softness of his voice was swallowed by the desolate expanse, and for a moment, Wukong felt as if he truly were alone. The sharp cold bit at him and he paused, looking over his shoulder. He touched his waist, unable to feel the bond that connected them.

“Mihou?” he called, voice trembling against the stillness. No response echoed back, just the cold wind whispering across the lunar plains. The knots in his stomach tightened as panic clawed at the edges of his mind. Could it be that Mihou had been left behind?

He recalled a fable he heard from Mihou once. Of a woman being dragged to the underworld and a living man going down to fetch his love. They were given the opportunity for a second chance, but only if the man led the woman from the depths without looking back at her. If he looked back even once- he would lose her forever.

It was a concept of trust and blind faith, he believed Mihou said. Finding the gesture romantic and a trial. Wukong thought at the time it was foolish to think “not looking back” was a hard task to do.

"Well it's a tragedy." Mihou had said. "It's harder then you might think." he had been grooming Wukong’s fur at the time. “It’s beautiful, but tragic. A person’s mind can be so… fickle. A balance between hope and despair.” He stared at him, “Would you look back?”

“Pfft nooo~” Wukong snorted. Mihou quoted some poetry, “And as the shadows creep, one can hardly help but glance, for love is a restless watchman, ever peering into the dark for a second chance.’” Wukong had scoffed, nuzzling against Mihou’s lap, “I never understand you when you speak poetry,” he whined. “Things like that don’t actually happen.”

Mihou gave a little smile, kissing his forehead. “I hope you’re right about that.” he murmured against his skin. “Though, I would follow you out of the underworld time and time again.”

“So I’m leading?” Wukong snickered, grinning a toothy grin. He made grabbed hands to Mihou’s face, curling his fingers through his fur, “Like I’d even let you go to start.” he snorted, the idea preposterous.

Mihou smirked, considering that, “Maybe you are right, my reckless Peaches. I would be the one leading you from your own folly.” “Hey!” Wukong’s cheeks puffed.

It had been foolish…

But now, it gnawed at him. The idea of not seeing them- not knowing Mihou was right beside him, even if he couldn’t see or hear him

But now, it gnawed at him. The idea of not seeing them- not knowing Mihou was right beside him, even if he couldn’t see or hear him. His mind was his own worst enemy. Blind faith was- impossibly hard, he had come to realize. Logically, he knew Mihou had to be around him somewhere.

Logically.

He exhaled, frozen in place. If Mihou was here, he was probably wondering what the hold up was. “S-Sorry-” he stammered, shifting his weight. “You didn’t mention how long I should take a break from my vision. We didn’t agree on a time limit.” his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He was rambling now, but in the end he pleaded, “C-Can I- I look at you-?”

Before he could finish, there was a rumble at their feet. Wukong’s head jolted upward, seeing what seemed like dust rising in the distance. No…something moving towards them. Like wheels against the moon, kicking up dirt. With a squint and a lean, Wukong scowled.

“What the-?” pointed bunny ears, robotic eyes- a robot shaped bunny. Seemed it had sensed an energy signature and was running out their way to investigate.

He should prepare for some sort of battle, clearly. He was unwanted here, as far as he knew. Probably try to take him prisoner, which he was not in the mood for.

Oh but…

the bunny….

IT WAS SO CUTEEEEEEE.

"O M Gee-" he gasped, touching his cheeks with his hands, "Mihou, look at that! That's the cutest thing I've ever seen!" he pointed to it with a squeal.

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[fierymiasma]

☆For Her Own Good ☆ Sebastian Sallow x Reader

⪩ pairing: Sebastian Sallow x fem!reader  ⪨

Summary: Sebastian would do whatever it takes to make sure his Hufflepuff will be his forever, even if that means doing the unforgivable.  Takes place in 7th year.

Part 2 is out!!

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): Dark!Sebastian, obsession, use of amortentia

|| Masterlist || AO3 ||

After knowing Sebastian Sallow for seven, very long, years, Ominis had come to learn certain rules.  If his bed was empty at night, then it meant that the Slytherin was up to his usual midnight mischief.  If the new transfer student batted her eyelashes, the Sebastian would be wrapped around her wand….

…And if Ominis' life was a bit too quiet, then Sebastian Sallow was certainly up to no good.

Now ordinarily, what Sebastian did or did not get into was none of Ominis' concern. Goodness knows, he wiped his hands clean after the events that handed at the end of their 5th year.  But old habits were hard to kill, and Ominis couldn't get rid of the nagging worry in his head that his best friend was, once again, up to no good.

Embarking on an unfortunately too familiar routine, he scoured the castle for where his fellow classmate could have wandered off to.  He wasn't in his usual haunts.  Sebastian's bed, unkempt and unmade as usual, was empty. His usual station at Crossed Wands was cold.  And (perhaps most surprisingly) the 5th year transfer did not know where Sebastian had gotten himself into.  With a heavy sigh, Ominis sung open the heavy iron gates of the Undercroft.

To his surprise, his nose was assaulted with the heavy chemical odors of potion making.  He could heard the crackling burner under the cauldron and the grinding of mortar and petter.

"Sebastian Sallow, brewing potions?  Do my ears deceive me?"

"Ominis!"  Sebastian beamed, hastily pocketing something into his robes.  "Good to see you, I was about to say I could use a good hand." He grimaced as the grey brackish liquid bubbled an off-odor.  

Instantly, Ominis was on guard.  Unless Sebastian suddenly went mad and decided to actually focus on the upcoming NEWTS, he was certain that Sebastian was up to no good.

Quickly he waved his wand over the ingredients strewn across the table.

"Lavender, Valerian sprig…..nettle, standard…and" Ominis grimaced wiping his hand on his robes, "and flobberworm mucus. What on earth are you-Sebastian! Are you making a sleeping draught? What in Merlin's name do you intend to use it for?"

Sebastian laughed good-naturedly as he added the crushed ingredients from the mortar to the cauldron with his wand, "Perceptive as always Ominis.  Our very dear partner-in-crime has been having some trouble sleeping.  It's no wonder with half of the bloody Valley and all of Hogwarts constantly using her like a House elf."  His expression darkened, and his wand stilled for a moment before resuming.  "It's a shame she's too Hufflepuff to turn down their stupid requests.  Hardly has any time to herself, much less time for me.  Between all those silly errands those moon-minds have her running and her nightmares, she's having trouble sleeping." Sebastian's hand clenched on his wand and he muttered darkly,   "For once, I'm going to help her out a bit.  Let her relax a little."

Ominis shifted uncomfortably, "And why is it, can she not simply go to the Hospital Ward and request a Sleeping draught to help her sleep at night?"

Sebastian was glad that his best friend couldn't see his scowl. "For being the most powerful witch in all of Hogwarts, sometimes she doesn't know what's good for her. She's going to run herself ragged and end up passing out in some Acromantula cave.  This is going to encourage her to sleep a little, for her own good."

"Are you talking about drugging her Pumpkin juice?  Merlin's beard, Sebastian, if you're so worried about her, why don't you just tell her how you feel?"

He frowned.  "Why do you have to phrase it like that?  You and Anna, always making me out to be some great evil.  I'm helping our friend feel better.  All I’m doing is just taking care of her."  Sebastian paused, clenching his jaw.  "Besides ever since…certain events, she's been avoiding me."

Sebastian wasn't daft.  His little Hufflepuff, the one who used to look at him with wide shiny eyes like he was the moon and she was the Mooncalf, the one who's cheeks always glowed red in his presence, had grown distant and cold.  Oh she could claim otherwise, she could make excuse after excuse. There was always some magical creature in need, some godforsaken Merlin Trial needed to be solved. But he knew her. His dark eyes saw how she would no longer meet his intense gaze.  Lately, she always looked away, body twisting away from him almost begging to be anywhere but with him.  Her laugh wasn't as free, and her smile, the one that she saved only for Sebastain, only for him, started carrying this rather pinched quality.  

Ever since the unfortunate…end of his uncle, he could practically feel her slipping away.  It took all of his coaxing, his begging, his pleading, his lies, for him to calm her nerves.  To assuage her worries, to kiss and melt away the fears that were brewing in her heart.

And it worked.  For a while, she was his.  His shy doe would tentatively dip her hands into his, allowing him to trail burning kisses on the insides of her wrist.  Her breath would hitch as he nibbled her red ears, whispering scandalous promises of what would happen if she were to give in to his desires. His arms would wrap around her trembling frame, a protective, warm yet iron embrace begging her to stay.  His sweet nothings worked…for a bit.

It happened when Sebastian was starting to forget himself, to loosen his grip on her.  It was the most recent goblin's camp.  He was too reckless. His wand was too relaxed.  He was too charmed by her effortlessly use of ancient magic in combat. He was starting to mix up his promises to Ominis, to Anne, and to her.

"Crucio!"  

He never forgot her horrified face when Sebastian had broken yet another one of his many promises to her.  He had sworn to never use another Unforgivable curse.  To never flirt with the Dark Arts again.  To never give her another reason to fear him.

He grimaced stirring the cauldron again with his wand.  What's done, is done.  

Ominis floundered.  His Sebastian, the Sebastian that he met 7 years ago would have never been talking like this.

"Do you really think she's that stupid to drink some spiked Butterbeer?  Merlin's beard, Sebastian, this is 5th year all over again!  You've gone too far!  I'm going to tell her."  

Sebastian's heart leapt, fingernails digging into his wand handle.  He cooled himself down quickly, smoothing his robes,  "Calm down, troll-for-brains.  I'm just making a sleeping draught.  If she wants to take it, she can.  If she doesn't, it's no concern of mine.  She's a grown witch.  I'm just trying to do my best to support my only remaining friend at Hogwarts."

Ominis squirmed, now a bit ashamed.  "I'm sorry.  I-I didn't mean to accuse you of doing such awful things.  I…I guess just after everything that happened, I'm a bit on edge is all."  

The other boy shrugged, turning away from his maybe friend maybe now acquittance.  "It's understandable…I guess.  You should know, I would never do anything to harm her.  I take care of what's mine."

Ominis shivered, uncomfortable hearing the possessive dark tone that his once best friend had been using recently.  He was reminded of the concerning way his new Hufflepuff friend was so spellbound to Sebastian.  So loyal to him, that she would ignore all the warning signs and follow him down the dark arts.  Play victim to Sebastian's most darkest and perverse thoughts.  "Yes…well.  Sleeping draughts are easy.  Even a 1st year Gryffindor could make it in their sleep.  Now that I know you're not up to any trouble, I'll be heading out." He turned, robes swishing behind him as he made a hasty retreat from the awkward situation.

Sebastian dawdled a bit, waiting for the telltale sound of the iron gates shuttering close, telling him he was now and truly alone.  He breathed a sigh of relief, taking out the pouch of pearl dust he swiftly hid from Ominis' prying eyes.  With a flick of his wrist he added the final ingredient to his potion.   Characteristic spiraling steam burst from his cauldron the once gray liquid taking a new mother-of-pearl sheen.  Sebastian breathed deeply, trying to identify the new seductive scents emitting from his potion.  A familiar warm perfume, her favorite apple tarts, and something flowery that reminded him of her pillows in the newly renovated Room of Requirements. He grinned ladling some of the concoction into a small easily concealable vial, pocketing the solution into a hidden compartment of his sleeve.

