#clearing my bases so to speak with. my rare pair

[cyberaxolotl]

heem heem i fucking. need to make a fluff fic after the snaktooth island disappearances is complete. i make so much grimdark and a little slice of life but just some good fucking fluff would be so MM MM

“beloved date” was my most recent long fluff fic and that was in november. God i am fueled on grimdark but i need to write some cuddles. just snuggles

maybe i’ll do the thing i said about one stealing their partner��s clothes

but first. TSID finale. because i know a lot of people are on excitement because of the cliffhanger

[lurkingshan]

Things I Can't Stop Thinking About in Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

My friends, we are in for a world of pain, Hwang Da Seul style, and I could not be more excited for her to hurt me. Her shows are always so beautiful and evocative and layered with deep emotion, and this one is no different. Here are some things that stood out to me from the first two episodes.

This show is giving us a classic character dynamic that Korea in particular seems to love: the persistent sunshine boy masking pain who insists on getting close to the closed off grump whose pain is right there on the surface for anyone who cares to look. I loved them both, as individual characters and as a pair, instantly.

Our tale appears to be taking place around about the mid-2000s, based on the technology, music, and drama references in these first couple episodes (h/t @dropthedemiurge). Both the main characters are serving as narrators of different parts of the story, and they seem to be looking back on this time from the future.

Juyeong captured my heart as soon as he started dancing with himself in the middle of the street, and my interest and investment in him only grew as we got more pieces of his backstory. The implication is clear that his sexuality is the reason for the fracture with his Christian pastor mother and why he was sent to this town to be "set straight" by an abusive coach. But he’s still in touch with her, speaking on the phone every day and promising he’s being good, even as he gives in to his desires (but not before removing his crucifix). He's a filial son who seems to be harboring a lot of guilt for disappointing her, and this whole situation feels very akin to being sent away for conversion therapy (and now I'm thinking about Love in the Big City again).

Dohoe feels all around more jaded than Juyeong, which is perfectly understandable given he was abandoned by his mother and left to live with an abuser in this town he hates. Not only is he putting up with constant beatings from his father, he is suffering bullying at school from a boy who used to be his friend until things got a little too gay between them. Anyone who had been hurt by as many loved ones as he had would be justified in trusting no one, so it's telling that he let Juyeong in as quickly as he did. Dohoe radiates loneliness and he was dying for someone to see him.

It feels notable to me that both Dohoe and Juyeong came to this connection knowing they were gay and having already had bad experiences because of it. It's rare that we get two characters in a bl romance who both Know (h/t @bengiyo).

The romance in this show is so well written, I was already screaming into my pillow within two episodes. I tell ya, nobody delivers romance writing like Korea when they decide to be serious. The little ways Juyeong and Dohoe see each other, the way they pay attention and notice each other's mood and health, the way they go out of their way to bring each other a bit of happiness. Dohoe's journey to secure Juyeong's weird ice cream! Juyeong making snow for Dohoe (snow is one of THE biggest signifiers of love in kdrama language)! And on top of that, they communicate with each other. As soon as it's clear their attraction is mutual, they start talking about it. They confess (Dohoe in a more tortured manner, and then Juyeong after removing the symbol of his mother's oppression). They discuss where in this damn town they can safely make out with each other, and go do that! Perfection.

The tone of this show is also pitch perfect. The dojo and taekwondo scenes, along with the presence of Dohoe's father, root us in a kind of toxic masculinity that feels stifling. We feel transported back in time, in a setting where the accents and scenery are different from the usual drama fare, in a place where Dohoe and Juyeong don't fit in but also can't escape. Every moment feels anchored in both a warm nostalgia and a cold dread, because we can feel something bad coming even as Dohoe and Juyeong experience moments of happiness together.

Hyeonho is an interesting character. In some ways, he's very stereotypical: the bully who is battling his own internalized homophobia by punishing the ones he likes, and is now even more activated by his jealousy. But I do find it notable that he seems unwilling to let Dohoe get too hurt. He won't beat him himself and instead gets his little gang of thugs to do it for him, and he also stepped in (literally, he put his foot between Dohoe's head and the pavement) to make sure Dohoe didn't get irreparably injured. I'm not sure what to make of him just yet.

The references are everywhere in this show! HDS loves to reference both her own works (especially Where Your Eyes Linger and To My Star 2 in these first episodes) and other classic kdramas, along with making ample use of remixed versions of common kdrama romance tropes. It would probably be impossible to catch them all on a first viewing (a great excuse to rewatch).

Sending a plea to the universe and @troubled-mind to deliver the music on this soundtrack to me; it was so beautiful and perfectly used in these first two episodes.

[coff33notforme]

PLEASE CAN YOU WRITE A WALLY DARLING X READER (ROMANTIC) WITH A NON VERBAL READER? NO PRESSURE THO X3

A/n: Yes of course Anon! This was a super cute idea and I really enjoyed writing it!

Disclaimer: Once again this might be inaccurate to the experience of everyone who is non-verbal, I mostly based this off of how my friend who is non-verbal communicates, so if this isn't true for everyone thats why!

Pairing: Wally Darling and Gn Reader (Romantic!)

When Wally first met you, he was inclined to greet you with an over the top introduction, so when you responded in silence it threw him off

Did you feel overwhelmed by his greeting? Were you uncomfortable? Or maybe just shy?  

But he was snapped out of his thoughts when you you gave a gentle wave, a concerned look on your face 

Wally smiled, letting out a breathy laugh

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m Wally, and you are?” he paused hoping you would say something, but much to his surprise you instead reached into the bag that hang on your hip, pulling out a notepad of some sort before you jotted something down

Before you flipped the notepad around

‘I’m Y/n, it's nice to meet you’

Wally smiled, before he continued, telling you about his friends and neighborhood

Over time Wally will become more comfortable with asking questions about you being non-verbal, he didn’t want to get all up in your face about it the first time he met you of course but since your much closer now, it doesn’t seem inappropriate

If you have any other preferred method of speaking other than writing things down Wally would be happy to help you feel more comfortable using them around other people

Like Sign language, or if you have a tablet that you use to communicate, anything you want  

Even though you don’t speak to Wally using your words, he's become very good at picking up on cues you give him that signal your behavior, as well as reading your body language to know how your feeling 

When you first met your other neighbors, Wally had simply remained quiet, something rare to see from the usually energetic, puppet letting you introduce yourself to them with your notepad. It was clear from their expressions that they were confused

You turned to Wally expecting him to say something, but he simply returned your stare, moving his hands, signaling you to continue

You sighed, flipping the page to jot something else down, then you turned the notebook again

‘Hi, I’m y/n, I’m non-verbal, so I won’t be using my voice to communicate with you, I hope we can all become good friends.’ 

You glanced to Wally nervously, but he offered you a supportive smile, giving you a thumbs up

“That's so cool!” Julie shouted waving her arms enthusiastically, you gave a small smile

“How else do you speak? Do you just write?” Sally quipped curiously

You stepped back a little, feeling overwhelmed by the flood of questions being thrown your way

Until you felt a comforting hand on your shoulder, Wally! 

You completely forgot he was here, he offered you a lazy smile

“Now, we don't want to overwhelm our guest here, do we?” 

Julie and Sally shook their heads, as you gave a meek smile

“Then we'll be on our way for now, see you two later.” he spoke, before turning on his heel walking away with you in hand

You turned to Wally arching an eyebrow at him

“What?” 

You looked to him and then back at your neighbors behind you, you flipped your notebook up, writing something down again before showing it to wally

‘Why didn’t you say anything when we were talking to them?’

Wally gave out a low hum

“Because I know you can talk for yourself, you didn’t need me to say anything for you, and they loved you!” he exclaimed, you felt your cheeks become warm as you smiled

Feel Free to Drop me some more Welcome home requests!

[m1ckeyb3rry]

MY DEAREST MIRA HAPPY 1K 💯🤍 wowow your blog grew sm so quick i literally blinked and boom ur at 1k !?!?!!? congratulations i have and always will be in love with your writing i seriously need to catch up on ur works eheh..

i know the bare minimum about pokemon but google was indeed my friend so… may i request a team consisting of kaiser and arctibax (dragon + ice) 🫡 you know me and angst, plus the fact that i’ve been wanting to read fantasy as of late 🙂‍↕️

── SWORD OF THE SAINT

Synopsis: Shortly after the death of your mother, you meet a mysterious man in your family’s chapel, and as the days grow colder, you find that he is the closest thing to a savior you might ever know.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Word Count: 18.1k

Content Warnings: pseudo-christianity written by someone who is NOT christian, fantasy au with nonexistent worldbuilding #deal with it, death, angst, no happy ending, sickness, killing, reader is kinda delicate but it IS for a reason beyond just “omg women weak” HAHA, kaiser is an angel, kaiser is also kind of a jerk, kaiser is probably ooc idfk at this point, kaiser pisses me off, i don’t like kaiser, this is based on an actual myth but in the way pjo is based on greek mythology (so basically not at all)

A/N: ANGELLLL HI MY DEAR!! omg hehe i know i feel like i was just at 500 it’s crazy that i already managed to hit 1k 😩 you were an og though fr my seventh follower or smth like that LMAOAO we’ve been through it all together!! anyways sorry this actually rlly sucks but uh…kaiser’s in it ig…and it’s a fantasy au…and it’s kinda sad…and it has an angel…because you’re an angel…😭

The winter before the plague broke out, the river spilled over its banks, stealing your stores of grain and leaving serpents to litter your streets. They were vipers of the diamond-scaled variety, with blue tongues and slit eyes and thin teeth, white with venom and red at the tips. Their killing was random and indiscriminate — the trails of blood they left behind them dried on the cobblestones, and no one dared to wash the dark smears away for fear of their retribution, for fear that they would be the next victim.

It was an omen, that much was clear, though no matter how many stars the king turned to, he could never quite understand what it portended. Anyways, before he could divine the significance, the snakes vanished, leaving the city devoid of life, bar the bronze-footed horses and those individuals who had had the sense to remain inside and away from the dark-mouthed beasts.

The harshness of the winter never abated any; you were never given anything resembling reprieve from terrors after terrors, which came in quick succession. The departure of the serpents was followed by a fortnight of storms, raging winds lashing at your tightly-shuttered windows, shards of ice like daggers driving from the sky into the hard, barren ground, and after the storms there was, for a brief week, a time of eerie stillness where nothing grew nor prospered. 

That week, your every word turned to fog in the air — at least, when you deigned to speak, which was rare — and even the ermine-trimmed cloak your youngest uncle had gifted you two birthdays ago did little to ward away the cold. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution, shivered near-constantly, wasting away by the fire which burned at all hours with a forlorn expression on her wan face.

It grew warm again, in time, but your mother’s trembling never did cease. You added your cloak to the pile of furs she was buried in, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could seem to warm her, to breathe life into the husk of a being that she had become — she was hollow like a rattling cicada shell, her cheeks sunken and her eyes blank. 

Right about when your father was at his wits’ end, there was news of the first death: a peasant, one of the farmers in the king’s employ, who had grown unbearably cold and subsequently wilted into a corpse, spending his last few days alive in the same manner a skeleton might.

Your father, the eldest of the king’s younger brothers, had enough power still that he could command every physician in the kingdom to search for a cure. It was obvious that this was the affliction poisoning your mother, who grew worse and worse daily anew. Yet no matter how hard they searched, they could not find any herb nor method of soothing her.

In the meantime, the black-cloaked disease visited homes with even less discernment than the vipers had. There was nary a family who did not have at least one member with the sickness; eventually, the physicians came before your father and the elder of your uncles, the king himself, bowing their cowardly necks and saying there was nothing to be done about it. It was doom. Anyone who had the illness would surely die, and the best thing that could be done for your mother now was to leave her be so that you, too, did not fall victim to her plight.

You stood abruptly at the announcement, which ordinarily would have earned you glares from the surrounding noblemen but today only entitled you to their pity. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you ran towards your mother’s quarters as fast as you could, ignoring your father’s shouts for the guards to stop you.

She was where she always was, and even the slamming of the door did not cause her to flinch. The firelight reflected in her eyes, which shone like mirrors, and when you knelt by the armchair she rarely moved from, she exhaled slightly.

“Mother,” you whispered, drawing her hand out of the blankets and holding it to your cheek. It was bony and thin; already, she was more skeleton than woman, but something in her must’ve prevailed, must’ve rallied and clung to existence, for her heart still beat in her chest, however shallowly. “Mother, don’t — please don’t —”

She sighed softly. You wondered if she could even hear you, or if she was too fascinated with something beyond your vision to know that you were there. You clutched her hand tighter, her knuckles digging into your palm, her fingers like snow on your face.

“Y/N!” It was your father, bursting into the room, guards flanking him as they raced towards you. You pressed closer to your mother’s chair, gazing up at her. To your surprise, her eyes had widened, reflecting a radiance that made even the hearth seem pale. Her lips, once lush and painted, now dry and cracked from dehydration, parted in wonder, and then for the first time since she had grown sick, she spoke.

“Michael,” she breathed out.

“Michael?” you repeated. Even your father paused, tremulous hope brimming in his irises as your mother smiled slightly. Her hand on your face balled into a fist against the bone of your jaw, and then abruptly it loosened. “Mother? Mother, what do you mean, Michael?”

She laughed. It was a wheezing sound, brittle and reedy, breaking off at the end into something painful. For the first time, she tilted her head towards you, and it was as if she were met with a stranger, though eventually recognition did flash across her face.

“Ah, daughter,” she said, her voice hoarse as she smoothed her hand over your hair. “He is here. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings.”

“There is no one,” you said, your throat thick with tears, your voice barely able to escape it. “No one is here but us.”

The soft motions of her fingers stilled, and she settled back in her chair, suddenly content. You gripped her wrist, willing her to come back, but she was no longer awake, her eyelids sealed shut, a faint smile still lingering on her face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” your father said gruffly, as if waking from a dream. Before you knew it, one of the guards, a handsome boy with hair like marigolds and eyes like autumn, was lifting you from the ground, carrying you out of the room despite your half-hearted protests and depositing you on the ground in the corridor with a bow.

“My father is still in there. You ought to retrieve him, as well,” you said. The guard looked towards the door and shook his head.

“If your father wishes to stay, then it is not my place to stop him,” he said.

“I see,” you said, for there was no point in further argument. Leaning against the stone wall, you wrapped your arms around your torso; compared to the sweltering heart of your mother’s chambers, the corridor was all but frigid. “Do you think this plague is some sort of a punishment?”

“For what, your highness?” the guard said. He was humoring you only because your father, to whom he was sworn, remained in the room even now, so you only shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” you said. “Perhaps the people have committed some wrong, or perhaps it was my uncle, his majesty the king.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I am not so well-versed in the matters of theology.”

“Only of the sword, I’d reckon,” you said. 

“That’s right,” he said.

“My mother mentioned Michael,” you said. “Right before you dragged me out.”

“My apologies for that, your highness, but it was your father’s command,” he said.

“It’s alright,” you said, finding some diversion in the conversation, which at any rate was a welcome distraction. “I do not blame you. Do you know who Michael is?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said. “Though I suppose you might know more than I do.”

“Likely it is the case,” you agreed. “He’s the emperor of angels, or so they claim. Perhaps we are biased because he is our kingdom’s guardian; well, anyways, according to the stories and the songs, he is the one who enacts divine will unto us. Supposedly he amongst his peers is the most merciful by far, but there are as many or more poems of his rage as there are of his kindness, so who can say?”

“I didn’t know the last part,” the guard said. You patted his armored shoulder, motioning for him to follow you — he did so hesitantly, with a backwards glance at his broad-backed counterpart, who stayed behind to watch over your still-absent father.

“It’s true, though I doubt rage and kindness are things he can really understand,” you said, weaving through the hallways of the palace until you reached a familiar wooden door. 

“What does that mean?” the guard said.

“It’s a personal theory,” you said. “But how can we expect angels to understand the turmoils of humanity when they are so removed from it?”

“I confess I’m lost, your highness,” he said, ducking his head. “I shall continue to pursue the ways of the sword and leave such philosophical questions to you and your ilk.”

“Maybe it is for the best,” you said. “I don’t know that my uncle would be so pleased to learn I am becoming a preacher to the common folk. It’s not the kind of role best-suited to a princess.”

“Certainly not,” the guard said.

“Have you ever been here?” you said as you strode past the tapestry-lined walls of the gallery without pause. The guard shook his head.

“I’ve never had cause to,” he said. Arriving upon the painting you wished to show him, you stopped abruptly, pointing at the gilt-framed portrait, reveling in the shock which twisted his features. 

“It’s him,” you said. “The one my mother spoke of. Naturally, the painter has been lost to time, but the subject can never be forgotten.”

The background was plain — a muddy field, gray clouds brewing on the horizon and threatening rain, sunlight breaking through in a halo over his brow. He was tall and regal, a sword in his right hand, pointed at the neck of the viper upon which his left foot was planted. Gold hair cascaded down his shoulders, the shade of the sun at midday, and in his right hand was a rose, the same impossible color of blue as his eyes. The vines of it crept up his arm and curled around his neck, and from his back sprouted a pair of wings, the feathers silver-brown like an eagle’s, unfurled like banners in the air behind him.

“Michael,” the guard said.

“Yes,” you said. “He reveals himself to us very rarely, and only if there is some message which he wishes to impart. I wonder…I wonder what it means that he appeared to my mother.”

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” he said. “Perhaps with this blessing, she will be the first to recover from this plague.”

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “Well, I suppose I ought to return to the court and apologize for my misconduct.”

“Nobody blames you, your highness,” he said. “Nor do they think poorly of the reaction.”

“Regardless, it was unruly and childish,” you said. “I do not wish for my father to fall from my uncle’s favor because of my behavior. It’ll be better if I show that I am remorseful. Come, then, let us go. Unless my father has banned that as well?”

“He has made no such demands,” the guard. “After you, your highness.”

“Very well,” you said, and with one final glance at the painting of the severe angel, you led the guard out of the gallery, back towards the throne room you had fled from earlier.

Your father spent the night in your mother’s chambers, though his advisors begged him not to; perhaps it was a form of precognition or intuition, for he ignored their advice and lay at her feet until the next morning, whereupon he exited the room and informed you all, his countenance faded and dull and lifeless, that she was dead.

