#even if i were to acquire another thing. it certainly wouldn’t be until next spring

[livvyofthelake]

i’m a feminist but can my sister fucking kill herself or something girl it’s impossible to be around you sometimes!!!!

[thebestworstidea]

The Green Knight’s Lady (4)

Sequel fic to “The Witch and the Green Knight” (on Ao3)

Warnings: undeserved redemption arc, graphic imagery and as of this chapter violence against minors.

Chapter 1: In which Rowan has Unexpected House Guests

Chapter 2: In Which They Try to Figure Out What the Hell is Going On

Chapter 3: In Which Remus and Rowan’s Stupidity Escalates to Treason (sort of)

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

Chapter 4: In Which Life is Difficult

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

     The winter waned in a sloppy miserable way, kicking out with a few snowstorms like the flailing of a dying animal. Despite not really being bothered by the cold, D.N. practically hibernated, most often found in a window seat in the library, going through Rowan’s Mother’s books and being snarky about bad information about fairies. Rowan was fairly sure it was just a way to safely lash out. She dug out an old laptop and gave him access to the Netflix account. If nothing else it kept him distracted. Something Rowan had learned was that the fair folk did, as legend said, love stories. 

And apparently, soap operas and romcoms.

Like herself, Remus seemed out of sorts in the late winter, though more in the way of someone who had woken up long before they wanted to. He’d gone into the woods and returned dressed in his more normal attire, also having brought back a few changes of clothing that was closer to D.N.’s size, and of a finer make than anything in the Baker house, despite Rowan’s sister’s cautious attempt to find a fabric the fae child would like. For the most part, the rest of Rowan’s family treated D.N. with cautious courtesy, and a certain level of ‘not be alone in a room with him’. Remus, by contrast, was treated more as a benign nuisance, though not without kindness.  Frankly, that was more understandable than Rowan’s blase attitude. That didn’t stop a certain level of speculation as to why ‘Leif’ and his friend were staying with them.

     “I’ve figured it out!” 

Rowan balled a pair of socks and tossed it in her sister’s basket across the table. They were sorting the laundry by owner, and Rowan had made it her mission to find as many pairs of socks as she could. 

“Figured what out?” 

“What’s going on with Leif and the kid!” 

“Have you now?” Rowan said dryly and a little nervously. Her sister nodded. 

“It’s pretty obvious if you think about it. The kid is the spawn of the last fairy king.”

“What.” 

“Look, it’s obvious that Leif served him, right? And we know he’s dead. So then Leif disappears for months and reappears with a kid? With scales? We know that Leif’s traveled outside Wickhills before- so clearly he knew where the kid was, maybe he was even the one who took him away, probably more of a Cronos eating his kids thing than a Arthur sent into hiding thing, and now he brought him back.” She pursed her lips. “You know, I bet Leif can change genders like a frog.”

Rowan started laughing. 

“Leif might even be the mother-” she went on. 

“Definitely not.” Rowan choked. 

“But he is related. I’ve connected the dots.” she said smugly.

“You haven’t connected shit.” Rowan retorted throwing a pair of pants at her.

“I’ve connected them.”

     As spring burgeoned forth, Remus agitated with the need to leave the house. It was clear he wasn’t used to staying in one place, even for a few weeks like this. Rowan could always tell when Remus had gone wandering in the night, because D.N. didn’t come down from the attic until he’d come back. It wasn’t as if D.N. was avoiding his so-called hosts, so much as he was totally avoiding the humans in the house as much as possible as if by pretending they weren’t there he could pretend none of this was happening. 

When spring officially arrived Rowan made them clothing, a shirt of heavy green broadcloth for Remus, and a more delicate shirt of the finest white linen she had for D.N. The shirt he generally wore was made of undyed silk, and Rowan feared that the substance had come from the shroud- or rather bag- she’d sewn for the bones of the Serpent King. It was tricky to give them, as D.N. certainly wanted no gifts from her, and Remus wanted to gift her in return. But it was simply tradition, that for the first day of spring everyone had a new garment. So her green brother and erstwhile guest needed something new too, for luck. Honestly, Rowan thought he could probably use all the luck he could get.

     It was a fine warm day in mid April, when leaves were finally starting to show, and only the most stubborn bits of snow were sticking around in the darkest shadows, when Rowan was working in her garden.

“Little tree! You’re wearing pants!” 

The whippy rose vine Rowan had been arguing with slipped out of her hand as the twist tie sprang from her other, and she took the momentary break to glare at Remus, who had appeared in her personal bubble with no warning whatsoever.

“I wear pants all the time.” she retorted, giving him a half hearted shove. 

“Yeah, but usually you have dresses over ‘em.” theatrically, he collapsed to the scrubby grass outside the garden and sprawled in the sun. 

“Well, I learned that arguing with rose bushes in a dress doesn’t end well for the dress.” She grabbed hold again with her gloved hand, and pulled a fresh tie out of her apron pocket, lashing the thorny vine to the wrought iron trellis that kept most fae out of her garden. They could, in theory, pass under the iron arbor that faced the wood, wreathed as it was in plants, but until Remus it hadn’t been much of a problem. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly. He was looking better. He’d been kind of wan, a sickly sort of green rather than his normal healthy hue like a ripening acorn. 

“Starting to feel my oats.” He responded, tipping his face into the sun. “It’s a good spring. I’d say that spring was happy about something.” in the distance, a door opened and closed.

“Seasons do seem to have emotions.” She agreed, and had to step delicately over him to get to the next bush, pulling clippers from her pocket and studying the bush thoughtfully, before pruning a few branches, and returning to tucking them in safely so they wouldn’t grab passers by too badly.  That done she carried the trimmed branches away. D.N. emerged from the widdershins side of the house, having exited the front door and walked so he didn’t have to pass the rowan tree, even if he could do so under the protection of the porch. He glared down at Remus with frustration. 

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Having a kip?” Remus suggested, as Rowan stepped over him again to get back to the rose bushes. 

“You should tell me as soon as you come back from the forest.” he said grouchily, not making eye contact. 

“Well, not much is going on, so there’s nothing to tell you.” Remus shrugged. 

“That’s good right?” Rowan asked. 

“A secret unsaid is a secret kept.” D.N. muttered, not addressing Rowan at all. “What are you doing out there anyway?” 

“Favors.” Remus sighed. “So many favors. I’m not exactly a favorite right now. People don’t want me to do favors for them, but I need the currency. Also fixing up my house.” he rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s kind of out of the way, so it might be safe enough. It’s nice enough to visit with my little tree, but…”

“We can’t stay here forever.” D.N. agreed. “It buzzes.” 

“Yeah.” Remus nodded. “So I’ve got some improvements to make, and gotta reassert my territory. No one got near the tree, but I don’t have much around it.” he clicked his tongue “Fun and all, but I’m in a hurry.”  he made a kissy face at them both. “But I’ll always hurry back to you.” 

Rowan snorted, and D.N. rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms and cocked his hip, glaring down at the green-clad fae. 

“I’m sure whatever you stay in is better than this.”

“Hey, owch. It’s a good house. We finally got the roof fixed last year.” Rowan glared, waving her clippers at him. D.N. leaned away. 

“Well it’s hardly the hovel I’ve seen other witches live in,” he sneered at the Victorian style house. “But it isn’t anywhere I would choose to stay.” 

“Sorry for not being a magical house.”

“Oh it’s full of magic alright. Human magic, thick and inelegant, like mud on the bottom of a pond.”

“I like mud.” Remus commented, popping up and bracing himself upright on his hands. Rowan noticed that his knuckles were reddened and split. Putting her clippers away again, she dug into her other pocket, coming up with a small, shallow clay pot, closed with a wide cork. She crouched down and grabbed one hand, dabbing the ointment onto the wounds. Remus obligingly offered his other hand when she was done. 

“Why was this in your pocket?”

“It’s better to get the ointment on big jabs right away, and I’m doing lawn work.” she shrugged, and went back to her work. 

After a while, Rowan finished her discussion with the rosebushes, and headed back inside without saying anything. Shortly after that, a car drove up hidden by the bulk of the house. Another short while later, it drove away again. Rowan returned to her garden, hooking her apron over her head again.

“Bloody busy-body is what she is.” Rowan grumbled to herself. “No need to come by every time, her tea hasn’t changed in over a year, if I wanted everyone coming by and bothering me all the time I’d start up a tea room in town and read palms and cards. It’s what I get for being helpful and offering to do a unique blend.” 

“Can you tell the future?” Remus asked, popping up on the other side of the hedge wall of rose bushes, making Rowan yelp and clutch her rake. 

“Like the weather.” She retorted. “Which is to say, not really worth anything.” 

“You’re a useless kind of witch, aren’t you?” sniffed D.N. who had taken up a seat in an Adirondack style chair they had acquired somewhere, and everyone in the Baker family hated, which is why it wasn’t on the porch.

“Yeah, kind of.” she didn’t rise to the bait, and watched him stare at the woods. “You could go, you know.”

“What?”

“Nothing’s keeping you here if you wanted to leave.”

“Little tree-” Remus said, sounding hurt. 

“Not you, you’re welcome any time. And for that matter, if he wants to go for a bit and come back, that’s fine.”

“I can’t actually. I have to ‘stay here’ until further notice.” 

“Oh right. Fairy parole officer.” Rowan sighed. “Well you could probably get as far as the property line, or where our ‘official’ lot meets up with the woods.”

“It isn’t as if I’m desperate to wander in the woodlands, Witch, I just don’t want to be here. At all.”

“Boy, do I hear that.”  she sighed deeply, pausing to look into the woods herself. The small leaves were misting the tips of the trees with color, and there was a smell of wet and rot in the air. It looked like a storm was building in the west.  It would probably hit the before nightfall, gathering the dark in the clouds and making the night come that much faster in the growing spring day. Better to get her gardening done before it hit, so she’d only have to repair the damage it did, not do that and the maintenance. The plants were being especially springy this year, and she was tempted to put this down to Remus’s presence. 

D.N. continued to watch her, as though she was some sort of reality TV show, while Remus sprawled in the scrubby grass next to his chair. 

When the first cold wet gust hit, all three of them headed inside.

     The storm was really having fun, so they were in Rowan’s room instead of the loft. Remus liked to hang out with both of them, so Rowan coming to work on whatever she was doing -some sort of project involving embroidery floss at the moment- and sit with Remus while Remus would root through her work basket, or bring out a pouch and do something himself- embroidery, or sharpening knives, occasionally woodcarving. Sometimes he’d sit behind Rowan and brush or play with her hair, braiding it into elaborate arrangements that she’d have to ask for help to undo.

Sometimes Danger Noodle would use Remus as a cushion or a backrest as if he was staking his claim. That night however, he’d pulled the beat up floral armchair Rowan kept next to one of her windows to a different window (further away from the dancing limbs of the rowan tree) and settled down with a book.

Rowan noticed that he would raise his hand and rub the back of his neck occasionally as if it were hurting. She nudged Remus’s leg and inclined her head at D.N. He shrugged.

“Are you in pain somehow?” Rowan asked, startling him into dropping his book.

“Kindly mind your own business.” Danger Noodle sneered. 

“Are you cold?” Remus asked. “You do-” he rubbed the back of his neck “lots.” 

D.N. growled under his breath, picking the book up. 

“It isn’t important.” He told them. 

“But it is a thing.”

“You never used to.”

He sighed, explosively. “Are you two going to leave me alone about this?”

“Well now I’m curious.” Rowan admitted tipping her head with a smile on her face that reminded D.N. far too much of Remus’s mischievous expression. If it weren’t for her obvious humanity, he would think they were siblings. “If you’re cold, I could get you a blanket, is all.” 

“I’m not cold.” he rolled his eyes. “I’m a winter.”

She looked unimpressed. “So what’s with the lounging in sunbeams?” 

Danger Noodle sneered at her, scales glinting in the lamplight. 

“It's just a feeling.  It’s like a cold hand on the back of my neck, it’s not squeezing but it’s there.” D.N. spread his fingers over the back of his neck.  “Like something’s watching me, constantly.” 

“Huh.” Remus and Rowan said in unison, heads tipping to the side. Danger Noodle glared, there was no way they weren’t doing that on purpose. 

“Might be something?” Remus asked thoughtfully, looking at the corners of the room. 

“I’d want to keep an eye on him, if it were me.” Rowan admitted. 

D.N. sighed again, exasperated, then Remus perked up digging in one of the many pockets inside his vest.  After a search he came up with a bag, tied firmly shut with cord. He climbed off the bed and went to kneel next to the armchair instead. 

“I made this for you.” Remus opened the intricately tied knot, and from inside the bag, produced a scarf. It looked like heavy silk of some sort, dyed a beautiful saffron yellow, covered in single-thread embroidery. Vines twisted and twined along it, with a snake hidden among them.  D.N. stared at it for a long moment, then recoiled. 

“Are you out of your mind? Wait, never mind I retract the question.” 

“I made it for you a while ago but…” Remus admitted. “You wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I’m not taking it now.” He stood up, tossing the book on the chair. “What makes you think I would even want it?” 

“You’re not as strong now-” 

Danger Noodle hissed, flashing sharp teeth, pupils narrow. 

“-so I’m going to protect you until you’re stronger.” Remus finished as if  he hadn’t just been threatened. 

“I am still stronger than you.” the young fae said disdainfully, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height.

“Are you though?” Rowan asked, setting her project down and watching them. 

“I am certainly more powerful than you.” 

“Oh, that’s not even a question.” 

“So what this looks like is Remus is offering you his favor to wear, showing that you’re his...  I’m going to say ‘ward’, because you’re a kid.”

“I am not a kid!” D.N. retorted, stamping his foot like a child. 

“And therefore under his protection. Displaying a connection.” 

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah.” Remus agreed. 

“Which is why I’m not interested.” 

“I don’t have to give you an oath to give you my favor.” Remus pointed out, he just stared up at Danger Noodle entreatingly.  The room was silent except for the storm outside, and the faint sound of someone watching a movie elsewhere in the house. D.N. rubbed the back of his neck again, and Rowan shivered, like a gust of cold air had made it through the window. Her eyes shut and she saw dead branches against a milky sky. Blinking the vision away, she got to see D.N. throw his hands in the air. 

“Uugh enough with the eyes. Fine. I’ll take it, but it doesn’t mean anything.” He accepted the scarf and looped it around his neck, spreading the folds upward to the base of his hair. 

“It means you’re wearing something I made you.” Remus pointed out and rose up, gathering Danger Noodle into a hug, to which he submitted, to Rowan’s surprise. “Which makes me happy.” 

“Mmgnh. Fuck off.” D.N. mumbled, face pressed to Remus’s bicep. 

Rowan decided not to comment on how cute it was.

[samstree]

Dark Bird (1/?)

Geraskier, 3.5k, The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, a sequel to You are too well tangled in my soul

Also on AO3.

There’s safe house, and there’s Yennefer’s safe house.

It’s really more of a castle on the outskirts of Novigrad, and none of them knows how she acquired it. Remembering the major’s townhouse in Rinde, it’s probably wise not to ask. One look at the fancy decoration and luxuries in it, Jaskier almost wishes he’s the one with dangerous powers who needs to stay for training.

The protective wards are so well-designed that the only way in is through Yennefer’s portals and hers alone. If Geralt had any doubt regarding Ciri’s safety here, it certainly disappeared after he’s seen the place.

Alas, a letter from home calls for Jaskier’s return. After dropping Ciri off, they need to set off to Lettenhove immediately.

Home. It’s the word that fills Jaskier with longing and dread at the same time. Sleep has been eluding him since the sorceress brought news of his father’s death.

Geralt would want to bid Ciri goodbye before they leave, so Jaskier offers to ready Roach and gives them space.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Ciri’s voice is muffled in Geralt’s chest when she squeezes the hug tighter.

“I’m sorry, cub. But Jaskier needs to go back to Lettenhove.”

“No, I—” she pulls away, reluctantly. “I know he doesn’t have the best memories of that place. Something about his father. That’s why he’s been so down since the letter. And scared too. Why does he have to go if he’s so scared of it?”

From a distance, Jaskier can only catch pieces of the conversation. He startles at how perceptive the young girl is. The idea of Ciri being so worried sits wrong in his stomach. She has been through enough.

Roach snorts next to him like she’s judging him for eavesdropping.

Geralt replies softly into Ciri’s ear while tucking away her unruly hair. Jaskier can’t hear anything without appearing too suspicious. No doubt the words are only meant for his child and no one else. Finally, the girl relents. “Just take care of him, Geralt.”

The witcher gives her a solemn promise before beckoning Jaskier over.

Ciri also pulls him into a tight hug that borders on painful. The girl hasn’t realized how strong she’s become over the past winter. Constant sword training with all the wolf witchers has given her enough strength to hold her own against any common soldier or two. She’s grown taller too, so much so that her hair is all over Jaskier’s face and tickling his nose. He wonders how much taller she’s gonna be when they see each other next.

“Keep Geralt between you and monsters.”

“Keep Yennefer between you and trouble.” Jaskier smiles at her adorable little frown. “And don’t you worry about me, poppet. You are too young to have worry lines.”

The front gate of the mansion creaks open, and Yennefer herself steps out. “Ready?”

Geralt leaves a quick kiss on Ciri’s head and nods at the sorceress. With a heavy heart, Jaskier steps through the portal after the witcher and his mare into the forest of Redania. Behind them, where the mansion should be, stands a crumbling ruin, disguised from the eyes of travelers.

“What did you tell Ciri?”

A smile flashes through Geralt’s amber eyes. “Knew you were listening in.”

“Apparently not, if I didn’t catch anything.” Jaskier pouts, but it’s hard to distract himself from the bubbling dread of returning to his childhood home.

Geralt hums, studying his bard. The witcher must have seen through his pretense because the next thing he knows Geralt is squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“I told her you’ll be all right,” Geralt says. “That I’ll be there to make sure of it.”