It was a shame, it had to come down to this. Amortentia was a NEWTS level potion, notoriously difficult to make.  Perhaps, the feelings from the amortentia Sebastian had created for her could rival a small fraction of Sebastian's obsession.  If she didn't love Sebastian anymore, he'll make her love him.  She was his, and Sebastian was hers.  Nothing, would get in his way.  Nothing.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #1 – How Beautiful We Were by Imbolo Mbue

I read the overwhelming majority of this book in 2023 but I finished it after new years so review #1 of the new year it is! Despite it by all accounts being very critically acclaimed and well-reviewed, I had absolutely never heard of it before opening up the packaging on a ‘blind date with a book’ thing a bookstore was doing (incredible gimmick, for the record). Overall a great book, if rambling at points and with a somewhat weak and confused ending.

The story takes place in Kosawa, a village on the western periphery of a fictional west African country, with the incredible bad luck to have been built atop a fortune in oil. The story is told through several POVs, and follows the villagers struggle against the Pexton corporation and their country’s de facto neocolonial government to try and have their home restored to what it was before the river and soil were poisoned and children started dying. It’s told on a generational scale – stretching from the ‘80s to the mid 2000’s – and follows the main cast of characters from childhood into their forties, As might be expected from that, it’s not exactly fast-paced or full of heroics – lots of promises and reassurances being given and never lived up to, and dramatic actions being taken and leading to awful tragedies or only compromised half-successes. The book really beats in the theme that if you’re really powerless and the ones fucking you over have all the cards, a lot of time there really isn’t a winning move. Well, and maybe that the heroic, principled attempts at violent resistance repeatedly got everyone involved killed but did win real concessions and aid for the other villagers who were willing to play along (or just to sell out or give up Kosawa for dead), though I’m not entirely sure that’s how the story’s intended to be read.

The prose isn’t usually eye-catching, but it’s extremely well-constructed, and beautiful at points. The story does a lot with shifting points of view, jumping from a corporate one of a particular age-group of children whose lives parallel the story, and closely individual ones from different members of a particular family whose daughter Thula ends up becoming the moral/intellectual heart of the resistance. Each voice feels incredibly distinct and focused on very different things, in a way that really worked for me. The massive timeframe covered also lets the book really indulge in showing what the day to day life of the villagers looks like – how they sustain themselves, the social rhythms of life, the rituals of adulthood, marriage, and childbirth, how widows and children are treated, and how the poisoning of the environment around them weighs down but doesn’t destroy any of it. It even does a great job of really selling the perspective and world-views of people for whom the world is enchanted and spiritual rites have real direct physical effects, which in my experience the vast majority of books about religious/spiritual characters totally fail to.

The tone of things is pretty overwhelmingly melancholic – this is a story with a deep sense of history, which also means a very tragic imagination. Characters who really dedicate themselves to trying to change the world are portrayed as deeply admirable but almost certainly doomed and even likely to cause more harm than good. You see this most prominently with Thula, whose basically a genius and devotes her entire life from childhood to activism and social change with saintly (if not near-inhuman) purity and focus, and dies in her forties having not won much at all. The ones who take what they can, get government jobs and use the opportunity to become exactly as corrupt as the men who came before them and loot the country for the benefit of their friends and families meanwhile – well, they definitely aren’t making the world any better, but they’re shown as very human and sympathetic and they mostly end up with exactly the lives they were hoping for.

[vyncentevelyn]

“Fuck…” Astarion mumbled, putting his hands on his hips, and staring at the ingredients in front of him. What the fuck was he doing? Had he ever actually cooked anything? Certainly not in the last 200 years, but before that…

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was pointless. He should walk away from all of this and count his losses before anyone…

“Oh, hello there.” Gale’s voice sounded behind him, “I didn’t expect to find you here considering your condition.”

“The same could be said about you, Gale.” Astarion sighed, his thoughts flitting through the multitude of excuses he could use as to why he was here but none of them sounded believable.

“Well, I still eat food. Especially since Elminster visited. And aside from that, I always cook.” Gale said.

Astarion could hear Gale approach and just stood there like an idiot. Frozen to the spot staring down at his haphazard ingredients for the recipe he did not know. Gale stood beside him and looked at the tabletop.

“Hmmm.” Gale muttered.

Astarion dropped his shoulders, “What Gale? Just say it.”

“It’s just curious. What were you planning on making with horseradish, a fish head, a carrot, and,” he picked up the last ingredient, “hmm…this is a rock Astarion.”

Astarion’s blood runs cold, naturally, but at this moment it felt as if his blood had caught fire. He blinked as Gale stared back at him; the rock still clutched in his hand. Astarion swallowed and then finally muttered, “I thought it was a potato.”

“I see.” Gale replied, still watching him with those deep brown eyes.

“This!” Astarion hissed throwing his arms up and taking a step away from the table, “This is stupid!”

Gale tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, “There is nothing stupid in wanting to learn a new skill. No, no, no.” He shook his head, “You just need a good teacher, you have the initiative, and that, Astarion, is half the battle. Luckily for you, I happen to be an excellent cook and an even better teacher – if I do say so myself.”

Astarion frowned. A part of him wanted to walk out and ignore the wizard. The other part though wanted to learn…wanted to succeed…

“Now, what were you trying to make?” Gale asked looking back at the ingredients, minus the rock which he tossed over his shoulder.

“I…” Astarion hesitated, “Iseult is sick…and she needs to eat.”

The answer hung heavy between the two men. Gale nodded slowly but his focus remained on the table, “I am aware.”

“I thought it would be nice, since she feeds me, if I fed her given that she is unwell.” Astarion said, hoping his tone sounded as nonchalant as he intended.

“That,” Gale started, his usually pompous cherry tone missing from his voice before he paused but when he started talking again his typical inflection returned, “that is a very nice thing to do. And I think I have a recipe we could make to help achieve this goal.”

Astarion blinked, “You do?”

“I think I do, granted it will not include rocks,” he looked up with a teasing grin on his face, “but it will rock.”

Astarion closed his eyes, “That was terrible Gale.”

“It was fantastic, and you know it.”

“What are we making Gale?”

“Soup.”

Astarion opened his eyes and met Gale’s gaze. Gale winked and picked up the carrot and the horseradish, “Are you ready to learn?”

Astarion sighed and rolled his eyes up to the sky, “Let’s get this over with.”

*

Iseult looked up miserably from her bed roll. Astarion stood in the tent’s doorway carrying a tray.

He studied her with those mesmerizing ruby eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh, “You look like shit.”

Iseult smiled, “Aw, you missed me.”

Astarion said nothing but placed the tray down by her bedroll before sitting cross legged beside her. Iseult sat up slowly and looked at the tray. A bowl of soup, a plate with a chunk of bread, and a glass of water sat on the tray beside a wilting daisy. Iseult looked at the vampire, but he refused to meet her gaze and just gestured to the tray, “You need to eat.”

“You made me soup…” Iseult’s voice was soft.

“I can’t have my favorite vintage killing over.” Astarion offered.

Iseult cradled the bowl in her hand and took a bite of soup. It was spicy and warm, potato and carrot with a hint of something hot. It was delicious. She put the spoon down and looked over at Astarion, “This is delicious. You did a great job.”

“Thank you. I, uh, I just learned how to make it.” He fiddled with the leather strap on the bed roll as he mumbled, “Gale taught me.”

“Really?” Iseult tried to keep the shock out of her tone, but she could tell from Astarion’s face she had failed.

“Yes,” he leaned back on his arms and looked up at the tent’s canvas, “yes. That damn wizard must poke his nose into everything.”

Iseult smiled, “Well, I appreciate you both. Thank you.”

As she took another bite, she noticed Astarion studying her in her peripherals.

“You like it?” He asked.

She nodded as she put the bowl down on the tray. She tore a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup before popping it into her mouth. Then she turned and looked at him, “You are a magnificent cook.”

That devilish smirk pulled at his mouth, “Magnificent?”

“And clever.” Iseult replied.

“And?” He asked sitting up.

“And sweet.”

“Sweet? I’m not sure that’s the right adjective, darling.”

“You brought me a flower. You made me soup because I’m sick even though you had to work with Gale. You are caring.”

“Mmm.” His voice was hoarse, and he leaned into her space, “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

She leaned forward, dropping her weight onto her left hand so that her neck became bared to him. She whispered in his ear, “You are beautiful, Astarion.”

“And you,” Astarion whispered back, sending chills down Iseult’s spine, “are a damn tease. Put your neck away my dear, I will not be feeding on you while you have a fever.”

He leaned away, a smirk still in play. His eyes flashing between hers and the bare skin of her neck.

“Can you even get sick?” Iseult asked as she sat back. She tore another piece of bread and dipped it into the soup.

“In a sense.” Astarion said, turning his attention to the nails on his left hand.

Iseult swallowed, “Explain.”

He rolled his eyes, “It’s all so boring.”

“Nothing is boring to me when it concerns you.” she said, before taking a drink of water her eyes focused on his face.

He studied her for a second before saying, “If your blood is tainted with like poison or if you’re drugged or drunk, that could affect me. But I can’t catch your cold.”

“Then I can still feed you, if you want.” Iseult shrugged.

He leaned forward and looked her dead in the eyes, “I’m not making you worse. You’re keeping your blood until you are better.”

Iseult nodded; her eyes wide as she stared back at Astarion.

He returned to his original position, “Good. Now eat. I’ll be sure to make up for our lost time together once you are better.”

Iseult looked down quickly, but she was certain he noticed the blush painting her face. She finished her meal in relative silence. She lowered the empty water glass back down to the tray and picked up the daisy. She smiled down at the wrinkled petals, he must have picked the flower earlier in the day.

She looked back up at him. She wanted to ask him so many things. She wanted to learn everything about him. Instead, she smiled and let the longing to read all the stories buried deep in those bright red eyes stay buried.

Astarion nodded then and said, “Get some rest darling.”

He stood up and grabbed the tray before slipping out of the tent. Iseult laid back in her bed rolls and let out a sigh. She rolled onto her side. Goodnight, Astarion.

*

Astarion set the tray down on the riverbank and knelt into the wet earth beside Gale. He started washing the bowl, ignoring the wizard’s quizzical gaze.

“She said thank you.” Astarion offered when Gale had finally looked back at the dishes he was washing.

“Oh.” Gale nodded, “Well she is most welcome.”

Astarion bit his lip and then released it, “Thank you, Gale.”

Gale sat up and looked at Astarion, “Not a problem." Then he added, "I have more dishes I think you’d enjoy learning.”

Astarion finally met his dark eyes, “What?”

“You are not that good of a cook, but I feel hopeful for you.” Gale smiled, “Plus, I don’t mind having company.”

Astarion let out a chuckle. He rinsed the water cup and sighed, “On occasion, I suppose I could help you.”

Gale’s own laughter echoed out across the dark river, “Only if you feel like it, but the invitation is there.”

“I am certain the novelty of it will run out quickly. You’ll be retracting that invitation the moment I down a quart of pig’s blood.”

“That sounds fascinating. How much blood can you consume? Like in one sitting?”

“I…” Astarion paused and looked up at Gale, “I actually don’t know. Before the whole tadpole,” he gestured to his head, “I fed on what I could, but it was never enough. Recently though, I have fed on Iseult and then drained a whole bear in one night.”

“A whole bear!” Gale exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder instead of judgement. “I’d wager that’s got to be at least 60 liters.”

“How do you even know that, Gale?”