The carriage ride to your family’s summer estate was silent and awkward. As soon as your mother had been buried in the royal cemetery, your father had insisted you escape to your riverside manor, which had remained mercifully untouched from the winter’s floods. And so, although it was still barely spring and more people fell to the plague by the day, you packed your things and took leave from the castle, at nighttime when there would be no one to see you go. So quickly was it all done that the earth over your mother’s grave was still freshly turned, and you didn’t even have the time to wish her farewell before your father was ushering you into the carriage and whispering to the coachman to hasten his preparations.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again and again. It was such a hollow refrain that he kept repeating, clinging to it like it was sanity, but it didn’t become any more believable the more times he said it.

Yet regardless, you responded with the same thing every time: “Yes, father.”

“Perhaps this plague is a curse on the castle, in which case we are justified in fleeing,” your father said. “And I have already told my brother.”

You pulled your cloak tighter around you to ward away the nip of the nighttime air. “Yes, father.”

“Besides, who can blame us? Not when — not when your mother—” he broke off.

“Yes,” you said miserably. “Father.”

He might’ve ordinarily snapped at you, but today he only sighed and nodded slightly. You supposed you should’ve been grateful that he had enough of a handle on his grief that he could refrain from spitting poison at you, but gratitude was one emotion you could not bring yourself to muster just then, so all you could give him was an exhausted upturn of your mouth which resembled a smile in its barest form.

In the sprawling grounds of the summer estate, it was easy to pretend that nothing wrong had ever happened. There was no sign of serpents amongst the prickly evergreens, for the needly undergrowth was hostile to their pale, soft bellies, and so few servants remained there year round that, of their small number, the majority weren’t even aware a plague had broken out in the first place.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again, this time with finality, helping you down from the carriage and brushing himself off. “This was the right decision.”

You wanted to tell him that there was no world in which you earnestly agreed with that, because you had left your mother behind, and how could that be right? Yet he was so determined that you did not have the heart to, so you only exhaled and shuffled after him, the thought of staying outside for even another moment all but unbearable.

There was much less to do in the lonely manor, where you sat by yourself at all hours of the day, so eventually, despite your reluctance, your thoughts turned to the last time you had seen your mother, replaying that final conversation over and over in your mind until it was all you could see.

On the third day of this self-imposed torture, you dragged yourself out of your bed, trudging to the chapel which your father had commissioned — not for himself, for he was never religious, but for your mother, who often found solace in the marble of its walls and the gold of its altar.

The door, heavy and wooden and large enough to admit a pair of horses at once, opened with a groan and a plume of dust, revealing the inside of the chapel, which was as ornate as you remembered. Your father had spared no expense in its construction, and the floors and walls alike were covered in intricate, patterned mosaic, the high windows rimmed with marble and the ceiling painted with delicate, jewel-colored pigment.

In the middle of the room was a figure, and at first you thought he must be a statue, but then he moved slightly to face you and you realized he was a man; at least, if one could consider someone like that a man, for he bore all the resemblance to the cheerful guards of the palace that a dove did to a common sparrow. His hair was choppy and short and gold, though the ends faded into a blue shade as they trailed down his back, and his bright eyes were lined with something the color of blood that only threw the azure of his irises into greater relief. There was a sort of perfection to the slope of his nose and the curve of his neck, his shoulders held straight and true, his chin high and proud — strangest of all, however, stranger than any of these things by far, was that there was a rusted sword clenched in his fist, the sheath of which sat empty on his hip.

You were quite certain that he did not belong there, but you did not have the wherewithal to question him, so you only shut the door behind you and sat in the entrance, leaning against the walnut frame and closing your eyes, clasping your hands together in front of you and wishing you had something to pray for.

“What have you come here in search of?”

The voice was unfamiliar and keen, like a dagger in your heart or a fang in your calf. You knew without knowing that it must be the man speaking; opening your eyes, you were unsurprised to find him peering at you with no small amount of disdain.

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. He stared at you with a discomfiting intensity, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword, his eyes wide and endless like the sky, his brows furrowed.

“People don’t come here unless they want something,” he said. “So what is it that you pray for?”

“The things I want are impossible to obtain, so I do not pray for them at all,” you said. 

“Hardly anything is impossible. What a limiting way to think,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“At least it is not an arrogant one,” you said. “Unless you believe that resurrecting my mother is truly something which can be done?”

“Arrogant?” the man said. “Certainly, your mother could be brought back, so for you to accuse me of arrogance is unfounded. The question is whether she should be revived.”

“What a pointless differentiation,” you said. “I doubt you believe she should be.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Though I don’t believe anyone should, so you ought not to take it personally.”

You swallowed, hugging your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them and averting your eyes from the strange man. Likely you should’ve felt angry at his callousness, but in the moment, the only feeling you could summon was resignation.

“Perhaps that is the truth,” you said. “Then it is the same regardless. She won’t ever come back. This is her chapel, you know. I thought I might find some reprieve by encasing myself in this place, but I suppose it isn’t so. There is no reprieve. I think of her always.”

The man made no move to offer you any words of reassurance, nor did he drop his sword. He just stood there and watched you with the sort of wary caginess that one might expect from a half-tamed animal, shifting and unsettled and pacing. You found it almost comforting that he did not offer you any platitudes nor condolences, for you had heard enough of those that you were sick of them.

“Who are you, anyways?” you said. “A servant? I don’t recognize you, but then it has been some time since I last came to this estate, so it isn’t a surprise.”

“I am something along those lines,” he said. 

“And what business do you have in this chapel?” you said. “As far as I know, only members of my family are permitted entry.”

“Nobody has ever stopped me,” he said. “So why shouldn’t I be allowed? Do you mean to cast me from here?”

He was already shifting from foot to foot, as if he expected you to strike him or throw him from the chapel; it wasn’t an incorrect sentiment, exactly, for certainly if you were your father you would’ve, especially for his earlier impudence. What cause did a mere servant have to talk to the king’s family in such a way? But you could not summon that same indignation, so you only shook your head, standing on legs which had grown sleepy and electric from inactivity.

“No, I have no great desire to,” you said. “If you do not disturb me, then I won’t disturb you. Might we coexist in that manner?”

His eyebrows raised almost involuntarily, and then he shrugged. It was an odd way of doing it, though you couldn’t exactly point out what was odd about it, and then he tapped his sword against his leg.

“I suppose it isn’t a tall order,” he said.

“You should leave your sword at the door, however,” you said. “Aren’t weapons forbidden in places like this?”

“It stays,” he said with finality. You peered at it; it was a comely instrument despite its age, the hilt gold and embellished with roses, dark corrosion creeping up the blue-white blade like vines, the tip as sharp as a thorn. His fingers were wrapped around it like a vice, and you tilted your head when you realized that there was something black drawn on his hand, resembling an emperor’s crown, though you were too far to ascertain if that was what it truly was.

“As you wish,” you said. “It’s not me who you’ll have to answer to, anyways. At least I tried.”

“Your efforts will be appreciated by someone or another, I’m sure,” he said.

“I’m sure they will be,” you said with a scoff. “Ah, wait, sir. Before you leave — can I ask for your name?”

“My name? Why, so you may curse it?” he said.

“So that I may call you by it,” you said. “If we happen to meet again, here or elsewhere.”

“Is it important to you?” he said.

“It’s a courtesy,” you said.

“Since when has the king’s family ever known courtesy?” he said. You thought he might shirk away after the brazen statement, but he only gazed at you levelly, as if challenging you to respond.

“We are trained in it from birth, and must practice it from then on,” you said.

“Courtesy and etiquette are not the same thing,” he shot back.

“Will you tell me your name or not? This exchange is tiresome,” you said. “I shall assign you a name of my own if you do not give it. I doubt it will be to your tastes.”

“Kaiser,” he said. “You can call me that, if you are so insistent.”

“Kaiser,” you repeated, tasting it in your mouth. There was a familiarity and a power to the word, but you could not place your finger on what it meant; deciding it was unimportant, you nodded. “I am Y/N.”

“Yes, I knew that already,” he said.

“It would’ve been rude if I did not introduce myself to you as well,” you said.

“And there is the difference between courtesy and etiquette,” he said.

“Hm?” you said. He did not even look at you, lifting his chin so that he could admire the ceiling.

“What a beautiful scene,” he said. 

“Beautiful?” you said, frowning. You had never taken the time to understand it, but now you saw that it was a depiction of Michael killing the hellish viper that was his bane. The roughness of the strokes, however, lended a gruesome quality to it that the painting in the king’s gallery did not have — Michael’s face was twisted into a grotesque leer instead of a gentle smile, and his sword was stabbed through the serpent’s throat instead of pointed at it in warning. Red-glazed pebbles wept like tears along the snake’s body, and the sword in Michael’s hand was made of cruel ivory, his eyes chips of blue glass that twinkled with delight instead of solemnity. 

“Isn’t it?” he said, smiling for the first time, not at you but at the mosaic. 

“Well, there’s a quality to the workmanship,” you said. “But it’s too gory for my tastes.”

“The truth of things can never be too gory,” he instructed you, and though he had no qualifications in the way of priesthood, you were somehow inclined to listen. “The truth is the truth. If that is how it happened, then you must accept it.”

“Who are we to know how it happened?” you said.

“Who indeed?” he said.

“You speak in riddles,” you said. “It is distracting. I do not mind it, though, because there is much I wish to be distracted from at present, so I am not chiding you, necessarily, but I hope that you know.”

“I know,” he said, amusement in his tone. “It’s something I’ve been accused of many times before, and by men several orders of magnitude more important than you as well.”

“I see,” you said. “Regardless, I believe my father might search for me soon, and as I have found some merriment in you, I do not wish for him to find you here quite yet, so I shall take my leave. But I will return! Please be here when I do.”

“I will be here,” he said, despite the fact that you hadn’t mentioned when you would next visit the chapel. You didn’t question it; he felt like the kind of person that was better left a mystery, or at least figured out slowly, so that no layers were missed.

The next morning, you entered the chapel as the bell rang upon the hour, peering in through the door and smiling slightly when you saw him perched upon a bench made of the same rich walnut as the entryway. He was perfectly still, his back straight, his sword laid across his lap, and he did not turn to greet you, staring straight at the flickering candles of the altar. Your footsteps echoed as you crossed the room, sitting on the bench directly opposite him, facing the candles as well.

“Did you light them?” you said.

“They were already lit,” he said.

“Hm,” you said. “It wasn’t me.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“I suppose someone else visits this place, too,” you said. 

“What will you do about it?” he said.

“Nothing,” you said. “If it brings them solace, then who am I to deny them that? The nearest church is a long walk; even this is not so close to the manor. I am weary already.”

At this he did glance at you, his eyes lowering for a moment before he returned his attention to the front of the room.

“You are frail, then,” he said. “The walk is not that long.”

“My mother was the frail one,” you said. “I have inherited my father’s good health, or so I am told.”

“Ah,” he said. 

“I will have to come on my horse next time,” you said, only half-joking. Perhaps the distance was not quite long enough to warrant riding, but you really had been winded, and the constriction of your chest was more than a little unpleasant, like there was a stone pressing into your heart.

“If that is what you require,” he said, clearly disinterested in the conversation. You wondered what he saw in the candles, if there was something he could divine from the small, captive flames.

“Was your mother a moth?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking at you in alarm. “Are you an idiot?”

He said it so genuinely that it felt more like concern than anything. You suppressed a smile, pointing at the beeswax dripping into the golden bowl set there to collect it.

“I’ve only ever seen moths be so enamored by candles before,” you said. 

“So you are an idiot,” he said, clicking his tongue. “What a foolish thing to say.”

“It was in jest,” you said. “My apologies. I shall remain serious in your company henceforth.”

“See to it that you are silent as well,” he said, and so you were, sitting across the aisle from him and watching the candles until they burnt out. Even then, he stayed facing the wisps of smoke, tracking them with his eyes as they fluttered into the air with the briskness of a wasp, so eventually you left him behind, him and those blackened stumps marring the air and the altar alike with their crumbling, papery ash.

“There is news that the plague is worsening,” your father said one day at dinner. The news of the plague brought to the forefront of your mind your mother, who you had done so well at ignoring until then. It was easy to pretend that the sickness had never existed, that those days of flooding rivers and viper-lined streets and shivering women had been nothing more than horrible dreams in quick succession. 

“I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock,” you said. “Winter has come early this year.”

“Do you think so?” your father said. You gulped, pushing at your food with your fork.

“Already, there is a chill in the air,” you said. 

“What horrible luck,” he said. “We’ve hardly had time to recover and replenish our stores of grain. If frost comes to the fields early, then we are doomed.”

“I am surprised it has not yet bitten the earth,” you admitted. Your father, who had always trusted you more than most men would trust their daughters, groaned, dragging his hand over his face.

“There is still time?” he said.

“We can hope,” you said.

“I will order the fiefs to begin their harvesting at once,” he said. “By all rights, summer is still yet to fade into autumn, but even if it is premature, the crops should be serviceable, and the fields can be replanted at once. If it goes well, then our yields may nearly double.”

“A sensible decision, father,” you said. “That should be more than enough to last us all until the next spring.”

“Thank you for your counsel, my girl,” your father said, and if you were not seated at the table, he would’ve patted your shoulder or kissed your cheek or shown his pride in some other such affectionate manner. “I will be lost without you.”

“I am not going anywhere,” you said. “Am I?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But one day you will leave this manor for your husband’s home, and then I shall be on my own.”

“That is still some years away,” you said. 

“As many years as possible,” your father said. “There are no suitors in this kingdom worthy of you, anyways.”

“I will trust you when you say that, father,” you said. The lines around his eyes deepened from the force of his grin, and it heartened you to see, for he hadn’t smiled much since your mother had died. Setting your cutlery down, crossing them over your plate as was neat and expected, you placed your hand over his, the skin of his hunt-worn palms rough against yours. “For now, I am content here.”

“And here you shall stay,” he said, firm and sure in the way that only the brother of a king could be. What he said was what happened. He commanded things into existence and so they did occur; it was the kind of power that very few were afforded, and hardly ever in a greater quantity than him, so when he spoke, it was always with the weight of expectation behind it.

You really did ride your horse to the chapel after that dinner with your father. Now that you had mentioned it to him, you could not help feeling the signs of the impending ice of the dead season, and only hugging the warm neck of your little bay palfrey as she trotted along could ward it away. She was gentle and game enough to not mind it, nuzzling you when you got off and dropping her head to graze where you tied her. You pulled your gloves off and tucked them in your pocket, rubbing the whorl of a white star on her forehead before ducking into the chapel.

It was later than you had been the other times you had come, but Kaiser was there anyways, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his forehead pressed against the altar. Never had you seen such misconduct, but you thought he must be sleeping, so you did what you could to be as silent as possible, tiptoeing over to stand behind him, reaching out your hand to jostle him.

“Don’t,” he said, flinching back and glaring at you over his shoulder.

“You were awake?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. 

“I thought you were not,” you said. He squinted at you.

“Your powers of discernment are frightening,” he said.

“Because of their uncanny strength?” you tried.

“The opposite,” he said. “You are fumbling and blind. I do not know how you have made it so far in life.”

“Maybe it’s a miracle,” you said, sitting beside him, mirroring the arrangement of his legs, your elbows digging into your thighs so that you could rest your chin in your hands. “My birth was one. Why not the rest of my life?”

“I assume you want me to ask what you mean by that,” he said.

“It’s not that I want it,” you said, swiveling eagerly so that you could face him. He snorted, not offering you the same dignity, the gold of the altar reflecting on his cheekbones. “But I’ll tell you if you’d like!”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. You waited, but he did not budge. The sword was at his side, his one hand placed over it, so instead of telling him any stories, you bent so that you could inspect the weapon.

“Where did you get this, anyways?” you said. “It’s of a make I don’t recognize.”

“And you are well-acquainted with every blacksmith in the entire kingdom, I expect?” he said.

“The ones of note, yes,” you said. “The ones with the talent to make something so fine. Don’t you remember whose daughter I am? I was loved by knights long before my father laid eyes upon me. They taught me a little.”

“What use does a princess have for smithing?” he said, though he did not make any moves to pull the sword away, allowing you to inspect it. You dared not touch it, lest he yank it back, but it seemed the lingering of your eyes was permissible, so you were unabashed in allowing them to rest upon the gleaming metal.

“Not much,” you said. “But a knight has very many uses for the matter.”

“You are no knight,” he said with a sneer. 

“Of course not,” you said. Now that you were closer, you saw that the centers of the roses blooming on the hilt were sapphire, and what you had thought was rust had a different shade to it, something dried and burgundy that you could not identify. “But they were. The ways of the sword were all that they knew, so I was raised on such tales instead of the more typical stories.”

A gust of wind blew through the windows, and you shuddered, tucking your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Kaiser gripped his sword tighter, the veins of his hand standing out blue and angry, but otherwise he did not react.

“One blacksmith brands his work with a bull,” you said. “Another with a dog, and a third with laurels. Many and many things, yet the rose has no place on the list. It’s too sacred. Nobody would dare carve Michael’s symbol into a mere mortal weapon. Who are we, anyways? To compare ourselves to someone who does such grand things?”

“You said grand,” he noted. “Not great.”

“Great implies an antonym,” you said. “But I don’t think such concept really exist to him and those of that kind — good and bad and all. There are different scales, different evils, but the ways in which the angels impact our lives can only be grand or minute. It’s unfair to assign morality to it.”

“Yet if these acts, whether grand or minute, change your life for the better, or alternately for the worse, then can you not judge them to be either good or bad?” he said.

“I can, and indeed many do, but they are not my concern. I speak only of Michael, and I maintain that it is impossible for him to turn that judgment unto himself,” you said. “You know, my mother saw him right before she died. Everyone thought it was a stroke of good fortune. He’s a healer, so he must’ve been there to heal her — yet they forgot, in their desperate hope, that he also comes to escort us to our final resting places. As he had come for my mother.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

“Well,” you said. “That’s it, then. Is he evil for taking my mother? Can I liken him to a villain for what he did? I would like to. It would be easier…if there was someone to blame, then it would be easier. I wish I could hate someone for it, but I cannot. There is no one. Michael did not take her to hurt me; that is just what he does. I can point my finger at that ceiling and curse him, but what good will it do? It won’t change his nature.”

Kaiser was silent. You must’ve bored him, and you wished you could disappear into the floor, melt into a mosaic, and freeze in place before he could mock you.

“Angels are above humans,” he said after a while.

“Everyone knows that,” you said.

“So how can humans do something that an angel cannot?” he said. “How is it possible?”

“I suppose it’s not unique to them,” you said. “Asking an angel to understand a person is like asking you or I to empathize with a dormouse. The best we can do is impartiality; it’s the same for them, I’d say.”

“Dormice?” he said. “I don’t think it’s the same at all.”