Staring into the warm molten gold, Jaskier almost believes it.

 *

The ground thaws. Life returns to the Continent after a long winter.

They arrive in Lettenhove on a warm morning, walking side by side through a stretch of meadows. The dandelions have declared spring’s arrival, peppering the ground with sparks of sunlight.

Geralt remains beside Jaskier, steady and solid just as he has been throughout the journey. They knock on the door.

“Master Julian!”

The guard leads them into the great hall. Servants greet him with a name that has been buried for over twenty years, and it catches Jaskier off guard. Everything here, the estate, the title, his father’s fortune, it all would have been his had he not leave. So would the crushing expectations of being a noble. As much as Jaskier seems to fare better with them than the witcher, he knows too well about the back-stabbing nature of those elites.

A warm hand falls on the small of his back, Geralt’s eyes meeting his in support.

“All right?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps and a surprised gasp.

“Julian?” God, it’s been too many years since Jaskier has seen his mother. Jaskier startles at how much she’s changed – her hair has gone completely white, her skin lined with wrinkles, but her eyes are a striking blue. “It’s been so long. I couldn’t believe it when they told me it was you. Oh, Julian. It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, mother.” He smiles tightly, suddenly forgetting what to do, so he lets her pull him into a tentative hug. Jaskier cannot remember the last time his mother hugged him. It’s unexpectedly nice, in a way that he never knew it could be.

“You missed the funeral.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.” Jaskier feels his mother tense up when she notices Geralt’s presence.

“This is my…companion, Geralt of Rivia.” He pulls away, gesturing to the witcher. Her posture immediately changes into a more serious one, her back stiffer. Her sharp blue eyes, identical to Jaskier’s own, look up and down the witcher with an untrusting expression Jaskier has seen one too many times in his lifetime.

“I didn’t know you would bring a witcher with you,” she frowns.

You look so much like your mother, Julian. Especially your eyes. Everyone they used to meet told him that. Right now, it brings him anguish that those eyes so similar to his are looking at Geralt with such hostility.

“As I said, he’s my companion. That’s why he’s here with me.”

“Julian, you know his kind is not welcome here. Your father would never approve—”

“My father has passed, mother. I will not have him insult the person I love anymore.” She flinches at the word love. Whatever illusion of warmth between them is disappearing. “You don’t have to side with him anymore.”

They stand in stone-cold silence. The pounding of his heart and his quickened breath are all Jaskier can hear.

“He brought a witcher in case of monsters,” Geralt chimes in unexpectedly, “Though I find more of them among those in high positions. You wouldn’t have those in Lettenhove, would you?”

Her lips tighten at the insinuation. “Is that what you’re here to do, Julian? As soon as your father is gone you come home to insult us, and what? You’ll take your inheritance and go back to being a jester and dragging the Pankratz name through the dirt? Have you no shame, no sense of responsibility to your family?”

Jaskier lets out a dry laugh.

“I haven’t used the family name for decades. Everything I have right now I built for myself.” He takes a deep breath to collect himself. “As for the other thing, you don’t have to worry. I’m not here for the inheritance, or the title or anything you believe is important enough to fight over. No, I’ll make sure none of it will ever have any power over me, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Her face turns pale out of humiliation, but Jaskier feels no sense of triumph. He’s not here to cause her more grief. Instead, he just feels hollow, tired, like he just traveled across the Continent for a battle that he already lost.

“Very well. You will remain in the estate until the transition is complete.” She straightens her back. In her dark mourning clothes, she almost looks as respectable as any noble pretends to be.

“Have a nice day, mother.”

An older handmaid comes to lead Jaskier away to a guest room. There’s no need for any more exchanges.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Geralt nods to the Dowager Viscountess curtly, before turning to follow. His hand circles Jaskier’s waist again as their footsteps pick up. Jaskier releases a shuddering breath he’s been holding in at the touch, and if he’s leaning on Geralt a little bit too much, the witcher does not seem to mind.

 *

Ferrant settles into the job like a puzzle fitting into place, Jaskier muses as he takes another sip of the fine Toussaint wine. With all his natural ways in court, his cousin is easily the most suitable out of all the Lettenhove children to take the title of Viscount.

Some people are just born to become leaders, to deal with politics and decide the price of tea. Jaskier is lucky, he reckons, that Ferrant is just here with all the experience of running an estate, waiting for him to hand over the title.

Once he’s home and determined to renounce everything, the course of action becomes unexpectedly clear. Ferrant moved into the estate immediately and took over most of the things he was already seeing through. At the time, he was the one to arrange Father’s funeral when Mother was stricken with grief.

The process only lasted two weeks, and Jaskier is more than willing to cooperate just to hasten his departure. Now the last thing required is holding a banquet to announce it to the world, with Ferrant as the Viscount for the first time.

At this point, it’s just formality, one that Jaskier has to attend to show deference to the next head of the family. In his peripheral vision, he can see Mother smile at something Ferrant said. They are both at the top table, playing the perfect host to the first celebration since the funeral.

Geralt has been the most supportive Jaskier has ever seen him. Even his usual grunts have disappeared no matter how many nobles from the Northern Kingdoms are gathering at this hall to prod him with inappropriate questions.

They are seated at the side with Geralt next to Jaskier, shadowing him as if there’s danger hidden in these nobles’ fancy sleeves.

Not only does this place dredge up bad memories of Jaskier’s past, it seems to make Geralt uneasy as well. The witcher is always checking on Jaskier or staying close protectively as if this house can still hurt him. Even now, as they sit in front of an abundance of food and drinks, Geralt is still tense, ready to strike anyone who as much as looks at Jaskier wrong.

In the din of the room, the hired singer is playing some classical melodies so the guests can start to dance. It’s a young musician he’s never seen at any competitions, and he almost snorts into his drink at the immaturity in his playing. The buzz of the alcohol relaxes his limbs, making everything light and fuzzy and soft around the edges.

If Jaskier can’t play at his own goodbye party, he’s determined to make the most of it.

“Come on.” He pulls Geralt to his feet and leads him into the dance floor. The witcher raises an eyebrow in question but complies.

Jaskier places his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and holds him close. His witcher responds in return, pressing a hand right between his shoulder blades, his warm breaths ghosting over the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

The music slows and they sway gently to the rhythm. The light has dimmed as the night drags on. For a moment Jaskier can pretend they are dancing alone by campfire instead of being watched by countless prying eyes.

“Our last night here.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry about that guy earlier,” Jaskier winces at the memory.

Geralt’s answer is almost drowned out by the music and the crowd. “The baron? It’s fine.”

“It’s not. He asked if you drink baby blood to stay young.” Jaskier is offended on Geralt’s behalf just by how laughable these rumors are.

“Jokes on him. I’m older than his grandfather.”

Jaskier lets out a chuckle. “And yet, my dear witcher, you haven’t aged one bit since the day I met you.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Haven’t I really?” Geralt murmurs again. Jaskier untangles from their tight embrace to see the witcher’s worried frown. “All these years, for all you've seen me misplaced in time. Do I never look older than I am now?”

Jaskier touches Geralt’s cheekbone, where the long scar will be.

“You look older, sometimes.”

“But by how much? Can you tell?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunch up in return. “What brought this on? You’ve never cared about your looks. Has vanity finally overcome you in old age, my love?”

Geralt tilts his head at the teasing.

“Not vanity, Jask. I don’t care if the years will show on my skin. If I’ve learned one thing about you–” He presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s left eye. “—these lines only make you more beautiful. No, I was just wondering…Do you know what is the oldest you’ve ever seen me?”

Jaskier blinks. He has seen a much older Geralt, steady and sure of himself. But that Geralt is also battle-worn and weary, with aching joints that won’t heal fully. He keeps a mental map of all Geralt’s scars, the ones already here and the ones that will be. Sometimes he presses gentle kisses to those phantom scars that are still just unmarred skin, as if he can soothe them in advance.

But no, he doesn’t know which version of Geralt is the oldest. Marking the years by scars is too imprecise. Whatever magical intervention, blessing, or even curse that makes time travel possible for Geralt, it has apparently been here throughout his life. Chances are it will continue to happen until the day he dies.

When we slow and get killed, Geralt said those words a lifetime ago. An untimely death will always loom over a witcher’s path even if there isn’t a war raging out there. A chill runs down Jaskier’s body. He’s suddenly seeing all these little pockets of stolen time in his memory in a new light. There’s no telling if he’s already seen Geralt at the end of his life—

“Hey,” Geralt interrupts his spiraling. The room is suddenly too stuffy and Jaskier struggles to take in air. Added with the wine from earlier, his stomach turns with nausea. The room spins under his feet.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you, Jask. Ah…forget about it. Let’s get some air.”

Strong hands steer Jaskier away from the dancing couples. They slip through the crowd as quietly as possible. At the back of his head, he knows court etiquette demands his presence in the hall, but any potential protest is shushed by Geralt’s murmuring.

A cool breeze from the garden hits Jaskier, and he leans into his witcher under the stars, still panting but not as violently.

“I’m okay. We should go back.”

“Shh, it’s okay. No one will notice. After tonight, you’ll have nothing to do with them. Geralt’s hands reach under Jaskier’s doublet, resting on the chemise, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric. “You’ll be free, completely.”

A high-pitched laugh comes through the open door, probably Ferrant telling a cheesy joke to impress the ladies.

“Thank you for being here with me.” Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple. “I don’t know what I would have done if I came alone.”

“Hmm. You are strong enough, Jaskier.”

“Am I?” Jaskier says mockingly. “I… There’s always this…chasm that I couldn’t bridge. The longer I was away from home the more I forgot why I was so unhappy here. I kept wondering…if I really was so miserable? Was there really nothing good here? Sometimes it feels like my memories are false, that everything was fine all along.”

“Jask.” Geralt’s jaw tightens, his voice lowers dangerously, but Jaskier knows the anger is not directed at him. “I cannot speak for your entire childhood. But from what I saw, what he did to you was not something any parent should do to their children.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you need to convince people it wasn’t that bad, it was bad enough.”

Jaskier hums, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. The witcher’s muscles are tense, but the warm skin there smells faintly like the lavender soap they share.

“I suppose,” he muses.

They stand under the stars, listening to the distant music until the night whiles away and guests start to leave.

Mother stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm candlelight. A chill sends goosebumps down Jaskier’s spine as she turns away, disappointed for the last time.

Geralt ushers him back to the guest room and starts a roaring fire. That night Jaskier falls asleep in the safe embrace of his lover. Those nightmares of old he dreads never come. When the witcher’s gravelly voice drags him out of sweet oblivion before dawn, Jaskier feels rested for the first time since he stepped foot in this town.

He will never be Julian of Lettenhove again.

 *

“You woke me up at some godsforsaken hour for this?”

The lake glistens under the rising sun, lapping at the shore in the quiet of the morning. Roach is soon distracted by the wild flora and nibbling on them happily.

Geralt is standing by the water, all wide shoulders and strong arms. A few strands of silver fall out of his ponytail and sway in the gentle breeze. Jaskier hides a little gasp. Every now and then he gets hit in the face by how beautiful his witcher is.

“We are leaving today.”

“I’m aware.” Jaskier smiles, feeling warm and fuzzy under the morning sun. “We didn’t pack everything just to have Roach carry them back to the house.”

“Wanted to see this place.”

“Didn’t know you to be spontaneous,” he teases. “And, darling, you’ve been here a million times.”

“Hmm. But not by choice.” Geralt purses his lips, bending down to pick up a flower. “It’s nice. Nicer, when it’s on my terms.”

Jaskier’s grin spreads as he takes off his boots to roll up the end of his breeches. The coldness sends goosebumps down his back when he steps into the shallow water.

“Come on then.”

It reminds him of the coast of Cidaris. He misses the tang of salt and the roaring waves. Maybe he’ll ask Geralt to come with him again.

A splatter hits Jaskier in the face and he squeals with indignation. The witcher splashes more lake water towards him with a cocky smirk. Jaskier retaliates with equal force and it turns messy very quickly.

“These are nice clothes, you heathen!”

The witcher attacks fiercely, though Jaskier knows he must be holding back, or he would never stand a chance. Regardless, Jaskier is the one who ends up soaked and almost falling. Lucky his witcher is there to drag him ashore.

Geralt helps him out and takes off the doublet as their giggling dies down. Jaskier hasn’t felt this light since he got here so he lies down on the grass and lets the sun do the rest of the drying.

“I was wrong.”

“Hmm?” the witcher plops down next to him, blocking the sunlight. Jaskier shifts to rest his head on Geralt’s thigh.

“There are good things about Lettenhove.” He revels in the feeling of Geralt’s fingers running through his hair, the ends still a little wet. “This lake. I used to come here hours before you showed up, even if I knew the precise time. Think about all the poems I wrote here… See that tree? My early works were all created under that tree.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? Waiting for me, back then and…later?”

The pad of Geralt’s thumb traces the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He thinks back on the years, the heartbreak, the lonely walk down a mountain, but then those images were replaced by the reunions, by a passionate kiss and the crinkle around those amber eyes when Geralt pretends not to care for Jaskier’s cheesy puns.

“Silly witcher. You are worth the wait,” he murmurs, “I’d do it all over again, you know? As long as we have a future together.”

The wind shifts and Geralt’s smile softens. There is something somber in the way he observes Jaskier’s face. It’s like he might forget it the next moment if he pays any less attention. “We do,” he responds.

Jaskier plunges to tackle Geralt to the ground and kisses him with an inch of his life, kisses away the slight worry at the corner of his mouth.

After all, they have the rest of their lives ahead.

[goodlucktai]

it’s a better place since you came along

the adventure zone taako & angus mcdonald 7k words

read on ao3

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

***

In which Taako answers a general “help wanted” ad that actually changes his entire stupid life.

x

There’s a baby crying somewhere.

Taako, left waiting in the foyer by a harried maid, has nothing else to do but tap a foot, twist one of the rings on one of his fingers, and count the long seconds that the plaintive wail continues to echo through the cavernous house.

Listen, he may not be a very good dude, just in general, and for a healthy plethora of reasons—but there’s a prickling sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, as one minute passes into two, and the sounds of distress go unheeded.

What in the fresh fuck, he thinks, when another member of the house staff drifts through the room without any sense of urgency. If he knew shit about magic beyond a few travel-handy tricks and the occasional intuitive transmutation, he’d assume this was some sort of elaborate illusion. Maybe a sort of test played on unsuspecting hopefuls who came to answer the help-wanted ad.

Unfortunately for Taako, he remembers all-too well what it feels like to be an unwanted child, outcast and always alone. As it turns out, he has a very particular Achilles’ heel and he’s not overly thrilled to discover it.

“Well, I didn’t need the job that bad,” he tells himself, as he gets up to single-mindedly fail this stupid test. And nevermind that he kind of really did.

‘Confidence is key’ and ‘fake it till you make it’ are two mantras that Taako could live and die by, so it’s with long, unchecked strides that he crosses the grand foyer and chases the miserable cries up some stairs, down a long corridor, and finally into an out-of-the-way bedchamber at what must have been the back of the house.

The cries stutter when the door clicks open, and Taako gets a glimpse of a tiny round face peering at him through the bars of an ancient-looking crib. The sudden appearance of this strange elf in his nursery seems to have surprised the little human, but not for long. After about two seconds, he screws his face up and screams with renewed vindication.

Taako winces, his sensitive ears twitching back at the onslaught. This is way above his paygrade, but he used to babysit younger kids in the caravans while their parents were busy or drunk, in exchange for a hot meal or a few coins. He’s not totally out of his depth here.

“Hey, little man,” he says by way of hello. “Trying to bring the roof down, huh? No, I dig that. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this house of yours is ugly as hell.”

Taako doesn’t raise his voice, because what the hell would be the point? There’s no way he’s winning that contest of wills, and nobody wants some lunatic shouting at them when they’re this fucking distraught, anyway. He just crosses his arms on the side of the crib and leans down to get a good look at the kid.

The baby’s face is tacky and snotty, dusky skin flushed darker with exertion, curly hair a tangled mop. But he’s a cute little guy despite himself, probably a year old or thereabouts, not that Taako is in any way a decent judge of that sort of thing. As Taako talks to him in a conversational tone, his awful, heaving sobs peter out.

The tearful gulps are better. The way he lifts pudgy arms up to be held, not so much.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taako says, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. You have no idea how culturally insensitive people are when it comes to elves and babies. Your mama walks in and sees me holding you, and then she’s calling the guard, and I’m getting hauled off for attempting to spirit her little heir away, and we both perpetuate an archaic myth that all elves are equally capable of and greedy for voluntary childcare. Let me just say—from personal experience—that is not the fuckin' case.”

But he reaches a hand into the crib and lets the little human clutch at it. Tiny, clumsy fingers wrap around Taako’s much bigger ones and hold tight. The baby’s eyes are wide and curious now, soaking up Taako’s every word without a damn clue what any of them mean.

Taako almost forgot he knew how to do this. It’s been months since Glamour Springs, since Sazed ditched him on the road. Taako’s been living a half-life, made up of odd jobs and never staying for too long in any one place, and for all that it’s absurdly one-sided, this is the longest conversation he’s had since then, too.

“One of us is pretty fucking pathetic,” he confides. “And it’s not the screamy baby.”

“Ah, this is where you’ve gone,” a voice from the doorway says.

Taako jumps in alarm, and looks around in time to watch a man step into the nursery. He bears a striking resemblance to the baby in the crib, though he’s graying at the temples and his face is lined with too much age for him to be an immediate parent. Grandparent, probably. Distinguished, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the entire cumulative worth of everything Taako currently owns, leaning heavily on a walking cane.

He doesn’t look as though he’s about to ring the alarm, but Taako is still a little keyed up. Given the way he’s been living, the feeling of getting caught, even for a moment, activates his fight or flight response.

“Sorry,” Taako says lamely. “I heard him crying.”