“Ah. A wizard has to know a great deal of information, and I may have needed some bear blood for an experiment of sorts once.”

“Of course.”

“You sound like you don’t believe me, Astarion.”

Astarion shook his head, “I’m just impressed you killed a bear.”

“It took me month to recover,” Gale admitted.

Astarion bent over in laughter.

“Keep laughing Astarion, but at least I know the difference between rocks and potatoes.”

“Fair.”

[rising-volteccers]

So, this is a sort of word vomit piece where I just wrote stuff out to cope during a bad brain day and apply it to Friede. Nothing like a bit of self projection onto your favs, right? It turned out more cuter(?) than expected but I suppose when you add the kids in it, it's almost always going to be lighter than intended. Essentially it involves painting nails haha.

Anyway, hope this is still an enjoyable read!

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Friede, Liko

--

Occasionally, Friede had days where his mind became too cluttered. There was no rhyme nor reason for it to happen. He'd wake up in the morning and just knew. Focusing on one line of thought proved difficult, as did staying put long enough to be productive. He felt the need to do one thing or another yet found himself stuck with indecisiveness that it left him doing nothing at the end.

Over time, Friede found a way that helped him silence the buzzing thoughts. He came across it by accident during his college years and had since applied it whenever one of those days struck. 

Today was one of them. 

Sitting at the edge of his bed, Friede inspected one of the small bottles laid out on the desk next to it. He resisted the urge to tug at his hair and instead picked one up. With the rest of his supplies at hand, he spread out a small towel on the surface. 

Friede began by swiping some nail polish remover over his nails. He stared at each one, forcing his thoughts to focus on how it removes excess polish even if he hadn’t worn some it still removes the natural oils on the nail it’ll make applying the layers smoother and it’ll last longer.

After that, he used a cuticle stick to push the soft skin of each cuticle back to the edge of his nail. He wrangled his brain to think on how pushed back cuticles makes it look even when he paints he didn’t want it to look messy. 

Once he did that, he began to apply a base coat of clear nail polish on his left thumb. One stripe down the middle, left and then right. Rinse and repeat. While he waited for them to dry, he funneled his thoughts into deciding clear or color clear or color he’ll go with clear it’s not noticeable so less questions ask the better.

With his decision made, Friede dipped the brush into the clear polish again before placing a drop of it directly in the center, just above the cuticle. Then he brushed upwards all the way to the tip. Repeat on the left, following the curve to the tip. Repeat on the right, also curve to tip. 

He paused to inspect the first applied layer. It looked neat, which started to dislodge some of the thoughts in his ever busy mind. Friede repeated the process one by one. Each time he stopped to inspect, and once satisfied, he found it easier to fall into a rhythm. He just focused on the act, on each stripe and bask in the soft glow of pride when he saw how neat it looked. 

Doing this for half an hour calmed him in a way that was hard to describe. Perhaps it was the repetitive nature of applying each layer of polish. Maybe it was the sense of focus he got to ensure that he didn’t mess things up. He certainly liked the way he felt more at ease in his own skin now that his brain wasn’t questioning every single thing he did.

With the entirety of his attention laid on applying the final coat to his pinky, Friede didn’t notice the light knocks on his door. Once done, he inspected his work, feeling himself smile at how neat the clear polish looked on his nails. Was it actually visible or was he simply envisioning it in his mind? Who knows but it made him happy so that was all that mattered.

Friede placed his hand back down atop the towel to let it dry. Then he looked up–only to find a pair of eyes peeking at him from the slightly ajar door. He nearly jerked his hand back in shock, barely avoiding knocking off the small bottles on the table. 

“Liko,” he breathed out, wrestling back his slipped control. Friede released a slow, steadying breath before plastering on a light smile. “I didn’t hear you, sorry. Were you looking for me?”

“N-No, I’m sorry for surprising you,” she apologized, eyes flickering to her shuffling feet before going back at him. “I wanted to ask if you could help me with this bit I’m stuck on but you looked so focused that I didn’t want to disturb… I didn’t know you painted nails.”

“I’m not exactly advertising it. I usually just wear clear nail polish so you wouldn’t really be able to see it anyway,” Friede replied easily. He was in a better headspace than before that he didn’t feel the need to deflect. 

“I see. I thought using nail polish would paint your nails in colors,” Liko stated, pushing the door to properly enter after Friede gestured for her to do so with his free hand.

“Well I do have colored nail polish if I’m in the mood but I usually use the clear one. Harder to spot if I mess up.” Which he didn’t so don’t start second guessing himself now. He had no reason to work his thoughts up into a frenzy and undoing all the progress he did. 

“Oh, is it difficult to clean up if you mess it up?”

“Nah, you’d use nail polish remover if you get some on your skin but it can be drying and harsh. Plus it’s just a pain to go through the steps to have it properly removed so–” A faint shrug. “–I just do my best to keep it neat.”

“I see. Is it… is it hard to paint nails?” 

Here, Friede paused to take in the girl before him. It didn’t take long for him to make the connection for all these leading questions. Knowing Liko, she was probably too shy to outright ask. He briefly considered it, then decided that ignoring the tells would make him feel bad. 

“Well, it takes a lot of practice to make it look neat. I can paint your nails if you want.” Friede threw out the offer so the choice was up to Liko.

“E-Eh? Realy? I wouldn’t be disturbing you…?” Liko fiddled with the hem of her shirt, looking nervous but hopeful. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if it did,” he kindly replied. “Go ahead and take a seat on the chair, then.”

Liko did as instructed, her eyes immediately drawn to the small line of nail polish that Friede laid out in his indecisiveness earlier. 

“I don’t have much colors on hand but if you’re not sure on what to choose, I think this would suit you.” Friede reached over to pick up a bottle of teal nail polish. It wasn’t a color he personally wore but it had been a part of the set he bought. He gave it to Liko so she could inspect the bottle herself.

“Um, then I’d like this color.” She handed back the bottle to him. Friede then gently grabbed hold of her hand to check her nails. Unlike his, it looked like she kept them clean and nicely trimmed. He could probably go straight to applying the base coat but he decided to swipe her nails with the polish remover first.

“You’d use this to remove excess polish if you had some but it’s also used to remove natural oils on your nails if there’s any,” Friede explained, eyes never once straying from how carefully he swiped it. He didn’t want to accidentally get some on Liko’s skin.

She nodded, keeping herself still throughout the process. After that, Friede carefully took out the brush from the clear polish bottle to apply the base coat on her thumb.

“Usually you’d want to put a base clear coat like this. This is to protect the colored polish from staining your nail,” he spoke up, sensing that she likely had a lot of questions but felt hesitant to ask. 

Once he applied it to all the fingers on her left hand, they waited for it to dry. Friede began to paint on the first layer of teal polish using the same three swipe method from before. One down the center, curve from the left to the tip and repeat the same on the right. He just wanted to apply a thin first layer so it’d dry quicker. 

Friede focused on making sure each and every nail were painted on neatly. He found the act of painting another person’s nail calming in its own right. He had both hands to work with, giving him a higher degree of control. While his thoughts didn’t wander, it did allow him the opportunity to observe.

The biggest takeaway he got was Liko’s hand being smaller than his. Objectively he knew that but it put things into perspective when he actually held it. Kids her age would usually be in school or out on their journeys (if they had the capability to do so) but she was in a unique position of doing both. It was a little sad that it came from a place of danger but Friede had promised Lucca that he and the rest of his crew will look after Liko. 

Friede imagined had she stayed in school, Liko might have done this with her school friends. He learnt it in college as a means to focus when his mind became his own worse enemy but ordinarily, he pictured this to be a bonding activity between friends. Then again, he didn’t exactly have a normal school life himself so it was a lot of speculation on his part. It kept him focused though that by the time he ran out of things to observe, Friede was done with painting the nails on her left hand.

“There. Just keep your hand like that until the polish dries,” he stated, placing the brush back into the bottle for the time being. “After that I’ll apply a top coat to seal it and then we’re done. What do you think?”

Liko leaned closed to get a proper look without moving her hand. A smile easily came after she took in her painted nails. “It looks really good! Thank you Friede!”

“Heh, nothing to it. Gives me good practice too,” he replied easily, stamping down the mild embarrassment that rose from her genuine gratitude. “If you want, I can paint the nails on the other hand too if you don’t mind sitting around for awhile longer.”

“I’d like that!” Liko inspected them once more. “I’ve never had my nails painted before so seeing them done like this… I think I want to try it myself next time.”

“It’ll take lots of practice but I’m sure you can do it. You already have steady hands from drawing. Just have to get them used with the smaller brush,” he encouraged, flashing her a kind smile. “You can have this bottle and a few others if you’re interested in the color to start off with.”

“Really? You don’t mind it?”

“Nah. Like I said before, I usually use clear polish. Feel free to grab the colors you’re interested in.” 

“Um, what would you recommend?”

Friede blinked a couple of times, then smiled. He spent the next hour giving Liko tips to start out while he painted the rest of her nails. By the time she left his room, she sported a beaming smile, marveling at the pretty teal color. 

That was the first time he painted someone else’s nails in a long while. It pleased him to find the process calming as well. Compared to when he woke up this morning, Friede felt at ease with himself, able to think without his thoughts buzzing around to the point of distraction. 

Before he could put away his kit, Friede once again almost knocked the bottles over when the door abruptly opened.

“Friede! Liko showed me the nails you painted for her and please please please can you do that for me too?” Roy asked excitedly. 

Staring at the boy for a moment, Friede heaved out a soft sigh, resigned yet not displeased at all by the situation. This was probably going to be a regular occurrence, huh?

Well, he didn't mind the extra practice.

[bloomingdead]

What do you comprehensively about focus of the heart? It’s definitely a project that’s certainly *there* with some talented folks on it.

This ask has been sitting in my box for a while, and I’ve resisted responding to it because I really don’t want beef with anyone on the project. My personal experience with those I have engaged with has been unpleasant, but that doesn’t fault their product nor everyone working on it. Also, I may jump around quite a bit because a lot of my feelings on FOTH have nothing to do with the game itself (it’s still in development) and everything to do with the “discourse” and reasons surrounding its creation.

Let me preface by saying, I’m incredibly impressed that the artists involved were able to come together to create a project inspired by the fandom they all love so much. Artist groups are a really great way to gain visibility as an artist. You could be making art that never reaches the people who would want to see it, but if you group together with other similar artists and support each other, your audiences begin to overlap and grow. That seems to be working really well for the people behind FOTH.

I should also warn that I am not the biggest fan of “fanon” content. I haven’t read a fanfic in its entirety in at least 10 years and I don’t make much content other than the occasional doodle and think-piece ramblings. I have nothing against shipping, headcanons, and AU’s. I partake in all of these myself, I have no issue with it. What I do have an issue with is people who say a creator intended for fanon that doesn’t exist in canon. Or people twisting dev’s words to their benefit, pulling things out of context to bolster their opinions. This has created conflict in the past between me and an artist or few on this project.

Shipping is very popular in the Horizon fandom, and has been since the first game was released. Zero Dawn provided us with many potential new friends for Aloy, some of which many fans were left confused as to how Aloy truly felt about them. After all, Ashly Burch who portrays Aloy is pansexual, and she claimed that over half the characters she’s played are queer. And Aloy, although inexperienced and unsure of herself in Zero Dawn, was definitely left flustered at some point by many of the popular shipping characters.