“No?” you said. “I’m not that learned. I don’t take offense. There’s as many theories about these obscurities as there are stars in the sky; I pass the time by coming up with more by the day, for I have little else to do when I am not here, but of course they would not hold under examination. I’m hardly a priest.”

There was another gale, this one howling and accompanied by your horse huffing anxiously outside. You doubted it was anything more than an oncoming squall, and ordinarily you’d wait for it to pass, but you did not want to leave the mare alone in the rain, so reluctantly you stood, dipping your head at Kaiser in the politest farewell you could muster.

“Wait,” he said when you reached the door, his voice still a dull, quiet monotone that you had to strain to properly listen to. “Next time.”

“Next time?” you said.

“Tell me the story of your birth,” he said, and then he was glowering at you again, demanding and haughty and piercing all in turn. “I will understand you.”

“Who said you won’t?” you said rhetorically. “Farewell for now. Please be safe in returning to your quarters.”

Your mare pranced the entire way back to the stables, her ears pricked towards the sky, her tail held high and the whites of her eyes showing. You tangled your fingers in her mane, the coming storm seeping through the fabric of your cloak as you urged her forward, hardly making it to the stable before it began to pour, ducking under the stone lip of the roof and holding onto her reins with sweat-slicked hands, trembling from the relief of the near-miss and leaning against her muscular neck to regain your bearings.

At the end of that week, you were met with a visitor — the youngest and dearest of your uncles, who loved you as if you were his own eldest daughter. He had set out from his own manor as soon as he had heard the news, and such was his haste that even now, the grit of his travels lined his clothes and features, but that did not dampen his jovial spirit any.

“You must rest, uncle!” you said, wincing as he regaled you with a story about the strange twins he had met while riding to the manor, with faces like crocodiles and mouths that only spoke lies, right up until he cut their tongues out, after which they could no longer speak at all.

“My, my, how you fret! Lovely niece, you are more and more like your mother every day,” your uncle said. “You must be so proud of her.”

This was accompanied by a good-natured punch to your father’s arm; anyone else would’ve been reprimanded, but at his brother’s antics, your father could only roll his eyes and cuff him on the ear, just as good-natured and half-heartedly.

“I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be prouder,” he said.

“Thank you, father,” you said, curtseying before brandishing an irreverent finger at your uncle. “But really, I insist! Let me take you to your chambers. You have come so far — surely you are weary.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” he said.

“There will be plenty of time for your stories tomorrow over breakfast,” you assured him, taking the stairs slowly, so that he did not overexert himself. “I am sure you have many more.”

“Of course,” he said. “Though not all of them are as lively.”

“Is there cause for alarm?” you said. Your uncle turned away guiltily. Slipping the key to his chambers into the lock and rotating it, you waited. “You must tell me if there is.”

“I don’t want to cause undue stress,” he said. “Especially after everything with your mother.”

“You have already said it. Better to be done with the affair and tell me the whole of things; it’ll only stress me further if you leave me to conjure scenarios of my own in my mind, so there is no avoiding it now,” you said.

“Come in with me, then,” he said, following after you into the chambers where his luggage was already waiting. You sat on the edge of the bed, allowing him to collapse into the desk chair, his head in his hands. “The queen.”

“No,” you said, praying it was paranoia that forced your thoughts down the ugliest of paths. “No, you don’t mean—”

“She has taken ill,” he said. “Her condition is deteriorating at the same rate your mother’s did. My brother the king is…not optimistic. She has been secluded in an attempt to contain the affliction, though of course we do not know how long she has been sick and how much longer she has been contagious. The entire royal family, barring you, your father, and I — if we stay away from the palace, that is — could succumb before the flowers next bloom.”

“Only the three of us will be left?” you said. Your uncle nodded.

“It seems that even in death, your mother is looking out for you,” he said. Something scratched at the back of your throat, and despite how you tried to swallow it back, it only clawed its way up, coalescing into a small whimper. Your uncle’s face softened, returning ten years of youth to it. “Don’t be afraid. We are safe here. As safe as can be.”

“How does it matter?” you said. “If everyone else is gone, how does it matter?”

To this, your uncle had no response, so he only gave you a pitying look and bade you to return to your room, promising you both would meet again and discuss it in the morning, when your father could join you. Whether he would’ve held true to that oath or not, you didn’t know, because as soon as you heard the murmuring of the servants awakening, you threw on a pair of house-slippers and fled the manor, running as fast as you could to the chapel where you knew Kaiser would be waiting.

In the watery light of dawn, he was almost ghostly, ephemeral like smoke or a wraith, the blue of his hair iridescent, the gold closer to a soft cream. Today he was far from the candles, sitting on one of the benches again, his back to you. You panted from the exertion of your earlier pace, but he did not move, did not try to assist you or even greet you.

“There was a prophecy,” you coughed out, flopping onto the closest bench, lying on it with your feet hanging off of the ends. “About my mother. It said that my father’s blood would spell her death.”

Kaiser did not say anything, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening, or at least that was what you assured yourself with. He must’ve heard you. He must’ve known.

“My uncles commanded him to take a second wife. The prophecy must’ve referred to their progeny, and indeed every heir they attempted to conceive died in her womb before it could kill her in turn, further proving the point. My father refused, however. He wouldn’t do that to her. If he could not have a child with her, then he would not have one at all,” you said. “I’m sure you know where this is going.”

“They prayed,” he said. “In turn, they were gifted with a child.”

“And my mother did not die,” you said. “That’s why people say I’ve been agreeable for my entire life. I did not fuss, either. I was good, or so I’ve been told. The best of my cousins by far. At the time of my birth, my father was away on some campaign for my uncle the king, so he did not even hear of it for many months, and he could not return for many more. It’s why I was raised by knights and nuns.”

“And why you spout theories and smithing as if you were born to them,” he said.

“That as well. Anyways, the nuns always praised me for defying that prophecy,” you said. “For saving my mother from a certain death. Do you understand?”

“Prophecies are hardly ever so straightforward,” he said. “You can divine one million meanings from them, but it is the million-and-first which will come true. It’s foolhardy and presumptuous for one to claim they understand the truth behind the future. You can only know it once it has come to pass.”

“Yes,” you said. “I don’t disagree.”

“Perhaps it was still your father’s blood that led to your mother’s demise,” he said.

“How? She fell to the plague,” you said.

“It ended with the plague,” he said. “What did it begin with?”

“Snakes,” you said. “No, before that. A flood.”

“And before that?” he said, condescending as anything. It would’ve been infuriating if it was not so at home with his severe countenance.

“There was nothing before that,” you said. 

“If that’s what you think,” he said. “Anyways, is that what you came to tell me?”

“The queen is ill,” you said, gripping the back of the bench and using it to push yourself to a sitting position, swinging your legs down so that your feet were planted on the ground again. “They think it is the same disease which ruined my mother. It’s likely that the entire royal family will be lost — except my youngest uncle, my father, and myself, for all of us fled before the outbreak could reach the castle and have not yet shown any symptoms of the plague.”

“Maybe they deserve it,” he said, with no small amount of contempt. You trained your eyes on the ground, unsure of how you could even fathom saying something, and in your mother’s own chapel, as well. Surely you would be judged for it, but for some reason you thought that you owed honesty to Kaiser.

“Maybe they do,” you said. “Likely they do. But they are — they are still my family. I don’t want them to die.”

His sword caught the sun, and for a moment the maroon on the blade seemed to writhe and drip, coming alive in the light and only stilling when clouds passed across the windows once more. Kaiser’s shoulders still did not face you, but he tilted his head so that he could regard you as he spoke.

“You think they deserve it,” he said, phrasing it as a statement of fact instead of a question.

“I don’t know,” you said. “They must. We all must. These disasters are likely a form of punishment, though I know not what we are being punished for.”

“There is cruelty in this kingdom,” Kaiser said, his voice so cold that it caused a nervous tremor to shoot through you. “And it takes its purest shape in the L/Ns. That must be why they are facing the worst of it.”

You wished you could disagree with him. You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that your father and your uncles and your ten cousins were kind and good, but neither could you lie. Neither could you reassure him of a falsehood, when the both of you knew that had it been anyone else in your family who had found him in the chapel, he would’ve lost his head by now.

“They are cruel,” you said. “I know it. But I cannot bring myself to hate them, not when they love me.”

“It does not absolve them,” he said.

“It does not,” you said heavily. “And I suppose it does not absolve me, either.”

This time, he stood, hefting his sword and pacing in the same frantic way that a leashed dog might. He did not try to brandish the sword, allowing it to drag along at his side, but neither did he let it go. You watched him until you were dizzy from the repetitive nature of his path, and then you covered your eyes and listened to the thud of his boots against the ground.

“You are more like your mother and the queen,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said. “Is it because I am a woman? I have cousin-sisters as well, however, and they are as L/N as me.”

“No, it is not that,” he said. “You have been dragged into the sins of the L/Ns against your will, and now you must reap their consequences alongside them. Whether or not you have earned them is irrelevant at this point; you will receive them.”

“It’s already begun,” you said. “My mother — my mother — and who else? They will all be gone, and my father and uncle aren’t so young, which means I shall soon be alone. What will I do then?”

Kaiser was a servant, so by all rights such things were beyond him, but never once had he spoken to you with the deference that his station implied. You didn’t think he knew what it meant to bow his head and comply blindly, so you waited for him to respond, to bestow some small wisdom hidden in the biting jaws of his blasé attitude.

“You won’t be alone,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I do,” he said, as if it were an undeniable truth, written in the foundations of the world. You had never been the type to feel comforted by platitudes, but something about the way it sounded coming from him made your heart swell. “Y/N L/N, you will never be alone. That I am sure of.”

“Do you guarantee it?” you said. “Even though it’s impossible, do you swear?”

“I do,” he said. It was the kindest thing he had ever said to you, so you smiled slightly, although there was no amiability in his tone.

“Then I will believe you,” you said. 

“Believe me or don’t,” he said. “Your feelings will not affect that outcome.”

“Hm,” you said. “Well, thank you for reassuring me.”

“That isn’t why I said that,” he said. 

“But you managed it anyways,” you said. “I need to go, though. I did not dress to be outside, and it’s a bit cool today, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, a peculiar lilt to his voice. “No, Y/N. I don’t think that it is.”

With your uncle there, it was harder to find time to visit the chapel. Where once Kaiser had been the only one to occupy your time and thus your thoughts, the only one with enough of a mystery to his being that even the bleakest of your grief could be warded off by it, now your uncle was there to distract you, with his stories and his tricks and his gifts. Never one for religion, just like your father, he laughed when you suggested visiting the chapel, and often by the time you were freed of his company, you were far too exhausted to even think about leaving your chambers, let alone the manor.

He was a whirlwind of a man, your youngest uncle, a tempestuous person whose sword was as ready as his smile. Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he had been the spear of your father’s campaign, slicing through the villages they conquered in the name of the king with brutal, clinical efficiency. You were the only person who had never been subject to his wrath, for you were the youngest and mildest of your ten cousins, and thus cherished by the rest of your family in a way that the others were not.

“Have you finished enough of those to go in the woods with me? There’s a place I’m thinking of going hunting, but I’d like your guidance before I do so,” your uncle said one morning, when the sun shone and the sky was as blue as if it were made of ceramic. You were sitting across from him in the parlor, embroidering handkerchiefs with your family’s sigil, folding them and placing them on the table for your father’s use. Your father himself was out for the day, checking on one of his vassal’s progress in the early harvest, which was likely why your uncle was asking you for assistance instead of him.

“It’s only something to while away the hours,” you said, tying off the end of the thin thread in a perfect, imperceptible knot, shaking out the newly completed handkerchief and then setting it with the rest. “I can go whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll send word to the stablehands to tack our horses, then,” your uncle said. “Have you gone to the river’s shore before?”

“Once or twice,” you said.

“If there’s anywhere to find deer, it’ll be there. What do you say about venison for supper by the weekend?” he said.

“Father will be pleased,” you said. The youngest of his brothers and yet the most talented when it came to hunting, your uncle was known in your family for his aptitude at picking out the rarest of game. Your father always told you that if there was anything resembling an afterlife, he would spend it all eating whatever your uncle brought home, and you had no doubt that he would be delighted to return from his trip and find a freshly-slain stag waiting for him.

In order to reach the river, you had to ride through endless swathes of green — some were tilled and tended, but the majority of those fields were wild, home to nothing but rabbits and robins, both of whom fled upon hearing the clip of your horses’ hoofbeats. At first the cleared paths were wide enough for you and your uncle to ride side by side, but eventually they grew narrower, the tall grass scratching at your legs, pollen leaving yellow streaks on your horses’ haunches, and so you were forced to ride in front, for your mare was as sure-footed as your uncle’s charger was flighty and spooky.

“Be careful,” your uncle said as you pushed her forward, kicking her when she pinned her ears at your uncle’s stallion. “The grounds in these fields are always treacherous. Snakes make their homes amongst the grasses and hide the entrances; even one misplaced footfall can be disastrous.”

“Ah, she is good,” you said. “I trust her to know where her feet are better than I would.”

“Smart girl,” your uncle said. “You must get it from your uncle.”

You swatted away a horsefly before it could land on your leg. It was gray and fat and lazy, but you knew that its bite burnt like a bee-sting, so you steered your horse away from it the slightest bit, in the hopes that it would dissuade any further pursuit.

“Of course,” you said. “Though more than smart, I trust that my father’s men have trained her well, in these very fields.”

“Do they come here often, then?” he said. “We won’t be able to find anything if there are many people passing by.”

“Not that I know of. This section of the riverbank is reserved for our family’s use. Nobody would dare come up this way unless they were on my father’s orders, and my father rarely issues such commands,” you said.

“Good,” your uncle said, relaxing in his saddle, taking his bow off of his shoulder and holding an arrow in his right hand. “If we are very quiet, then we may find something today.”

“So soon?” you said.

“Why not?” he said. “We must be silent, however, lest we frighten everything in a few leagues’ radius away.”

Soon, the only thing that could be heard was the whine of the crickets in the grass that your horses disturbed. It was a high sound, shrill and thin like a flute, insistent in the way of begging, and if your uncle had not been there, you would’ve covered your ears to muffle it.

You couldn’t tell how long you wandered along the riverbanks for, but eventually, there was a faint rustling in the brush. You and your uncle locked eyes, and then you reined your mare to a stop, allowing him to trot forwards, eyes locked on the place where the noise had arisen from, his bow held at the ready, a single arrow in place — because a single arrow was all he would need. Your uncle had never once let fly an arrow which did not then make a home in its target, and you doubted he would begin to do so any time soon.

Another minute passed before the rustling grew louder and something burst from the copse of saplings, crashing through the tightly interwoven branches. You gasped when you saw that it was not a deer or any other such game but a boy, his hair dark and long over his eyes, his shoulders narrow and bony, more like perfect, sickening corners with skin draped over them than anything.

“Please,” he said, dropping to his knees, gazing up at you, his pupils like black pinpricks in the expanse of his blank eyes. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t — I got lost, but I didn’t mean to end up here! I was only waiting for you to pass through so that I could return home.”

“So you knew that what you were doing was wrong. Expressly forbidden by the prince,” your uncle said. 

“Uncle, it was clearly a mistake,” you said uneasily. 

“Mistakes are made when one does not have knowledge,” your uncle said. “This was not a mistake, nor was it an accident.”

“I was looking for rabbits,” the boy pleaded. “My sister likes them.”

“So you were hunting on the prince’s land?” your uncle said.

“No!” the boy said. “No, she — we don’t eat them, she likes to pet them, she’s still young and our mother is sick so I thought I would find one for her but there aren’t any near our house, so I began to wander, and I don’t know how but I ended up here — please, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t!”

“It’s alright,” you said, loosening your foot from your right stirrup and preparing to dismount. “Where is your home? We can escort you—”

“Stay on your horse,” your uncle said to you. You froze, unaccustomed to hearing him speak in such a way. “You. Boy. You admit your guilt? You have trespassed?”

“Yes — no — I don’t—” the boy stammered. His lips were bluing at the edges, you saw, and you realized he, and likely his mother who he had spoken of, was cursed with the plague, which choked his mind and judgment as well as it did his throat and heart.

“He is unwell, uncle,” you said quietly. “Let him go home.”

The boy was not long for this world, and wasting the precious time he had remaining with this pointless interrogation caused a pit to form in your stomach and a glacial feeling to crawl down your back and shoulders, the kind which could not be chased away even by the strongest of fires.

“Crimes cannot go unpunished,” your uncle said. “If we let him go, then we will have to let the next go, and the next after that. Where do you draw the line?”

“Here,” you said. “That is where I draw it. We both know that he is closer to my mother than to us at this point. Forgive him this time. He will not return, I am sure of it.”

“I won’t,” the boy said, voice cracking. “Your royal highnesses, I won’t.”

“Tell me where you live,” you said. “Not far, surely?”

“Just over the hill,” the boy said, staggering to his feet. “The house with the hyacinths in front of it.”

“I will take you there,” you promised him.

“You will do no such thing,” your uncle said. “Y/N L/N. If you ever wish to be the lady of an estate, then you must learn how to punish those who disobey your rule.”

“Don’t!” you said, but you were too late, far too late. Already, the arrow was cutting through the air and piercing through the boy’s heart. He fell in the way a leaf might, silent and crumpling and brittle, a motionless heap staining the earth with his blood. You screamed, or at least you tried to, but there was not enough air in your lungs, and you could not inhale or exhale without the ringing in your ears climbing into a pounding sensation.

“Where are you going?” your uncle said as you tugged on your mare’s left rein, turning her around, away from the still body and your uncle’s stark figure. “Y/N! Wait!”

Tightening your calves, you cued her into a gallop, taking off along the riverbank, water spraying into the air wherever her feet fell. Dimly you were aware of your uncle shouting after you, and then he, too, was galloping in your pursuit, but his stallion was recalcitrant, rearing and gnashing at the bit with every step, slowing their progress immensely and allowing you to fly out of their sight.

Turning into the fields that swept towards the manor, you paid no heed to your uncle’s earlier warnings, pushing the horse faster instead of slowing as you should’ve, your surroundings blurring into nothing more than smears of viridian and mustard in your peripheral vision. You had to reach him before your uncle did. You had to, you had to, you had to —

Abruptly, your horse skidded to a stop, scrambling for purchase in the ground and snorting nervously. You were thrown up her neck but did not fall, sitting back and scanning the area for what might’ve spooked her. In the beginning you did not see it, but then there was a soft hiss from the ground that caused her to dance backwards uncertainly, and you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You are meant to be gone,” you said to the viper, which was baring its fangs at you, its dark tongue flicking out periodically to taste the air before it. Your words bordered on hysterical as you shifted in your saddle, eyeing its coiling body with equal parts fear and disdain. “Your kind vanished! Why are you back? Do you mean to torment me?” 