“I don’t doubt it. His parents, my daughter and her husband, died recently. An accident on the road,” the man says. There’s some sorrow there, but it’s pushed back and away. Compartmentalized. “He came to live with me, but the transition hasn’t been an easy one. It seems as though all he’s done is cry.”

Taako doesn’t melt even slightly for the poor kid, because he’s made of sterner stuff than that. But he does let him hold onto his hand for a little while longer. It’s not hurting anything.

“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”

Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”

It wasn’t a nanny ad. It was just a ‘general help wanted in exchange for room and board’ type of deal. He wouldn’t have shown up to take the job in the first place if it had specified providing 1) cooking, 2) companionship, or 3) childcare, and that’s for damn sure. He believes in playing to his strengths, and while vapid charm is certainly one of them, being personable and likable for any extended period of time is not.

And Taako absolutely doesn’t know what to think of this old rich guy who seems to be operating under the illusion that thirty seconds is plenty of time to get enough of a read on some rando to then trust your child to them. For real, and from the bottom of Taako's heart, what the fuck?

He’s only been acquainted with this particular child for about five minutes, but his ears go back and his hackles go up at the idea of someone just walking in off the street to take charge of him.

Maybe there’s some crucial insanity element to parenthood that Taako just isn’t fucking picking up. Maybe total and complete willingness to just ditch your kid at a moment’s notice is part of the package. Sure would explain a few things about Taako’s childhood.

But… this old manor house is clearly in the middle of nowhere. Two hours from the nearest settlement, where the job posting was hiding beneath other flyers on the board in the square. Taako wandered the woods all afternoon and almost gave up finding the place before the chimney smoke tipped him off.

It’s remote. Safe. And, at a glance, more comfortable than any of the inns and caravans Taako has lived out of since his auntie died.

He’s not qualified for this position, but since when has that ever stopped him? It’s not like he went to culinary school, either, and for awhile he was one of the most famous chefs on the continent. A baby can't be that much work.

Fake it till you make it, he thinks, and then faces the old man with a smile.

“Hell, I’m already here. Might as well start now.”

#

Aside from Taako, there are three other members of staff on the books, and none of them are full-time. The maids come in every other day to do the cleaning and the laundry and bring in groceries, that sort of thing. The groundskeeper only works the weekends.

They like Mr McDonald well enough, the girls confide in Taako over tea on his first night there, and the pay isn’t bad, but he’s forgetful. Doesn’t think to eat until he feels hunger pains, that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you get paid twice some weeks, or not at all others.

“He’s just not interested in running a household, I think,” the older of the two imparts, ancient at seventeen for all the weariness in her eyes. “I’m glad he finally found someone to take care of the baby. I felt bad about him crying all the time.”

Baby Angus had seemed to surprise both teens by being agreeable and downright adorable, perfectly content to be tucked into the crook of Taako’s arm and soothed to sleep by the rumble of his voice.

Did any of you try, like, holding him? Taako wants to ask acidly. Seems a little fucked up that Taako, of all people, is more on top of this than anyone else. But the maids are little more than kids themselves, and it seems as though grandpa isn’t completely with it.

About a month after Taako first wandered in, grandpa proves it.

“It was before Angus was born,” Mr McDonald says, digging through the many drawers in his study, looking for some expensive rich person thing he’d acquired at auction four years ago. There’s an empty crystal tumbler sitting on the liquor cabinet, next to a half-empty decanter of whiskey. “We went to Goldcliff for a charity fundraiser. Marquis proposed to my daughter that night. You remember, Taako?”

Taako, halfheartedly poking through stuff on the desk while Angus chews on the end of his braid, replies, “Sure do, homie. Hell of a party.”

He finds a photo in a stack of letters and pauses. Two humans are pictured with their arms around each other, handsome smiles on their faces for the camera, a baby cradled tenderly between them.

At the bottom, in looping handwriting, someone wrote ‘Marquis, Angela, and Angus.’ There’s a little heart drawn under the names with such care that it, in itself, is something of a revelation.

Angus’ parents wouldn’t have let him cry himself sick in a faraway room. They wouldn’t have let some stranger be holding him now. They abandoned him, but not on purpose. Not the same way Taako’s family did.

This kid was loved. He’s due love. And all he has is an absent grandpa and a shitty elf looking after him.

“Check it out, Ango,” Taako says quietly, holding the photo up so the baby can see, carefully out of reach of those sticky fingers. “Your genes are killer. You’re gonna outshine the whole damn world.”

He pockets the photo with a sleight of hand he perfected at ten years old, and then guts some ugly painting in the service hallway in the name of repurposing the frame, and then he and Angus stage a tactical retreat.

The nursery was too depressing, just in general, so one of Taako’s first acts as nanny was to move all the baby stuff in with his. He had his pick of any of the second floor bedchambers, and he chose one overlooking the overgrown gardens, with a pretty bay window that it only took like two hours and a handful of stubborn Prestidigitations to scrub clean.

He enlarges the photo, slides it into the frame, transmutes it to look like a more professional job, and then sets it in place of pride on one of the empty shelves.

“Gang’s all here,” he says. He bounces Angus a few times, eliciting a toothy smile from the kid.

Lordy, Taako thinks, she’d be laughing her ass off if she could see me right now.

The thought comes out of absolutely nowhere and disappears just as quickly, sliding right out of his mind like water through a sieve. Then Angus makes a sudden dive to grab one of the charms hanging off the brim of Taako’s hat, and he has more immediate things to worry about.  

#

Living in a house is weird. Having the run of the place is even weirder.

Taako is certainly not the type to sign up for extra responsibility, and he’d be the first to say as much to literally anyone who asked. Keeping himself alive has always been trouble enough, and now he has a whole ass extra person he’s in charge of, too.

But as time drags on, he realizes he’s been pretty solidly assimilated.

When McDonald forgets to give Catherine the grocery allowance before he fucks off on one of his bi-monthly business trips to Neverwinter, Taako forks over his own gold without feeling the sting of it too badly. He practically writes his own checks around here, anyway. He can make up the difference whenever.

When crotchety old Boniface came in from the gardens looking for an answer about the freshly broken fountain, he bypasses McDonald’s closed office door entirely to demand guidance out of Taako instead. Taako is in the library, laying on his stomach to supervise Angus’ painstaking and artistic destruction of a probably priceless but unfortunately racist oral history Taako found on one of the shelves, and gives Boniface the go-ahead to gut the old eyesore.

“If it dies, it dies,” Taako says plainly, passing Angus a new red crayon. Boniface, pleased that he’s allowed to demolish something, makes it a point to ask Taako about these things first from then on.

When Ezra shows up in Taako’s suite one morning with tearful eyes and an ugly burn from the temperamental furnace in the basement, neither of them stop to question why she ran all the way up here. They’re both reasonably intelligent people, after all, and Taako is quick to cast a nonverbal Helping Hand. He doesn’t need to overthink it. The burned skin on Ezra’s arm is shiny and red, but repaired.

The girl surges forward to hug him, visibly rethinks it, and then changes course and scoops Angus up for a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek instead. Angus shrieks in bald delight, and Taako finds himself smiling.

So, yeah. It’s weird, the whole thing is weird, but he wouldn’t say it’s bad.

McDonald is a kind but largely absent presence in their lives. When he’s home, he’s shut up in his study. Angus hardly seems to recognize the man anymore, only watching him with solemn brown eyes from the comforting circle of Taako’s arms. It doesn’t really sit well with Taako—he didn’t take this job to upstage any relatives or be a replacement parent—but he’s already nanny to a precocious two-year-old, he can’t also be nanny to a seventy-something-year-old retired scholar. If McDonald wants to be a part of Angus’ life, that’s on him. It can’t possibly fall on Taako’s shoulders.

“And even if it did, I have a bad back,” Taako informs Angus. “You’ll have to do the heavy-lifting for me, sweetpea. How’s that sound?”

“Okay, Taako,” Angus says gravely. If there’s a tiny part of Taako that’s fucking delighted every time this tiny miracle says his name, he squashes it down good and hard and no one is the wiser.

It feels a little bit like nothing exists outside this spacious manor house. The extensive grounds might as well be a magic barrier between Taako and the rest of the world. It won’t last—nothing good ever does—but for now he allows himself to pretend that it will.

#

Taako and his little shadow swing into the kitchen around noon one day to find Catherine in tears.

This is so far from the norm that Taako actually draws up short in the doorway. Angus toddles right into the back of his leg, loses his balance, and plops down hard on his padded bottom.

“What’s this all about, darling?” Taako asks warily.

Catherine is sharp in all the places Ezra is soft, and while it makes her much easier to understand—a girl after Taako’s own black, shriveled heart—it also makes her approximately one million times more difficult to comfort, as likely to bite at a helping hand as accept one.

At the first sign of her vicious temper, he’s gonna grab his kid and bail. There’s fruit and bread in the larder that’ll see them through to dinner, and if not, he's not above bribing Ezra to run interference.

But Catherine just lifts her head out of her hands and says, “I burnt the stupid soup!”

Taako blinks. He stands still so Angus can use one of his legs as leverage to pull himself back upright, and cups the back of the boy's head in silent praise when he manages it on his own.

“Okay,” Taako says slowly. He can piece this shit together. “The soup is burnt. And you’re cheesed about it because…you feel really strongly about soup.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, but it’s without any real heat. “I just. I can’t get anything right today.”

Ah. Okay. So it’s one of those.

He hesitates for a moment, and then leans down to scoop Angus up and balances him on a hip. Angus knows not to toddle into the kitchen unsupervised, and rarely gets to toddle in at all when there’s cookery going on.

Taako himself rarely goes in. It feels too much like tempting fate. But his feet carry him forward, and he leans over the pot of thick and creamy chicken and dumplings, and right away he can smell the problem. It caught on the bottom of the pot and scorched.

He’s never worked in this kitchen—and he never will—but he remembers the steps. It’s mise en place. He reaches into the spice cabinet and withdraws a small tin shaker.

“Cinnamon,” he says at length, offering the tin to Catherine.

She stares at him, losing some of her steel for a moment. “Really?”

“Really,” Taako says, and firmly steps back. The six-second exchange has left him feeling tense and sick, his appetite fully and completely fucking out of the picture.

Angus is a perceptive little monster, and settles more heavily into Taako’s arms. He heaves a very pointed sigh, something he started doing to communicate that he’s feeling particularly safe and content. It makes Taako’s chest hurt in a much different way than impending panic attacks tend to, and he presses a kiss to the kid’s curly head.

“Thanks, angel,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“Holy shit, Taako,” Catherine says, looking up from the soup with awe in her eyes. As he watches, she tries another spoonful, and then she actually laughs out loud. “It worked!”

He finds himself searching her face for—sickness. Shortness of breath. Something.

It’s stupid. The people he killed in Glamour Springs didn’t show signs of death for days.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” Catherine goes on. “Could you teach me?”

“I don’t,” Taako blurts. It comes out sharper than he meant for it to, sudden and a little bit too loud. Catherine’s smile tapers. Angus lifts his head off Taako’s shoulder. Breathe, idiot, Taako tells himself. Be a fucking person for two seconds. “Cook, I mean. I don’t cook. Or, uh, teach. I’m kind of useless. Pretty, though.”

He flips his hair. It makes Angus giggle, but Catherine isn’t an easily-amused toddler, and she’s not buying it.

Her eyes are sharp, and seem to peel through layers of Taako’s bullshit like a knife. And then she scoffs, and mimics his hair flip with her wrist even though her hair is only about two inches long, and the tension drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug in the floor.

“You’ve been teaching Mango to read,” she says dryly. “And Elvish. And magic. But okay, Mr I Don’t Teach.”

“He’s my fucking protege. That shit’s different!”

“Shit!” Angus agrees cheerfully.

“Whatever. Now that I know you’re secretly a fountain of knowledge, I’m dragging you in here the next time I fuck up a recipe.” She studies him for a moment, and adds, “You don’t have to cook, Teach. If it bothers you. I just…I need help sometimes.

Taako feels himself relenting. This house is turning him into a fucking pushover.

“I know, Cat,” he sighs. “Try to find one person who doesn’t.”

#

“Alright, little man,” Taako says, tugging Angus’ collar straight. “What are the rules?”

“Hold your hand, don’t talk to strangers, aim for the eyes if I can reach them, knees if I can’t,” his boy recites gravely.

Next to him, Ezra stifles a snort of laughter. Boniface, waiting by the loaded carriage, looks reluctantly amused. Catherine says, “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to give you a kid?”

“Uh, your boss,” Taako says without looking at her. He stands up from his crouch as the front door closes, and they all turn as McDonald comes down the steps to join them in the crumbly courtyard.

“Are we ready, boys?” he asks with a smile. “Neverwinter is waiting.”

Honestly, Taako has been sick with dread over this trip for the past two weeks, but he wouldn’t know how to go about explaining that. And he sure as hell isn’t sending Angus off alone with his absent-minded grandfather. The kid probably wouldn’t make it home.

It’s not as though Taako has been sequestered in the manor house for the last five years. He’s ambled into the settlement with the girls now and then, has gone farther up the road to buy from caravans for Candlenights gifts, has let himself be bullied, cajoled, blackmailed and bribed into helping Boniface lug imported plants home from the train station.

But this is fucking Neverwinter. The Jewel of the North.

“Taako? You okay?” Angus says from somewhere near his elbow.

“Just dreading three hours on the road playing I, Spy with you, boychik,” he lies smoothly. “Go pet the horses so we can get that out of the way.”

Angus looks mulish for a moment, but he does insist on petting the carthorses before they take the carriage literally anywhere, so he lifts his head and crosses the courtyard with great dignity. Taako watches sharply until Boniface rolls his eyes so hard Taako can practically hear it and hefts Agnus up in one huge arm to better reach the giant creatures without running the risk of getting fucking trampled.

“I’m making the salmon at home tonight,” Catherine says abruptly, a non-sequitur that takes Taako by surprise. “If I don’t fuck it up, I’m gonna cook it here, too. So don’t be late, Teach.”

“I’ll a hundred percent eat your share if you’re late,” Ezra adds. Her smile looks a little strained.

Taako has not been subtle. He’s been freaking out right out loud where anybody could see it. Get it together, asshole, he coaches himself helpfully.

“Cat,” he says earnestly, “your salmon is literally the only thing I have to live for.”

She groans and pushes him away from her. Angus has finished with the horses and returns to Taako at a run, even though they’re all going to be walking back across the courtyard to the carriage in like one minute anyway. 

McDonald is handing out a few last minute instructions. They’re mostly things that have already been taken care of, errands that have already been run, the ushe. The girls nod along politely, but there’s a level of uncertainty lingering above them like a cloud. They look as nervous about Taako leaving as Taako feels.

Now, Taako is many things—an elf, a failed chef, a murderer, a dime-store wizard, and one lucky nanny—but he is not some mercurial fairy tale creature. He’s not going to vanish from their lives the second they lose sight of him. He could if he wanted to, and he will if he has to, but he doesn’t want to. For now, he doesn’t have to.

So he lifts a hand and says, “Back soon.”

But for some reason, it fucking hurts.

#

The trip is about everything he expected it would be: long and boring. Angus gets bored with I, Spy within about ten minutes, the interior of the carriage is a little too tight to practice his cantrips, and Boniface seems to be aiming for the roughest parts of the road on purpose. Taako tries reading aloud from one of the Caleb Cleveland books, but McDonald keeps interrupting every time they get to the good, mysterious parts, so Angus and Taako trade a loaded glance and wordlessly agree to save it for later.

Still, it’s not awful. Angus at six years old is bright-eyed and relentlessly clever. He wants to be a detective like Caleb, and has taken to solving little mysteries around the manor house, like who left the jam out on the counter (Taako, and what are you going to do about it, pumpkin?) and who tracked the mud inside the undercroft (Boniface, obviously, that’s where all the booze is, and he literally works in mud all day. You didn’t have to put on your detective cap for that one).

Needless to say, Taako would burn the whole world down for this kid.  

With no choice but to spend time in his grandson’s company, Taako can see Angus’ innate charm going to work on McDonald. There’s something wistful in the old man’s eyes, affectionate and more than a little bittersweet. He stops interrupting as Angus starts to describe his latest case in great detail—the mystery of the missing tarts!

The tarts are wrapped up and waiting in Taako’s bag for when they inevitably get snacky during the trip, but he's not going to tell. He kinda wants to see how far the kid takes this one.

By the time they board the train, Angus is tuckered out. The excitement of a trip so far from home is wearing off after hours in a carriage, and Taako ends up carrying him into their sleeper car and putting him to bed in one of the bunks.

McDonald takes a seat at the small table and watches without commentary as Taako extracts the boy’s hat and glasses and wand without waking him, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. And then, out of habit more than anything else, he murmurs the only Elven blessing he remembers, quite literally ‘sweet dreams.’ He remembers Auntie saying it to him, and…someone else, maybe? He remembers that it always made him feel loved to hear it.

“Hiring you was the best thing I could have done for him,” McDonald says suddenly.

Taako turns with a trademark smile on his face, only as charming as it needs to be. “Hiring me was the best thing you ever did, period.”

His boss smiles back, but there’s an edge to it that Taako can’t translate. This is the most present and aware he’s looked in the last five years. Taako isn’t sure he’s ever had this much of McDonald’s attention.

“There’s another reason I wanted to take the two of you with me this week,” he says. 

It’s ominous as fuck, and as the train lurches into motion, pulling away from the station, Taako realizes that he’s effectively trapped here, in a way he never was at the manor house. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because McDonald’s smile warms a bit, and he gestures at the other chair. 

“It’s a good thing, son. No need to be nervous.”

Taako sits in an irreverent collapsing of limbs to prove that he isn’t nervous, actually. McDonald pulls a bunch of papers out of his briefcase and sets them on the table. They look official as fuck. McDonald’s signature at the bottom draws Taako’s eye—huh, so that’s his first name. After this long, it would have felt a little awkward to ask. Beneath that is the signature and seal of a notary.