So why did it take the release of Burning Shores, a DLC that finishes with Aloy declaring her romantic attraction to a new companion, for the fandom to put together a dating sim? The Burning Shores DLC was released on April 19th 2023. The first post on the Official FOTH Tumblr was made on June 7th 2023. Their “About Us” post from the same day, says in the second sentence that they decided to create the game, “in the wake of negative internet discourse about fandom shipping.”

Negative discourse? What does that even mean in this context? Are they referring to devout fanon members harassing the game devs and Kylie Liya Page for the creation of Seyka as Aloy’s love interest? Who the fuck, other than people mad about Seyka, were creating fandom discourse around shipping Horizon characters at that time? Kylie Liya Page has literally been cyberbullied from the day the game came out. Yes, it’s died down considerably, but the only negativity surrounding shipping in the fandom was created by the very people who love shipping the most. Kylie was still experiencing the thick of this “negative internet discourse” six months ago.

So many of the very same people who desperately wanted Aloy to get her first romance, are the ones who were most off-put by Seyka’s story. It wasn’t good enough, it was forced, rushed, chosen “for me.” No, Seyka was chosen for Aloy, not you. A lot of people seem to forget that the role-playing element in Horizon is more of a tone-check. Heart, Brain, Fist. You’re not choosing Aloy's response, but how she responds. Is she going to address this compassionately, pragmatically, or stoically? Your attitude will be remembered in future conversations, but your choices have no effect on the quests or ending of the game. Your options in quests are to complete them as intended, or don’t do the quest. 

We were never going to get multiple options for Aloy’s romantic partner in this game. She could still have another! Seyka doesn’t have to be the endgame, most people don’t end up with their first love. But how shitty would it be for us to lose Seyka completely as a character in the third game, because Kylie doesn’t want to come back and face that abuse again, or because the devs don’t want to subject her to that or lose more fans over it? What if they get rid of Seyka with a shitty write-off, and then Aloy ends up alone? We’ve now seen that she’s capable of opening her heart and experiencing that kind of character development. It would suck to have that taken away.

When you’re allowed to do whatever you want in fanon space, why go out of your way to harass the creators of the canon? Why bully fellow fans for having different opinions than you? You were already imagining these made up relationships that don’t exist, why does Aloy having a canon love interest ruin that? Why is Aloy having a canon love interest a disruption to fanon? It isn’t a disruption to fanon, clearly, as the creation of and support for FOTH has proved. Not only just by simply existing, but by their inclusion of Seyka in the game.

I was accused of being a bigot because I posted on my own blog that Aloy reads as a lesbian to me. I was harassed after Burning Shores came out for joking that we now have more proof of Aloy being a lesbian than bisexual. I’m a silly little lesbian, I see gay bitch, I want a lesbian. But that’s an opinion that exists in my mind, and on tumblr. It’s definitely not something I’m going to bring to the devs and accuse them of dancing around. Because still, as it stands, Aloy is most likely coded as pan/bi. It doesn’t warrant me or the thousands of other lesbian fans being harassed over a headcanon, though.

To me, and probably most people who genuinely feel normally about this game, there are way bigger issues in this fandom than anti-ship. There have been way bigger concerns surrounding how the developers and actors have been treated by the fans. There are way worse attacks conducted by fans who love shipping content than those who hate it. There have been worse attacks on people in this fandom by people "defending" their favorite ships than by outsiders in the gaming community that invade our spaces to tell us how mannish and ugly Aloy is. The people who think shipping is the biggest point of discourse in this fandom are most likely the same ones perpetrating it.

FOTH portrays their product as bravely pushing the boundaries on something that is going to receive backlash because it is shipping content. It represents itself as an amalgamation of all the shipping content in the fandom, dedicated to it. The language applied is intended to attract anyone who is cool with shipping, which I’m pretty sure is over 95% of this website. Definitely over 95% of the Horizon fandom. A genius move, from a marketing standpoint.

“What? That’s ridiculous, why are they facing negative discourse for a silly little dating sim? I’m cool with shipping, they get my support.” 

It is ridiculous, isn’t it? Tumblr is full of shipping, how is a tumblr account for a dating sim finding itself in a position where it has to preemptively address negative discourse on the first day of the official blog existing? It’s because the negative discourse they’re warning against isn’t aimed at shipping, it’s aimed at the aggression seen from the creators on their personal blogs in regards to their favorite ship. But they opened with the discourse statement so that if they ended up receiving criticism from the people they bullied, there’d be a potential for fans of their project to blindly defend them because FOTH prefaced that all their haters just hate shipping. 

That one statement from their account tells me that FOTH seems to be picksy-choosing what issues in this fandom warrant concern. Apparently, calling Aloy a lesbian is a bigger offense than sending death threats to actors and developers. Apparently, the worst discourse to happen in the Horizon fandom is because of those who defended Seyka from unwarranted hate and not the people who were enraged with her addition to the series. Apparently, FOTH wants to ignore all the harassment the devs of Horizon went through, but keep their fans aware that any so-called hate (criticism) that the FOTH creators face is simply unjustified and toxic. They opened their blog with an attempt to alienate anyone who might ever have a reason to criticize the game.

I won’t be playing FOTH, I have little interest in it besides innate curiosity. The closest I get to touching dating sims is fantasy RPG’s though, so I likely wouldn’t be playing it regardless.

As I stated in the opening, my feelings about FOTH have nothing to do with the game itself and rather the people behind it and the circumstances that brought it to fruition. I don’t think every artist behind it has the altruistic goal of simply creating something fun for everyone in the fandom to enjoy, I think some of them are just scratching an itch. If they were looking for something productive to place their frustration into, they found it. I’d be interested to know which pairings end up being the most fleshed out, and which ones are lacking. Especially since every artist got assigned to a character they genuinely enjoy. DM me privately to place your bets. 

So, I guess, TLDR; I’m not going to try and stop anyone from playing Focus On The Heart, but I don't trust all the people working on it nor their intentions. For Reasons™.

[beck-a-leck]

2023 Writing Year in Review

Like previous years, I kept track of my writing to help me see where my writing time and energy is going throughout the year, along with keeping track of my word counts for fun.

In general it felt like a quiet year for me for writing, though going by my word count I'm close to what I did last year, with a difference of only about 10k words.

My poor multi-chapter WIPs were very neglected this year. I only got 2 chapters done for Our Dear Empress and Earth and Rebirth. Starting in late July, most of my writing time and effort went into working on How Far Ahead The Road Has Gone, which honestly accounts for probably 50% of my writing in total this year.

Doing the math I've written well over 100k words in total after that Hobbit bug bit me either for the story or for an offshoot idea.

The rest of my writing this year was a lot of one shots. Which, as a nice change from previous years, I completed a good portion of the new fics I started this year. And the other things I'm seeing on the list that didn't get finished are projects I never really intend to finish. They were more of landing spots for ideas I couldn't get out of my head rather than anything I intended to turn into a complete story.

So I can't say it wasn't an unproductive year for writing. but I also know if it wasn't for me getting hit by the freight train of inspiration that was How Far Ahead the Road Has Gone I certainly wouldn't have done nearly as much writing in the last half of the year as I did. Well, I'm going to ride that train for as long as it can carry me.

My goal for 2024 writing is to really focus on my long running WIPs. Some of them are pretty close to being finished, and if tey aren't close to being finished I know I have a lot of story prepared to tell for them. I just need to find the inspiration and stay focused on them and try not to get too side tracked by new ideas. But if I know anything about my writing style, I know I can't ever say no to a new idea when it crosses my mind. So we'll see what kind of surprises crop up this year

[scriptscribbles]

My concerns re: Thasmin is that you’ve spoken about how Johnlockers don’t speak for you, but you contradict yourself by trying to speak for Thassies, by attempting to tell us we should want more. What is your idea of good queer rep, when experiences differ vastly? What did you think of Edith&Fran from Y&Y, when neither of them spoke overtly about their sexualities? I understand feeling proprietary but why are you insisting that people who are happy with the era shouldn’t be?

Oh hey if I'm taking a quick peek over, this is a genuinely interesting question.

I think Edith and Fran have a fair few limitations to be sure, their relationship is in no way the focus of the show and is a bit undercooked. But Years and Years (which frankly is one of my least favorite RTD shows) is a show by a queer creator with a number of queer characters and storylines from the off. Thasmin is straight creator introducing something last minute he never intended to set up and then leaving it hanging, after promoting his era with promises of representation and diversity. I don't think they're very comparable. (And nor is Sherlock, a very straight show cocreated by a gay man.)

I don't speak for Thassies. I speak for me as a queer media critic. I very pointedly do not have a Thassie pov.

What is good queer rep? Well, if we are too diverse to ever capture in one story... and we are... we're certainly too big and diverse to capture in a half-hearted c-plot token gesture by a straight dude. If we'd gotten other substantial LGBT rep Thasmin could be a nice supporting piece of the puzzle, one experience of many. We got pretty much nothing.

[kitkatt0430]

90s Flash definitely has a very different vibe from 2014 Flash. Certainly an interesting look at how what people wanted from a superhero show changed in the 23 years between them.

The 90s Flash show has a much darker, grittier feel to it. In the first three episodes we've got Barry's brother Jay dying due to street gang violence, a former friend and love interest of Tina's who experiments on the homeless, and Barry being easily found out by a PI whose corrupt DA client uses threats to make Barry do his bidding. Barry's also much more of a ladies man than 2014 Flash. He starts off dating Iris, but their relationship is on the rocks and she leaves him for Paris by the time the second episode's begun. He's clearly jealous over Tina reconnecting with an old friend who'd been in love with her for years. And he's a little too pushy about his infatuation with the pretty PI who gets him into deep trouble with the corrupt DA. Barry's temper is played up a lot more. While Barry's anger with Pike over Jay's murder is certainly understandable, he's often very shouty with Tina which is a bit uncomfortable at times. Especially when he brings up her dead husband out of nowhere.

In comparison, the 2014 show has a brighter, more hopeful feel to it. Which is funny because it does have much darker story arcs, what with the man who murdered Barry's mother basically orchestrating the events of the entire first season while manipulating Barry and hiding in plain sight. It helps that 2014 Barry isn't so overt with his anger, often burying his temper into more subtle responses. Where 90s Barry gets aggressive, 2014 Barry gets passive aggressive. And while 2014 Barry has an unfortunate sense of entitlement about Iris, he only really gets pushy with her about his feelings when he did have reason to believe she reciprocated (the day that wasn't cheating first kiss snafu) and doesn't even manage a second love interest until Linda shows up in the second half of S1. Unless one's of the opinion that Caitlin was love interest #2, which makes a bit more sense to me in light of the similarities between S1 Caitlin and 90s Flash Tina. (SnowBarry is a fun ship to write, but not one I really think there's ever been any real canon support for... especially knowing that there'd been intended ship teasing between Caitlin and EoWells back in S1, for all that was rather quickly canned.) Since it's a much more character focused show, this Barry is often given more time to dedicate to having flaws and then overcoming them.

90s Barry also seems to have more focus on crimes that have more mundane aspects to it. The first episode's main villain is a disgraced, corrupt cop turned manipulative and charismatic leader of a counter culture movement made up of a much younger crowd than himself. His second villain is a scientist who experiments on the homeless because he thinks their lives are wasted, something Tina specifically calls him out on while Barry actively tries to help a homeless former school friend get back on his feet as a contrast. And the corrupt DA with mob connections kinda speaks for itself there. The villains themselves have a bigger focus too, which fits the 90s being much more heavily into the monster of the week format.