The serpent did not move to strike, but neither did it shift out of the way, its slit-pupil eyes never blinking, its white teeth like pearls against the roof of its black mouth. You looked around, but there was no other path as clearly demarcated as the one you were on, and you dared not risk going into the grasses where thousands more of the snake’s brethren could be lying in wait.

Behind you, you could once more hear your uncle calling your name, and you knew that the precious few seconds you had gained on him would come to naught if you continued to dither about. When all was said and done, there was only one thing you could do, so apologizing to your horse, you squeezed her onwards. She lurched forwards with a start, her tail swishing, her movements jerky as she inched towards the snake, which grew eerily still at your approach.

Death was supposed to be a mystery or a surprise, but for some reason, as your horse took that final step forwards, you were excruciatingly aware that the next few moments would likely be your last. The snake would dart up, as quick as a whip, and it would latch onto your leg, slaying you instantaneously. What a swift revenge it would be, that your uncle had killed that boy and now he would be met with your own body, pierced through with snake venom as that child had been skewered upon his arrow!

You could’ve done a great number of things in those final seconds, but your mother’s final words came to you, and you found yourself mulling them over. He is here, she had said. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings. Michael himself had appeared for her, but then who was by your side? Who would accompany you after your death? 

There was a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, something azure and fluttering — a butterfly, surely, or some small bird frightened by the commotion. It was unimportant in the end; what mattered most was the color, which was so reminiscent of the person you had set out for that it broke you from your daze, heartening you enough to sit up and raise your chin, facing the snake with enough courage that even your horse ceased to shy away from it. Instead, she let out a squeal which sounded like a trumpet, and then she leapt into the air, bucking upon the landing and galloping away from the viper at such a speed that white lather frothed on her neck and streaked down her shoulders.

You reached the chapel in a time that should not have been possible, and even before you had pulled the mare to a stop, you were leaping off, your fingers clumsy as you tied her to the first fence post you saw. Your legs protested as you took the stairs two at a time, but you paid them no heed. You could not allow them to fail you, not when your uncle’s strides were twice the length of yours.

“Kaiser!” you called out when you entered the chapel. He was standing by the altar, a shower of sparks falling from the flint in his hands onto the charred cloth placed on the table, and instead of greeting you, he blew on the smoldering edge. A flame blossomed to life, and he used it to light a new candle, smothering the cloth under his boot once the fire had been transferred. “Kaiser, you must leave at once.”

“Why should I do that?” he said. “Who are you to dismiss in such a way?”

“It’s not me,” you said. “My uncle is furious, and if he finds you — if he finds you here, then he’ll cut you down, and not even that sword of yours will be enough to stop him.”

“Your uncle and his moods have little to do with me,” Kaiser said. “His tantrums are meaningless.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” you said. 

“Don’t I?” he said.

“He just killed a boy for trespassing,” you said. “I couldn’t even stop him. It was the most I could do to return in time to warn you before he came here to pray for that child’s life.”

“You disobeyed your uncle and ran from him for the sole purpose of…warning me?” he said.

“Yes, but it will be meaningless if you don’t hearken to my words,” you said. 

“Why is that?” he said.

“Enough with your riddles and your questions!” you snapped. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously? You will die!”

“Answer this one and I’ll oblige your inane demands,” he said.

“Being with you is the only time I do not fear or mourn,” you said, your nails carving crescents into your palms as your gaze switched rapidly between him and the door. “My mother…my family…the plague and the vipers and the floods…I can forget about them all when I speak to you. If you are gone, then I will have no one. So please, please run. I cannot bear the thought of your blood being shed as well.”

Kaiser looked at you, and then, inexplicably, he laughed. It was a sound so lovely that it grated on your nerves, like a bell ringing too close to your ears. “Your uncle is not a man who could ever shed my blood, and he’d have to have an inordinately high opinion of himself to think he could.”

“You said you would oblige me,” you said, having half-expected such an arrogant response from him but finding that you were vexed by it anyways. “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. You must go, and only return once he has left this place.”

The door slammed open. You spun, drawing your cloak tighter around your shoulders and standing as straight as you could, dismay spiking in your stomach when your uncle walked in. The two of you had spent too long discussing, your explanation had been too lengthy, you had remained frightened of the snake for more time than you should’ve — at the end of the day, the reason didn’t matter as much as the result, which was that your uncle was here and Kaiser was still standing behind you.

“Y/N,” your uncle said, coming down the aisle, his stride light and elegant, the picture of a gentleman. You took a step back, reaching your hand out behind you to prevent Kaiser from saying something callous and damning, as he was wont to do.

“It’s not what you think,” you said. “Uncle, it’s not — please don’t —”

Yet when your uncle reached the altar, he did not draw his sword, nor did he command Kaiser to kneel before him. He only gave you a puzzled look, directing his attention to the candles burning behind your back.

“You played with your life just to come and light the candles a little earlier?” he said.

“What?” you said. 

“I know it must’ve been upsetting to see, but rules need to be upheld, or else they cease to be rules and turn into mere suggestions,” your uncle said, patting you on the head. 

“Aren’t you angry?” you said in trepidation.

“With you? No, of course not,” he said. “It was the same way for me, the first time I witnessed my father performing an execution. You’ll grow out of it.”

“Er, okay,” you said, too bewildered now to even comprehend his words. What was Kaiser’s magic, that he had escaped your uncle’s stern reproach and careless sword, which had felled countless men?

“Will you stay with me while I pray?” your uncle said. It was the only time he ever changed his mind about religion — after every life he took, he pleaded for forgiveness, as if that could be enough to exonerate him. You weren’t sure if it would be or not, but it didn’t really matter what you thought — it was the only way he had, you were quite sure, to go on. To continue living despite everything he had done.

“No,” you said. “Come — ah, what?”

You had turned to beckon Kaiser, but when you did, you realized that he was gone, vanished without a trace, though you had not heard or seen him leave. Your uncle gave you another strange look before returning to one of the benches and bowing his head, leaving you to wonder if Kaiser had ever even been there in the first place.

The stablehands were confused when you brought your drained mare back to them and demanded they ready another horse for you, and it was only worsened when you commanded them to also bring you one of the rabbits that were raised for their meat. Yet they could not argue with the princess, so they did as you said, bringing you the smallest of your father’s mounts and placing a young rabbit in your arms once you were in the saddle.

You could not tell whether you or the rabbit quivered more — the rabbit from confusion and fear, you from fatigue and the temperature, which had dropped rapidly since you and your uncle had set out in the mid-morning.

Taking a longer route so that you avoided the fields where you had seen the serpent, you trotted towards the riverbank, cradling the rabbit to your heart in the hopes that its warmth would transfer to you. Halting by where the boy’s body still lay, undisturbed and almost peaceful, you set the rabbit atop a tree branch so that it could not escape, and then you jumped off of your horse and crouched so that you could lift the boy onto your saddle. Draping him over it with every bit of strength you could summon, you took the rabbit back in one arm and used the other to lead the horse after you as you trudged towards the direction of the village, mud soaking into your boots and flecking the hems of your clothing.

You crossed the hill at a snail’s pace until you reached a small stone house with purple hyacinths littering the courtyard and a brown goat grazing on the scrubby grass, and then you knocked on the door and stood there until a man opened it. He was tall, his face lined and burnt from the sun, trenches like crow-feet digging into the corner of his eyes, his clothes patched and mended by inexperienced hands many times over. He squinted at you, like he was trying to recognize you, but eventually he gave up and cocked his head at you instead.

“On what business have you come knocking, miss?” he said.

“Your son,” you said. He rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Ah, that rascal. I hope he was not bothering you?” he said. You tried to swallow back the lump in your throat and found that it was impossible, so you stroked the ears of the rabbit and squeezed out a response anyways.

“He’s dead,” you said. “No. He was killed.”

“Pardon?” the man said. “Killed? On what — on what account?”

“On a whim,” you said, a tear splashing onto the rabbit’s back, turning the gray of its fur into a color like tar. “If there were a better explanation, I’d give it to you, sir, but the truth is there isn’t one.”

The man stared at you in disbelief, and you tightened your grip on the horse’s reins, waiting for him to say something. Yet he was silent, staring and staring as if by doing so he could turn your words to lies.

“I brought him back for you,” you whispered, the words digging into your windpipe as they went. “I brought him back.”

The man made a small nose which seemed to come from deep within him, guttural and low and keening, and then he fell to the floor.

“Please say it isn’t so,” he wept, pressing his forehead to your feet. “Lady, lady, say this is some cruel prank and go. His mother is sick already; you cannot say I will lose them both in such short succession. Say you are lying to me.”

“I can’t,” you said, your lower lip wobbling and your vision blurring. “Sir, I cannot do that.”

He wrapped his arms around your ankles and bawled like a child, folded over your boots as he cried and cried. You were motionless, wishing that there was something you could do but knowing that it would all be meaningless — just like Kaiser could not bring your mother back, so, too, were you incapable of resurrecting this man’s son, who had been put down at the hands of your own uncle.

“Thank you,” he said after some time had passed, standing and wiping his face, taking your horse’s reins from you. “I will see to it that he is taken care of. Might I have your name? So that I can repay you?”

“No repayment is necessary,” you said. “Please refrain; I’ve done nothing worthy of repayment. I only ask that you tell me if you have a daughter.”

“Yes,” the man sniffed. “Yes, she’s inside, sitting with her mother. Do you require her?”

“Only to give her a gift,” you said. “And then I shall take your leave.”

The man nodded at you, and you swept inside, brushing past him before he could exit the house and relive his grief anew upon seeing his son’s body in the flesh. You had been there the first time; the second time, you thought, should be something private, belonging to him and him alone.

Sitting by a fire and covered in straw was the wretched woman that could only be the boy’s mother. She appeared worse than your own mother ever had, even in the hours before her death, and her chest rattled with every breath. Squatted by her side was a girl, likely half your age and hardly even a third of your weight, her hair lank and heavy around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed a pink that promised the plague had not clawed into her body yet.

“Hello,” you said. The mother did not move, but the girl looked up at you in a manner reminiscent of a puppy or a foal, a certain naïveté to her features, which resembled her brother’s so much that for a moment you were breathless.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was a brittle murmur, and her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her eyes shimmered with a slight curiosity, widening when you knelt before her. “Who are you?”

“Your brother sent this for you,” you said, avoiding her question and handing the rabbit to her. She inhaled in delight, taking it from you swiftly and burying her nose in the fur around its neck before beaming at you.

“Really, he did? He always called me foolish when I told him I wanted a rabbit! Said that rabbits are wild creatures and only fairies can catch them,” she said, kissing the rabbit atop its ears. “Are you a fairy, miss? You have to be, right?”

“Certainly, I am not,” you said, kneeling on the stone of the floor and placing your hand against her cheek, which burned with the heat of the fire she was tending. “Dear girl, please remember that it was not a fairy who brought this rabbit to you — it was your brother, who loves you more than anything.”

She still did not know about any of it. She did not know that her brother was dead and her mother was all but. She only saw the object of her desires encircled in her arms, so she was, at least for now, happy, and you could not bear to steal that happiness from her, not when you knew that you how fleeting it was.

“Okay,” she said gravely. “I’ll remember it well. Mama, look! It’s a rabbit. You like rabbits, Mama, so please wake up and look at it.”

“Your mother is resting,” you said when she bent to shake her mother awake. “You should not bother her.”

“She’s always resting,” the girl said. “And if she speaks, it’s only to say that she’s cold.”

“Is that what the straw is for?” you said. Even if she wasn’t sick, you’d have agreed with the woman; you, too, found it to be growing colder out than it ever had in the past, but she had been cursed with the plague, and so it must have been tenfold worse for her than it ever could be for you. 

“Yes, it’s the best we have,” she said. “My brother, father, and I share the blanket because we don’t sleep near the fire, and so we only have straw left to warm her. I think I’m going to start working soon as well, and hopefully then I’ll be able to buy the best blanket in the world for her.”

There would be nowhere that would hire her in time for her to give her mother a blanket, except as a burial shroud, so you undid the clasp of your cloak and draped it over the woman’s body. She did not acknowledge you, but you saw her shoulders fall into an exhale, and you knew it was her form of thanks. The girl gazed at you in wonder, her eyes settling on the gooseflesh which pimpled your upper arms without the protection of the cloak, and then she returned her attention to her mother, whose expression was a degree less distraught with the added shield you had provided.

“Not now, and not for some years to come, but when you are old enough, come to the L/N manor,” you said. “You will find work there.”

Outside of the house, her father was digging, and on the ground beside him was a heap of canvas that no doubt disguised her brother. The girl followed you towards your horse, lips pursuing as you used a nearby tree stump to remount.

“How? It’s impossible to be employed there. All my family’s tried, but they’re ever-full,” she said.

“They will admit you, as long as you bring that cloak with you,” you said. “And if you tell them that Princess Y/N sent you.”

Her lips parted in awe, and the rabbit’s nose twitched as you smiled at her, as kindly as you could. In a few hours, she might despise you — after all, you had been the one to bring her brother back, and even if she never learnt of the role you had played in his death, she might resent you for that fact alone — but for now, you were someone she admired, the princess who had come from the manor and left her with a cloak and a rabbit and a promise.

Without your cloak, it was brutally cold, and you soon grew more preoccupied with trying to warm yourself in some way than with guiding the horse home. And although it was tamer than the rest, your current mount still belonged to your father in the end — it was not of the same reliable temperament as your own mare, who would’ve doggedly brought you back to the stables. As you slumped further and further into the saddle, your vision swimming, the horse only halted in the middle of the field you had somehow ended up in, unsure of what to do without a rider’s direction.

“You are a surprising person, Y/N L/N,” a soft voice said, and then someone was prying the reins out of your hands and taking them over your horse’s head. You would’ve been frightened, but though your eyesight was blurred, you knew who it was as soon as he spoke. “Foolish and surprising in turn.”

“Kaiser,” you said. “How are you here? Where did you go earlier? I thought my uncle might find you, but you weren’t there…”

“Don’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. They are beyond your understanding,” he said, clicking his tongue to encourage the horse forward. “I came here for you because earlier, you came for me, no matter how unnecessary it may have been. That’s all that matters.”

“Aren’t you cold?” you said, leaning forwards, collapsing against the horse’s crest, too tired to hold yourself up properly. “I’m cold.”

“I know,” he said. “You’ve been cold for a while, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so,” you said. For a moment, there was silence, and when he finally spoke again, his tone was tinged with melancholy.

“I wish that you were more like your father,” he said.

“Hm,” you said drowsily. “Why?”

“I want to condemn you,” he said. “Curse you. Rebuke you. Damn you.”

“And you cannot?” you said.

“I can,” he said. “All too easily.”

“Then?” you said.

“Then nothing,” he said. “It’s only that it makes me feel strange when it shouldn’t.”

“Strange,” you said. “What a vague word.”

“I cannot explain it further,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”

“I see,” you said, though really you didn’t — you only did not want to upset him when he was the only savior you had. “Wait, Kaiser, you must know — there is a viper, one of the ones from the flood, it’s in the fields and it might yet strike. I am not sure if it is the only one of its kind, as well.”

“No vipers will dare cross my path,” he said, a laugh trickling into the cadence of his speech. “Not while I have this sword at my side.”

“Even now, you have it?” you said, your eyes closed against the light. 

“Yes,” he said. “I cannot sheathe it yet.”

“What does that mean?” you said.

“It is meaningless,” he said. “You ought to be silent, lest you waste what meager amounts of energy your body has managed to retain thus far.”

You weren’t sure how much longer the two of you walked for, but suddenly you were by the stables and there was a clamor and you were falling off the horse’s shoulder, into the arms of one of the stablehands. He was speaking in a panicked rush, commanding someone to fetch your uncle and another to send word to your father before asking you something, his voice harsh and breathy, nothing at all like Kaiser’s needle-precise words. You would’ve answered, but the slight rocking motions of his gait were enough to lull you into a sleep before you could even understand what his question was in the first place.

The stablehand must’ve carried you to your room, for when you awoke, you were in your bed and the sun had set. Your father sat at your desk, a lamp lighting the letters he was writing. Wrinkling your nose and then wiggling your fingers and toes to regain some feeling in them, you yawned, sitting up with a rustle of the sheets.

“Father,” you said, your mouth cottony from sleep. “You’ve returned?”

“Y/N?” your father said, dropping his quill and jumping to his feet, racing over to your side and catching your hand in between his own, holding it to his forehead. “Oh, Y/N, you must swear never to do something so idiotic again. I was so frightened — I thought — I thought you might never wake again.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Why would you go riding without dressing for the weather?” he said. “And without at least asking for someone to accompany you?”

“I’m sorry, father. I wasn’t thinking,” you said again, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you could not tell him the truth behind your escapade, or he might find some way to penalize the family who had not been at fault and had already lost so much.

“You’re lucky that that horse was so intelligent,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“It managed to find its way back to the stables even with you all but unconscious on its back,” he said.

“No, someone led me home,” you said. “A servant.”

Your father furrowed his brow. “Ah, what do you mean? There was no one.”

“There was, I’m sure of it!” you said.

“Nobody saw anyone leading you back, daughter,” he said. “You must’ve been having visions from delirium. It’s not uncommon for those who have been so compromised.”

“Visions,” you said. “I suppose there is that explanation.”

“Setting that aside, how do you feel now?” he said.

“Much improved,” you said.

“A night’s rest will do you well,” he said. “We can speak again in the morning, yes?”

“Yes, that sounds appealing,” you said. “Goodnight, father.”

Oftentimes he, like the rest of his siblings, had a somber and unyielding expression upon his angular face, but never when he looked at you — because when he laid eyes upon you, he was no longer the prince of the kingdom. He was only your father, the man who had half-created you and loved you more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, excepting, of course, your mother.

Maybe it was because you had slept half of the day away, but the next morning, you were awake even before the sun. You lay in your bed for a moment, willing sleep to take you once more, but when it became evident that it had fled from your grasp for good, you pushed your blankets to the side and stood on shaky legs, finding comfort in the consistency of readying yourself for the day.

You had none of your usual composure when you entered the chapel. The moment you saw Kaiser standing with his hands laced together and his face tilted towards the sun, your heart skipped an irrational beat, and then you picked your way towards where he stood, careful not to slip on the precious stones of the floor, which today seemed to be more treacherous than usual.