“What am I looking at here, Charlie?”

McDonald’s lips twitch. He probably cottoned onto the name thing. 

“Well, this isn’t an easy conversation to have, and I probably could have picked a better time for it, but.” He glances over Taako’s shoulder at where Angus is sleeping. “It’s probably better if the boy doesn’t overhear until it’s sorted.”

“I hear ya. That little bugbear is all up in everyone’s business all the time,” Taako says proudly. “Just the worst.”

“He’s amazing,” McDonald says. That sorrow swims into his eyes now, an ancient, ruinous thing. “He reminds me of my daughter every time I look at him.” Oh. “It’s been…hard to look at him sometimes.” Oh.

Taako carefully reevaluates his opinion of Angus’ absent grandfather. Not too much, because the dude still should have been around, but, you know. Some.

Taako tries to imagine losing somebody, how much it must hurt. He tries to imagine looking like somebody, a family resemblance, a belonging at face-value. He’s never experienced either, but there’s still a bitter pit in his throat, a feeling like if he swallows too hard he’ll start to cry. So he sits very still instead.

“But still, he’s my only grandson, and I want him to be taken care of when I’m gone,” the man goes on. “I’m getting on in years, and I probably don’t have much longer left—oh, Taako. It’s alright.”

Taako is certain he didn’t move. He’s still doing the sitting-very-still thing. Then he realizes his ears betrayed him, pressed back flat against his head. Goddamn things.

“No, it’s uh. Taako’s good, don’t. Just.”

It’s the human age thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He waves McDonald on, a tight rolling gesture. They really need to power through the rest of this conversation while Taako still has enough self-control left to not do something really embarrassing in front of his boss, like have a whole emotion.

McDonald takes pity. Thank fuck.

“It’s normal to want to get your ducks in a row,” he says. “I’m not planning on kicking the bucket any time soon.”

“Alright, let’s organize these ducks,” Taako says with unwarranted enthusiasm. He’s trying to trick himself into it. “Fucking ducks, am I right?”

“Angus is my heir. When he’s of age, he’ll get the estate and everything that goes with it, as well as his parents’ properties,” McDonald says, once again reminding Taako that he’s a rich old fuck. Istus. “But that’s still more than a decade away. If something should happen to me, I don’t want him to end up a ward of the state.”

Taako blinks. In the back of his mind, he realizes that he has become one of those elves that would one-thousand-percent kidnap a human baby if it came down to it. Leave Agnes in an orphanage? His Agnes? It would literally have never occurred to him.

“Custody cases can be so long-winded. The easiest way to circumvent the whole mess would be to adopt you into the family,” McDonald says, super nonchalant about flipping the world upside down. “That way Angus has an immediate next of kin that no one would question.”

He looks up when Taako doesn’t say anything and frowns at whatever Taako’s face must look like.

“You don’t have to use the surname if you don’t want to. It’s mostly just for the sake of paperwork.”

“I can’t,” Taako blurts.

“Of course. I wouldn’t insist that you change your family name if it’s important to you—”

“Not—not that, who gives a fuck about my family name,” Taako says too loudly. Angus shifts around for a second, like he might wake up, and Taako snaps his mouth closed so hard it hurts his teeth. In a whisper, because it’s all he can manage without giving into the urge to scream, Taako forces out, “I—I’m—I can’t.”

In the nightmare scenarios that still sometimes plague him in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep and he’s alone with the voice in his brain that fucking hates him, the choices always boiled down to either leaving Angus behind or taking him on the run. Both choices were fucking awful for a myriad of different reasons, and left Taako pacing his room tirelessly trying to think his way out of an unsolvable problem.

The idea that he could become a legal part of Angus’ family as simply as signing a piece of paper is so far-fetched and ridiculous that he can’t wrap his mind around it.

But bringing all his shit into Angus’ life? Signing up for this only to get snatched away the second the paperwork goes through and the militia finally finds him? Leaving his dirty laundry all over the front yard like the worst fucking house guest imaginable, and then peacing out to spend the rest of his long-ass fucking elf life in jail, while Angus was left to just…deal with that?

He couldn’t. He can’t. Every single option is bad. He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have known he would fall in love with that baby on day one. It’s really fucking stupid that he stayed.

“—aako. Taako.”

Taako jerks his head up. His ears are twitching and his hands are shaking and McDonald has probably been saying his name for awhile.

The man’s eyes are bright and steely. They look exactly like Angus’ do sometimes, when he wakes Taako up from a miserable meditation, when it’s just the two of them in a huge house surrounded by a crumbling garden.

“Tell me,” the man says sternly.

At a fucking complete loss, Taako just…does.

When he’s finished, McDonald looks at him really hard for what feels like a long time. Then he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of an inner pocket of his coat, poises the business end of a fountain pen against a fresh sheet of paper, and starts asking questions.

It’s a business-like, no-nonsense exchange. Taako is wiped out, emotionally he is the equivalent of a damp rag wrung out to dry, and he has no wherewithal left to lie or deny or deflect.

When they’re done, McDonald has filled three notebook pages of blocky handwriting, and Taako is swaying in his seat. He watches somewhat vacantly as McDonald nods to himself and rummages in his briefcase for a stone of farspeech.

“We won’t reach Neverwinter until morning. Get some sleep,” he says, and his voice is kindly again, the way it was before. Taako stares at him. “And don’t tell me elves don’t need it, please. I wasn’t born yesterday, and you nap twice as much as my grandson ever did.”

Well, it would be nice to get one last unnecessary snooze in as a free man, Taako supposes, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb into Angus’ bunk. It’s a familiar ritual. The kid squirms to accommodate him without fully waking. Taako tucks an arm around him and buries his nose in that riot of curly hair.

He hears McDonald say, “You’re not much more than a kid yourself, are you?” but that might have just been part of a dream.

He hears someone else say, “That can’t be broken or lost or taken away, it’s always going to be so important,” but Taako thinks that, whoever that was, they were very clearly wrong.

#

Taako wakes up to a six-year-old’s warm brown eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners in an urchin sort of way, and it’s the only tell Taako needs. His kid has been up to some mischief.  

“Grandpa said you were tired and I should let you sleep,” Angus reports cheerfully. “He also said that there was a nice lady selling flowers a few cars down, and I ought to go buy a few!”

Ah. Taako glances down at the ruin of his hair. It looks like about a hundred snowberry blossoms were worked into the thick flaxen braid. It’s going to be an absolute pain to brush out later. He’ll probably find bits of plant in his hair for days. He loves it.

He risks a glance in McDonald’s direction.

The man looks amused by their whole general existence, which is fair. He also doesn't look like he's about to summon the guard to have Taako hauled into the brig, which is a fucking relief and a half.

“The world changed while you were asleep,” he says significantly. “Would you like to sign the papers now or with your pardon?”

Angus says, all in one breath, “You should sign the papers first! Grandpa says then you’ll be my family! I mean, you already are, so I’m not sure what the point is, but it must be important. Look at how official they are!”

Taako feels about four cups of coffee behind this conversation. He scoots off the bed, spilling into one of the chairs at the table, and folds his hands.

“Charlie. Buddy.”

“I stepped out for two minutes,” McDonald says defensively, “and I thought he was asleep!”

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Taako mutters. His heart is doing something really complicated and largely unnecessary, fucking backflipping in his chest, at Angus’ thoughtless ‘you already are.’ Like it was a given. What the fuck. “Can you go back to, uh—the world changing? A pardon? What’s up with that?”  

“An old friend of mine is a cleric,” he says pushing a steaming cup in Taako’s direction. “Level nine, or thereabouts. She owed me a favor from when we were in school together, when I—well, that’s not important. What is important is that she was happy to cast Discern Location to find your old stage manager.”

Taako fumbles the cup, almost drops it. He sets it down hard.

“What the fuck? No, hold that thought. Angus, I love you. Get lost.”

He’s really banking on the kid being more stir-crazy than curious, and sure enough, Angus hops right off the bunk and sprints for the door.

“Okay, I’ll be in the dining car! You’re not s’posed to take food back with you, but I’m gonna see how many pastries I can fit in my pockets so you won’t be hungry when you sign the papers that make you my family! Love you, bye!”

“A three-hour carriage ride followed by six hours on a train was the worst fucking idea,” Taako says severely. “He’s gonna be on eleven when we roll up to Neverwinter. They might not let us in.”

“He’s just excited,” the old man says, with the tranquility of someone who isn’t going to have to child-wrangle all day long. “I told him I had good news for you.”

Taako is fidgeting, turning the cup of coffee around and around in his hands. It’s leaving a ring of condensation on the table.

“You found Sazed?” he asks, and hates how small his voice sounds.

“We did.”

“He probably hates me,” Taako mutters. “I ruined his life.”

McDonald takes the cup from him and sets it down on the other side of the table with a firm clunk. 

“Pardon my language, but you didn’t ruin crud.” Taako mouths ‘crud’ in bewilderment, but McDonald isn’t finished. “I was suspicious of your story when you described the way those people died. Those aren’t the typical symptoms of deadly nightshade, and I’d never heard of a transmutation spell failing in that way before. So I looked into it. Or, I should say, I had a few friends look into it.”

“Are you in a cult?” Taako asks. He can’t help it. He’s one part genuinely curious and two parts hardwired to deflect any time someone tricks him into having a serious conversation. “We frown on cults in this family. Mysterious shadow organizations are never a good thing, no matter what greater-good shit they’re peddling.”

“I’m very rich and belong to very elite social circles,” McDonald says dryly. He’s unmoved by Taako’s general everything. “This whole thing took about three calls. I wish you would have told me about this five years ago, but I do understand why you didn’t.”

Taako doesn’t have a cup to fuck around with anymore. He stopped wearing jewelry when Angus was a baby and literally everything smaller than an apple was a choking hazard, and he never really got into the habit of it again, so he doesn’t have rings to twist around his fingers, either. He wrings his hands instead.

“If it wasn’t the elderberries,” he chokes out, and doesn’t make it any farther.

“It was arsenic,” McDonald says. His voice is kind again, but not so much so that it’s painful to hear. “Sazed was questioned within a Zone of Truth. He admitted to—okay,” he cuts himself off, putting a hand on Taako’s shoulder. “We’re done talking about it for now. Just take it easy.”

Taako doesn’t uncurl from his chair until the door rattles open and Angus’ voice fills the room. He’s found a dozen things to talk about in the ten minutes he’s been gone, and is very proud of himself for all the contraband pastries he managed to make off with. There’s a cheese danish wrapped very carefully in a napkin, only slightly squished, that he presents to Taako with a showy flourish that he really only could have picked up from too much time around one particular idiot.

Taako accepts the danish, and then hauls Angus up onto his lap, and then says, “Charlie, baby. Pass me that fancy pen.”

#

For the first time in almost eight years, Taako is cooking for an audience again. His hands are shaking, but as long as everyone else is politely pretending like they don’t notice, he can do himself the same favor.

I fed those people their death, but it wasn’t on me, he recites inwardly for the seven millionth time, a nervous mantra. My magic was good. My cooking was good. I was good. It wasn’t on me.

He looks up from the counter where all his tools are laid out and his ingredients are arranged. Ezra is bouncing in her seat, Boniface is lingering in the doorway like he doesn’t care but he also isn’t leaving, and Catherine’s eyes are wide and moonlike and younger than Taako has ever seen them. Angus has place of pride, a seat on the counter by the sink with the best view in the house.

“Okay,” he says. “What are the rules, pumpkin?”

“No swiping ingredients, no magic in the kitchen, and no taste-testing until you say it’s okay,” Angus rattles off promptly. “Autographs at the end of the show are three gold apiece, photos are ten, and the overall experience is absolutely priceless.”

Over the sweet sound of the rest of his audience groaning at him, Taako goes on blithely, “And what are we cooking today?”

“Macarons!”

“And who’s your dude?” Taako asks, pointing a whisk at him. Angus giggles, and Taako’s hands aren’t shaking anymore.

In a month, Angus is going off to a summer camp out past Rockport. It’s Caleb Cleveland-themed, and the whole thing sounds extremely nerdy and book-cluby, and Angus is desperately excited. He’s also desperately nervous about being away from his family for three whole weeks but he’s trying to keep that on the down-low. He’s very grown up at nearly ten years old.

Taako can respect that. He also bought the kid a stone of farspeech, because actually fuck that.

And while Angus is off having his first away-from-home adventure—since the girls think that Taako’s just going to be useless and mopey the whole time, and Boniface already threatened to bury him in a flowerbed the first time he whines about literally anything—Taako is going to go do something cool, too. There’s always some interesting jobs posted on Craig's List up in Neverwinter. He’ll be able to find something to occupy his time.  

But for now, he’s gonna make some goddamn desserts.

“Come on, Ango,” Taako wheedles, “who’s your dude?”

“You, papa.”

I’m good, Taako reminds himself. He looks at his kid, who only deserves the best this piece of shit world has to offer, and thinks, I can be good.

[captainkurosolaire]

The Enforcer

 Lalafell’s decoratively made a resolution coming together in their federation. Their feminine representative, “We’ll do it. Seems like fun, we enjoy high-stakes.” The nerdiest one of them, “By our calculations, the succession of rates is significantly increased with humoring this blueprint of yours.” The more glamoured and fabulous hat worn one pouted, “Sorry yo, in pounding you earlier dood.” Another echoed, “We were just kidding on blowing you up…” the one who often tells lies spoke. Lastly, their appointed central leader, Jackal who had some characteristics of Captain himself scooted in, “Where do we begin?”, he’d crook ahead, “Shelah, hand em a linkpearl fer me from my talisman.” Since his arms still couldn’t bend and were in their cast she had to be the aide. “Your priorities should b’ in getting a new flag of your old design, say you’re renovating the design to your former employers, one-day, gradually after you prove t’ them you’re earning the same shares, you can tell them about th’ shift in leadership. Say the other got executed finally by Maelstrom, it’s something believable. They’ll keep their normal frustrations level in-tact. Fer the Maelstrom sake do the opposite for the disappearance of their ‘resource’ they’ll become irritated equally. Though long as you’ve shown the same results and have a steady grasp you’ll pull it off. Least long enough until I rebuild my crew. Then, I’ll provide coverage, we’ll go after the Scourges who pose a threat, but I need to gain allies and treaties, each Scourge could bring many battles and wars... Warning, whatever you do never, ever, cross or short-change the Crew named OMONGA. They’re yer prime clients to see pleased.” Each of them wondered just what sort of devils were among that Crew to be specifically singled out. “Ay ay!” They’d all enact before solidifying as a unit and properly get acquitted to their ship and the disposal of maintenance they’d need to clean. Shelah worded between him, “Amazing. But Cap’n do you think that’ll work?” He’d chortle, “No chance. We’re on borrowed time. Someone will compromise or make an error. Though I’ll push harder… Unless.” Klethera stepping in, he didn’t forget about the deal about turning himself in firstly, it was possible none of this would matter anyway. Shelah realizing this should be between them gave her parting, “I’ll get the little ones to the Capital safely. I’m not Wanted or injured too badly, I’ve had time to recuperate my injuries. There’s a Chocobo stable not far.” She’d bow slightly before Klethera continuing to carry her efficiently in trying to honor her Captain who similarly saved her with his Navigator. Giving reassurance and looking after people’s living seemed to be his worst habit. Klethera recognized his crewmate was someone who wouldn’t be suspected at all how she envisioned his ranks or members. “I’ve decided.” She’d grumble between her teeth, “You’re not nearly as terrible initially, I still don’t agree with you pirates. Especially don’t forgive your actions fully either. Though.” She’d remain unfinished, her sentence while looking over the scenic ebb and flow waves. The parting turtle-vessel leaving their view. “I’ll make you a deal, let me in this... your Crew. I won’t arrest you temporarily..” Kuro abruptly and erupted in a bellowing cackle, “O’ is that how it works huh? It’s certainly admirable. Who’s to say I wasn’t them? Or am I not? I’ve thrown people n’ chains, decided and jailed them too. I’m not innocent. I’ve pledged myself t’ the seas and a cause... and I won’t let those try conquering it and think they own it or decide massively they can. I reshape and build things that are broken often seen damaged past repair, tainted or forgotten, I take what people neglect and tell it a value, steal and give it refugee to a sanctuary, show them the potential of a hand’s properly callous for appraisal, but my words matter not they’re cheap spew and sometimes, my palms can’t adequately contain certainty those I cherish th’ most… Lost things I have utterly loved and they killed themselves for me. Slain me from mind to save themselves.” She’d punch him in the rib, “Dummy. That’s why I want in. You can’t expect yourself to always be accounted for your actions. When you cross the line, I’ll beat you back in line. And when I… admitting, go overboard in my justice, I need you to do what you just did. Help me find clarity. You want to clean these polluted seas just as bad as anyone. I don’t intend to let those incapable of fending for themselves to be damned. You talk in past-tense, I think you can change this dooming aura, assuming your resolve never goes misplaced.” Her words echoed his consciousness turning in facing.

“We call that role on a crew, The Enforcer, but I couldn’t agree further. Though I want the condition, if I break the line. You do as I asked, you bring the bullet t’ my skull, and you get out of this. We can defeat some of the worse looming nightmares once we’re ready to port from these shadows and reclaim our taken fortunes and acquire the relics of the loss. Fer now I need to remain a ghastly specter of once. You’ll oversee interrogation and throwing vile n’ our cozy brigs and discipline the crew keeping us in check and aligned, even me. My First Crew-Mate is similar too. I have no purpose fer a crew filled ov’ strictly agreein’ nancies. Mutiny me if I fail expectations.” Strictly he’d apply shackles on himself and pressure, the more stress a leader had, the better they were stable and performed effectively in keeping lives in-tact. Lacking this resolve or willpower to constantly want a Captain who didn’t take the challenge, was a sign of someone who’d bring death to all those who were behind that supposed leader that was his learning of age. Inside this particular cursed pirate, was a budded root, a nourishing plant which grew with each new addition of a springing face of his worldly cherished. Those blooming petals would shortly under weathered conditions would open themselves and my... a marveling ferocious beauty laid under all those drenches if those storms could be navigated. She’d shake even his request at an awareness of this fact of his oddity. So-far she was wrong about many avenues of him and kept guessing despite her earrings preventing deceit. She had this hope about him too. Despite neither of them would ever have admittance of it cause their pride, in this short-encountering of events they made a pact of poetic uniqueness. The estranged daughter and a no-good father had a path to deliver their proving. 