2014 Barry instead focuses most of the first episode on Barry discovering his powers and finally being able to prove - to Joe, at least - that his father wasn't a murderer. Mardon is very much presented as a clear and present threat, but he's much more Joe's adversary than Barry's. The second episode has Multiplex trying to take revenge on the man who stole his research, the event he blames his wife's death on, but the focus is once again more on the development of Barry's powers and need for support in his endeavors from those he's closest too. (Making his estrangement from Iris, whom he's lying to more stark, as he can't let her support him and thus fails to support her as well.) The third episode's main villain is Kyle Nimbus, the Mist, but the episode's focus is on the past catching up to people. Cisco and Caitlin's feelings about Ronnie's death, Joe's involvement in the events that led to Nimbus's execution, and the reopened investigation into Nora's murder... the one-off villains of these episodes are less important than what they represent, especially since the season's overarching villain is the one getting the real development. It's still a monster of a week type show, but one much more concerned with playing the long game.

There's also the fact that 90s Barry is 29 when he gains his powers - four years older than 2014 Barry who is 25 when the magic lightning strike happens. As a result, 90s Barry Allen has more experience in his chosen field of forensics and while his father isn't supportive of Barry's life choices (forensics degree) Jay is. This Barry hasn't had his self confidence constantly undermined by people who love him but don't believe in him. So he's a lot less conflicted about becoming the Flash and a lot more certain of where he draws the line between right and wrong than the younger, more self-doubting version from the 2014 show.

[trickstercaptain]

       Shifting the focus to Killian was an adept method of changing the subject, yes, but a disturbing fact remained: that Jack was genuinely curious what was next for Killian Jones after this. Presuming they survived, and that was maybe the comforting fantasy to live in right at this moment. That their growing-more-harebrained-by-the-day scheme to topple Cutler Beckett would actually succeed and not blow up in their own — and the people they cared about, people involved in this thanks to them — faces. That there was a future after this and... and that this thing with John wasn't simply a way of kidding himself into believing it.

       However, that didn't mean Jack had to approve of the disgustingly romantic image Killian had pictured for himself and Guy. “ No, you're not. ” Yet the over-acted look of disgust as Jack glanced away at their surroundings, being sure to keep at least half of his brain focused on the task in hand, vanished as his companion continued. This apparently really was a night for a heart to heart, wasn't it? His seemingly tacit approval for his relationship with John elicited a small smile into the darkness, but Jack's expression faltered as Killian continued. He let the praise wash over him and, though certainly not intended as such, it felt hollow.

       You've done a good thing, Jack. An impressive thing. I think my ego could handle dying for that. Was this really so impressive, so good? It was no white knight complex that had brought him back to London those months ago. It was ego and pride, proving to a man like Cutler Beckett that, even all these years later, he wasn't so easily swatted away — and kept away — like a pesky fly hovering over dinner. It was revenge, the thought of seeing his smug face contorted with pain and anger as his entire life's work was taken away from him. How much of this was because he cared about the people that Beckett had hurt, and how much of it was because he was a proud and stubborn bastard?

       Jack noticed the same flicker in the shadows as Killian did and, while grateful for the distraction, it didn't dispel the troubling thoughts completely. “ A date where? ” he said absently, still focused on the shadows. What they were waiting for. It had to be. “ Actually, don't tell, me, I'll figure it out and how to sabotage it in the morning. ” A quick glance — and a sardonic smile — directed at his companion before Jack slowly rose to his feet, straining to try and make out the movement in the distance. “ Can't have you thinking I'm a good person and mistakenly put that on my file at the Met. ”

The dance is one easily learned, a careful maneuver of half truths veiled by inflated arrogance and an Irishman’s incessant pride, but tonight something different lingers in the air, that prickling sensation of a long fought battle almost finished. Maybe he’s mad for thinking they’re close to toppling the fortress that is Cutler Beckett, maybe entertaining any hope of it at all is the biggest lie he’s fed himself yet.. but blue eyes linger on the faint silhouette of a half finished ship in the distance and ringed fingers curl in on themselves as if fighting the instinct to reach out to a victory so close that he can almost grab it. A snort of a laugh passes through rough lips at Jack’s jest and Killian flashes the other man a rare (and well earned) smile. “Aye, you’re probably right about that, yeah?”

Teeth chew at the inside of one cheek as the silence stretches between them, ears half attuned to the answer and resulting question that Sparrow throws his way. It would be easy to lie, aye, to make some quip about Jack being in a hurry to chase John away by subjecting him to close confines on a bloody boat… but instead the detective offers a simple shrug, shifting where he sits. “I don’t know really. Try to find something else to blame for the chip on my shoulder…maybe ask Guy to marry me. We can be one of those drop dead gorgeous celebrity couples that the papers go on about, famous for doing nothing more than existing. I’m pretty enough for it.” There’s a grin playing about his mouth, a sharp glint of amusement that catches the glow from the faint lights in forget-me-not blues… and before the Irishman can stop them, words he had long hoped to keep secret are slipping past a momentarily unlocked door.

“It wouldn’t, you know. Send a strongly worded letter, I mean.” The truth of it is heavy on his tongue, a weight of confession that Killian Jones is normally loathe to admit to, but they’ve seen so many near misses the last few months, seen so much bloody death���that he feels like it needs to be said lest he lose his chance. “You make John happy, mate. Won’t even bloody pretend to understand why, but you do … and I guess that’s enough for me. This - ” Ringed fingers gesture vaguely as the Irishman lets out a huff of breath akin to a sigh. “ - what you’re doing, what you’ve started… it’s something that the rest of us should have stood up for long ago. I’m gonna hate myself for saying it in the morning, but … bloody hell…you’ve done a good thing, Jack. An impressive thing. I think my ego could handle dying for that.” There’s a beat of silence as blue gaze catches movement in the shadows and the muscle along the line of Killian’s jaw twitches in anticipation. “Let’s not test that tonight though, aye? I have a date tomorrow and it took me for bloody ever to come up with the tickets for it.”

[acourtofmenandthirst]

Runaway (Part I of III)

Eris x Reader, falling in love and then some. This will be a series since I still have a lot to write for the rest!

Warnings: Angst, domestic abuse

Word Count: 5.2K

He had never loved. Never truly loved.

He never had the time.

From an early age, Eris had his priorities laid out for him. He would become High Lord of Autumn one day, despite everything Beron would do to ensure that didn’t happen - that he would never die. That was a problem that Eris would deal with later.

Because of the insurmountable challenge this would become for him, he hadn’t had time for much else. By the time he turned 100, save for a few sloppy fucks around other courts, Eris had become a true slave to his father and no one else.

Dealing with his family was a full time job. It required every ounce of his concentration, for him to never falter beneath his mask, never to step out of line, and ensure his brothers followed suit.

As soon as his eyes fell onto yours, he nearly tripped over his own two feet.

That day was one of your first days working in the estate. Nearly 20 years old, you were still considered a mere babe, but had been taken in by the other staff, allowing you to wash and mend the holes in the childrens’ laundry. The Vanserra brothers were a rowdy bunch, and Lady Autumn had already birthed three more sons before Eris turned 100. They were all exceptionally young and close together in age; the sibling rivalry between them was unnoticed by none.

Picking on each other from the moment they learned to walk, no doubt encouraged by Beron, they’d been set to train against one another, brutal and bloody, only allowed to stop when the other could no longer walk out of the ring.

And on one of those days, you passed your first Vanserra heir in the hall, no doubt in your mind that he was the eldest and most feared. His dark eyes raked over you, his stare dragging down and up your body, all in the two seconds you walked past him. It took everything in your power to not drop the basket of thread you were carrying, and it took actual effort to set your jaw, ensuring you did not gasp and the sight of him - especially at the acknowledgement he threw in your direction.

Acknowledgement perhaps was a strong word, but it had been one of your lessons not to look at any Vanserra, as they certainly would not be looking at you. Unless directly spoken to, you were to not look at the royalty, merely hurry away and make yourself invisible.

But those russet eyes fell to you; a purple-yellow half circle gracing the underside of his left eye, the bridge of his nose scratched - nearly healed - and his pink lips stained with red. Aside from that, not a thread out of place on his perfectly embellished jacket, not a single pull on his high-collared sweater, and his red hair sat neatly atop his head, even the curling tips seemed to be perfectly intentional.

You held his gaze as his eyes flashed over you before he returned his focus to the hallway ahead of him. You were positive that in that moment his eyebrows twitched and the scowl that adorned his strong features almost dropped for a second. His furrowed brow remained as he strode past you on the other side of the hall, no doubt heading toward the stables. He was clad in his riding gear, tall boots echoing with each long stride against the marble floors. It wasn’t until you stopped, turned fully around to watch him pass that you noticed the apple in his hand and the near black bruises that adorned his knuckles.

Little did you know, he’d be thinking about you for the rest of the day, and each day that followed.

________________________________________________________________

Over the next year, you had only managed to see Eris once more in the same fashion. There was a scratch across his cheek this time, scabbed over, surely a deep cut if it was not yet fully healed – not a mark from fencing or practice. It was a cut intended to hurt, possibly even kill if his opponent had better aim.

That time, however, he walked alongside his father. His shoulders were pulled back, arms taught at his sides. He didn’t look at you, his eyes did not move from his endgame across the room. His hands were clean of blood and bruises, but clenched into tight fists at his sides.

It wasn’t until they turned at the end of the hallway, the heavy mahogany doors banging shut behind them, that a voice spoke at the end of the hall. “What are you doing?” It was a harsh whisper, no doubt would have been a scream if you weren’t in the echoing halls of the estate.

Pivoting on your heel, you were met with Callula, the head housemaid, furiously speeding toward you. You shot her a questioning look, eyebrows raising innocently.

“I was looking for you,” you lied, attempting to divert her from the fact you were wandering around the castle in your spare time.

Despite Autumn’s reputation for being cold and hollow, the estate was decorated quite beautifully. Art in each hallway, marble busts glowing underneath the golden light shining in from the large windows across the walls. The sea of red below the cliff shined color on the white stone floors and cast a vibrant sheen against Callula’s already orange hair.

“No,” she huffed, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you away to a less public hallway. “You’re about to get yourself killed doing that.” Her lips set in a firm line. You couldn’t play dumb, it was the first thing everyone had told you: do not look at the High Lord.

To be fair, it wasn’t him you were looking at.

She wouldn’t buy that. You shouldn’t be looking at Eris or any of the other sons, either. Not to mention you had stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of the hallway to do so. You are not to speak or look, only meant to keep your head down and complete your  tasks. You nodded slightly, gaze dropping to the floor as you accepted her scolding - more of a warning, you’d later realize. 

________________________________________________________________

Fifty years you spent tending to the laundry, stitching the rips and tears in the brothers’ training clothes, sewing together new baby clothes for the arrival of the newest Vanserra sons - the twins: fifth and sixth in line for the throne. You already felt the animosity and stress rippling through the estate; you’d been given more tasks simply to pick up the slack that had been brought along with the surprise of the second babe.

The fifty years had dragged on slower than you imagined time would pass. The same menial duties every day. Each night you thought of a life beyond the castle walls, beyond the bedroom so small one ought to consider it a personal dungeon. You never made it far on the estate, taking only a short stroll along the orchards here and there, when you had the spare time - not as often as you’d liked. You itched for one day just to walk out that heavy wooden door and never return.