When you reached his side, you were not sure of what to say, so you opted for the truth, however blunt. “I dreamt of you yesterday.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, in that same amused way he said everything, his every word a private joke you could never be in on. 

“You saved me,” you continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve died.”

“You wouldn’t have died regardless,” he said dismissively. At first, you raised your eyebrows, because how was it that he always said such things with such conviction that you could not help but believe in them? Who was he to inspire such faith in you? Then, before you could lose your nerve, you embraced him, your arms around his neck and fingers dangling in the space between his shoulder blades, his thrumming heartbeat reverberating through your bones like a hymn.

Many seconds passed wherein he was motionless, a being made from stone, before, slowly, hesitantly, he pulled you even closer to him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other arm wrapping around your waist so that you did not crumble. He was hot like a hearth, his skin blazing with the kind of warmth you had not felt in so long that tears sprang to your eyes.

“You saved me,” you insisted, weeping in earnest, wishing that there was some way you could stay by his side forever and then wondering where such a desire could even have sprung from. “Even if you were only a vision conjured by my mind, I know that I would never have made it home were it anyone else I saw. Had it been anyone but you, I would’ve been lost until the end.”

“Enough wailing,” he said, but it was devoid of the typical thorniness. “Y/N L/N. Stop it.”

“I cannot,” you said. 

“Pathetic girl,” he said; however, for the first time, you detected a hint of wavering in his voice. “Pathetic, idiotic girl. If only there were a way I could un-know you. If only it were possible for me to forget you entirely.”

“Don’t,” you said. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” he said. “If I were capable of it, I would’ve done so long ago, but as I haven’t, it can only mean that I never will.”

Somehow, you returned to the manor before anyone could raise an alarm at your second disappearance. Joining your father and uncle at the table for breakfast, avoiding your uncle’s greeting and sitting next to your father, you realized that it was not a miracle that you had escaped notice; rather, it was that everyone was supremely concerned with the letter your father was scanning, storms swirling in his eyes as he read it over.

“They’re summoning us,” he said, a second later. “Oh, Y/N, you’re here. Good.”

“Who is?” you said.

“My brother the king,” he said. “There’s been a prophecy. Very soon — in two weeks or even less — the queen will be dead.”

All of you set off at once, your father and uncle riding ahead, leaving you to cocoon yourself in a nest of furs atop the cushioned bench of the carriage. The guard from before, the handsome one with the hair like fox-hide, was requisitioned to accompany you, and so he sat across from you instead of riding in the company of your father and his retainers. You were the one who had asked for him specifically; he was kind and familiar to you, so in such a terrifying moment, you preferred his stalwart nature to any other’s.

“Tell me again,” you said, your voice muffled by the squirrel pelt wrapped around your neck and chin. “What did that prophet see?”

The guard did not know any more than you did, but in the monotony of the carriage ride, there were few other things you could occupy yourself with besides the obsessive question-and-answer game that you played with him. He was happy to follow along, or, if he was not happy, then at least he did as you asked without much complaint.

“Three things,” the guard said, holding up his right hand, the white calluses standing out against the pink of his palms. “Firstly, an eagle fell from its nest and broke its wings.”

“A clear omen against the L/Ns,” you said. “Eagles represent royalty, so for one to fall and lose its ability to fly in such a way…”

“Yes,” the guard agreed. “Secondly, upon reading the entrails of a sow, it was determined that the eagle was referencing a woman in particular.”

“And if it is a woman, then it could only be the queen,” you said.

“Correct, your highness,” he said. He could not see it, but you smiled at him — just barely, for you had not had enough to drink during your journey, so your lips were cracking from dehydration, and you did not rest well anymore, so you were constantly weary. “And finally, they consulted the mirrors, whereupon they saw death from disease tarnishing the pureness of the silver.”

“So they combined the symbols and divined that she would perish from the illness which has plagued her, as it once did my mother,” you said. “I wonder if it is worse or better to be aware that your death is approaching.”

“I suppose she must have known already, don’t you think?” he said. “In the moments before her death, your mother saw the angel Michael. I am sure the queen has had such a visitor as well.”

“Perhaps,” you said. “Though then again, I doubt that he would make appearances so frequently.”

“If he came to escort your mother, then would he not come for the queen? Forgive me for being candid, but it’s true that the queen’s station is far loftier than mother’s was,” he said.

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong, but even then,” you said, and then you sighed, sinking deeper into the plushness of your blankets. “Well, I don’t know. The affairs of angels are beyond you and I.”

“That’s true,” he said. You screwed your eyes shut, colorful spots painting the blackness behind your eyelids, the world spinning peculiarly, in a manner which was unrelated to the swaying of the carriage wheels.

“I think I will sleep now, sir,” you said. “If you do not mind very much.”

“I am only here to do as you command, your highness,” he said. “If you wish to sleep, then by all means, please sleep. I will wake you if anything happens.”

The journey to the castle was longer for you than it was for the riders, who could take narrower paths and cut across fallen trees and flooded bridges that the carriage needed to circumvent. By the time you reached, there was already a procession underway, and as the guard helped you towards the church, holding onto your hand and shoulders so that you could walk, you had to be wary of the spectators to the parade, who were shoving one another so that they could have the best possible view.

“They’re praying. For the queen’s health, and for the end of the plague,” you said, coughing hard enough that your chest ached from it, covering your mouth with your hand in shame, for you had been coughing more and more frequently as of late.

When you removed your hand, you noticed that there was something wet and wine-colored speckling it, and right when you were about to reach an understanding you should’ve come to long ago, a man’s shoulder rammed into your side, knocking you off-balance. Only your guard’s quick reflexes were enough to catch you, and he picked you up before such an accident could be repeated, taking care to push the man away rougher than he really needed to when he passed.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“Yes,” you said, half in a daze, the image of your stained hand imprinted in your mind. “Can you hear what they are saying, sir? Are they begging for forgiveness?”

“They are,” he said. “They’re repenting in the hopes that there will be mercy.”

“It’s late for that,” you said. “For me, anyways. But maybe the rest of you can still be saved.”

“What do you mean by that?” he said. Without you to slow the guard down, the two of you covered ground at twice the earlier speed, and you reached the steps of the church before the throngs of worshippers could. You saw them coming, the gathered masses of people, with the king and your father and the queen at the forefront of it all, and then you coughed again, because until you had seen that blood you hadn’t comprehended it, but now you did. “Why don’t you include yourself amongst our ranks, princess?”

“What is your name, sir?” you said.

“Kunigami, your royal highness,” he said. “Are you quite alright?”

“Kunigami,” you said, clenching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. “Kunigami, it’s not cold out today, is it?”

“No,” he said. “No, princess, it’s not. It’s mild and lovely.”

“It hasn’t been,” you said, and then you were crying, because you were afraid. You were more afraid then you ever had been, and you only had this bewildered boy to comfort you — and what slim comfort he provided! He, who was meant to be your staunchest defender but could never defend you from this. “It hasn’t been cold in many months, has it?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, it’s been rather warm. This year marks the warmest summer we’ve had since the time of the last king, or so I’m told.”

“The warmest summer?” you said. “I see now. I see. Oh, oh, Kunigami, you must go and fetch my father at once.”

“You are confounding me, your highness,” he said. “What is the matter?”

“Please bring my father,” you said. “Please, I don’t — I don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

Your poor father — some higher power had decided he deserved this. Your father, who was cruel, who killed and conquered, who was the horrible prince of the kingdom. Your father, who had already lost your mother. Your father, who would soon lose you.

“I don’t understand even now what you mean,” Kunigami said, setting you on the steps and straightening his shirt. “But I will do as you say. Wait here.”

He charged down the stairs, cutting through the crowds effortlessly with his imposing presence. You watched him go before turning back to the church, marveling at the building, the white pillars and the silvery dome which shone in the sky like a daytime moon. Statues of angels and muses lined the roof, and across the facade, there were words engraved. You could hardly read them, but you knew by heart what was written: On this mountain, I shall build my home, and thereupon I will give you the keys with which to reach me.

You didn’t know when your legs buckled, but they must’ve, for suddenly you were lying prone on the stairs, the stone freezing against your face, and although it was hardly the place for it, you found your tucking your fists under your forehead, exhaling and thinking of how sublime it would be to drift off now, drift off and not wake up for many hours or days…

“Y/N L/N.” The voice was the same, but there was something else behind it. Never had he spoken with such strength and such sadness in combination; his typical apathy had been chased away entirely, replaced with a fond if not distant pity. “I told you that you would not be alone. Did I not?”

Hands like embers held your face carefully, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he tugged your jaw up so that you could look at him. You hardly had the strength to lift your head — how had you not known that it was coming? How had you ignored the symptoms of your own condition? Was it that you did not want to know it and so you refused to recognize the simple fact which had been looming over you for months now? But ignoring it did not make it go away. Ignoring it did not make it false. Ignoring it did not change the truth of the matter: that you were dying, that you had been dying for a long time now.

“Kaiser,” you said. He appeared different, though you could not place it; there was something hazy and golden about him, but regardless you were assured that it was him and no other. 

“Some know me by that name,” he said. “Most do not.”

“What do you mean?” you said.

“Michael!” It was your father who was screaming the name, and when you shifted, you realized he was doing his best to run towards you, though your uncles held him back, shock reflecting in their faces as your father bawled. “Michael, divine lord, don’t take her, too. Anybody else, be it the queen, my brothers — even me! Kill me, kill the entire kingdom if you must, but leave Y/N. Spare her, and I will repent! I will change my ways, and I will force the others to change as well. Spare her and I will do whatever you ask — but please, please spare her.”

“You should’ve come to this conclusion longer ago,” Kaiser said, and though he spoke at a regular volume, his voice rang through the square like he had shouted. “The time for begging is long gone. The plague will continue until all of you are dead. By my sword, I swear—”

“Michael,” you said. He was silent immediately, and you fought to keep your eyes open. Noticing your lowering your eyelashes against the sun, he reflexively spread his wings to cover you in shade, allowing you to admire him in full for the first time. “Has it been you all along?”

“Yes,” he said, a soft breeze running through his feathers and ruffling his hair. “Yes, it has been.”

“My mother was right,” you said. “You really are as beautiful as the paintings. Though, you were right as well. There is nothing resembling serenity in your expression.”

To your surprise, he chuckled, though there was a distinct tinge of sorrow behind it, so that it was as similar to a sob as it was to a laugh. Something moist splashed onto your face, and at first you thought he, too, was crying, but then you realized it came from his sword, which he brandished even now. Blood, that was what it was, the source of those sanguine stains which were now animated and lively, weeping down the length of the blade and dripping onto the white marble beneath his feet.

“Of course there is not,” he said. “When there is so much injustice in this world, how can I ever be serene?”

“You brought this plague upon us,” you said. “And the snakes, and the flood.”

“I did,” he said. “It was divine will. In the face of it, even I am powerless.”

“By your sword,” you said. “Is that why you hold it before you always?”

“How intelligent you are,” he said. “Oh, if only it were not you.”

“But you can stop it,” you said. “If you deem us worthy of being saved, you can prevent anyone else from dying.”

“Not you,” he said. “It’s too late. Even if I do that, I cannot save you. Not this time.”

“That’s alright,” you said. “You needn’t save me again. Once was enough. I’ve not done anything to be deserving of a second time.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You are the only one who I want to save. If you are lost, then there is nobody worthy of surviving. What have any of the rest ever proved to me? What goodness have they ever shown? What virtue or introspection? They are all brutes, and so they have earned it.”

“I cannot say whether that is true or not,” you said. “I don’t know about anyone else. But if even one other person like me exists and your inaction kills them, too, then will you ever be forgiven?”

“I am an angel,” he said. “I seek no forgiveness. I have not done anything to necessitate it.”

“I will not forgive you,” you said. 

“What does it mean?” he said. “What will any of it mean once you are gone?”

Your father had fallen to ground, repeating every prayer he had ever been taught, and even your uncle the king, who was typically stolid in the face of adversity, who had not placed a foot wrong the entire time he had thought his wife was the one prophesied to die, had tears shimmering in his eyes.

“Forgive them,” you said, and then, to your surprise, Michael, or Kaiser, or whichever name you called him, for it was irrelevant when they were all in reference to this singularly grand being — was dropping to his knees and tenderly taking your head so that it could rest on his lap. “As I will forgive you, forgive them. Please.”

Nobody even breathed. Every single body in the kingdom was stationary; the rabbits, the dormice, the people and the snakes, all of them waited to see what he would do. For a moment, it was nothing, and after that he merely hunched over and pressed his lips to your temple, his wings arcing to cover your body from any who might dare to glance at it.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I cannot save you, Y/N L/N, so this time, without riddles nor fuss, I will oblige you.”

A small smile graced his face, albeit an anguished one more characteristic of men than of angels, and as one blazing hand grew hotter and hotter against your rapidly-cooling cheek, he raised his sword in the air; then, for the first time since the plague had begun, he sheathed it.

[callahanisms]

Impressions - Part 02

pairing: tashi duncan x bipoc! fem! reader

word count: 2.3k words

context: 2019. los angeles. tashi duncan has found her perfect actor after a vigorous round of auditions. but did the actor stumble upon the audition by chance? or was it premeditated?

no specific pronouns used. reader is able bodied and can speak. reader is about 25, while tashi is 31/32.

based on this post. check out part 01.

sorry for taking so long. grad school is really kicking my butt right now.

She doesn’t seem impressed.

The way she turns the pages of the stapled papers, her nails glimmering in the light. There’s a hint of glitter and they have a cream to pink ombre. They look really nice. And it was clear she had just gotten them done. The clear gloss made her lips look soft and shiny.

Your heart is pounding. You don’t know why. Tashi Duncan asked you for criticism of her work. Were you perhaps not harsh enough? It was hard to tell. The script was just…well, you wanted to keep reading. You had to read it a fourth time to actually start annotating and adding your notes. It was also hard to criticize her vision without any sort of visual. Film was a visual medium after all. It was hard to see what she meant when you were reading.

“Did you hold back?”

You pick up the glass of sangria and take a small sip. “Well…”

Tashi looks at you expectantly. “I thought you’d be harsher.”

“It’s hard to judge entirely. Because part of film critique is…to see the film…”

Her other hand plays with the fork, before stabbing a few leaves and tomatoes of her salad. “So…essentially, you can’t fully critique it without seeing the actual film.”

“A script is only part of it. I just think it’d be nice to have some sort of visual.” Your plate was already clean from your appetizer. It felt odd to be treated to a full course meal by Tashi. But she said you wouldn’t need to pay. Which was generous considering how expensive the restaurant was and being an adjunct didn’t pay as much as you wanted it to. Plus rent was due soon.

“That’s fair. I have a specific vision I want to achieve.” She closes the script and her finger runs over the colored tabs. She liked that the cover page had a key for the colors—by highlighter and by tab. “You seem well aware of that.”

“I’ve watched…most of your stuff. All your films. Majority of the television episodes you’ve directed. And I’ve watched a lot of behind the scenes interviews.” You feel your cheeks heat up. Honestly, you sounded like a bit of a fan.

There’s a smile creeping up on Tashi’s face. “It’s surprisingly rare to find people that have watched your work and…understand your process.” She says. “It takes a certain amount of trust and popularity to be given full control.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve proven yourself already. Your last film was amazing. 5 stars on Letterboxd.” You hold your glass, tipping it towards the director.

Tashi picks up her cocktail and gently taps the glass against your own. “You and the other hundreds of thousands of people.”

“Where are we?”

Tashi puts the car in park and turns off the ignition with the touch of a button. There’s a click and the rapid retraction of her seatbelt. “My house.” The sound of the door opening is crisp. Or maybe it’s because the sangria made things sound sharper than they should.

It was actually smaller than you thought. But certainly a lot of space for a person living alone. “How many bedrooms?” You unbuckle your seat and climb out of the car. The air feels refreshing against the hot skin of your face. You could feel the vessels throbbing beneath from the body’s processing of the ingested alcohol. You make sure to close the door all the way and follow after her.

Her keys have a keychain attached to it: a Sonny Angel with a frog hat. And he’s wearing a green shirt and some jeans. “Three beds, one full bath, one half bath.” She says. “It’s expensive, but I can afford it. And one of the bedrooms is…well, you’ll see.” When she looks back at you, it’s teasing. The corner of her mouth is curled into one of her charming smirks. The kind that also became a popular meme to use online. “The other is a guest bedroom. Because you never know when someone’s going to stay the night.”

“So…does that mean your parents drop in often?”

“Yes.” The door clicks and she pushes the door open. “Hi~” Her voice is suddenly a pitch higher.

When you step into the house and close the door behind you, you see why. A gray tabby cat nuzzles up against Tashi’s leg, mewling. It suddenly jumps, trying to climb up her pants. You remove your shoes, setting them to the side so they aren't in the way of the door. And you make sure to lock the front door. “Who’s this?” You ask.

“I named her K.C.” Tashi gently pries the cat off of her pants and holds her.

“After your character on that spy sitcom?”

“Yes. Precisely.” Her nails scratch K.C.’s chin and there’s a purr in response. “She’s a little troublemaker. But she followed me home one day after I went out to eat. No one came to claim her, so now she’s my cat.”

You take a few steps closer to her and put your finger out. K.C. sniffs the offered finger and nuzzles her nose against it. “How old is she?”

“Around six months. She followed me home when she was only eight weeks old.” Tashi bends down to set the cat down. You follow the director into the kitchen, taking in the decorations after your eyes adjust to the sudden turning on of the soft lights. You’re not surprised to find plenty of movie posters on the wall, including one of Amélie and Tampopo. Which was smart. Putting the movie about food in the kitchen certainly made the hunger return.

Tashi quickly fills her bowl with some kibble, wet food, and a little bit of bone broth. She sets it down and K.C. immediately begins to eat. “Kittens. They always eat like they were never fed.” You joke.

“There was a time she literally ate my toast.” Tashi slowly plucks the rings off her fingers and washes her hands. They move so delicately. Covered in a thick layer of suds. Her scrubbing beneath her fingernails. The water washes away the soap and she turns off the faucet, drying her hands. The towel gets between her fingers. Her fingers. Her long fingers. She slides the rings back on. “She jumped up and just took my toast out of my fingers. And it had grape jelly on it—”

“Wait. You eat grape jelly?” You knew no one that actually liked grape jelly. Aside from your grandfather and younger brother.