           (Previous)  — / References /  —   ♫ — (Next Page)  

[anthropwashere]

our indestructible days ch 3

ch 1 | ch 2

=

Stubborn child! Tenacious little brat!

Pride seethes as he carries his new container up through another ruined, empty floor of Father's home, teeth gnashing at stone and metal. How could one inconsequential human soul cling so stubbornly to its body? Especially after being absorbed into his Philosopher's Stone?

It's lucky the little alchemist is such a mad acrobat, otherwise Pride wouldn't have been able to climb to the surface as quickly as he has, even with his shadows to assist. There's only a floor left between him and the parade field. The light from Father's attack has faded now, but he's still wary of jumping out without having a better idea of the situation out there. The light alone hadn't been enough to damage his Stone, but it had been an altogether painful experience for his true form.

A part of him hates to let those survivors scurry off—all those long years guarding Sloth's tunnel, no doubt—but now isn't the time to hunt down vermin. His Stone has only barely stabilized thanks to those few soldiers he'd consumed. He was able to grow this container a new leg without much strain, but he doubts he'd be much good in a proper fight. He's made the mistake of underestimating humans before. It's not a mistake he's keen on repeating.

He slims his shadows to a few cautious coils, tasting the air. Even up here he can smell the living humans below, soaked in blood and snaking away from the epicenter of things. They could reappear virtually anywhere in Central but he doubts they'll go that far, not with how injured they are. Aside from them there's nothing but corpses down there, which won't do him any good. Thanks to absorbing Gluttony he finds the meat delicious, yes, but it's souls he needs. 

Aboveground is a far different story. He sniffs again and can't help but smirk. There's dozens—no, hundreds of humans gathering up there, rushing around with their hearts racing and sweat salting their warm skin. He smells too, all the silly little guns they're hauling around in some vain hope of stopping Father.

Pride licks his lips, eager now. They want a fight, do they? He may be weak, but he thinks he can at least provide Father a distraction.

He's careful to keep his container out of sight as he peers over the last crumbling edge, curling tendrils into the air and squinting in the brightening daylight. Behind him Central Command is in ruins, as if some enormous hand had come along and taken a scoop out of it. He can smell only a handful of living humans there, most of them bloody and bruised and terrified. Before him a triangular stretch of the parade field is charred black, heat to sting the razor edges of him still rising from it. Greasy smoke smothers the air, reducing visibility to a frustrating few feet. From here he can only make out the woman sacrifice, sprawled nearby and barely conscious. He can smell her pain, the new bruises and welling blood, but it's nothing serious. There's no urgent spike of adrenaline in her blood, no sour snap of broken bone nor the damp heat of exposed organs. She'll live, for now.

The wind shifts. He narrows his eyes, sniffing, and finds the shredded remains of Alphonse Elric's armor a little further off. Beside it is the troublesome Xingese girl, weeping loudly. Has the younger Elric's blood seal broken? Either way, he won't be taking part in this fight any longer, not in the shape he's in.

The woman sacrifice—Izumi, wasn't it?—wakes, coughing roughly. "H-Hohenheim," she forces out, and as if summoned by her voice Father appears before her, so quickly that neither Pride’s eyes nor nose sensed him move. A strong hand grabs Van Hohenheim out of the dust that had obscured him as well, knocking him aside like so much refuse. He lands in a heap some distance off. Pride pays his piteous groaning no mind, relieved to see that Father still has God's power within him.

"Father!" He cries, springing out into the open to present himself. Izumi twitches nearby, straining to see him over her bloodied shoulder.

"You're first," Father says, raising his hand. Red light arcs between his fingertips. Too late, Pride realizes what he means to do—

Pain riots through his container. All his thoughts collapse to panicked static. His newly acquired lungs and heart seize, his every muscle spasms and his every joint locks. He would scream if he could because to have true flesh is to be set on fire. He'd thought the leg bad before, but he'd retreated into his Stone at the first white-hot shock of hurt and here he's pinned in place, nerves flayed, choking on ash—he can't, he isn't, how is it possible to—hurt—so completely? Defense—he—he must defend against—shadows—his self—all gone, he can't think, he can't—

Father is going to kill him—

A gunshot cracks in the distance, and a wound appears in a fizzle of come-and-go alchemical light at Father's temple. Father's concentration breaks. Pride nearly falls on all fours, sucking in dirty air with a relief that unmoors him. He doesn't hesitate, falling back on the instincts of this taken flesh. His hammering heart says run, so he runs. He sprints through the thinning smoke, wanting distance, needing time to get his bearings, needing to understand why Father just tried to kill him—

He ducks behind some heap of rubble near Central Command's wall, pressing his spine against it and shutting his eyes against the acrid sting. He's—he's panicking. He is, isn't he? He's never one to panic. He is first of the homunculi, oldest and strongest and cleverest. He won't—can't—be cowed so easily as this. Even if—even if it was Father that came so close to—

He is one part of a greater whole. This is something he's always known. But it's never occurred to him that Father might one day want that part back.

No. Never mind that. Father had his reasons. He always does. Surely Father only intended to siphon Fullmetal's soul away, to tear the stubborn child out so Pride could have unfettered control over this container—

[Coward.]

Pride freezes—still panting for breath, damn this flesh—and glares with several pairs of eyes. That voice. It shouldn't be possible, and yet— "Just how many of you damned insects are clinging to sentience within my stone?!"

[Oh, it's just Fullmetal and myself in here, and he's not doing too well at the moment.] Kimblee's laughter grates for all that it's not, technically, real. [He doesn't enjoy the company as much as I do.]

In the distance Pride can hear-smell humans shouting, soldiers making a perimeter in some feeble-minded attempt at hemming Father in, barking out nonsensical orders to one another over the bustle and clatter of all their useless weaponry. A man shouts over a megaphone that Fullmetal is not to be confused with Father, which is a relief and in some small way, terribly funny. He watches the clamor with his container's eyes, peering carefully around the crumbling edge of what might have been a bit of the east wing. If he focuses he thinks he can very nearly feel the pinpoints of solidity within his Stone, Kimblee as fine and bright as a needle, Fullmetal a stolid lump fumbling his way back to consciousness at a snail's pace. "I suppose you'll be wanting to fight me for control over this body next?"

[Oh no, not at all. It'd be a poor fit, I think. And besides, I already have a front row seat to the glorious battle going on right now. Just listen to it!]

The attacks are certainly concussive, if nothing else. From his position on the field it only looks like the soldiers are wasting a great deal of ammunition for nothing; Father's glimmering shield is protecting him even from the heat and dust of the blasts. Some soldier down there belts out a command to take cover and scarcely a moment later a gout of flame rushes down the same charred path as Father's earlier attack to engulf the majority of the parade ground in an inferno. It seems that despite his newfound blindness the Flame Alchemist remains unwilling to sit idly by while there's murder and mayhem to sow. Still, it'll take more than that to slow Father down now.

"They stand no chance against him," he mutters aloud. The plan has fallen apart, perhaps disastrously so, but Father will win. It's only a matter of time.

[No chance?] Kimblee asks, pausing when another gout of flame explodes across the parade field. This one Father catches as easily as a child's toy and sends it right back. Even after that display, amusement curls Kimblee's voice. Infuriating creature. [You say there's no chance, that you homunculi are so much better than humans, but what's Greed without his human vessel? What are you?]

"I am Pride the Arro—"

[Just the two of you left now, and that only thanks to the humans you've attached yourselves to. You claim to be higher life forms, yet you're really nothing more than parasites. How disappointing.]

"I won't die here! Whatever the cost, I refuse to die today!"

[And if your Father willed it otherwise?]

He flinches, and loathes this treacherous body all the more.

[He seemed eager enough to kill you a moment ago,] Kimblee goes on cheerfully, [Yet you turned tail and ran away the second you could. You were named for your dignity as much as your arrogance, yet all you've proven today is that you're a hypocrite and a coward.]

"BE SILENT, KIMBLEE!"

[Mmph.] The Fullmetal lump shifts within his Stone, waking up properly. Pride very nearly throws his hands up in exasperation. [Ah, hell. That hurt. What happened?]

[Welcome back, Edward. I wasn't sure you'd be joining us again.]

Pride curls his mouth irritably, digs dirty nails into the stone's crumbling edge. The automail arm only twitches at his side, still stubbornly resistant to his will. "How many times must I put you in your place until you stay there?"

[Ha. At least one more. Where are we?] 

Pride has no chance to reply before his control is tugged away from him. Edward Elric wavers, bracing himself with both hands against the same stretch of scorched stone. Pride's connection to the container and all its startling sensations remains; a sour tang of nausea burns their shared throat, dizziness makes their pulse pound in their ears, a line of sweat down their spine makes them shiver. Edward directs their eyes about the parade field and back to Central Command, taking in the splendor of Father's power. Their ears ache with the ceaseless crack and boom of gunfire.

"Holy shit,” Edward breathes.

With a growl of displeasure Pride pushes back and retakes control. The boy's too stunned to put up more than a token resistance, one that's easily brushed aside. Pride smiles, licking the new configuration of his teeth. "Do you understand now? Do you see what Father is capable of, despite all your little tricks? Are you still so certain you'll win?"

Kimblee whispers, so quietly that Edward seems not to hear, [Are you?]

[Of course I am,] Edward retorts, and while he's unable to wrestle control of his body back he does manage a few of the eyes circling at their feet. Their shared vision wobbles and blurs, and Edward grumbles. [Jeez, how can you stand this? I think I'm gonna puke.]

"Then stop it."

[Nah.] Their shadow twitches, an inelegant lurch that nevertheless forces one of their eyes to loll, and in just such a way that it glimpses Edward's bare left foot. Through their mutable connection of his Stone Pride feels the stuttering evolution of Edward's reaction—dumbfounded, denying, horrified, furious. Their mouth opens against his will and Edward's snarl froths out. "My—my leg. It's—the automail—it's gone. You—you son of a bitch! You really cut it off?!"

[It was slowing me down,] Pride replies calmly, content for the moment to take refuge in his Stone. It almost feels as he did in his Selim container this way; placid, unflappable, controlled. [You're welcome, by the way. I saved you the trouble of trying to get back the original one.]

"Wh—That's not the point! Al and I made a promise! After we found out the cost of making a Philosopher's Stone we promised not to use one for ourselves! We never wanted to be so selfish as to use another life to fix our mistake! Al and I—we—I didn't...."

Edward's inhale is a shaky mess. He sways again, gritting his teeth. It seems he has a new tendency to speak through more than one mouth if he lets his anger get the better of him. How interesting. Pride certainly hadn't manifested one of the three thin mouths in their shadow. Edward bends at their waist to brush their left hand across their new knee cap, draws a line down their shin, splays their toes on the sun-warmed concrete. Pride feels each sensation like a static shock, which isn't half so bizarre as the curdled snatches of Edward's thoughts he absorbs secondhand. Nerve damage—phantom pain in the night—gone, it's gone, he shouldn't feel anything because it's gone—Granny said the cold would be harder on him—cold night spent lying awake, teeth gritted, muscles aching—no amount of massaging around the ports ever helped—Al's metallic voice, "Did you dream about Mom again—"

Pride retreats deeper into his Stone, startled by how real that felt. The ever-groaning souls inside him keep their distance from his toothsome shape—all but Kimblee, who sidles up to him with an overly familiar grin. 

Outside, Edward reins in his anger enough to ask, "Where's Alphonse?"

[In pieces,] he replies sullenly, and finds base satisfaction in the diminished jolt of panic he feels from the boy. [The Xingese girl has been using what's left of his armor as a shield—]

Red light crackles in their shared vision and a feeling not unlike a brand burns his Philosopher's Stone. He writhes within and without, as much from shock as from pain. When he can see clearly again Edward's braced against the rubble, breathing raggedly. "Shut up," he growls.

[You're so willing to be free of me you'll hurt yourself to do it?] Pride marvels. 

"Shut up," Edward repeats, a mouth splitting in their shadow to hiss the same. "You too, Kimblee."

[I didn't say anything.]

"I can feel how much you're enjoying this." He spits, wiping their mouth with the back of his automail hand, then begins a clumsy half-jog back into the thick of things. There's no telling if it's the new leg or their shadow nipping at their heels giving him more trouble.

[Where are you going?] Pride demands. [What do you intend to do?]

"I'm gonna find Al, then I'm gonna make that bastard pay."

[If you confront him, Father will take my Stone for sure!]

"Good. Let him take care of you for me!"

[He'll kill you too!]

"I don't care!" Edward picks up speed, keeping low and favoring their new leg. When Pride opens a train of eyes in their shadow Edward trips, slapping a hand over their container's eyes with a curse. Nausea tongues his Stone, altogether unpleasant. "I gotta make sure Al's okay!"

[Damn you!] For all that he tries to wrest back control Edward just hangs on to himself harder. Pride rages, scattering souls like gravel beneath the wild sweep of his awareness. Edward snarls back and picks up speed.

[Such dedication!] Kimblee exults, a white sore in his Stone. [Such drive! He really is an admirable creature, isn't? Put a fire under him and he'll burn himself gladly for the chance to keep those he cares for out of it!]

[Be quiet!]

Kimblee calms, raising one unimpressed eyebrow. [Why should I listen to you? A pitiful homunculus who couldn't keep a single human under heel?]

Pride seethes.

[golden-deer-dear]

What We Deserve, Claude x Byleth Fluff

Summary: Claude and Byleth are intent on breaking down the walls between Almyra and Fódlan, and they're starting with their wedding.

A series of snapshots of their wedding day.

Notes:  My entry for the @claudlethweek prompt, which was traditions. Hope you guys enjoy!

Read on AO3.

What We Deserve

"I want to spend the night with my wife!" Claude whined as he draped himself over a fainting couch. He had spent most of the day running from Lorenz, but his friend had finally caught up with him and dragged Claude into a large chamber covered in maps and tapestries depicting battles fought long ago. Claude guessed this was the room in which Holst usually held his war councils, and was cleared out just for this special occasion. (Ever since Byleth and Claude had asked Holst to take over the Locket for the ceremony, Holst had taken his duty as host very seriously.)

"She is not your wife until tomorrow," Lorenz pointed out while pouring himself a glass of wine. He completely ignored the melodramatic pout Claude shot his way, refusing even to look at the newly crowned Almyran king sprawled out over a plush couch like a spoiled child. 

“Well, spending all night in prayer to the goddess doesn’t sound like much fun either,” Claude said, continuing to sulk.

Lorenz and Sylvain both laughed, making Claude feel like he was missing out on the joke. Even Felix was fighting back a smile when he looked up at them all. “Technically what we’re supposed to be doing,” Sylvain said as he popped the cork out of another bottle of wine. “Not that anyone ever really does that.” He poured a much too generous amount of wine into a goblet and handed it to Claude. “Drink up, buddy.”

Claude’s pout fell away, replaced by a much more interested gleam in his eyes. “So this is what you do instead?” he asked as he took the offered cup. “Get drunk and eat too much?”

Raphael laughed, already piling a ridiculous amount of food onto his plate. “It’s a celebration! What better way to tell the goddess you’re thankful for all the good things in your life than by actually showing her?”

Claude raised his cup in a salute. “Well said, Raph.”

“Yeah!” Raphael cheered through a mouth full of food. “Besides, we’ve got a ton of food! It’d be a shame to let it go to waste! And there’ll be more tomorrow too!”

“Yes,” Lorenz drawled, staring at the large man with a bit of endearment, but mostly disgust. “We’ll be attending feasts for the next week, what with how you and the Professor have agreed to honor each culture of your respective cultures.”

“You don’t think we deserve it after all this?” Claude asked lightly, taking a sip of wine.

Lorenz sighed a bit melodramatically, his shoulders slumping to add to the act. “I suppose we do.”

“We’re really happy for you, Claude,” Ignatz added, looking like he wasn’t sure where he should be at the moment. “You and the Professor have done so much for us, we wish you the best.”

“Well said,” Sylvain agreed, raising his glass. “While I am saddened that it will not be me waiting for our beloved Professor before the altar tomorrow, I could not have lost to a better man.”

“Careful now,” Claude said as he leaned back into the couch, raising his cup to his lips to hide the grimace of annoyance that crossed his face. “Keep talking like that, and those words might find their way back to Ingrid.”

Sylvain blanched, while Felix outright laughed. “Ah well, to you and the Professor!” Sylvain managed to finish before tipping his glass back. Despite the nature of the first part of the toast, the other men in the room drank as well, Lorenz shaking his head at their first Blue Lion transfer. 

“You got all that?”

Claude turned to look as Cyril opened the door to the large chamber the men had taken over. Someone, Claude suspected was Ashe, walked through with a tray ladden so high with food there was no way he could see over it. “Ah, yes, thank you, Cyril.” Yep, definitely Ashe. 

“Here, let me help ya!” Without waiting for an answer, and despite Ashe’s previous assurance, Raphael swept the tray out of Ashe’s hands, leaving the poor boy blinking in shocked confusion, before depositing it on the table with the rest of the food they had already acquired. 

Claude’s mouth watered as the scent of onion and saffron floated on the air. “That smells amazing.”