There were few moments that made you glad you stayed, though. You knew gossip ran quick through the servant’s quarters. Perhaps serving in another court would offer more light-hearted tales. Rumors of affairs ran through the Autumn Court (as you supposed it did in all courts) but also tales of great tragedy and abuse. Most of these conversations were cautionary tales, reminding the young staff to stay in their place or risk Beron’s wrath.

You had run into the red-haired son more often than you anticipated. At first, a few times passing like you had originally, with a not-so-sly glance from Eris, standing tall as he strode past you; this almost always had you tripping over your own feet. It only seemed to be when the two of you passed alone in the hall - never once had this occurred while you walked with another maid, let alone when he walked past you with his family.

You had learned to see past the grimace adorning his delicate features, noticing how his eyebrows did not fall naturally into a scowl, how it looked almost forced as he strode past you. Uncomfortable in his own home; although, you could say the same. He seemed to itch to leave almost as badly as you did. He was stuck, and so were you.

After all, life beyond these walls would not be so kind.

On a rainy day, you tended to your new chores: cleaning the bedchambers was simple enough, changing towels and sheets, gathering clothes as you found them strewn about. You were not to touch anything else - none of the swords laying around the males’ rooms, no books, letters, or trinkets.

You made it a point only to tend to this duty when you knew they were busy: in the training room or at dinner - anywhere but there.

So you were quite surprised when you found Eris in his room in the middle of the day.

You opened the door slowly, an empty basket propped on your hip, ready to collect the worn clothes and sheets. Eris stood in the middle of the room, his casual stance undisturbed as you dropped the bushel, hands flying over your mouth in shock, trying - and failing - to hide your gasp.

His eyebrows raised in question as he watched you, amusement laced his gaze. “Your Highness I’m–” you fought to find your words, stumbling over the apology that you found stuck at the back of your throat. He did not move an inch, his fingers still holding the white linen shirt, riddled with red splotches.

Muscle bound over his arms and across his chest, his pale skin slashed red - cuts meant in warning, not for damage. He obviously thought nothing of it, tending to the wounds with anything other than his crumpled up shirt.

You forced yourself to find the words to finish: “I’m so sorry.” He simply nodded, chest heaving ever so slightly; you noticed the heavy breaths he took and could almost make out a pink flush on his skin.

Instinctively, you took a step toward, but had to hold yourself back from reaching a hand out toward him. Closer, although still a safe distance away, you could see the cuts better, criss-crossing over the graveyard of other scars married into his skin. He inclined his head toward you, nose dipping forward as he dropped his head lower, blocking his chest. You immediately caught yourself, snapping out of your trace and forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, apologizing again. It is now your turn to turn pink. “Are you alright?”

You didn’t mean to ask, actually. You weren’t sure what you would do if he said no.

But he didn’t answer. Not quickly, anyway. Instead, he surveyed you once again. And then you found yourself shrinking, arms folding in front of you and taking a small step backwards as those predatory eyes washed over you for the second time.

When his eyes finally met yours, you thought might speak. He didn’t open his mouth, he didn’t change his posture - though his eyebrows challenged you, perhaps challenged your boldness.

Nobody had entered his bedchamber without knocking.

He knew who you were. He’d inquired about you that day he first saw you in the hallway. Of course, he’d gotten your name from one of the stable boys, and had to threaten him to not release that information to you or any of the other servants. He knew how fast word of him asking about one of the lowly seamstresses would travel through the halls.

Before he could figure out what he wanted to say - what he wanted his first words to be to you, the door opened wider behind you.

Callula did not stop her own gasp as she fisted the back of your corset, pulling you backwards into the hallway again. Her eyes were wide with shock, wondering how you had ended up in Eris’s room, with him in it, shirtless.

Stumbling back like a wobbling newborn doe, she shoved the long-forgotten basket back in your arms, the bloody shirt now laying at the bottom of it.

She takes one step closer to you, apologizing profusely to Eris as she shuts his door. He does not break eye contact with you throughout the entire interruption, a small smile playing at his lips when Callula finally shuts the door.

“You are to never speak of this, (Y/N), for his sake and your own.”

Before you could ask why, she disappeared down the hallway.

You’d surely get your proper scolding later on.

You take the rest of the day to scrub the blood out of his shirt, spending extra time sewing up the slashes through it, before deciding to throw it away entirely.

________________________________________________________________

It happened again.

The next time had been similar to the first, although you now learned to knock before barging into the room.

You did not expect an answer, the morning was always set for training. But when he calls out an order to enter, you fight the urge to turn around and disappear.

You open the door just enough to see him, sitting at his desk, furiously writing a letter. He pauses, upon realizing it’s you, and sets his own down his pen, his rigid stature remaining.

He brushed a hand through his curling hair, a few strands falling loose over his forehead from looking down at the desk.

You didn’t know he’d done it to just look any bit more presentable to you.

He’s fully clothed this time, a brown sweater clad over his chest. This time, you spot no blood from fresh cuts, only the scar atop his cheekbone and a bruise nestled in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t think it would be as noticeable as it was, or maybe the light just shined at the right angle for you to notice the discoloration on his perfect face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper, unable to speak any louder, already bowing out into the hallway.

This time he does open his mouth to say something, but you’re too quick to hear if he actually does speak. 

________________________________________________________________

Since then, you were extra cautious when approaching any of the Vanserra brothers’ bedrooms.

You first made sure they were out of the room, whether at training or on a ride through the forest, you didn’t care nor was it your job to know.

That morning, you saw Eris trudging through the rain, a dark hood pulled over his bright hair, mud clinging to his boots. His dogs followed behind him closely, snouts turned upward as they disappeared into the woods beyond the manor.

You made your way to the private residences, admiring the fine art along the walls and the delicate carvings in the marble trim along the way, inspecting for dust along each surface.

Following your cautious knock on the door, already expecting no response, you waited a few seconds before letting yourself in.

There he stood, in the center of the room, wearing a freshly pressed burgundy jacket as he fiddled with his cuffs. His dark pants were tucked into his clean, tall boots, not a single red hair out of place on his head. Perfectly dry. Standing casually in the middle of his bedroom, after you just saw him outside.

Had he…winnowed here?

He stared at you, not a scowl this time or a look of surprise. This was planned. His russet eyes leveled yours, his brows flat and lips pulled taught, expression unreadable. He dropped his cuff, waving you in, stepping back and sitting on the edge of his desk.

“What’s your name?”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. You gripped the laundry basket tighter, the tips of your fingers pressing between the woven twine.

“You know my name.”

“I want to hear you say it.” Unhurried. Unbothered.

You swallowed. “(Y/N).”

He nodded stiffly. Once again, like nearly every other time he’d seen you, those damn eyes giving you a full head-to-toe inspection. You raised a brow in challenge, giving him the same treatment. “What happened to your face?”

Your words caught  him off guard, even if only a little bit. A smirk crawled upon his lips and he crossed his arms over his chest, making his shoulders appear even more broad than they had a second ago.

“What’s wrong with my face?” He swiveled to look across the room to look in the mirror over his dresser, making a show of touching his jaw and turning his head to observe all angles. “I would say it’s one of the better looking ones,” he comments, still admiring himself. “Definitely amongst these halls, anyway. Perhaps the sight of such a male is just not one you are used to.”

He turns back toward you, a cocky grin plastered on his face. You roll your eyes, setting the basket on the floor, crossing your own arms over your chest, mirroring him. “All the bruises,” you reply simply. “Not to mention the cuts…” you trail off, gaze falling over his chest, remembering the razor sharp muscle.

“Are you worried about me?” His dark eyes sparked, his smile not dropping.

“I know it’s not from training.”

At that, his mouth twitched, at least the cockiness was now gone, then nodded. “Are you keeping tabs on me, my dear?”

You shrugged, dropping your arms to your side. “Your brothers don’t look like that after training.”

He tuts, pursing his lips and dropping his head to the side. “I did not know you were so interested in my brothers.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “I’m not, your Highness.” Your tongue was sharp, and he was a fan.

“Eris.”

You nodded.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“Eris,” you repeated, mustering as much strength as you could to soften your tone. It came out as a whisper, the seductive tone surprising even yourself.

And he let his name on your tongue caress him. “Good.”

The silence then split the distance between you. He wanted nothing more than to keep the conversation going, to keep you in his bedroom longer. To grab your beautiful face and smash his lips to yours. It’s been over fifty years since first saw you in the hallway, he’d been dying to talk to you since.

As if reading his mind, you spoke up. “Why did you come here today?”

This made him smile again, genuine. Perhaps you also wished to stay there longer, standing tense in his bedroom. “You intrigue me.” You cocked a brow, trying to suppress your surprise at his statement. “You seem to not want to follow the rules.”

No doubt he was talking about you gawking at him every chance you got, nearly drooling over his bare chest. “You’re not supposed to talk to me either, you know.”

Oh he knew that. Beron made sure that none of his sons were to mingle with lesser Fae, not those from the Autumn Court nor even the staff that waited on them. “And what fun is following the rules,” he merely responded with a shrug. He stood from the desk, straightening, taking three king strides toward you, closing the gap. “I smell your fear.”

Fear, maybe. Arousal, definitely.

He towered over you and you had to crane your neck to meet his fiery gaze. His hair curled over his forehead, a strand now falling down into his line of sight; you had to restrain yourself from pushing it up away from his eyes. “It is not you who I am afraid of.”

A stiff nod. “Then I will leave you to it,” he muttered, taking a step away from you before winnowing off into thin air. 

________________________________________________________________

It was only a mere few weeks before you ran into him again. This time by your own doing. 

You weren’t exactly sure what made you do it. What made you crawl out of your bed in the late hours of the evening and sneak your way towards his room. You felt a tang in your gut, like some enormous curiosity about this male. Mysterious - though he had spoken to you only once. You longed to hear his voice, to see his face.

You cursed yourself because it was so late; you’d usually spend the evening in your own small bedchamber, unbothered by anyone else.

Instead, you had made your way down the corridors of the estate, finding yourself in front of Eris’s door. You didn’t know what any of the royal family did in the evenings. Save for balls and other holiday events, you didn’t work at night. At most you’d stroll through the forest or the Autumn grounds, but you’d never get very far before the cold nipped too harshly at your skin. 

You knocked three times. Three sure knocks.

Gods, what if he was sleeping? You were biting your lip in nervousness, sure to give yourself a mental lashing for doing this. It had not been a good idea. Something just - had drawn you there that night.

You stood there for so long you nearly turned on your heel and sprinted down the hall.

Eris opened the door. That permanent scowl on his face.

He was surprised to see you, in all honesty. And it was quite the inopportune moment, too.

“Eris,” you hissed, a cross between a scold and gasp that passed your lips.

He wasted no time, grabbing your wrist and pulling you in his bedroom. “What are you doing here?” It was more out of shock than anger, but he couldn’t help his lethal tone.

You ripped your arm out of his grasp, his long fingers flexing and cracking in sudden awareness of how hard he was holding you. You rubbed at the almost red skin on your wrist - his touch had been scorching. You noticed the huge fire in the hearth, flames nearly crawling across the floor trying to escape. The sight reminded you of Eris’s hair.

An erratic fire formed by an erratic Eris.

With the simple wave of his hand, the fire dimmed, now offering a calm warmth, cracking almost silently. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” you murmured, eyes dropping to the floor, ready to turn and run out the door.