Tashi rolls her eyes. “I prefer raspberry. But a friend got me an artisanal grape jelly when he visited the farmer’s market. Said it’d be good to try it. And it was good. I just prefer raspberry. The tartness balances better with the sugar.” She begins walking and when she looks back at you, you know what she’s saying.

Follow me.

Your feet carry you and you can faintly smell the lingering notes of her perfume. Tashi turns the hallway light on and then opens a door off to the side. She flicks the light switch on and the room is filled with a warm light. You stand in the door while she goes over to the desk and leans against it, arms crossed over her chest.

You’re taken in by the boxes in the corner, stacked. There’s an easel by the window. Multiple sheets of paper were taped onto the wall. There’s a board with more sheets of paper pinned to it. It definitely feels like an artist’s studio, a stark contrast to the reality of Tashi Duncan as a filmmaker.

“So you’re artsy?” You ask.

“You could say that.” She cocks her head to the side. “You can come in, you know.”

“Yeah…I’m afraid I might set this place on fire.” A nervous chuckle escapes you. It’s utterly gorgeous. And some of the pieces on the wall take your breath away. Gorgeous. Vibrant. Full of color and with gorgeous shading. There’s some photographs tapped around the room too. Mostly landscapes and settings. One collection is just a room at different angles.

“You won’t. Just come take a look. These are my storyboards.”

���...Huh!”

Your jaw practically dropped.

These were Tashi Duncan’s storyboards?

This was on a similar level to Ridley Scott. That was kind of mindblowing. “Y-Your storyboards?”

“I just have a really tedious process.” Tashi uncrosses her arms and rests them between her thighs. “It’s a little…frustrating. But it really helps get the images out of my head and onto something tangible. And if it doesn’t look like what I actually want it to, then I am still satisfied anyways because my vision was fulfilled.”

Your step is gentle and you walk over to the board first. This was clearly the storyboard with guidelines and vague shapes to indicate lighting and shadows. It was clear to see that Tashi’s strong suit was perspective. Your eyes slowly move to the big paper taped to the wall. A woman looking up. The light is shining down while the background is bathed in a dark blue light. Blood covers her mouth and drips down her chin and neck. The neckline of her dress is red, soaked from blood. And…

“She kind of looks like me.”

Tashi purses her lips. “Yeah.” She lets out a small laugh. “It just came to me in a dream.”

You look back at her, smiling. “It’s funny how dreams work, huh? The kind of people our subconscious recognizes and puts together. Which reminds me. I think you should maybe lean more into psychoanalysis for your movie. I know the idea of id, ego, and superego is overdone and may be boring…but I think there would be something interesting in presenting your three primary characters in that way. It never gets old. And honestly, psychoanalytical readings are never not trendy.”

“That’s actually an amazing suggestion.” Tashi licks her lips. You fail to notice her eyes trailing down your back.

“I’m happy you think so. I think a lot of film scholars would just go crazy over it.” You look at her. “Also, where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall to your right. It has a peacock on the door.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. I just had a lot of sangria.”

Tashi watches you leave. And she turns back to her desk, collecting the photos together and putting them in a neat pile. Pictures of you. Some of them were stills. Some your headshots. Others from your Instagram account. She opens the drawer and lifts up a manila folder and sketchbook, shoving the photos beneath. The drawer slams shut and she opens another drawer off the side, pulling out some more books.

She hears the sound of the toilet flushing and then the running water of the sink. You come back within three minutes, hands dried and rubbing lotion into your skin. “Where’d you get the lotion in the bathroom?”

“Costco.”

“Damn. That’s hot.”

You realize what you just said.

“I-I mean…it’s hot that you have a Costco membership!”

Tashi can’t help but laugh. “I would say the same to someone. Do you want something to drink? Some tea? Or maybe some water?”

“I think water would be good.”

“Be right back.” When Tashi leaves the room, her clothes brush against you. You feel the goosebumps forming over your arm. And there’s her perfume. It was addictive.

You decide to walk around the room, taking in the storyboards more. You don’t dare touch the boxes, despite the urge to look. There’s something else that satiates your curiosity: the books on the desk. You pick one up and carefully open it to a random page. It’s some sketches. You recognize one of the sketches as actor and producer Art Donaldson. You forgot that he was in Tashi’s second film, on top of producing it.

“Like them?”

You nearly jump, slamming the book closed. Tashi walks over and sets a mug of water on the desk. She hands you the other one and you take it. There are flowers on it. “Sorry. I was just looking—”

“It’s fine. You’re already in here. You might as well look.” Tashi shrugs.

“You’re like…amazing!”

“It took a lot of practice.” Tashi grabs the more run down book and flips it open. You purse your lips to stifle a laugh. “It’s okay, you know. We all start somewhere. Besides, Rian Johnson’s storyboards look the same. And this was my first time directing.”

Tashi Duncan’s directorial debut. Inside Audrey Horne.

“You’re right. I mean if it gets the job done…what’s the point in arguing?” You take a sip of the cold water. “So you practiced and now…you just do full on art pieces?”

“I like experimenting with color.” She shrugs. “And naturally if I am taking inspiration from Dario Argento and technicolor, then it’s best to figure out what colors mesh well.”

“So what do you use?”

“Pastels. I like my drawings to look smooth.”

“You do have a way with color.” Your eyes keep going back to the big drawing on the wall, of your lookalike staring up at something in both awe and horror. “I’m guessing that’s the scene of when I cannibalize my former castmate?”

“It is. I have a specific idea of what that shot would look like.” Tashi takes a sip, her brown eyes watching your body language. You’re at ease. You’re relaxed. You’re in the mood for chatter and to hear more, like the film nerd that you were. “So…do you have anything else you want to add?”

“I mean…your script is solid. And seeing what you intend to make just…it’s awesome to see what your vision is.”

Even though Tashi said she didn’t want a yes man, she still liked getting praise. It was necessary to know what she was doing right and how to keep it right. But hearing it from you was different. It was more special. So she decides to prompt you.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

[white-eagle-roleplay]

FO4 Memories #3

Happy Belated Fallout Friday, guys! Was feeling under the weather yesterday, so my post is delayed to today! Hancock's first affinity conversation with my sole survivor got interrupted by raiders, but his final one was as romanctic as you could get. Imagine this: you enter an abandoned church with Hancock late at night to escape the rain and catch some shuteye. Surrounded by candles, he nervously asks you if you have the time to talk, and gives you the option to romance him... So, being the writer that I am, I had to write a short drabble based off of a real affinity conversation that I had with Hancock during my last playthrough of FO4!

Pairings: Hancock x reader Words: about 1267

Hancock stumbled into the abandoned church after you, eager to get out of the cold, icy rain. By some miracle, it was completely void of raiders and super mutants—there wasn't even a single radroach. It was almost too good to be true, but after carefully scouting the premises, it became clear that the church was indeed empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, you lowered your gear onto a dusty pew while Hancock began lighting some candles on the tables behind you. It wasn’t much, and the roof was leaking in a few places, but it was better than nothing. If you pulled a few of those pews together and spread a sleeping bag under them, you could make a cozy bed… "Hey, uh… When you have a moment, I've got something I need you to hear." You almost dropped your bag in surprise at the sudden closeness of Hancock’s voice. The ghoul mayor had always been surprisingly quiet upon his feet, and tonight was no exception. You stopped what you were doing and glanced over your shoulder. “Of cour—” You froze, surprised at how nervous the ghoul appeared. This was very uncharacteristic of him, especially with his charismatic, flirtatious demeanor. Although now that you thought about it, he had been quieter and more pensive than usual as well… Concerned, you stood up and walked over to him. "Is everything alright? Hancock was quick to reply, his words rasping out before you had finished speaking. "Oh yeah, better than that. This is just… tricky." Hancock averted his gaze and rocked from one foot to the other before finally drawing in a deep breath and turning to face you. "It’s just… being out here with you… It’s made me realize that most of my life I’ve been running out on the good things I got.” His words were cautiously paced and carefully selected, as though he had been rehearsing this conversation in his head for quite some time. “I skipped out on my family, my life in Diamond City." Once the words started tumbling out, Hancock could not stop—so you just let him continue. “Took up with you just to get outta Goodneighbor.” He paused, his face contorting with regret. “Hell, running from myself is what made me into… into a damn ghoul…"

This caught you by surprise, because on the rare occasions that Hancock did talk about his past, he never referred to his ghoulishness so negatively. It made you realize that the mayor of Goodneighbor might be less secure about himself than he let on, and that all that confidence he exuded was just a facade. Your gaze softened, but you did not interrupt. He rarely talked about himself, let alone his past. If you said anything now, you might not get another chance to learn about the ghoul you had developed feelings for. “It’s just…” Hancock’s voice was soft, and his gaze even softer, “Being out here with you, it’s made me realize just how small time I’d been thinking, and that maybe all my running from my life, myself… maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.” The ghoul seemed less nervous than when he initiated the conversation, but something told you that there was still more to come. You had no idea what, but you could tell that what he needed right now was an open ear and support. Finally, you reached out and laid a hand upon Hancock’s arm, your fingers brushing against the crimson velvet of his coat. “You may have run,” you agreed gently, “But you always ran for a reason.” Hancock’s lips spread into a small smile. “Been trying to convince myself of that for a long time,” he said, “but hearing that coming from someone like you… I don’t know if you understand what that means to me.” There was something about the tone of his voice that gave you pause and made your heart beat just a little faster… Thinking back to how nervous he had been at the start of the conversation, a sudden realization began to dawn upon you. Could it be… “So, lemme get to the point,” Hancock continued, “Throwing in with you has been the best decision I’ve ever made. It’s like I found a part of myself I never realized was missing… which happens sometimes when you’re a Ghoul.” He gave a wry smile, a small inside joke between him and himself. “If I hadn’t taken up with you, I’d probably be in a gutter somewhere, getting gnawed on by radroaches. You have been one hell of a friend.” One hell of a friend. Your heart sank at those words, and your chest felt as though a cold fist had just pummeled through it. You swallowed the bitter taste upon your tongue. Could it be that you had misinterpreted him? He did have reputation for being… very affectionate… But then, there were times when you suspected that there may have been something more, especially with the way his voice softened and his gaze deepened… "Have… have you ever thought about us as maybe more than just friends?” As soon as those words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back. What if you had misinterpreted everything, and were just about to ruin— "Heh," Hancock breathed, a sad smile spreading across his ruined lips. "It that obvious?" His voice seemed to crack, and when you looked over at him, his face was tight, as though he was struggling to keep it passive. Before you could say anything, he plunged on, trying to cover himself. "But come on, you don’t want to wake up to this mug every morning. Never wish that on anyone I cared for…" This last part was spoken so quietly that it was barely audible against the increasing storm. "Hancock…" It was then that you realized that he was terrified of rejection, and that he really was far more insecure than he let on. And here you were worried that he only saw you as a friend, when in fact he had been harboring deep emotions for you for who knows how long. Gathering your courage, you reached out and tenderly touched his jaw, tilting his face towards yours. "Hey…" you said softly, "D-don't call yourself that. You're perfect the way you are and… nothing would make me happier than waking up to your handsome face every morning." You felt your cheeks grow warm as you tenderly caressed Hancock's scarred check. "Screw anyone who makes you feel ashamed…”

With a smile, Hancock reached up and covered your hand with his, holding it against his cheek. "Wasn't thinking about the folks doing the shaming," he murmured. He brushed his lips against your fingertips in a delicate kiss, then pulled you into a tight embrace, his face burying into the crook of your neck. You could have sworn that you felt a dampness against your skin… Tentatively, you wrapped your arms around him and gently rubbed his back. “Hancock? You… are you alright?” “Yeah…” Hancock’s voice no longer sounded nervous, but rather relieved. He went silent for a minute, then exhaled slowly. “Heh… You know… moments like this, I know all that karma stuff is bull, because no one like me should be this lucky…" For a long time, he stood there, holding your body firmly against his. Time seemed to slow to a standstill, and the world reduced to nothing but the dust, empty pews, and flickering candles around you. The storm outside had long since ended, or perhaps it was drowned out by the beating of your own heart…

[charcubed]

Ted Lasso, the Roy/Keeley/Jamie triangle, and – dare I say it? –television history

No matter your preferred term for the throuple, OT3, or poly relationship on Ted Lasso, it’s worth appreciating.

The more I think about it, the more I believe that the creative team behind Ted Lasso is doing something with RoyKeeleyJamie that doesn’t exist in precisely the same way anywhere else. In my opinion — and with the disclaimer that my frame of reference is (of course) limited—what they’ve done here is incredibly unique and maybe even groundbreaking.

These declarations of mine aren’t premature or at all conditional on how explicitly “official” their relationship may or may not get to be in the season 3 finale. I say this from my current perspective after episode 3x11, because after that episode I feel that what they’ve been doing with this part of the story has been made abundantly clear.

When it comes to Roy Kent, Keeley Jones, and Jamie Tartt, it would’ve been very easy and even expected for the writers to fall into the trap of making them into a typical love triangle at any point. Yet they never did. People might ascribe the traditional “love triangle” label to the trio because it’s a familiar frame of reference, but as a term I feel like it’s not actually applicable to the story beats we’ve seen.

These characters have never been in any true rivalry motivated by jealousy, insecurity, or possessiveness in regards to one another’s relationships. By contrast, within their triangle and amongst all of their separate pairings, their common denominator has been mutual attempts at building respect, communication, and accountability. Roy and Jamie’s conflicts with each other predated and were never centered around their love for Keeley, and Keeley was never put in a position of having to choose between the boys. Keeley was allowed to care about both of them in different ways, maintaining different relationships with each of them on her own terms. None of them pretended they couldn’t all care about each other in some capacity while still acknowledging boundaries and variation in their relationships. And while this shouldn’t be a big deal or a surprise–especially because Ted Lasso is a show defined by second chances, found families, and endless variations of love–it’s still refreshing enough to warrant praise.

As part of that, because the writers didn’t rely on nor fear the typical contrived “love triangle” dynamic, all three of the characters’ stories were kept heavily intertwined. They live and work in the same spaces, and they care about each other in various ways, so of course they interact and share advice. Their individual arcs were then intentionally informed by the ways they learned to grow because of each other, intertwining them further.

While I don’t know for sure if the writers’ goal was to eventually approach them as an inseparable group, I suspect it wasn’t, based on a couple of quotes I’ve seen float around. That means that they may have seen the potential for the non-platonic “triangle,” chose to lean into it relatively quickly (the show is only 3 seasons!), and continued to build it so it feels organic and cohesive. That speaks volumes as to their talent and it’s also part of what makes this situation so unique.

Along those lines: Ted Lasso is a mainstream ensemble show with several storylines in play. It’s not solely or primarily about romance. It’s also not a “queer show,” meaning that queer storylines were not a central pillar of its premise, nor were they part of its original appeal to or promise to audiences.

Of course, there are now several queer storylines/characters in season 3 amongst the ensemble cast that have clearly been planned from the start, including Colin, Trent, Keeley, etc. That’s fantastic, and anytime a show doesn’t “start out” as blatantly queer but later makes a natural place for the development of queer characters within its wider story, it’s a huge win. It’s also great storytelling!

But rarely is that the case when it comes to polyamory. While there are several movies and shows that include it… most poly representation is within the context of an already radically queer story, or within the context of a story that’s solely about being polyamorous. Any non-monogamous relationships–or even the potential for them–are very rarely given casual, “normalized” inclusion amongst an ensemble, or treated like just another romance in the mix.

And yet… Roy, Keeley, and Jamie seemingly have been, with beautiful complexity. It's like seeing a real windmill for the first time.

This “triangle that symbolizes home” has been built as a three piece, slow burn, collective romance. Equal weight has been given to developing them as individuals while developing all of the ways they intersect and connect, with no combination falling by the wayside. Between Keeley/Jamie, Roy/Keeley, and Roy/Jamie, you can chart the trajectory of how they all grew to love each other and how they’re now coming together as a group towards the end. It all plays out with various levels of romantic motifs across the board, and–as if that isn’t already enough!–with added subtext through costuming/wardrobe, set details, framing, and music. It has been formed and shaped with great attention to detail, and of course with unbelievably beautiful acting choices that bring it to life. (Analyzing those details at length would require its own post.)

This sort of thing may exist in other media, but I’ve personally never seen anything like it before. I’ve certainly never heard of it happening in such a high-profile, widely-loved show like this.

Here, with one episode left, the equal setup of the three now feels complete and ready for a future. Roy and Keeley aren’t back together yet, so Jamie wouldn’t feel like an add-on if that is indeed where they take the story. Roy and Keeley haven’t even kissed on screen this season, in a way that feels deliberate (and anticipatory). And it’s now clear that the relationship struggles any 2 characters may have had as couples can be improved upon by adding the third person, so they’d all be fully supported in a throuple.

For example: Keeley helps them all to be more vulnerable and open while also being a problem solver. Roy’s steady, heartfelt, but no-nonsense encouragement builds them all up with confidence but not toxic pride. Jamie now wears his heart on his sleeve, bringing a level of fun and joy that’s incomparably him. If Keeley sometimes needs space, Roy and Jamie are clearly happy to be indefinitely tied together (sometimes literally). If Jamie or Keeley want to be the life of any party, they’ve got a partner for the scene so Roy doesn’t feel obligated to match that energy. Roy and Jamie relate through football as a specific kind of language, understanding that part of each other as only they can while Keeley cheers from the side. Each of them has taught the others new skills along the way.

If any of them now enter into new relationship territory, it sure seems like they’ll do it all together as a full set–and be stronger for it.

Feel free to call me a fool, but at this point I’m confident that at minimum they’re going to leave this story hinting at the three of them getting together off screen in the future. That’s the baseline I personally really wanted, and it’s more than I’d have previously dared to hope for.

In terms of what could happen on screen: Do I want them all to have a conversation about dating each other and/or kiss and/or be shown in bed together? Yes. Do I think at least one (if not all) of those things are going to happen in the season finale? After episode 3x11, I find myself nearly convinced we’re going to get SOMETHING of the sort. It feels like a thread that needs pulling (or a Chekhov’s gun that needs firing?) after Roy and Keeley’s conversation in Jamie’s room. It’s the next bit of natural and needed evolution for all of them.

Or, as Trent Crimm once said, “You’ve done this over three seasons. . . thousands of imperceptible moments, all leading to their inevitable conclusion.”

But am I counting on that inevitable louder conclusion? Will I be disappointed if it doesn’t happen? Do I think any of that explicit behavior has to happen for this poly relationship to be considered canon and have merit?

Not at all. 