“I hope it tastes good,” Ashe said nervously. “I got the recipe from one of the women that came with your mother.”

Claude looked at the tray, smiling widely at the sight. “Are they cakes?” Lorenz asked.

“A rice cake,” Claude clarified. “It’s got chicken and yogurt in it too. One of my favorites when I was a kid. I haven’t had it in....a really long time.”

“My mom used to make those,” Cyril said softly, his eyes lighting up with happy memories. 

The Fódlan born nobles looked at the cakes suspiciously. Ignatz, Raphael, and Cyril were quick to dig in. Claude launched off the couch toward the tray. “Hey! Save some for me!” 

And so, Claude spent the night before his wedding feasting and drinking with some of his closest friends. When Sylvain challenged him to a game of chess, Claude showed him no mercy. The only thing that would have made it better was if Byleth had been allowed to join them.

/

Spring was well under way, but this far up in the mountains there was still a nip in the air. Byleth enjoyed it, content as a light wind blew around them. Holst had cleared out an outdoor section of the keep for her and ‘her ladies’ (as he had taken to calling them). He and Seteth were around somewhere, patrolling to keep unwanted visitors away from the small bridal party. (Although, Flayn had proven to be the most terrifying option to run into. Her disarming smiles made whomever she aimed them at feel as if they had disappointed the goddess herself.)

“All right, so we have options,” Hilda said, uncharacteristically serious. She set a large box in front of Byleth, who simply stared back at her. 

Leonie snorted from her position next to Odette, helping Claude’s mother check over some substance called henna. Hilda ignored her and opened the box, revealing golden jewelry. Byleth leaned forward to study them, seeing that all contained little details that were Hilda’s signature trademarks.

“Did you make all of these for me?”

Hilda flushed lightly. “I just brought a selection of my latest designs,” she said too quickly. “I figured we would let you choose first, and then the rest of us could choose something so we matched.” 

“That was sweet of you,” Marianne said in her soft voice, making Hilda flush even deeper. Byleth shared a look with Leonie, and they quickly moved to hide their laughter. 

“Ooooh, these are so pretty!” Annette squealed, leaning over Byleth’s shoulder to get a better look. 

“Oh, this necklace is beautiful.” Dorothea joined them, pulling out a rose shaped pendant made of tiny rubies and emeralds. 

“It is,” Byleth agreed. “But I think that would look better on Leonie than on me.”

“Me?” Leonie almost shrieked. Odette clicked her tongue when the other woman almost spilled the henna in her shock. “I don’t really do jewelry, so I’m good.”

“But Lorenz would certainly like it,” Hilda pointed out, her turn to look smug as Leonie went bright red. 

Odette was silent as she joined them, setting up her bowls and brushes in front of Byleth. She took Byleth’s hand in her own and began to work as the girls continued to talk. “Do not choose a necklace for yourself,” she instructed. “I brought something for you to wear as well.”

Hilda latched onto those words and immediately focused her attention on Claude’s mother. “I would love to see it!”

Odette smiled, still focused on Byleth’s hands as she began to apply the henna, but said, “Mercedes, please bring over the box in my belongings inlaid with the golden sun.”

“Oh, certainly.” It did not take Mercedes long to find the specified box and bring it over to the group. When Odette nodded, she opened it, all of the women gathered around gasping at the beauty of the choker laying on black velvet. Mercedes took it from the box and placed it around Byleth’s neck. The large emerald resting against her throat caught the noonday light, reminding her of her fiance's eyes.

“We are bringing the wine!” Petra’s loud announcement broke through the silence that had settled over the group, and everyone relaxed back into their easy chatting as she and Ingrid poured everyone a glass. 

“Petra! You should braid the Professor’s hair!” Dorothea suggested happily.

“Yes! That would be amazing!” Hilda agreed readily.

Petra smiled at Byleth hesitantly. “That would be wonderful,” Byleth said, answering Petra’s unspoken question. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Petra shook her head and took a place behind Byleth. “I do not be minding.”

“Oooh, you’re going to be so pretty!” Annette squealed again. Byleth was finding out that wedding apparently made the younger woman a bit giddy. 

“Claude’s going to cry when he sees you,” Hilda said with a smirk. 

“All right, I finished it.”

Byleth turned to Lysithea. The young woman had gone off earlier that morning, and no one had been able to find her since. Now it seemed she had returned, brandishing...a flower crown? She blushed at Byleth’s questioning look. “I know you are dressing in Almyran tradition, and Claude is doing the same with Fódlan fashions, but this isn’t exactly something for Claude.”

Seeing that Byleth was still confused, Mercedes continued the explanation. “The youngest member of the bridal party makes a crown of lilies for the bride to wear. It is supposed to represent her devotion to the goddess.”

Byleth raised her eyebrows, and turned back to Lysithea. “It doesn’t have to mean that. I mean, you practically are the goddess, but I just thought…” The young woman trailed off, uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

“I like it,” Byleth said simply. “Petra, can we integrate it into your design?”

“Yes, of course.”

For the first time in a long time, Byleth felt truly relaxed. Her former students...no, her friends, chatted around her, helping her choose the finishing touches for her outfit tomorrow. Tomorrow. Byleth smiled softly and touched the emerald at her throat, thinking of just what all this was for. Tomorrow she would marry Claude.

Odette noticed, squeezing Byleth’s hand gently. “You really love my son, don’t you?” Her question went unheard by the others. Dorothea had roped them into helping her convince Ingrid to wear makeup for the ceremony. 

Byleth’s smile grew wider, unable to hide her happiness. “Yes.”

“Good. He needs a woman like you.”

/

Byleth frowned in concern, until she heard the noise again. With a sigh, she went to the window and waited. “That took you longer than usual,” Byleth said as Claude dragged himself into the room. He rolled gracelessly, crashing onto the floor. A moment later he held something up, giving a triumphant cry.

“Yeah, well I was carrying something.” Claude indicated the covered tray in his hands. “I brought you some food.”

“Are you drunk?” Byleth asked, watching as Claude got himself to his feet.

He held his fingers very close together in front of his face. “A little bit.”

Byleth laughed softly and shook her head. “Claude, you know we’re not supposed to see each other until the ceremony.”

“I know!” Claude whined like a wounded puppy. “But to be fair, it’s too dark in here for me to actually see you. And Ashe made tahchin, and I really wanted you to try it.”

“You’ll have to feed it to me,” Byleth said. There was the hint of a tease in her voice, one which Claude would usually catch onto easily, but this time it seemed to fly right over his head. “Your mother will kill me if I mess up her work.” She wiggled her fingers at him, but it really was too dark for him to make out the details of her henna. 

“I can do that.” Claude crashed into a chair, pulling Byleth into his lap. He removed the cover of the tray and picked up some of the food, trying to aim for Byleth’s mouth. He missed completely, smashing it against her cheek.

“Claude!” Byleth laughed, trying to brush the rice from her cheek.

Claude joined in her laughter, burying his face against her shoulder. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her. Byleth could feel him relax against her back. “Stars, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Claude,” Byleth answered back, brushing Claude’s unruly hair back out of his face. She kissed his forehead, content to simply snuggle against the man she had chosen as her own. They fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

Lorenz waking them up with a shriek about decorum was rather amusing. And honestly, Byleth could not think of a more perfect way to start off her wedding day.

/

Byleth’s breath caught in her throat as she peeked around the corner, managing to catch a glimpse of  Claude. He was so handsome she felt she needed to remind herself how to pull air into her lungs.

She watched as he adjusted the sleeve of his tunic, its light gold color matching her dress. The surcoat he wore over it was a soft green, a few shades darker than Byleth’s eyes, and a darker gold. It was emblazoned with the Crest of Flames on the left side, right above his heart, and the Crest of Riegan on the right. The surcoat draped a few inches below his knees, almost meeting his polished black boots. There was only an inch or so of the tight black leggings he worn on beneath, and Byleth felt herself flush slightly upon thinking of seeing him in just those leggings later. 

Seteth said something to him, which Claude responded to with a laugh and that charming smile of his. His gloved hands rested on his belt, both inlaid with gems mapping out constellations in the night sky. His gloves showed ones from Fódlan, while the belt depicted those seen in Almyra. 

Claude bent his head forward, that troublesome lock of hair falling forward into his face. He brushed it back, only for it to fall forward immediately. But then the music started, and Claude did not seem very interested in his hair any longer.

“Are you ready?” Alios asked her as the other members of the wedding party began to line up.

Byleth took his offered hand and nodded. Alois immediately began to tear up. “I wish your father could see you. He would be so proud,” Alois said, his voice quivering.

“I wish he was here too.” Byleth breathed deeply, her chest aching for a moment as she thought of Jeralt. “But, I know he would not have entrusted this task to anyone else besides you.”

Alois was full on openly weeping now. Byleth patted his hand and watched as Hilda linked arms with Marianne. Petra and Dorothea did the same, as did Sylvain and Ingrid, Felix and Annette, Ashe and Mercedes, Raphael and Ignatz, Lysithea and Cyril, and finally Lorenz and Leonie. 

They entered the room before her, lining up on their respective sides. Claude had claimed Petra and Hilda to stand behind him, while Byleth had insisted that Raphael join her. Lorenz and Marianne looked very proud as they took their places as man and maid of honor. 

And then all eyes turned back, eager for a sight of her. 

/

Claude’s jaw dropped as Byleth was led into the room. They were separated by a crowd of well wishers, but his entire world shrank to her. She was always beautiful, but right now she simply stole his breath away.

Her dress was a light gold, decorated with tiny diamonds that made her gleam when she moved. He had never before seen her in Almyran fashion, but there was something about the short sleeved top and flared skirts that suited her. As Alois escorted her down the aisle toward him, those skirts, upon which were embroidered golden wyverns, the very symbol of Almyran royalty, flared around Byleth. 

She held her head high, her eyes shining with joy as she looked at him, just as unable to tear her eyes away from him. Her hair was pulled back and braided, no doubt Petra’s work with how elegant the design. The red veil was sheer enough that Claude could see every detail beneath. Someone had woven together a crown of white Fódlan lilies and set it upon her head as well.

As she drew closer, Claude could hear the tinkling of her jewelry. Bracelets of gold hung from her wrists, and it sounded like she wore some on her ankles as well, hidden by the layers of skirts. There was a choker around her neck made of heavy gold and emeralds, the very one he knew his mother wore on her wedding day.

With tears on his cheeks, Alois guided Byleth’s hand to Claude’s. His heart skipped a beat as he held her lightly, pulling her closer to him. He could clearly see the whirls of henna on her arms now. There were stars woven into the designs on her fingers, while he noticed a sun and crescent moon on the back of her hands, rotating around a mandala. 

“You look like you stepped out of my dreams,” Claude whispered to her, blinking rapidly at the sudden urge to cry. He chuckled to himself. Only Byleth would have him weeping with joy. 

Byleth blushed, but held his gaze. “Putting that golden tongue to use a little early,” she teased. 

Seteth cleared his throat, reminding Claude that there were other people besides the two of them in the world. The ceremony began, but Claude went through it in a daze. He said his vows, promising himself to Byleth, and intertwined their fingers when their hands were bound together with a thick piece of forest green silk. It was with wide smiles on their faces that they tore off chunks of bread to feed to one another, and worked as a team to take a drink from a goblet full of sweet wine. 

They were finally allowed to exchange rings. Byleth sighed softly in relief as Claude’s ring was once more placed on her hand, holding it close to her chest and gracing him with the sweetest smile. Claude was grateful that he had been allowed to slide the ring on her first, because he needed Byleth to take his hand for him, guiding her mother’s resized ring onto his finger. 

And then Seteth officially declared them husband and wife. He did not even get the entirety of his sentence out before Claude was sweeping Byleth into a kiss so passionate it was right out of a romance novel. 

The room erupted into cheers around them, but Claude simply held Byleth tight, never wanting to let her go ever again.

/

“Are you ready?”

Byleth looked at Claude’s offered hand uncertainly. Their guests were fed, and their friends had given their speeches. Even Felix had offered a few words of encouragement. But now there was dancing. Dancing in the middle of a crowd was fine, but they would be no other couples this time. All eyes would be on them.

Claude, seeing her hesitation, offered her a gentle smile as well, one she had only ever seen when he looked at her. “Do you trust me?”

Byleth slid her hand in his and allowed Claude to pull her from her seat. “Of course I do.”

“Then trust I won’t lead you wrong, my love.”

He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. There was a brief moment, a breath of time, where the world stood still as she stared into Claude’s eyes, and everything else fell away. The music started, and Byleth no longer cared that anyone was watching them. 

The dance steps were a Fódlan waltz, but done to an Almyran tune. It meant that she and Claude were probably dancing the fastest waltz in history. They were practically flying across the dance floor, and Byleth laughed as Claude spun her around. 

By the time the song was over, Byleth did not want to stop.

/

There was one tradition Claude was not having anything to do with. It happened to be the one tradition both Fódlan and Almyra shared. When it came time for the bride and groom to leave the festivities, Claude insisted upon escorting Byleth himself by himself. 

Usually there would be a whole host of their closest friends following behind, who would help the couple out of their finery. It was intended as a blessing to their union, but there was a darkness that settled over him when Claude thought of anyone else getting to see Byleth like that.

Their bed would be more than blessed. He did not need help in that area.

So Claude shooed them all away with gentle but firm insistence, all of them laughing knowingly as he told them to go back to the party. Byleth slid her hand in his and leaned against his side, content as they began the journey to the chambers prepared for them.

“I didn’t want them to see you like that either,” she said softly.

And yet again, Byleth managed to make his brain forget how to work. Claude stopped in mid step to stare down at her. Byleth looked back at him questioningly, concern creeping into her eyes. Claude bent down to pick her up, throwing Byleth over his shoulder. She let out a small gasp of surprise, before it turned into that melodious laughter he loved so much.

“Claude, what are you doing?”

“I’m about to show my lovely wife the time of her life.”

Claude carried Byleth all the way to their rooms like that, his wandering hands caressing her bottom. He did not set her down until they reached their bed, and Byleth was quick to pull him down to join her.

/

Byleth woke to sunlight streaming in through the windows. Claude’s warmth was a comfort beside her. It was not the first time she had woken up next to him, most definitely not the first time they had spent the night in each other’s arms, but something about waking up as his wife made her heart swell. He had entrusted her long ago with his dreams, but now he had told the entire world.

She reached out, gently brushing back that unruly bit of hair she loved to play with. Claude frowned and muttered something inaudible, attempting to bury his face in the pillow. Byleth chuckled softly, Claude’s eyes opening slightly at the noise. “I must have really worn you out last night,” she teased.

Claude’s frown deepened, and Byleth could see the start of a scheme forming in those emerald eyes. “Is that what you think?”

“Certainly seems that way.” Byleth rolled onto her back and stretched, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. She moved to slide out of the bed, but Claude’s arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back. 

“I might have to take it as an insult then that you’re so energetic this morning then,” he murmured, sitting up to place a trail of kisses down her back.

“Well the answer to that is obvious.” Byleth sighed contentedly and leaned back in her husband’s embrace, enjoying the way his hands explored her. He had already mapped every inch of her body, but he never seemed content. He always seemed to need to redraw those maps, committing the feel of her to memory. 

“Oh? Are you going to share this hidden knowledge with me?” Claude laid her back down, leaning over her as he began to work his way down her body. She shivered in anticipation as his lips journeyed across her stomach.

“I’m happy,” Byleth said simply.

Claude paused, fully positioned between her legs. Byleth caught the deep blush on his cheeks before he dove down, using her thighs to hide his embarrassment. “You know,” Claude murmured against her skin, “sometimes I wonder if you know what you do to me.”

“I do.” Byleth reached down, gently running her fingers through his hair. Claude laid his cheek against her leg and stared back up at her. If anyone saw that look in his eyes, they would have no doubt of his love for her, but Byleth preferred that look to be something for her alone. “But you’re just as aware when you do the same to me. And you enjoy it either way.”

Claude smirked and dipped his head back between her thighs, but not before leaving her with, “And I shall for the rest of our lives.”

[fenrys-moonbae]

A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 4

Eleanor had been avoiding the male like the plague, skirting around him in the palace like a mouse desperately fleeing a hunting feline.  She’d been at this since their awkward exchange days prior when he’d come to check on her and she’d halfheartedly muttered her thanks before claiming she felt faint and shooing him out.

Not that he’d been seeking her out; on the contrary, he’d been a right gentleman about respecting her space.  She hadn’t caught a glimpse of him since that night, and she fully intended to keep it that way until he departed.

Grousing internally, she pulled her scarf about her shoulders and frowned.  Men weren’t allowed to be that endearing, weren’t allowed to be that sincere and certainly weren’t allowed to be that pretty.  He should have been a ripe ass, full of ego and entitlement like the other men she’d had the misfortune of knowing.

It was unnatural.

Walking briskly, she slipped into the hallway and down the stairs, taking them two at a time as she shuffled toward the kitchen hoping to snag a tray of tarts and some stew before lunch was served.  She’d been skulking around in the shadows, only leaving her room when she was certain she could avoid running into anyone.

As far as Glaston was concerned she was still recuperating, healing from her unfortunate accident and unable to handle company and therefore free of her hosting obligation.  Even as gossip ran rampant through the palace like a pox, every recollection of the tale growing grander and more outrageous.

These retellings had included such nonsense as the fae soldier having faced fifty feral boars with nothing more than his bare hands to protect their dear and precious princess.  Eleanor had nearly wept when the tale had cycled back to her, Evalin in fits at the absurdity of it all as she recounted all the stories she’d gleaned.

Eleanor noted that it was most unfortunate they did not possess a moat in which she could drown herself and be rid of such nonsense. Perhaps if she died she’d return as a banshee, wailing her woes and drowning the servants who kept the wheel spinning.  

They’d learn to stop moving their lips then.