As if sensing that - probably easily reading it from your body language - Eris reached for your hand, a million times gentler than before, and held it between two of his own warm hands. “You are safe here, (Y/N).”

You nodded, fully believing him. It felt genuine. You didn’t know if he meant because nobody would come looking for you here, or if somebody had, then he would protect you. “I don’t know why I came.” You barely heard yourself speak. You weren’t sure if he could hear you or if he had to rely on reading your lips, which, coincidentally, was where his reddish eyes were staring.

“I am not disappointed.”

“You’re hurt,” you breathed, sucking in a breath.

And by the gods was he hurt - worse than you had ever seen before. Moreso than you could imagine someone could be so cut up and shredded, yet standing still before you. He wore only brown pants, chest bare, pale skin stained with blood. There were five scratches hatched into his delicate skin, starting just under the knot in his throat, jutting over his collar bones and fading away at the top of his chest. The cuts were deep, red oxidizing to black, the split skin already knitting itself back together in a terrible fashion.

“It looks worse than it is.”

This was not his brothers’ doing. Sure, you had heard the Vanserra brothers were cruel to each other but this was monstrous. To mar and scar each other in such a manner… you only knew of one male who would be capable of such torture.

“This was not from training, Eris.” He stared at you, debating whether it would be better to say nothing at all. You took his silence as confirmation, though you were afraid he would dismiss you or pass it off as an innocent accident. He did neither. “He can’t do this to you.”

To this he smiled. One that did not reach his eyes, but he did laugh. “He does what he pleases–”

“This pleases him?” You shuddered, pulling yourself from his grasp, hands now dragging through your own hair in disbelief.

Eris shook his head, then shrugged. It was a noticeably small movement, careful as to not disturb his healing wounds. “I’m not sure what pleasure he gets from it. It’s the control he’s after.”

Control. The one thing every male fought for. Especially amongst the High Fae. Primitive enough to fight over control of others, control of his court, but it was Baron who ruled by fear; this fear that controlled his people, his wife, his sons. Eris didn’t know if this was how he would end up in a few centuries.

“You can’t let him do this to you.” Your words interrupted his thoughts, and he almost scoffed.

Without missing a beat he simply responded: “Better me than my brothers, than my mother.”

The words sliced right through your gut; you wanted to keel over and catch your breath. “This is my duty, to protect my family.” What could you say? What could you tell the man before you who was – quite literally – sliced open and bleeding for his family. Did they even know?

There were no words you had. Tell him what a sacrifice it was to him to protect his family, surely he would be aware, and you didn’t want him to think you were patronizing him. You had thought about running away plenty of times in your life, didn’t know where to go. At this moment, you didn’t quite care, but you wanted Eris to come with you. What a slap in the face that would be to him. He was responsible for the future of the Autumn Court. It was his burden to bear, if this is what it would take to earn the throne.

His hands found their way to your cheeks, cupping your jaw as he stepped closer to you. His stare was serious, searching frantically between your  eyes. Your own hands snaked their way up his wrists, holding on for dear life. You scent the vulnerability oozing off of him, now standing so close that your nose almost touched his sternum. “You cannot breathe a word of this to–”

“Anybody, Eris,” you finished for him. Your breath tickled his skin, and he relished in it for a brief moment. “I will not tell another soul. I swear it”

The man before you, rumored to be so cruel, so powerhungry, broken and near bleeding in front of you, a mere servant. The female who sewed his clothes and washed his sheets. Again, your mental sword twisting in your gut. What fallacy did you live in? In what world did this make sense?

But at your sincerity, he swooped in, capturing your lips against his in a featherlight touch. Gods, he wanted to stay like this forever. You gasped against his lips, caught completely off guard by his actions. At your lack of movement, he moved away, ready to apologize profusely (something he definitely was not used to doing) but you grabbed his shoulders.

You didn’t even know where to put your hands. You wanted nothing more than to run your them up the expanse of his chest, but his injury obviously prevented that. You shift your hands to his shoulders, gripping his muscle bound arms, pressing flush against him.

Eris’s hand fell to your hip, snaking around your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand fell to the back of your neck, guiding your lips against his slowly, softly. Your fingers carded through his short hair, pulling ever so slightly at the curly ends.

He released a shaky breath against your lips and you opened your mouth to swallow it. His tongue pressed against your bottom lip, swiping against it for permission. You open your mouth wider, meeting him halfway.

Eris smelled like cedar and bonfire. He tasted like copper, you weren’t entirely sure if that was due to his father or his naturally elemental state. He radiated heat, he was burning for your touch. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d been under a female’s fingers. There was something so enticing about you - your eyes, your tone. He didn’t know what it was. But he knew he needed you right now.

Both his hands gripped your hips, fisting at your gown. Bunching the fabric in his hands, he tried to control himself. Instead, he picked you up, hands sliding to the backs of your thighs, holding you taut against him. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctually, arms curling around his neck, careful not to press your chest directly into his injured one, no matter how bad you wanted to.

As his legs started moving the two of you to the bed, your breath caught in the back of your throat. “Eris,” you breathed, lifting your lips from his. He sighed in response, mouth moving to your jaw, under your ear, down your neck. He sat on the bed, sitting upright, still holding you in his lap, barely able to restrain himself from moving your hips up and down on his growing cock.

“Eris, we can’t,” you panted, barely able to get the words out.

He lifted his head out of the crook of your neck, mind racing a million miles a minute. He could think of a handful of reasons you’d want to stop:

He was injured. Best not to get too riled up before healing.

He was High Fae, you were not. It was like sealing your fate with a promise of death.

You’d seen his gruesome scars. Not the way he had intended to set the mood; he wouldn’t be surprised if you were put off.

You weren’t ready. He was a stranger – with a reputation.

You simply. Did. Not. Want. Him.

It wasn’t the first time he had been rejected. It was far less public and embarrassing than the first time, that’s for sure; but this time he actually had wanted you. He’d ached for you for a long time - had waited nearly fifty years before he even grew the courage to speak to you.

“We can’t…I–you - ” you stuttered, unable to finish your thought. You licked your lips, wishing you hadn’t just pulled away. “Not right now.”

He lifted his hands to your back, still holding you in his lap. “Later then.”

________________________________________________________________

Part II

[ddejavvu]

🍪siri and enemies to lovers HEHEHEHE - idk if you're doing emoji anons but if you are can I be 🍷 please??

hi lovey! you certainly can, that's adorable :(( also, in this one, sirius is on the quidditch team as a beater, just for context :)

Your hands flew up into the air, thudding back against your thighs with an exasperated slap. You had half a mind to pull your hair out, so infuriated by the man in front of you that you could barely focus on practice anymore.

"You dumb shit, you're not supposed to hit the bludgers at me, you're supposed to hit them away from me! I can't bloody well score if I'm dead on the ground, now can I?"

"Please L/N, you think I don't know that? Maybe if you weren't so insufferable I wouldn't be trying to take you out."

"You want to take me out, Black? Seems a bit counterintuitive, if your ultimate plan is to kill me."

"I wouldn't go out with you if you paid me." Sirius smirked, letting the bat in his arms hang loosely from his grip.

"Why would I waste my money like that?!"

"Guys! Shut the fuck up for two seconds, would you? No one can get anything done if you're at each other's throats." James seemed as exasperated as you were, jaw clenched tightly in frustration.

"He started it." You glare over James's shoulder at Sirius, one hand on your broom handle to stabilize yourself.

"That's bloody ridiculous! I was just practicing, and you came over to scream at me!"

"Because you nearly took my head off!" The adrenaline from nearly getting hit was still rushing through your chest, only adding fuel to the fire.

"Relax, L/N, if you can't handle a bludger coming your way, you shouldn't be on the team." Sirius's words stung just a little bit more than he intended them to, but he didn't dare take them back, he wasn't backing down.

"So help me, if one more word comes out of your mouth, I'll take that stupid bat and shove it up your arse!"

"That's it! Both of you wait in the locker room until we're finished. If it happens again you're both benched next game, and I won't care how many times you try to bribe me to let you back in." James finally snapped, glaring back and forth at the both of you.

"Prongs, that only happened once." Sirius rolled his eyes in contempt at his friend, who only shook off his excuse.

"One time too many. Go, c'mon, we're wasting time here."

You sighed, apologizing resignedly to James and heading for the ground. You ignored Sirius, who landed entirely too close to you for someone who'd just been threatening to kill you, stalking off towards the locker room with a scowl on your face.

You'd barely made it in a few steps before Sirius was at your heels again, "You know, if you just didn't scream at me so much, we wouldn't get benched so often.”

You whirled around, mouth falling open and brows raising incredulously, "What?! If you want me to stop screaming at you so often, stop doing things that make me scream at you!"

“You’re doing it again, L/N.”

You realize that the volume of your voice was, admittedly, over the top, flushing slightly as you looked away from Sirius. A triumphant smirk slid over his face, and you wanted nothing more than to slap it off.

You took a seat on once of the benches, wrenching your leather shoulder pads off and hanging them on your designated hook on the wall. 

Sirius straddled the bench beside where you’d sat, “Undressing for me, L/N?”

You scoffed, ignoring the ever-growing smirk on his lips, “You wish.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep dreaming of the day.”

Sirius’s lack of a bad-tempered response had you freezing in your tracks, turning back to look at him with furrowed brows, “What?”

“Oh, come on L/N. You really didn’t see that coming?”

“Black, you just threatened to behead me, of course I didn’t see that coming. What is that supposed to mean, anyways? We’ve been at each other’s throats for years, did I miss something?”

“Apparently you’ve missed bloody everything,” Sirius mused, “You play along with me, I like it.”

“Funny, I wonder if I didn’t pick up on it because you treated me like shit! Don’t you reckon I would have had a bit of a tough time working that one out?”

“You’re telling me all those threats you made weren’t even jokes?! You were serious?!”

Before he could realize his mistake you seized your opportunity, “God, can’t even remember your own name? This is more concerning than I thought.”

You expected a laugh out of him, after all, at least fifty percent of his sense of humor was making puns out of his name, but he frowned, grabbing your wrist before you could walk away and tugging you to stand before him.

“L/N, I thought we had a thing going here. You’re seriously upset by me?”

You wanted to respond with a witty retort, knock him off his feet once more so you could escape his grip and pretend like none of this had ever happened, but the look in his eyes was something you’d never seen before from him, so you answered honestly.

“I wouldn’t be so upset by you if you were nicer to me. Banter is one thing, that’s another.”

“Right. I’ll stop then, um, I’m sorry.”

Even hearing his unexpected admission, you weren’t ready for a full on apology, and it took you a moment to collect your thoughts.

“ ‘S fine now. You. um.. You want to stick to that then? Give it a try?”

His signature blinding grin was back on his face as he nodded, “Yeah, yeah I do. Listen, we have around an hour until they’re done. How long d’ya reckon it’ll take him to notice we left?”

Your mind filled with images of a steaming James Potter, cursing the both of you for being so infuriating, and a laugh escaped your lips, “Doesn’t matter how long it takes him to notice, only how mad it makes him. Fancy a trip to the lake?”

”Exactly what I was thinking, L/N, last one there has to pay for our first date.”

You had no time to process his bargain before he was already off running, sprinting out of the locker room and down the grass towards the lake. You laughed incredulously, taking off after him and trying to calm the ridiculously giddy feeling in your chest as you ran.