That’s not how I choose to view media. Personally, I never play the unwinnable game of debating the ever-shifting goalposts of what constitutes “good representation.” Relatedly, I think the word “queerbaiting” is almost always misused and probably shouldn’t exist at all. And I’m tired of the lack of nuance in these discussions where people act like fictional queer relationships have to hit a certain level of “canon enough” in order to “count.” Many of those arbitrary goals seem to often be determined by whether or not ~all audiences~ can magically be convinced by the queer relationship’s seeming legitimacy. But queer stories aren’t made for the people who are oblivious to them at best or looking for reasons to disregard them at worst; at the end of the day, they’re made for queer people, as well as for anyone who has media literacy and an open mind.

If you ask me, RoyKeeleyJamie is already “canon.” Anything else we get now is just a bonus. And ultimately–after everything I outlined above–I am very aware of how unique this particular situation is, and how more explicitly going “all the way” with any queer dynamic (let alone polyamory) is still never a simple or easy task for creators to accomplish. Even in 2023.

However.

IF they do it?

If everyone involved in both creating this show and approving it (which is very key) had the sheer courage to go all the way with this storyline, in a way that most mainstream audiences won’t be able to ignore or deny without sounding stupid?

Well.

Then they’d better get a great deal of overdue praise and acknowledgement. And I will be loudly losing what’s left of my mind in the best possible way.

(I had to write this now just in case I’m incoherent after the finale.)

Either way: I am FLOORED by what we’ve gotten up to this point! I’m thrilled! I’m having a great fucking time!

And I’m very, very grateful to the team that’s put together such a beautiful triangular love story for our enjoyment.

It truly feels like it’s one of a kind.

---------

I posted this on Medium as well here :)

(so I can pull the lunatic move of tweeting it @ the writers with a more legitimate link)

[danidoesathing]

hiii took a little bit long but here's my gift fic for the LH Secret Santa exchange hosted by @tinylongwing for @hissydyke ! I went with the second prompt for cowboys and landscapes and threw in some of the stuff from the favorite list to make uh. this weird little thing! hope ya like it and happy new year

In The Pines

(ao3 verison if it's easier to read)

Anyone who’s lived their life out in the untamed western wilds knows there are things in this world you don’t understand. You aren’t supposed to. There are things out there that are bigger than you and you’ve gotta learn how to steer clear of them, or you ain’t gonna live long enough to see another day. 

It’s not always as easy as simply avoiding them though. The longer you live out here, the higher chance you run across something, or something will run across you. Adapting to the land’s fickle whims is key to surviving. Most of these things, you’ll find, are like animals. Not so much in mind (they are always, always smarter than you think) as much as behavior – they stick to their territory and defend it with their whole heart. Pass on by without bothering them and they’re more than likely to stick to themselves. Maybe keeping a close eye on you, but most aren’t gonna attack without reason. So don’t give them one.

Passing through their territory is a risk you don’t want to take. They’re as fickle as mother nature herself. Assuming you have any other option, take it. If you don’t, you better know who you’re trespassing against. Your one chance at getting through is riding on the hope you can appease them. Maybe it’ll cost you gold, a horse, a limb, a life, a soul. Maybe less, maybe more. Doesn’t matter. Pay your toll and get a move on.

The outlaw resting on the edge of the pines knows this. She’s a young thing, but she’s lived a thousand lives out here and then some. She’s worked her way around the lands long enough to still be standing above ground, and that more than speaks for itself. Her horse is restless and is hardly soothed by her hand, but he does not buck or flee. He is an animal, but he’s not a fool. Those who cross through the pines are either brave, foolhardy, or desperate. You’re welcome to guess which one she is.

The course they take through the false forest can hardly be called a path – the trees parting just enough to allow her and her horse to pass through. The snow falls like a curtain over the pines, obscuring what little can be seen through the trees. The wind howls, carving mounds into the deep snow. This place is not made for human travel. Exceptions are rarely made.

They weave through the maze of trees and climb the slope until they find themselves at a clearing. At the opposite edge sits a mass of rocks, half buried by the snow. At the base of the mass is a tree, withered and ancient, that splits in two at it’s trunk. 

The outlaw steps into the center of the clearing and waits. Instincts itch under her skin, telling her she is too exposed, too vulnerable out in the open. There are shapes among the shadows of the treeline. The urge to run grows stronger with each new pair of glimmering eyes that stare out into the darkness. But she stamps it down and holds her ground. Fear will do her no good. She waits.

From behind the massive split tree, something climbs out. It looks like a young girl, no older than fourteen, with wiry hair and baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. Her jacket is puffy and torn, and her clothes are strange even to the outlaw. Frost clings to her skin like a child to it’s mother. Her eyes are devoid of light. A corpse’s eyes.

“I seek safe passage,” the outlaw states.

The girl looks up at her. The shadows among the treeline crawl forward, showing more of the same – strange inhabitants with empty eyes.

“A trade?” The girl offers.

“A trade.”

A sacrifice. Not of the blood and flesh variety – you can’t cut off the head of a lamb and call it good. It must be of worth to you. A real sacrifice. Whether or not there’s blood on it- well, that depends on you.

For the outlaw, it’s a ring on a chain. Not a particularly lavish one – cheap metal and a tiny red stone, already started to crack and rust from the years of wear and tear. It hasn’t seen use in many, many years.

She drops in at the base of the split tree. 

The girl with the hollow eyes watches it fall. She looks back up at the outlaw and stares through her. She is waiting for an answer from someone and something the outlaw cannot see. The outlaw holds her gaze, refusing to flinch even as the wind tears at her face and the frost eats at her skin.

Then the girl nods. She turns her back to the outlaw and crawls back into the treeline. The rest of the shadows follow suit. They leave behind no marks in the snow. The ring rests at the bottom of the altar still, soon to be buried among the rest of the offerings.

To the outlaw’s right, a thin path snakes through the pines. She takes this as her cue to get a move on. Best not to overstay your welcome in a place like this.

Tracking time is a pointless task in the pines. The outlaw and her horse could’ve been traveling through those woods for minutes or hours or years – it doesn’t matter. They will get to where they need to go. Eventually, the forest splits more evenly into a world she’s more familiar with. The one she belongs to – dry air and endless open planes. Summer’s heat presses down on the back of her neck. The sky is clear. There is no snow on the ground. The maw of the forest is gone. 

The sun begins to rise over the hills. Another deal made. Another day lived.

The outlaw does turn around behind her as she leaves. There is nothing to look back to.

[britt-kageryuu]

There were times Donnie wondered why some people watch some of the streams they did. He's literally just putting together the bases for a mod they were adding to a private MMO server. If it was for his model, he really didn't want to know how many fans simped over a 3D Model of him in a pair of deep lavander sweatpants, a black tank top, Atomic Lass slippers, and his usual decorated mask.

Shelldon was zipping about the studio with River following after, testing her newly upgraded body that could move much faster than previously. Their models would pop up every now and then when they got close to the computer workstations.

A notification goes of, which prompted him to check the prompter that listed the recent donations and subscriptions.

"Thank You, 'DancingintheWaves' for the $30 donation, 'We know Blue can speak Spanish, so do you and your brothers know any other Languages?' Why yes, we all have picked up some Spanish from Blue, and Señor Hueso, but on top of that we all have learned Sign Language," He pauses to make sure his hands are in clear veiw, "And before you ask for a demonstration remember this model only has 6 fingers. Jazz Hands!" He does a bit of jazz hands to emphasize this point.

" 'Aren't their any official altered Sign Language for those who lose fingers?' Maybe, but I don't think it's very well documented. Though I can show you the way to 'sign' my name," He forms what resembles D, then tapped his head before moving his hand away, "A simple D, and signing Smart. The others can show their own on their own time."

Another notification goes off.

" 'TerrapinTurnabout' thank you for the $10, 'Why did you learns Sign Language?' Well that's not an invasive question what so ever, he said with great sarcasm." Donnie knew this would be asked, but it's still not annoying, "Okay, when I was a little Turtle Tot, I tended to be very non verbal, so we learned SL so that I could at least 'tell' them what might have upset me. From there it became just another way me and Blue could plan pranks without anyone else hearing. Now it's just better to keep up with it just in case."

He pauses to double check what he just typed out, because at least once he accidentally typed what he was saying, and not the code for the program.

"The just in case moments include, Mandarin and Blues jobs, and the rare Red fan. As for me, there are just days were talking is to much. Now let's run a test of what I have so far!" Donnie hypes up only to see the program not do what he expected. And the stream goes on from there.

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

Masterpost

[ashturnedtomist]

Keep it Covert Ch. 7

No, Damien’s Right. It IS weird.

Keep it Covert Masterlist

Previous | Beginning | Next

Summary: In which, Freelancer and Lovely meet, Damien is really frustrated for unrelated reasons.

Based off this post

Read it on Ao3!

Huxley was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement while Damien tiredly sipped on a cup of coffee next to him.

“I don’t understand why you had to wake everyone at 3 am last night to do this.” He mumbles.

Huxley seemed to somehow get brighter. “Because that’s when Lovely called! I had to make sure that everyone knew as soon as possible!”

Damien sighed, seemingly resigned as he took another sip of his coffee.

“…it’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon, how are you still tired?” Damien nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice in his ear.

There stood Freelancer with Gavin just behind. Lasko was rapidly approaching as well.

Damien got his bearings before shaking his head. “You try convincing Huxley to go back to sleep after he gets excited.”

They paused. “Fair enough.”

Lasko finally caught up, seemingly out of breath. “I…sorry…parking…down the street…”

Gavin frowned. “Why didn’t you just park in the parking lot?” Damien narrowed his eyes. “In this part of town? I’d like to keep my tires, thanks.”

Gavin gave him a playful smile. “Don’t be so harsh, Damien.”

Damien’s jaw clenches. “Not in the mood.” Huxley laughs. “C’mon, Dames. We’re here for a good time.”

——

The main room was generally empty, save for a pair of vampires flitting around the room and 2 men in business attire whispering in a corner.

One of the vampires broke away and dashed to Damien and Huxley. “Damien! Hux! How are you?”

Huxley grinned brightly. “Hey, you! How are you?”

They brightened. “I’m good!” They peeked around the earth elemental. “Who’s with you?”

Damien tiredly introduced each individual. “Lasko, Gavin, and the Freelancer.” Lasko gave a timid wave while Freelancer smiled. “Nice to meet you!” Gavin grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Nice to meet you, indeed.”

As if an alarm went off, another vampire was at their side in an instant. Lovely perked up. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I’m Lovely, and this is my boyfriend, Vincent.”

He waved, his sleeve rolling down to reveal his red bracelet. “Nice to meet you all.”

Freelancer’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you both vampires?”

Vincent shifted uneasily. “Yes…” Freelancer gasped. “Ohmigosh, I’ve never met a real one before! I have so many questions.” Vincent looked at Damien questioningly. “Freelancer is humanborn.”

Vincent smiles. “Oh. Lovely was a latent electro elemental before turning.” Freelancer’s eyes got even bigger. “What?! That’s so rare!”

Lovely’s face reciprocated their excitement. “Wait, you’re new to all this too?” The pair eventually broke off from the group, babbling to each other about being relatively new to empowered life.

Vincent sighed before turning to the remaining four. “Why don’t you check out the bar? Most of the staff doesn’t get here until 6, but Lovely wanted you guys to come early.”

Lasko tilted his head in confusion. “What? B-but we don’t even-”

“I asked them to do that.”

All four of their heads whipped around to see one of the men break away from the intense conversation he was holding with the other. He held out a hand. “Morgan. I own this place.”

Damien shook his hand tentatively. “Damien. And this is Lasko, Gavin, and Huxley.” He said, gesturing to each respective person.

The other man approaches. “I’m James. Morgan’s…associate.” He said, his eyes scanning all four of them. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to speak with a few of you.”

——

Freelancer was uncomfortable. They didn’t understand why: a.) this random man was pulling them away from a perfectly good conversation, b.) only Gavin and Lasko were allowed to be in his office with them, or c.) why he even wanted to talk to them in the first place.

They glanced over at Gavin and Lasko.

To the left of them sat Gavin. He sat comfortably in his chair, however, they could see that his usual cool demeanor was slightly fractured.

To the right, Lasko was practically vibrating in his seat. His eyes darted around the room while he periodically wiped his palms on the fabric of his pants.

They sighed. “Lasko, it’s probably fine.”

The air elemental bites his lip. “Wh-why would he want to talk to us? What-what is so dif-dif-different about us that-that they had to separate us from-from Damien and-and-and-and- Huxley?”

“Worrying like that isn’t going to help anyone, Lasko.”

“B-but-”

“Glad to see you all.”

Lasko practically jolted out of his seat at the sound of James’ voice.

James raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“What do you want with us?” Gavin questions lowly.

James sighs and sits down across from the three other magic users.

“I have some questions for you three,” he says, pulling a file out of his desk. He tosses it in front of him and the photographs that spill out make Freelancer’s blood run cold.

“…about the Inversion.”

——

“No, this is weird, Huxley.” Damien says harshly.

The taller man frowns at his boyfriend. “Try not to stress too much, Dames. I don’t think anything will happen. Lovely wouldn’t bring us here to lure us into a trap,” He glances at them out of the corner of his eye. “…right?”

Lovely nods assuredly. “I promise, I didn’t know James was going to ambush them like that.” They place their hand on their chest, ignoring Vincent’s indignant ‘Hey!’ when they say, “I swear on Vincent’s immortal soul. It’ll be fine.”

Huxley turns back to Damien. “See? It’ll be okay.” Damien grumbles something under his breath, still not convinced.

However, his grumbling is interrupted by the front door of the club swinging open.

“God, I need a drink.” Damien flinches at the familiar voice.

His head swivels around to take in the speaker, and yes, there, in all of their glory was, “…Smartass?”

“Damien?”

Tags—

Notes: I am SO sorry it took so long to post y’all, my life is a shitstorm these days.

(I literally have a friend reporting someone in one of my classes for going into intense detail on how he would shoot up the school, I got a boyfriend, and my grandfather almost died 3 times)

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Hi! Can I get poly Blu Heavy and Medic with their cute fem S/O on a romantic valentine's date night? Perhaps with just a smidgen of dollplay sprinkled in?

"First Valentine's" Poly Blu Heavy and Medic x F!S/O (Valentine's Event 2024)

I SUPPOSE SO. You're just so tiny and lovable, they gotta be careful with you tho! This ask is for the ongoing Valentine's Day Event!

TW: suggestive, doll play

Valentine's Day isn't a big holiday in Germany and it's still rather new in Russia. However, being amongst their American peers and now their little partner from the United States- Ludwig and Misha understood the importance of it's celebration. The two brainstormed ideas. From paper hearts to actual hearts to attempting to bake goods... While they could seek out Spy for advice, it wouldn't be as special as them putting things together.

While some may picture a fancy restaurant or outing, the two figured their plans would be better suited with privacy. A rarely used section of the base, the insurance that none of the numbskulls they worked with would bother them- Ludwig already has your measurements. Misha picked out the dress itself, knowing the doll-like frills you enjoy. It reminded him of the chocolate boxes with reds and deep browns that would compliment your eyes.

You would wake that morning with the dress in a box in front of your door in the base. A note to be ready to be picked up for dinner. This was the sort of thing you'd discussed in passing fancy, along with more... intimate aspects of being dressed up. That was for later. For now, you got to marvel at the way this dress hugged your curves and made you feel delicate. If nothing else came from Valentine's Day, this would be more than enough.

When the pair came to pick you up, Misha would quite literally sweep you off your feet, "Dolls deserve to be carried, da?"

While you were acutely aware of how strong the Heavy was, implied by the name, the way he lifted you like you weight nothing... Sends a streak up your spine.

"He's been waiting all afternoon you know." Ludwig teased, "And now we've come to take you away~ The scary men and their evil machinations!"

"Personally, I could think of several evil machinations I'd like you to put me in!" You pretended to go faint and limp in Misha's arms with a heavy sigh. The Russian man let you bounce in his arms before kissing your cheek. You could feel the light stubble against your skin.

"Little minx." Ludwig leaned to you, clicking his tongue, "Whatever will we do with her, Misha my love?"

"Dunno, Doctor... Keep her forever for us! We might have to eat her for rations in the winter. So sweet!" He mocked as though he was going to bite into your neck, causing you to playfully shout. They were definitely your dorks.

You noted as you walked that the hallways had become more twisting and long. Unfamiliar. It wasn't surprising, the base was still so new to you overall. Yet you were feeling further and further away from everyone else. It was exciting given how little privacy there could be at moments. No one could hear you scream, so to speak.

Misha gently allowed your feet to touch the ground as you entered what appeared to be a private office. It was a reasonable size, cleared out save for a table, chairs and decorations. Red and pink hearts had been crudely cut out of paper and posted to the walls. A cheesy cupid in the corner. It was... goofy. And so, so genuine. Chocolates and smaller meal pieces had been placed out over the table. All things you liked.

"All this for me, boys?" You twirled your skirts in a flourish, "You shouldn't have!"

"You like the dress, I take it?" Ludwig was already taking the opportunity to put his hands to your waist. Physical affection was a love language you they showered you with constantly. He leaned to kiss your cheek, mischief in his eyes, "All this food and suddenly I want something else-"

Misha wasted no time in clapping his hands over his doctor's shoulder, "Not yet. That is... later." He wasn't going to pretend his intentions were utterly pure himself. Already in his mind he'd been thinking of different positions to have you in between them...

Yet you were already flush and fumbling, "Yes- I- Uh-huh, the dress!" They both thought it was just so cute how confidently you could speak until push came to shove.

Next Misha looked to you, a hand under your chin, "How is this?" You knew what he meant. How did they do?

A smile, "It's perfect. This is... This is so nice-" You could feel yourself getting a little emotional. A deep breath. No crying today. Your hands went to the hem of your dress and you swished back and forth.

"You are beautiful, like always." Misha complimented.

Ludwig was already eating a piece of chocolate, "Tell her something she doesn't already know! But, yes, you are always beautiful. This merely acc-sentuates it. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day, both of you."

[romanticvampiric]

୨ Some data or curiosities about Bloody Kisses~! ♡

Note: Hi❕I wanted to do this so that more people can learn a little more about my selfship and so we can interact a little more about it❕ I don't know much about these things and I'm not an expert speaking english as well, so it would help me a lot if you correct my mistakes when speaking so that I don't make them in the future. If you are interested in knowing more, you can consult my second account (@lovebatty) to know more. ╰⁠(⁠*⁠´⁠︶⁠`⁠*⁠)⁠╯🩷

Sfw version!