Eleanor was nearly to the kitchens when she heard the tap of footsteps and cursed as she glanced around. What if it was Gavriel?  She could not bear to face the male any more than she could bear to sit through another of Dennor’s nasally speeches.

Quickly she darted to the great window on the left of the hall and slipped behind the golden curtains, pulling the thick fabric around her.  Surely even the fae warrior wouldn’t notice her if she remained entirely still and held her breath?

She waited several long seconds, breathing slowly as she heard the footsteps pause before rapidly approaching.  She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side as the curtain was torn back away from her.  She could just pretend she wasn’t there---

“Elle, what in hell’s realm are you doing?” She peeled open one eye, relieved to see Evalin holding the curtain back instead of a certain golden-haired male.  She deflated.

“I was dusting!” She ran her hand over the window, already immaculately scrubbed.  “See? Good as new.” Evalin narrowed her eyes in a way that assured Eleanor that she didn’t buy into such nonsense for a second.  “Are you still hiding from our guest?” Her cousin pointed a lovely finger at her slippers.  “A word of advice: if you’re going to hide, do so in a way that your shoes aren’t sticking out from the bottom of your hiding spot.” “Did you ever consider that the curtains may have started wearing shoes?” Eleanor poked her head out from behind the curtain, glancing sidelong to ensure she and Evalin were alone in the hallway.  “It’s the newest in Adarlanian fashion, as you should know.” Evalin rolled her eyes as she dragged Eleanor out from behind the fabric.  “I’ll make sure to note it.  When was the last time you left the palace?  You look dreadfully pale.”

“Not since the incident, if that’s what you’re asking.  Do not fear, dear cousin, I’ve taken to the idea of becoming a cryptid, pale and monstrous, lurking through halls at night and preying on the innocent.” “Enough nonsense out of you,” Evalin shoved Eleanor forward, “you’ll go outside this instant, or so help me.” “Fine, fine!” Eleanor grumbled, stumbling forward as her cousin guided her toward the archway leading to the gardens.  “Might we grab tarts first?  I’m famished.” “You’ve eaten nothing but sweets for a week,” Evalin clicked her tongue.  “Too much sugar.  Get something with more sustenance.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Nan, forgive my ignorance.”

Evalin flicked her ear.

“Ow! Anneith’s bosom, Eva, I have need of that.”

“Then don’t call me Nan.”

She’d still snuck a tart regardless of Evalin’s lecturing after they’d taken an early lunch, nibbling on the edge of the pastry as they strode through the extensive gardens.  Many of the flowers were dormant with autumn beginning to take hold over the earth, but the gourds and changing leaves provided an easel of color for their enjoyment.

Eleanor sincerely hoped the winter might bring a rare ice storm, though with the temperate climate it was highly unlikely.  It did not stop her from wishing for it though.  She’d always had a love for the cold, for the scent of pine and snow she’d had the pleasure of experiencing once on a trip to one of the mountain estates that their family owned.

She’d always wished to live in it, to enjoy the brisk chill and warm herself by the hearth.  Not the continuous drone of heat and humidity that Wendlyn provided.   And perhaps she’d get the chance, if she chose to follow Evalin.  Gods knew she’d been getting her fill of snow when she went north to Terrasen.

“You’re going to become a queen of ice,” Eleanor murmured as she strolled lazily down the path next to Evalin, “encrusted in snow and holly.  We should add more fur to your wardrobe.” Evalin gave a small laugh, her slim shoulders shaking. “You do know there are summers in Terrasen, yes? It was quite lovely during my visit.”

“Oh yes, they brought you there to give you the impression of how lovely it is before it’s buried beneath heaps of frozen ice crystals,” Eleanor put a hand to her mouth, Ashryver eyes twinkling, “I do hope that Prince of yours will be enough to keep you thawed in the dark, frozen nights.  I have heard he is quite . . . delicate.”

A lie.  Eleanor knew just how athletic and strong the young Prince of Terrasen was, but what fun was acknowledging that when it came to teasing Eva?

“He . . . he’s just yet to grow into himself,” Evalin griped indignantly, giving a rare flush as she defended her husband.  “He’s very lean, mind you, and fast as an adder.” “Mm, excellent in a battle but agility will do little when you are turning into an icicle,” she finished off her pastry and dusted the powdery sugar off her fingers.  “You will be queen; however, you can always hold a tourney to acquire yourself a bed warmer.  Or two.”

“I refuse to be as uncouth as my dear aunt,” Evalin’s lips downturned, her features pinching.  “I have no intention of keeping men as pets for my own pleasures.” “Really? That’s the one thing I think that queen got right, I’d be quite content with a palace full of lovely, pretty men to do my bidding.” “Funny, considering you won’t even talk to one of those pretty males.” “Note the difference there, dear cousin, males not man.  I prefer mine mortal and capable of death. What point would there be if I couldn’t become a widow if the need were to arise?” Evalin stopped, looking incredulously at Eleanor.  “You jest.” Eleanor kept her face neutral, willing seriousness to her features even as she felt a smile creeping onto her face.  Evalin merely sighed and shook her head.

“Well, at least I shall never have to fear for your wellbeing.  I’m starting to think I should be more concerned for your future love, however.” “That would be the wisest course of action.” She winked at her cousin, who gave a breathy laugh in reply.

“Nonsense.  You speak nothing but nonsense.”

“Not nearly as much as the rest of the stuffy airheads in court,” Eleanor barely realized they’d wrapped around to the gardens in front of the palace, the training grounds stretching out before them where the palace guard sparred, the sound of practice swords clashing echoing across the grounds.  “Have you heard the newest deliberations?  Apparently, the latest argument is over whether the minstrels for the spring ball will wear blue or teal.  It’s preposterous.” “I’m not even certain Glaston could tell the difference between those colors,” Evalin mused, stepping over a loose stone on the path.  “He’s likely letting them bicker amongst themselves to buy himself a moment’s peace.” “Not a bad strategy, honestly,” Eleanor turned her attention towards the training grounds, hoping to spy some of the young and shirtless recruits training.  “It’s the sole bit of proof that we’re related to soulless husk he’s become.” “He has changed in recent years,” Evalin agreed, longing entering her eyes as she no doubt reflected back on her brother’s youth when he’d been nearly as fierce as the two princesses in the garden.  “Ruling has done him no favors.” Her voice trailed as though she thought to say more.

Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.  A decision had formed in her mind as she spoke, one she’d been mulling over for the last few days when she’d confined herself to her room to wait out the rumor mill.

What better time to tell her than now?

“I assure you will never become so unbearably stuffy, it’s not in your nature.  Besides I will be there to shake sense into you if you ever start acting so foolishly.” She squeezed her hand once more, hoping to the gods her cousin understood.

Evalin wheeled on her, blue eyes sparkling at the implication. “You intend to come?”

Eleanor shrugged noncommittally, “I suppose Terrasen couldn’t be too dreadful,” she nudged Evalin gently, “especially if the men are lovely enough to enrapture someone as levelheaded as you are.”

Evalin took both of Eleanor’s hands in her own, true joy sparking across her lovely features.  “Swear it to me, swear you’ll come, and we’ll never have to be apart.” Eleanor rolled her eyes before conceding.  “I swear it, Eva, I’ll join you in your little castle of ice.” Evalin swept her into a hug that nearly squeezed the air from her, her cousin’s grip tighter than any vice.

“You have no idea what joy hearing that brings me,” Evalin stepped back, relief glazing her features, “to know you will be by my side.  I could ask for no better news.” “Don’t forget, Eva we’ll still have to break it to Glaston.”  Eleanor wasn’t exactly keen on telling her cousin and family that she’d be flitting off to a foreign land on a whim, especially when she hadn’t so much as asked their approval to do so.  “We might want to serve him several decanters of wine before we broach the subject.”

“We’ll make it work, I swear it.”

“I’m certain, but in the meantime,” she nodded toward the training field, “I would like to continue our walk and enjoying the view.”

Evalin gave a high laugh before linking arms with her cousin.  “Well, don’t let me keep you from your afternoon’s entertainment,” her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper, “perhaps they’ll take off their shirts off if we’re lucky.” “That is the hope.” Eleanor murmured back just as quietly, her spirit lighter than it had been since Evalin’s engagement.  “If needed I can throw a bucket or two of piss on them to encourage it.”

Evalin snickered.

They quickened their pace as they trailed down the stone path, keeping quiet as they approached on silent feet.  The sound of swords clashing, and shouting grew louder as they approached, trying to keep their presences unknown.  How many times had they made this very walk as teens, feigning interest in their training when all they cared for were the bodies doing the training.

“Oh look, Captain Liam’s even joined the fray,” Evalin’s eyes were fixed on the man she’d held unrequited love for the better part of her teen years, a fleeting infatuation that had crumbled when Evalin came to the harrowing realization that said captain had a wife and a child nearly her own age. “Must be someone keeping him on his toes if he’s getting involved.” Eleanor rose slightly on her tiptoes, trying to see past the dark-haired Captain’s heaving back as he circled his opponent, the sword in his hand held tight, his movements calculated.  It must have been some new recruit with exceptional skill, she’d never seen the man so much as winded when he trained.

She leaned closer, willing Liam to move more quickly so she could get a peek at just who was giving him a run for his money—

She sucked a in breath of disbelief, her eyes glazing as she caught sight of Gavriel circling on the other side of the captain, looking all the world like a storm of seduction that had her clamping her knees together.  She hissed.  What god deemed it appropriate to give him a torso like that, rippling with lean muscle?  Even in his thin shirt she could see the panes of his taut stomach, smooth and no doubt glistening with sweat.

And his hair, pulled up in that half ponytail showing off that elegant jaw--

Were all the fae this forsakenly beautiful?

It was a sin for someone to be that damned attractive.  Tawny eyes flickered briefly towards her before focusing back on his opponent as the captain rushed him in his moment of distraction.

“By the gods, Eva,” she wheezed, her eyes trailing over the thin shirt that clung to his torso, “look at him.”  She missed the look of amusement that overtook her cousin’s features, even as her own eyes kept trailing toward the training warrior.  “He’s not real, I swear it to all the gods.”

She watched, transfixed, as he easily sidestepped Liam’s blow and matched it with one of his own, sending the Captain of the Guard flying.  Liam hit the ground with a resounding thump and let out a groan of pain.  Gavriel immediately sheathed his training blade ad strode forward to offer a hand to the grounded captain, easily lifting him to his feet.

Evalin clicked her tongue.  “He’s a bit broad for my taste.”

Eleanor’s dress suddenly felt too warm, too tight and chaffing, the words mindlessly tumbling out of her slack jaw as she murmured, “I wouldn’t mind if he walloped me like that.”

“Excuse me?” Evalin inquired, laughter coating her tone.  Realizing she’d said the words aloud, Eleanor snapped her mouth shut, heat racing up her cheeks.

“I mean training, perhaps I should ask him to train me,” she finished weakly, her knees wobbling a bit beneath her dress.  He was nothing but a menace in her life, a pest that needed to take its beautiful self back to Doranelle at the earliest convenience—

Gods, even the way he moved was enticing.  She watched as he strode for the table set beside the training ring, his thighs and backside lovely in his tight breeches, and lifted a pitcher of water and promptly dumped it over his head before shaking the excess water free, sending glittering droplets dancing into the late afternoon sun.  She nearly squealed.  She needed to leave right that moment—

“Come on, Eva,” she started tugging at her cousin, willing her to move as she dug her feet into the stone path beneath her.  “We should head back to the palace, go do some needlework or something, anything—”

“Why?” Evalin’s lips had quirked as she remained solidly rooted to the spot.  “He’s headed this way to say hello, I think we should stay and greet him.” “Eva, please—”

“Your Highnesses.”  Eleanor snapped her attention towards Gavriel as he approached, his tawny eyes alight with the rush from sparring, broad shoulders shifting beneath his now translucent shirt—had he no decency?  “I am glad to see you are finally well enough to be up and about, Princess Eleanor.” He stopped opposite the path and inclined his head toward her.  “I assume your shoulder is not giving you any trouble?” She swallowed, letting go of her hold on Evalin’s arm before turning to face him, scrambling for the words.  “It’s . . . fine.”

How terrible would it look if she just bolted for the palace?  She could claim she’d got a severe case of nausea, feign illness again--

“Good, I had hoped as much.”

“I see you’re training,” Evalin noted, nodding towards the training ring, something tightening in her voice, “I assume our training protocols are satisfactory to you.  I know they are vastly different than what you are accustomed to in Doranelle.”

Eleanor hadn’t expected the bite that came with the question, the way Evalin had straightened her shoulders as she stared him down.  It took her a moment to realize the reason for Evalin’s discomfort—she feared he was gleaning tactical information, noting their forces and their abilities.

Understanding filled Gavriel’s tawny eyes.

“Ah, you’re correct, Highness,” he nodded over a shoulder, looking almost sheepish as though he hadn’t thought about what he was doing.  “Some of the men asked if I’d be willing to show them a few of our maneuvers during my stay, I’d hoped to help them, and as I’ve had a large amount of free time . . .”

Even though it shouldn’t have, hearing the words from him gave Eleanor comfort, his tone lacking the manipulation and hatred she’d expected of one of Maeve’s personal soldiers.  It seemed Evalin felt the same as the tension fled her shoulders, her tone softening. “Then please continue, do not let our presence hinder your drilling.  I imagine the men are grateful for any instruction you have to offer them.”

“I’m happy to teach what I know.” He gave a polite smile, “It was a pleasure to see you both.”

“Likewise, my lord,” Evalin said with a curtsey, something like shame flitting over her features.  From the way Gavriel bowed graciously in return, Eleanor got the feeling he did not blame her for the suspicion.

Which was such foolishness, given that he was one of Maeve’s personal guard.

“And, my Lady Eleanor,” a nod to her, “might I expect to see you tomorrow for our early morning ride?”

Eleanor went rigid.  “Err, I suppose so.”

“Then I shall meet you in the stables at sunrise.” Another smile brightened by golden sunlight.  “Hopefully we can avoid any wild boars this time.”

@seekingformangoes

[darkpoisonouslove]

“Griffin”

Summary: Griffin summoned the creature known as the Dark Dragon in search of more power. After successfully completing the ritual, she has to decide if she got more than she bargained for or if it is exactly what she was after. AU.

So this was kind of inspired by "I Fell in Love with the Devil" by Avril Lavigne (I am too obsessed with this song for my own good). Special thanks to @trashcankitty12​ for bringing it to my attention. I hope you all will enjoy this (not so short) AU.

She looked at the white crystal blade imbued with fairy dust. It gave off the yellow shimmer typical for the substance. It was so different from the cold shine of the last blade she’d used. Understandably so since they served different purposes. She was trying to banish the creature she’d summoned so recklessly in search of power.

She picked up the dagger she’d made herself. It had to work after everything she’d gone through to put it together.

The blade was from obsidian which could only be found around active volcanoes since it was a forbidden substance. It was said to come from a realm called Obsidian that was the home of all evil. It passed through the volcanoes where it got melted and then solidified again when the lava cooled down, but it was said that even that couldn’t change its structure. It was still the embodiment of evil and extracted all dark energy from its surroundings, which made it the perfect material to power countless dark spells.

That was why it was forbidden and all active volcanoes were supervised, the obsidian pieces confiscated as soon as they were solid enough to be picked up. She’d almost gotten caught and confiscated herself during the short window of a few seconds she’d made for herself to grab a piece. And it had almost been too small for her purposes. But she’d managed to shape it into a blade with a handle like the letter v.

Next had been the tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Tears had been ruled out long before she’d even thought of setting foot in Cloud Tower. She could, of course, hurt herself badly enough to make herself cry but the tears had to be emotionally charged which complicated things. At least they had to carry negative energy which made her task easier but not by much.

What had finally done it for her had been the memory of the humiliation and betrayal she’d felt when her best friend and roommate had turned out to be a fairy. It had taken her months to make all the other witches in Cloud Tower stop calling her a pixie. Even her position at the top of every class hadn’t been enough to convince them until she’d shown them the dark power of her magic a bit more... directly.

The memory had brought back enough frustration for it to start overflowing from her eyes. She’d been so caught up in the images in her own mind that she’d missed the first few tears, but more had kept coming as the rage had built inside her. She had to make them solid while were still on her skin so that they could count as a part of her. A task none too easy either, but she’d had enough determination to see it through.

She’d ended up with small beads colored in the poisonous green of her magic all over her cheeks. Removing them had been a pain, too, causing more tears to spring to her eyes but she’d forced those back. That, at least, she was good at.

Though the next part had been tear worthy as well. She’d had to cut long strands of her hair to weave the tears in so that she could then attach them to the handle of the dagger.

After all that physical and emotional pain, she finally had the dagger necessary for summoning the Dark Dragon that was said to have knowledge on all magic and every spell that had ever been created. The only other thing she needed to get him out of his frozen prison in the Omega dimension was blood. She had to draw a circle crossed with a v on the ground that would allow him to stay in her dimension long enough for them to strike a deal. It would also keep him from hurting her.

She put the blade to her palm, hesitating for just a second. The moment it cut through her skin, the obsidian would start draining the darkness from within her even faster which would leave her shaken and her magic weaker. It could put her in danger if she hadn’t done everything right.

She pressed the blade into her palm, forcing the thought out of her mind. It wasn’t the time to doubt herself after she’d come so far. It was never time to doubt herself.

She felt the sting of the dagger piercing her skin and then the warmth of the blood oozing from the cut. She concentrated on drawing the circle just like it was shown in her spell book. She felt lightheaded from the combined effect of the obsidian sucking out her darkness and the blood loss but she gritted her teeth and continued.

The moment she finished the symbol, it started glowing in purple and she jumped back when flames burst out of the floor. The proof that it was working gave her legs enough strength to keep supporting her despite the exhaustion that had made itself at home in her drained of energy body.

The sight of the figure that appeared amidst the flames chased it away completely, making room for excitement to fill her. There’d been no description of him which she preferred to interpret as no successful attempts at summoning him. Until now.