-

celebrate 100 followers with me!

[jortsaaaaaaart]

To Be Forgotten Amongst Friends chp1

Omega! Reader x avengers

Hello all! I revamped my story "ikaros" and this is the new story! Also the name is long rip.

Trigger warnings (later chapters mostly)- ptsd, noncon, kidnapping, human experimentation, Stockholm and lima syndrome

The following chapters will be posted on- https://archiveofourown.org/works/33890977     (seriously- may not post here that often cause i hate the tagging system- go check out ao3)

It's a beautiful day in New York and you're a terrible, no good, thief. 

You were considered New York’s very own Robin Hood. Two hundred ATM robberies in two years, the money flying out of the machines and into the hands of people who needed it. The banks, collectively, had lost over $300,000 from the ATMs alone. But of course, it wasn't just the ATMs. A rash of robberies had spread over the East coast. Most were digital, companies funneling their own money to offshore accounts that wanted nothing to do with U.S. intervention. The FBI were notified, then the CIA, and eventually- after a daring cyber attack against the DOD- SHIELD itself turned it's one eyed gaze onto you.

Nick Fury saw something the other agencies didn't. You had certain gifts that made your line of work incredibly easy. Whether they were natural mutations or some sort of superpower, they allowed you to break into some of the most secure networks known to man. He had almost found you when SHIELD fell and his resources vanished. After the dust cleared he was forced to start from scratch. Hunting you and the remnants of Hydra down at the same time wasn't easy, but, in a strange twist of fate, he found someone else that was searching for you too.

+++

New York was filled with so many people. Most of them were good, in your opinion. (Well, maybe half, actually.) You spent most of your off time working on "projects" or walking around the city. You had become a fixture at the local Bodega. Single omegas were extremely  rare, marked single omegas were almost unheard of. The mark gave you certain freedoms other omegas, sadly, didn't have. It drove away most potential suitors and the ones who were particularly bold would be given a taste of your powers. Once the burrow had gotten used to your presence they saw you as a generous person, but a secretive one. Someone who took no shit even with their designation. You gave to the community and different Omega rights groups in the area. After years of watching you quietly go about helping people you had been welcomed into the burrow's heart with open arms.

You loved helping people in your own way. You loved it just as much as you hated corporations and the police, but when you could make an ATM spew it's contents out into the poorest streets of Brooklyn or make Fox News send a million dollars to Planned Parenthood, you could have the best of both worlds.

At least, for a time. All good things had to end, right? That's what you told yourself as the redhead picked her way through the crowd towards you. 

Seeing an avenger in your neighborhood was an odd occurrence. It was a poorer part of town, untouched in the battle of New York, and too out of the way for any super villain origin stories. In fact, you seemed to be the only mutant in the entire block. You'd always thought, if someone was going to come for you, it would be a couple of FBI agents and not the fucking Black Widow. Your brain and heart went into overdrive as you tried to remember doing anything worth the avenger's time. But there was nothing. The DOD hack had been almost a year ago and all you did was release government files showing attacks on civilians overseas. It hardly seemed like an avengers worthy crime, especially when Black Widow herself had leaked government secrets before.

Any hope of her not not looking for you was dashed when her eyes locked onto yours. She tilted her head, asking a silent question. 

The burst of adrenaline sent you careening through the lunchtime crowds. You couldn't feel anyone on the rooftops but there was a large form blocking your path, trying to box you in. They were stronger and faster but you knew the environment. You ducked into Charlie's, your sneakers skidding on the asphalt as you took the sharp turn. The person behind the counter lazily looked up as you walked to the back. They knew you well enough to not care, they also weren't paid enough to care. The alley would open up into a busy side street. More people meant a better chance to blend in and get away. You were almost to the end when the door opened behind you. Black Widow and fucking Captain America stepped into the alley. For a moment the three of you stood in something akin to a standoff. 

You felt wildly undressed for this life-threatening situation.

"We just want to talk, (Y/N)" Captain America told you, hands raised. The unmistakable stink of an alpha radiated from the captain. You were momentarily thankful for your mark dulling its effect on you. Though, the blonde's scent was tinged with something hauntingly familiar. Something you didn't want to recognize.

Behind him, Black widow's free hand went to her ear. "Target is in the alley between 31st and 32nd," A twitch of your finger and the line went dead. Her hand dropped to the gun at her hip.

"I'm feeling pretty under equipped for this 'conversation'," You replied, slowly raising your hands as well, wondering if they could feel what you were doing. They didn't react and you slowly let your power seep from you.

Natasha was the first to react, drawing her gun and spinning around. Steve looked at her with confusion as her wide eyes scanned the alley as if she was seeing ghosts. She was afraid he realized, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. He moved towards her and you took off running. You felt him hesitate then take off after you, gaining on you with an embarrassingly low number of strides. You tried your powers again, stronger this time, but his focus was unwavering. He was almost to you now and you were running out of options. That’s when the alpha in him came out.

“Omega!” He snarled, “Stop!” Your feet slowed down immediately. It wasn’t as strong as your own alpha’s command would be, but the super soldier certainly commanded respect and obedience. You were forced to stand still, eyes burning holes in the asphalt, as the alpha’s footsteps grew closer. You really didn't want to do this but it looked like you had no choice. Your jaw clenched, and you spun around when his hand grabbed your arm. The blonde's eyes widened as you placed a palm to his chest. 

He barely had time to glance down at your hand before the electricity hit him.

The 1,000 volts you sent into him were supposed to stun him or send him flying, allowing you to escape. However, his muscles spasmed just a bit stronger than you intended. In an instant his grip crushed the bones in your arm and sent the two of you careening backwards into a brick wall. Natasha would find you a moment later, passed out on top of the super soldier, a sizable hole in the wall.

You woke up in an unfamiliar bed, a few blurry white shapes milled about in the corners of your vision. You couldn't remember how you got here, or where here was. All your senses seemed to be dulled. Your wrist was throbbing and each time you opened your eyes the room came in and out of focus. You closed your eyes, opting to ignore the funhouse effect and focus on the sounds around you. The beeping of the monitors, footsteps on concrete, and two low voices.

"She's alright, Buck, I promise." Steve's voice wavered in and out of your consciousness bringing with it the memory of how you got into this bed. "She did something to Nat and ran before I could explain. I wasn't expecting her powers to be so strong."

"I should have come with you," Another voice snarled. Your heart skipped a beat at the low growl. You knew that voice. It evoked a sickening combination of need and terror and you couldn't remember why. "She wouldn't have gotten hurt if I had. What idiot doesn't know omegas are fragile?!"

"It was an accident!" His voice raised slightly before sighing. "I know you're worried, but she's fine."

The scent you had smelled on Steve earlier swirled around the room. Metal and burning pine, it affected you just like the voice had, triggering both panic and yearning. You knew it somehow. The memory was there somewhere, tucked away where it couldn’t hurt you. Where it should have been forgotten.

The scent grew unbearably strong as he leaned over you, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. When he pulled back he wasn't expecting his eyes to catch yours. 

His expression softened as soon as he realized you were awake. "Omega," Bucky whispered reverently. Stormy blue eyes stared down at you with love and adoration, watching the color drain from your face. "Doll?" 

Somewhere in the back of your mind you could hear the panicked beeping of the machines and Steve trying to calm you down. But it didn't matter. All that you could feel was the need to get far, far, away from this man. You didn't know how you knew him but you knew he was dangerous. You knew he had hurt you. That's why, as he reached out to gently cup your face, you slapped his hand away. 

"Get away from me!" You gasped, voice breaking. You scooted back and tried to back up as far as possible. Your shaky legs barely held your weight as you slid off the bed. Pure terror coursed through your veins, it was the only thing keeping you on your feet. You found yourself pressed into the corner of the room while the men stared at you in shock. Steve and Bucky gaped like you had just told them the Germans had actually won WWII. Eyebrows knit together, blue eyes wide and frantic, Bucky looked like he was in emotional turmoil.

“(Y/N), doll, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s your alpha.” Bucky reached out to you carefully as a low purr rumbled from his chest.

You felt the purr relax you and dull your senses even more. It was nauseating. “I don’t have an alpha! And I don’t know who the hell you are!” You tried to shout and grit your teeth but the words came out in broken sobs, betraying your weakness. Who was this? Why was he the most terrifying thing you had ever seen?

Your teeth were bared at this point but the man kept coming towards you. The tunnel vision and rapid shallow breaths were the only warnings your body gave you as it reverted to its animalistic omega framework. Bucky watched as, in slow motion, your eyes went blank as your body gave out. 

+++

Your alpha held your body to his chest in disbelief. He had expected some shock at seeing him but this went far beyond his expectations. It had been over three years since he'd last seen you. Since he'd last been able to drink in your scent. He'd figured you might not recognize him at first. He had changed a lot over the years. No longer under Hydra's control his physical appearance, demeanor, and scent had changed. But your body should've known your alpha. 

"What was that?" Steve asked. "Why did she react like that when she has your mark?" The two alphas were on edge. Seeing a vulnerable omega drop triggered their protective instincts. Steve desperately wanted to take you and hold you close, ease you out of the drop. If the alpha holding you was anyone other than his closest friend and packmate he would have ripped you out of his grasp immediately. For now he'd have to hold himself back.

"She didn't remember me." Bucky nuzzled his head into your neck, nursing your mark softly. After a moment he pulled back and gazed at your unchanged features. He couldn't wake you from this drop that easily. He pressed in harder this time, teeth lining up with the scar perfectly, but there was still no change. No purr, command, or bite was waking you up.

"We should let her rest, Buck. The pain meds will wear off soon and we'll try again. . . Bring her to the den. She'll need to get used to everyone's scents sooner or later." Steve laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. It was a gentle but firm suggestion. He knew tensions were high, the den, with it's heavy curtains and plush blankets, would calm down his friend and the omega. With little argument the brunette lifted you up and carried you to the den. It was aptly named and extremely well constructed thanks to Stark. Curtains blocked off all light from the windows, mattresses were inlaid into the ground, and the temperature was always cool. It was one good thing about being in a pack with that narcissist, Bucky thought dryly.

Steve led them into a cozy corner of the room. The captain hummed happily as they moved the pillows and blankets, creating a makeshift nest for the three of them. The feeling of the omega pressing into his chest was addictive. He couldn't wait for you to remember your alpha.

The sooner you remembered your bond with Bucky the sooner the rest of the pack, Steve included, could court you.

[watermelonlipstick]

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment. 

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone. 

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

           Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

           “You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

           “Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

           You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

           “Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

           “Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

           Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

           “If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

           “Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

           Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

           His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

           The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

           “Dean, look at me.”

           He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

           “Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

           He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

           “I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

           “It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

           By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

           “And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

           “I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

           You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

           You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

           It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

           You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

           “Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

           Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

           The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

           “It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

           But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

           Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

           It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

           “We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

           “I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

           He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

           “What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

           “She’s going to wake up.”

           And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

           By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

           After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

           At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

           “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

           “She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

           “DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

           Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

           “Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

           Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

           “What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

           “Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

           “I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

           Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

           He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

           As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

           When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

           He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

           “I don’t want to hurt—”

           “I’ll be fine. Please?”

           Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

           Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

           “Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

           “I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

           You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

           “You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

           “Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

           Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

           The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

           “Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

           “Sorry for scaring you.”

           “I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

           There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

           Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

           “You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

           The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

           “Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

           Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

-

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[ashasmonsters]

The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make,  erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court�� will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity.  You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.