୨ Their first ship name was Ryato, also called Heartberry and Bloody Kisses (💗🍓). There are also variations of it in different alternate universes.

୨ Their anniversary is in February 5th❕

୨ Their love began in 2015, so, they have been together for 8 years even though it is a different time than in the story. ♡

୨ Romantic is mexican, his dream was to dedicate himself to cinema or literature, but he ended up choosing journalism. He is an exchange student who decided to go to Japan for the intriguing ‘Haunted House’ that he initially wanted to investigate, there he accidentally met Ayato.

୨ They share engagement bracelets and rings; the first ones made by Romi and the second ones bought by Ayato.

୨ Romi is ISFJ & Ayato ESTP, which is considered an ideal couple within the MBTI. 🩷

୨ Romantic is a diligent student. He normally tends to help Ayato with his tasks and team projects ( they are always a pair ); explaining to him in the best way possible, because Romi cares a lot about him and doesn't want Ayato to recycle the year.

୨ Ayato did not realize that Romantic was carrying a rosary until ‘Dark 10’ of Haunted Dark Bridal, which initially made him think that he was religious ( specifically Catholic ), but as Romantic already said, he considers himself a semi-agnostic.

୨ Ayato knows that Romi is a trans boy and supports him ( in his own way ), even giving him another binder on his birthday❕ ＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／ 🏳️‍⚧️

୨ Although he doesn't say it openly all the time, Romi is not entirely against giving his blood to Ayato to drink whenever he needs it.

୨ The first time Romantic admitted to developing some attachment to Ayato was in ‘Dark 16’ of Haunted Dark Bridal, where he began to see him as good company.

୨ Although Ayato doesn't want to hurt Romantic, he loves to see him cry; calling him a ‘Crybaby’ because of how sensitive he is.

୨ Ayato belongs to the high school basketball team and Romi belongs to the chemistry club ( which he joined because it's not his strong subject, he wants to improve ).

୨ Romantic had never cooked takoyaki before, he had to get the recipe and perfect himself on it to please Ayato's whims. ᕙ⁠(⁠ ⁠:⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠∧⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠:⁠ ⁠)⁠ᕗ

୨ Ayato likes Romantic to comb his hair with his fingers. 🧚🏻‍♀️

୨ According to Ayato, the nickname “Chibimushi” ( Little Bug ) was born as a shameless mockery based on his first impression of Romantic, that is, that he was as 'small' and fragile as a bug. On the other hand, “Romi” emerged improvised after his first date as an alternative title since he was his current partner. He rarely calls Romantic by his name. ♡

୨ Curiously, in line with the previous information, Romantic is not short❕In fact, they are only a couple of centimeters apart with Ayato being the taller of the two.

୨ Romantic writes poems to Ayato since he found out that he wrote between classes.

୨ Since they were dating, they slept together in the same bed constantly❕ Usually in Romi's bed since the iron maiden is too narrow for the two of them. 💏🏻 ♡

୨ In an after story, Ayato found a white kitten in the school garden, quickly becoming fond of it and showing the kitten to Romantic. Ayato wanted to take him to the mansion without permission, but Romi suggested asking Reiji instead, and in the end they were able to keep the kitten they named “Copito”. ヾ⁠(⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠*⁠)⁠ﾉ

୨ It is quite clear that Romantic suffers from poor anxiety and depressive symptoms. A topic that Ayato was not aware of until he found out for himself in ecstasy's prologue in Haunted Dark Bridal ; at first Ayato did not understand it, however, upon hearing both Reiji's explanation and Romantic's own, he did whatever he could to help ( in his own way, surely ). ｡⁠:ﾟ⁠(⁠;⁠´⁠∩⁠`⁠;⁠)ﾟ⁠:⁠｡ 🩷 ♡

୨ Romantic and Ayato have quite similar traumas. For the same reason, Ayato tends to go to him whenever he feels that he has lost control of the situation, he has shown him that he can understand him and gives good advice to Ayato of which some reflect despite saying otherwise.

[chaosandcrimson]

no way is that PANDORA CHERNYKH.. they’re a 30-year-old SYNTH notoriously known for being SUBSERVIENT & SHREWD but there are some people who have seen them being DEMURE & BEGUILING. if you ask me, they remind me a lot of a deck of cards expertly shuffled and stacked, skin that has gone from porcelain to ivory to steel, and the bittersweet reminder that the house always wins, but that could just be because they’re considered the DECOY DAMSEL around town. just keep an eye on them & see if their true colors shine through..

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait Lay the table with the fancy shit And watch you tolerate it

OVERVIEW

Name: Pandora Lakshmi Chernykh (née: Brody)

Nickname(s): Dora, Pan Pan (by Herc)

DOB: August 20, 2094

Age: 30

FC: Summer Bishil

Height: 5'3"

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Heteroflexible

Occupation: Card Dealer at The Lotus Casino / Informant for the Skyport Mafia

Relationship Status: Widowed (Closed)

[+] docile, demure, beguiling [–] subservient, shrewd, hardened

BIOGRAPHY

tw: emotional abuse, domestic abuse, death

Pandora is one of five Synth children brought up by two scientists in the middle district. They had not gotten married because they were in love, and they did not decide to have a family because they wanted to raise children; it was simply the most convenient (read: least suspicious) setup for their research.

They were studying pair bonding and what qualities make an attractive mate. Funded by a reclusive benefactor, their children were each created with carefully selected DNA and programmed to have a predisposition toward certain traits. Both their physical and psychological characteristics were chosen based on what their parents hypothesised would make them an ideal spouse to a certain type of person, which in turn was based on years of previous research, although they had never been able to attempt an experiment of this scope before.

Each child was raised in a manner designed to encourage the traits that they had been programmed with. They were parented differently and exposed to different environments. Where one was coddled, another received strict punishments; where one was sheltered, another was largely left to their own devices.

Pandora was made to be soft-spoken, docile, deferential, and demure. She was home schooled to keep her sheltered, was not allowed to socialise much with her peers, and was responsible for most of the chores at the house. Her parents went to great lengths to make sure that she maintained the innocence and naivety of an ingenue, and on the handful of occasions that she tried to break their strict rules, she was warned that the world was a dangerous place for a girl like her.

At 18 years old, she was finally released into the world and almost immediately caught the eye of a rank and file mafia soldier with aspirations to be more. Grigori Chernykh was 10 years her senior and her polar opposite in personality—brash, confident, and decisive. They were married within the year.

It did not take long for her husband to make it clear that he had only married her for the traits her parents had designed her to have, and that was the kind of wife he expected her to be—dutiful, obedient, and to not speak unless spoken to.

For the next 8 years, she dedicated her entire life to being the perfect wife. She kept their home in pristine condition, put food on the table every evening, and played the role of arm candy whenever it was required. Grigori expected a lot from her and showed very little gratitude or appreciation for any of it. After all, it was her sole duty to serve and please him, so why should he be grateful?

Eventually, indifference became the best that she could hope for. When she didn't do what he expected of her, or when she did but not how he wanted her to, it was much worse. He had a short temper and a bad habit of breaking things and blaming her for making him do that; and while he rarely got violent with her, the few times that he did were enough to put the fear of God into her.

One night, when she was 26 years old, he didn't come home. In itself that was not unusual, since he had many mistresses and was not particularly subtle about it. However, the next day she was informed that he had been killed on a job.

There is a saying that widows are either bereaved or relieved. Pandora was both. On one hand, the tyranny that she had been living under was finally over; on the other hand, without her husband to provide for her, she had no idea what to do with herself. She had no education past high school, no real skill set, and nothing to fall back on. The only thing she had ever trained to do was be a wife.

She was offered a job as a server at The Lotus Casino in exchange for keeping her eyes and ears open for useful information. As it turned out, years of making herself as small as humanly possible made her very good at listening in on conversations undetected, and eventually, she was promoted to a card dealer.

Pandora has gone from being a clueless and helpless damsel in distress to being someone who is very good at acting the part of one in order to trick people into letting their guard down around her. She plays the part of a woman trapped in her circumstances with such conviction that sometimes even her fellow mafia soldiers believe it, but in reality, she has no desire to leave. Why would she? Being in the mafia is the first time in her life that she has ever felt powerful, and like she can fend for herself, and she has no intention of giving that up.

[azuremallone]

Azure's Corner

My, it's been awhile...

Well, welcome around kids. It's time to listen to me complain about something. It's not really a complaint but an observation that dawned on me just now.

Speaking of the Woke anti-white stance that liberals take, haven't you noticed that while they promote racial hatred of skin colors (White, Asian, White-looking people in general of any culture or phenotype), they always portray mixed marriages?

Let's look at the fact that describing someone based on their skin color isn't racist. Hating someone for their skin color is bigotry. Racism doesn't exist because races do not exist. You have phenotypes because everyone is of one race on this planet: Human. Well, excluding the various aliens that live here amongst you and the ancient Silurian who evolved from Velociraptors, but that's something else entirely. Those are Species.

In woke culture, the focus is on the past: How things were back in the 1600s. Yes, really. They have the notion that...

Then, they point to all sorts of historical references between then and the 1960s. They go on to state that nothing changed. They point to institutionalized racism, which doesn't exist. They completely ignore the outcomes of those historical events and the changes that took place as a result.

And they continue to drumbeat that White people are the devil. Pure evil. Always this and always that. That reverse racism doesn't exist while exclaiming that anyone who isn't the darkest shade of black is White and somehow part of this cabal of hidden knowledge, raised from childhood to be some kind of sleeper racist. What's funnier, is that they ALWAYS have some white person partnered with a black person. That white person is the one proclaiming how vile they are and yet supportive of their black partner.

If that isn't tokenization, I don't know what is.

I mean, look at the background and count the number of white people in this image:

Malcom X was very clear on the matter:

He was not a proponent of doing to White people what Black people were having done to them. Recapturing heritage and identity was meant as looking to a culture in America, remembering where one came from, and the identity spoken of is of a place in society. Not meant to segregate, it was meant to unify.

"I'm for truth, no matter who tells it. I'm for justice, no matter who it is for or against. I'm a human being, first and foremost, and as such I'm for whoever and whatever benefits humanity as a whole." - Malcolm X

Dr. Martin Luthor King Jr. was also very clear on the matter:

Recentering on the topic here, if the hatred of whites is so profound, then why are so many people involved in the support of anti-white wokeness, white? Furthermore, if the hatred is of white colors then why is the argument always that Asians "might as well be white" and yet they support biracial marriages, where children will have skin that is clearly going to be lighter in color?

I'm a big proponent of mixed marriages! If everyone fucked each other, there'd be more love and less hate in the world! There'd be people of all different kinds and promote evolution as each phenotype's genetics enhance each other. There'd be less focus on "racial identity" and more on self. Even interspecies relationships are prized! Get some alien and Saurian DNA into that family line!

Enough with the focus on hatred and promoting it as justice. Hatred is not justice. Violence is not justice. Anger is not love.

The reality is that tolerance is the key. Understanding and educating is paramount. Looking around outside is healthy.

I'm not going to say that there isn't bigotry. There is. There is hatred. You cannot fight hate with hate. It only leads to violence.

Even as an Alien myself, because the form I chose to take amongst your Humans is of a petite mixed Asian-European, I experience more "racial" bigotry now than I did twenty or even a hundred years ago. Could I shapeshift into someone else? Sure. Why should I?

I chose my form, not because of any "benefits" to having light skin and an Asianic appearance mixed with some Eurotrash sex appeal, but because it is a representation of myself in my mind. It's easier to hold a form if it's representation is of who you are inside. That's the key to shapeshifting. Don't try to be something you're not, because the effort involved in maintaining every nuance is energy expensive.

Could I look like Joe Biden or Jessica Alba? Absolutely. Would it be perfect? Not completely, because I'm not either of them. It would take keeping a perfect image of them in my mind at all times to match them and I could only hold it for as long as I can hold that image in my mind. But relaxed, just being me, I can return to this form I selected at any time, every time.

And that's probably the takeaway here. You are you. Be who you are, not your skin color or what you claim as your identity. It doesn't matter if you're blue, green, black, white, have red or purple eyes, antennae, and it doesn't matter whether you're male or female, gay, straight, bi, or whatever... You're you. Love whomever you want. Love someone even if they hate you.

No one else cares what you call yourself or identify as except you. You can't force anyone to accept you, but you can completely not be a dick about it.

So go out, mingle. Get to know other people. Disagree with them. Agree with them. Whatever, but be civil and better than the ignorant. Self-educate yourself. Experience the world for how it really is by going outside.

You'll find that what the media is pushing is not what is really out there in the world. There is no such thing as institutionalized anything. There's no bajillion genders. There's just people who are all looking for the same thing: Love and peace.

And for those people who are looking for hate and violence:

You're the problem.

[bi-bard]

I'm Crossing My Fingers for Something to Hold - Twelfth Doctor Imagine [Doctor Who]

Title: I'm Crossing My Fingers for Something to Hold

Pairing: Twelfth Doctor X Reader

Based On: Outlines

Word Count: 623 words

Warning(s): none

Summary: Traveling with the Doctor offers (Y/n) more of a purpose than they have ever known before. Not that the doctor would ever believe that.

Author's Note: This feels super short, but it does what it needs to.

Part One of March [Release Date: 4/5/2023]

Part Three of March [Release Date: 4/9/2023]

YEARBOOK - SLEEPING AT LAST WRITING CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

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

Running with the Doctor was great.

I had never experienced something that felt so important yet so... freeing.

For just a while, I was nothing beyond the goodness I had achieved. I wasn't my title. I wasn't the actions of the members of my family that came before me. I was just... there.

I never thought that I was going to get the chance to experience such a feeling.

The Doctor and I were taking a rare break from running around and saving galaxies. He insisted on sitting on a bench and admiring humanity. He had a dear love for Earth and the people that walked along its surface.

"This is nice," I said after a while. "Being able to just sit here and... watch."

"You make us sound like stalkers," the Doctor replied.

I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean."

He didn't speak up.

"I was always so focused on holding up a legacy," I explained. "I never got to truly appreciate the people and all that they did. Not truly. But now, I feel like I am seeing so much more than just what's best for the survival of most. I am able to do good that doesn't have such weight and history attached to it."

"Good for the sake of being good," he added.

"Exactly. I love my life. I truly do, but this... this feeling is like a cloud has been cleared from my mind. It's beautiful."

"Well, that has nothing to do with me," he shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"That goodness was always there," he shrugged. "You just needed a chance to express it. I had nothing to do with the goodness that you always had."

"But you gave me the freedom to use it."

"Oh, please, you would have found a way regardless of whether or not I stumbled into your throne room."

"Why can't you accept that you had an impact on another person?"

The Doctor didn't respond to that question. Instead, he decided to steer the conversation back to the original topic, "You can hold onto it. After you leave, I mean. Being good for the sake of being good."

I accepted the redirection, "I want to, but I am not sure my advisors would be quite as excited about ignoring my history and the legacy of the people."

"Charlie would be."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "Why do you think that?"

"Because he's in love with you," the Doctor said it like it was the most obvious statement in the world. As if I had to have known about it before now.

"What," I scoffed. "What could possibly give you that impression?"

"I can see it," he replied. "It's all in the eyes. He softens around you. It was honestly quite annoying to watch. We had more important things to focus on and he was over making heart eyes at you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe now that the static is gone, you'll be able to see what everyone else has."

I chuckled and shook my head. "Let's just... go back to watching your precious people."

"Or maybe your feelings have led you to deny that they could be reciprocated."

"Shut up!" I snapped.

"Oh, never. Shutting up is not my thing."

"I could tell."

There was a long pause between us. Neither one of us spoke a word for what felt like ages.

And then, the Doctor spoke up again, "So, when did you start to catch feelings for Charlie-"

"Doctor!"

"Curiosity is our best strength. Don't punish me for indulging in it!"

I covered my face with my hands.

Maybe this freeing feeling wasn't worth putting up with the strange man with the blue box.

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

Navigation Guide

What I Write For

Some Original Characters

[em-mermaid]

Here’s a little scar/doc drabble I wrote in a poll-induced sleep deprived hyperfocus. It is based on some moments from Joe’s recent stream. Enjoy?

cw: suggestive

————

“Sorry Doc, I’ve only got a rare Grian to trade.” Joe comments as the pair walk towards the TCG shop after a close match in the lime arena.

“Damn it, okay. Maybe I will ask Cub, see if he knows where I can find a rare Hypno.”

“He might, Cleo may know as well.” Joe glances up from his cards in time to see another hermit entering the shop. “Howdy, Scar!”

“Well hello there, Joe!” Scar responds, half glancing in their direction as he stashes away his extra rockets.

Doc clears his throat. It’s not a very loud sound, but it’s enough. Joe can feel the energy of the room shift. Scar straightens his vest and turns fully towards them with eerie blue eyes and a too-sharp smile. “Ah, Doc I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly.” Joe glances to the side to see Doc square his shoulders and stand to his full height. For a moment neither of them move.

“So, Scar,” Joe asks lightly in an attempt to dispell the building tension. “Were you looking to buy some booster packs?”

“I was thinking about it, but I wouldn’t mind discussing a trade,” Scar responds, keeping his eyes locked on Doc. He tilts his head slightly to the side before adding, “that is, if you have any good cards.”

In three large strides Doc crosses the shop, not stopping until he is well within Scar’s personal space. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Scar mocks an expression of shock, having to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. “Why Doc, I simply meant that we could trade if you have any cards that suit my deck.” Scar smirks, reaching a hand up to brush some redstone dust off the front of Doc’s lab coat. “I’m sure your cards are perfectly adequate.”

Doc growls, leaning ever closer. “You would not beat me in a match.”

Scar humms noncommitally. “Time will tell, I suppose.”

Joe yawns. “Well, I think I’m going to turn in for the night. See y’all tomorrow.”

“Goodbye Joe” Scar comments, unmoving.

Joe looks down to find his rockets as he hears Doc mumble something in french. It’s funny, he thinks, that Doc speaks french like he’s kissing somebody.

After checking his elytra, Joe glances up once more at the pair across the shop.

They are locked together at the lips, a mess of clashing teeth and dueling tounges. Scar’s hands wandering under Doc’s lab coat as Doc pulls Scar against him. They already appear to be out of breath.

It’s about time, Joe thinks, as he steps out of the shop and activates his elytra. Those polls can be stressful for anyone, particularly those who weren’t aware. All that tension and they must have with no idea where it was coming from. Oh well, at least Doc wins something today.