She’d succeeded. There he stood in front of her with all the might and presence of an ancient force that captured your attention in its seductive but vicious grip. He looked just a bit older than her but the power he clearly possessed could hardly be acquired in several lifetimes, not to mention a single one. It was so alluring that she yearned to be closer.

His eyes found hers as if drawn by her desire and he took a step towards her, moving out of her summoning circle – something that should’ve been impossible. It had to be impossible for she wouldn’t be able to defend herself against him otherwise.

She took a step back, her lips parting in shock. She knew she’d performed every part of the ritual correctly. Which meant that he was more powerful than expected. She was yet to make up her mind on whether that excited or scared her.

“Running from the knowledge you sought so adamantly?” he asked, his voice smooth and devoid of any rage but carrying a mocking hint.

Griffin lifted her chin defiantly, allowing a scowl to slip over her face. “I’m not running,” she said firmly, forbidding herself to sound even slightly intimidated by his power–it was what she was after, after all–and stepped forward to prove it, leaving them just a foot apart.

His hand found hers, sending a surge of power through her veins. It was invigorating. Like the high she’d feel when she won a magical fight that had her life on the line. Only, much stronger.

It disappeared when his hand closed around the handle of the dagger and he pulled it out of her grip. The sight of him with a weapon in hand shouldn’t make her uneasy since he was a weapon himself, yet, it did. Still, she forced her face to stay blank and her body to remain calm and still, unwilling to give him another reason to think her scared and weak.

He didn’t seem to be paying attention to her as he worked on slicing up the glove he was wearing with the clean edge of the dagger. It was off in no time with the dexterity of his movements and he turned the blade around. The blood that was left on it from when she’d used it disappeared into his skin.

“It was a delight to be summoned by your dark blood, Griffin,” he said as he handed her back the dagger.

She took it from him, the opportunity for their hands to touch again remaining missed, much to her chagrin, as she met his look with one of awe. “How do you know my name?” she forced the words out to pull herself out of her stupor. It wasn’t surprising that he did, with all the power coming off of him in waves that pulled her closer, but she’d summoned him to learn from him. Why waste another perfectly good opportunity?

The corner of his mouth twitched up as he most certainly guessed her thoughts. “A more interesting question is what do you know about your name?” he asked, leaving her staggered again, and moved back to the circle of her blood on the ground. He knelt down and touched his fingers to it to absorb that as well.

Her attention was fully captured by the entrancing sight of him swallowing her blood as if it were oxygen to the point where she forgot about his question. That was until he spoke again.

“The griffin is a powerful and majestic creature said to be the guardian of priceless possessions and divine power.” He looked at her as he withdrew his hand from the floor, having drained all of her blood spilled on it. “Who named you, Griffin?”

“My mother,” she answered shortly, unsure of just where he was going with this.

He got up, towering over her with his knowledge and comprehension of magic. “I’m assuming she was a witch, too?”

Griffin nodded, wary of her mother being brought into the conversation.

“She must have been to have picked out such a powerful name for you,” he said, looking lost in his own musings. She quickly realized how deceitful that impression was when his sharp gaze met hers as if trying to dissect her. “She’s destined you for greatness.”

Griffin disagreed. Her mother had never seemed impressed by power. Not by Griffin’s power anyway. Every time she’d show her the latest spell she’d added to her magical arsenal, her mother would react the same. With a mellow smile and no more pride in her daughter’s accomplishments than she’d shown even when Griffin hadn’t had any power. It had never been enough to impress her. So Griffin had signed up for Cloud Tower to learn more. She’d then joined the Coven to get stronger. And now she’d summoned him to get more powerful.

“But just how much?” he asked, startling her out of her thoughts just in time for her to notice his surprise attack, causing her to drop the dagger.

She dodged. Barely. But that was enough. She was unscathed and expected his next move so she managed to shield herself when it came. However, her magic still wasn’t fully restored after the summoning ritual and she wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. And he didn’t seem to plan on stopping.

With some careful planning and quick maneuvering she opened herself an opportunity to attack him. She threw a blast of magic of her own that hit him square in the chest even though he’d had more than enough time to dodge or even shield himself.

She paused.

He hit the wall behind him and let out a laugh at the impact.

She frowned.

“You’ve proven strong enough for me to share my secrets with,” he said as he pushed himself up to his feet.

A pleasant shiver ran down her spine. She was proud of herself. “So that was a test?” she let her hands down and kept her guard up.

“My knowledge is not for everyone,” he said as he came closer, though this time it didn’t stir the urge to back away in her. “And neither is my name. I’m Valtor, bearer of the Dark Dragon Fire,” he introduced himself as he extended his hand towards her, his palm turned upwards.

That explained the role of the v in the summoning ritual. It also explained the tremendous flow of power in him. He possessed the primal source of all magic. A dark version of it.

“And this is for you,” he said as a necklace with a golden symbol appeared in his hand. “This is the monad. It will give you the power of the sun, the moon, the elements, and the fire.”

“I thought the fire was an element,” she said as she reluctantly tore her gaze away from the powerful symbol to look at him.

“The Dragon Fire is a force of its own that’s separate from the elements,” he explained.

She looked back at the symbol in his hand and ran her fingers over its shining beauty.

“I never thought I’d find someone to give this to.”

She looked up at him to find his gaze fixed on her and the ardency in it made the pleasant shivers return. “Why not?” she asked, hoping it wouldn’t give him a reason to stop looking at her like that.

“It’s made of the purest gold and forged in Dragon Fire. It won’t lend its power to just anyone,” he explained, making her look at the necklace the way he’d been looking at her. “But now that I’ve seen your eyes,” he said, causing her gaze to return on him, “I know it was made for you,” he finished and she knew that as long as he was with her, the shivers wouldn’t disappear. “It can be yours,” he withdrew his hand an inch, breaking his spell over her, but not her determination.

“What do you want in return?” she asked readily. She’d summoned him to make a deal with him, after all.

“Your soul,” he was looking at her carefully, waiting for her reaction.

“Not sure I have one but-”

“Believe me, you do,” he interrupted her and if this time the chills were a little different and not all that pleasant, she didn’t pay attention to them. She was too busy selling her soul.

“It’s all yours,” she said, holding his gaze to show him–and herself–that she wasn’t scared of his conditions or her own readiness to comply with them.

He smiled and rounded her, his intentions becoming clear to her when he moved her hair over her shoulder.

She reached back to help him but, even though she was operating blindly, her hands didn’t meet his. And she couldn’t help but notice that neither the leather of the glove he still had on on his right hand, nor the bare skin of his left hand touched her while he fastened the necklace around her neck. She ran her fingers over the symbol once again and the power it charged her with distracted her from the lack of his powerful touch.

He ran a hand over her hair, causing the strands she’d had to cut off to make the dagger to grow back. One movement of his hand and it was back to its full glory.

She whipped around to thank him but before she could open her mouth, he caught her hand in his, his skin finally meeting hers. She felt the same surge of power as before but this time it was somewhat clearer. It was as if he was speaking to her through his magic but now she could understand it.

He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her palm, making all of her thoughts cease altogether. The air he breathed out was warm against the incision on her palm and made it close, the magic on his breath healing it.

He pulled away and when their eyes met, he licked off the blood left on his lips.

Griffin knew she was in trouble. He had her blood. He had her soul. He had her life.

He had too much power. He had too much power over her. She had to rid the world of him. She had to rid herself of him.

When he’d told her he wanted her soul, she’d thought he wanted to possess it. Take it after she died and do with it as he pleased. But she’d already willingly let him have it and his love was killing her while his want was killing the world. He was stealing the magic of entire planets and murdering those who got in his way. And she couldn’t make herself get in his way which was killing her all on its own. So she had to get him out of her world. She had to get him out of her soul.

She was about to press the blade into her palm when Valtor materialized in front of her, making her jump, and she almost dropped the delicate dagger. The fragile white crystal would need a lot less to break than the solid obsidian. How typical of him – shattering everything in his way.

“That will be just a waste of blood,” he said, not sounding surprised or angered by the compromising position he’d caught her in. “It would be a shame to waste something so sweet,” he added and his eyes sparkled hungrily. And here she’d thought he had more to worry about than the waste of his possessions.

“You’re not going to stop me,” she said, bringing the dagger back to her skin, completely aware that he could stop her with a single motion of his hand.

“It won’t work,” he said, not looking worried by her intentions in the slightest. “You can’t banish me because you love me.” That was the weakest reasoning she’d ever heard from him.

“I’ve learned to get past my feelings a long time ago,” she said, blocking out all the unpleasant memories that came with that statement as if to prove it.

“It’s not up to you,” he said calmly, his voice grating on her nerves. “Your love for me is my link to this dimension. I have your soul and as long as you love me, the gate to this dimension will always stay open for me.”

Griffin withdrew the blade form her skin, possessed by the shock his words caused. If that were true, she’d have to cut out her heart in order to accomplish her goal.

“I knew you’d love me the moment I saw your thirst, your neediness, your desperation for more power,” Valtor said, enchanted by the idea of someone like him, not by the idea of her.

“I knew I’d love you when I saw I was enough for you,” Griffin said, remembering the thrill of pride she’d felt when he’d deemed her worthy of his knowledge and power. Though she could see how he could’ve made the mistake. She’d made a mistake of her own. She’d only ever wanted to be more to be enough. And she’d been stupid enough to believe she could be enough for him. He who always wanted more and would stop at nothing to get it, to get everything. Oh, how had she been so foolish?

With one swift move she sliced open the skin of her palm and started making a circle around him, ignoring the burn of the wound. The blood oozed out of her hand as the words flooded her mind. Never give up on yourself.

“It won’t work,” Valtor insisted, apparently convinced in his own rightness since he didn’t ry to stop her. At least he’d learned something about her and knew it would be no use. “I’ve consumed too much of you for you to be able to banish me. Your darkness from the obsidian, your hurt from your tears, your life force form your hair, your blood from your body, and your love from your soul. I am bound to you for good.” That explained the ritual and why he’d been able to break free from her blood circle. Every piece of her he consumed granted him more time in her realm.

Griffin stopped to look at him. “Good.” She was almost finished with her circle. “Because that’s exactly where I want you.” She stepped into the circle herself and let one last drop of blood fall from her hand and close it around them.

“What are you doing?” he asked, the first hints of panic recognizable in his voice.

“What I was made for.” Even he couldn’t stop her now.

She willed the fairy dust to leave the crystal of the dagger and sprinkle over her blood to reinforce the spell. Usually, only the fairy could control her own fairy dust, but she hadn’t wanted to drag Faragonda any further into this. She’d already done enough for her by providing her with both ingredients for the dagger. Besides, Valtor had taught her how to change the structure of her magic so that it would appear to be light even though it was as dark as night.

She’d missed her mother’s funeral because he’d decided that was the only day he could teach her that and she’d decided to stay with him even though she’d known he’d been testing her. She’d decided to stay with him because she’d known he’d been testing her. It hadn’t been the worst decision in hindsight even though it had certainly felt like it back at the time.

And even though she and Faragonda hadn’t spoken in years–the fault for that mostly hers rather than Faragonda’s–they still knew each other so well. Faragonda had immediately figured out just how deep her feelings ran. And though she hadn’t stuck around for her friend after she’d learned she was a fairy, she knew her magical signature so well that she could copy it from memory.

Valtor tried to escape the circle but this time he had no way out of it. It was made of all the light in her blood and Faragonda’s magic, and he couldn’t even override the first, not to mention the second.

“You’ll banish yourself to the Omega dimension?” he turned to her, trying to use his words when his magic failed him. Those had a better chance of working with her. Yet, after everything he’d said prior to that, no words could win him his way out.

“To protect the world from you? Yes, I will.” She wasn’t scared of ice. She knew all about it. She’d lived with it her whole life. She’d always thought she wasn’t enough for her mother, that she had to keep developing her magical skills to impress her, that she had to be more to make her proud. But her mother had always been proud of who she was. Who she’d always been.

Never give up on yourself. She’d thought it meant that she had to keep learning, keep practicing, keep developing her magical abilities. It had meant she was enough. She was strong enough to do what she was meant for. She was strong enough to be a protector. Even with her pain. Even with her rage. Even with her darkness. She was strong enough to save the world from the evil she’d brought in it.

“Griffin, don’t do it.” Valtor was looking at her pleadingly. It was the first time she’d seen him scared, the first time she’d seen his arrogance flicker. It should’ve made her scared as well. But for all of his power, she was stronger than him. So the terror in his eyes only made her want to offer him comfort.

She cupped his cheek, relieved to feel him leaning into her touch. “I love you,” She willed the fairy dust to shine as a tear escaped her eye.

From the circle started growing transparent stems that looked like they were made of water. They wrapped around them, forcing them closer together and restraining their movements. They were bound together with no way of escaping. Then the stems turned to ice, wrapping them in their cold embrace, and started sinking, pulling them to the Omega dimension through the portal that she’d opened.

Griffin laid her head down on Valtor’s shoulder. He was more darkness than the world could handle. And she knew now why obsidian was forbidden. But along with the darkness, it had brought her knowledge of who she was and had shown her the truth she had prevented herself from seeing. How could she hate that?

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

*Sacrifices chicken* Oh great one, you have blessed is with lucina x Richter memes. Now may your dark powers grant us Lucina x Richter... Fluff?

Your sacrifices are welcomed. So shall it be granted, oh faithful one.

(BTW, I don’t know what Simon and Richter’s actual familial relationship is, but for the purposes of this story he’s Richter’s grandfather)

Failing at being the Belmont heir was a lot like forgetting your pants on the first day of school. It was humiliating, it was painful, and you would be forever remembered by that one fact.

Richter knew he wasn’t the heir that his grandfather wanted. A Belmont was supposed to be dignified, noble, and calm. He was a hot-headed and angry kid who spent too much time skirt chasing and resented the fact that he was a noble. His grandfather loved him, this Rishter knew, but he was also aware he was a disappointment.

So he really should have anticipated this move.

“I’m getting married?!” cried an incredulous Richter.

Simon Belmont, patriarch of the Belmont Family, frowned. “I fail to see how this is a surprise Richter. The Belmont line must continue.”

Richter balled his hands into fists. “Well, yeah. But this is… this is bullshit! You can’t just spring this on me!”

With a sigh, Simon rose from his seat and walked around his desk to Richter. “I know this is a… shock. But it is your duty as a Belmont. You will need a wife, and a guarantee for our legacy.” 

Richter glared. “You want to get rid of me.” he accused.

Simon seemed taken aback. “I beg your pardon Richter?”

“You heard me!” snarled Richter, poking Simon in the chest. “You want to get rid of me! I’m not the heir you want and your shriveled up old-man balls can’t make a new one! So you want to get little Richter married so he can pump out a new one!”

Simon looked furious, and for a moment it seemed he would strike Richter. But then the anger drained away. “Richter. I know we have never seen eye to eye, but this is not the case.” he said gently.

Simon turned and walked over to an ancient tapestry hanging in his study which showcased his ancestor, Trevor Belmont, fighting beside Sypha Belnandes (his wife) and Adrian Tepes (also known as Alucard) battling against Dracula. 

“We Hunt the Night.” he said. “Those are the words of our house, laid down by Leon Belmont when he first hunted the demon Dracula. It means-”

“It means that we’re an ancient family of vampire hunters, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard this all before!” snapped Richter.

Simon turned back to Richter. “You have heard, but you have not listened. You are a great hunter, Richter. One of the best in our history. But you hunt only for yourself. To prove some point to yourself and the world. Until you understand why the Belmont’s hunt, I cannot entrust the running of our House to you. That is why this must be done.”

Richter ground his teeth. “So you can replace me?!”

“No. so you can learn.” said Simon.

Silence reigned between them, before Simon sighed again. “The wedding shall take place in a fortnight.”

Richter downed another beer. His favorite bar was all-too happy to keep the booze flowing.

Three days had passed since his grandfather’s announcement. Three days he’d spent wandering the city and studiously avoiding his grandfather. He’d made the rounds at various pubs, fighting puglist circuits, and visiting his parent’s graves.

Marriage. Fucking marriage. He’d always wanted to get married one day, but not to some hoity-toity noble bitch he barely knew! He knew he had a wandering eye when it came to women, but this was a load of shit.

“Another!” he called to the bartender, who nodded and refilled his glass.

As he sat at the bar, brooding, someone else sat beside him.

She was pretty enough, but her features had a hard and strong look about them. Like she was a statue cast from steel instead of marble. Her blue hair marked her as an Altean native, and she looked positively pissed.

“Barkeep.” she snapped. “Whiskey. Straight. No-chaser.”

Richter chuckled darkly. “Well, someone’s pissed. And needs their liquor.” he said.

“Desperately.” she growled and downed the glass in a single drink. “Bleh. This is what you Wallwachians call liquor? It tastes like goat piss.”

“You can leave if you want princess.” sneered the bartender.

“Hardly.” she snorted. “Another.”

Richter grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.” he said. After she downed her second glass he spoke again. “So, family, sex, or money?” he asked. At the look she shot him, Richter explained. “In my experience the only this that pisses people off like that is family, sex, or money. For me it’s family. So what’s got you up and drinking goat-piss?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Family as well.” she said. “My father has decided to dictate my life for me.”

“Heh, I’ll drink to that. Next round’s on me.” he said.

“My thanks.” she said.

“No sweat.” said Richter. He hefted his drink. “To family, may it never cease to fuck us over.”

The girl’s anger broke for a moment, she allowed her face to crack into a half-grin. “Aye. To family.”

For the next few hours he chatted with the girl. By the time closing time came around, they had each other laughing and joking, and generally forgetting about their troubles.

“Well, I’ll admit it. I had fun tonight.” said the girl.

“Yeah.” he chuckled. “If my grandpa could see us, he’d probably have an stroke.”

Well, if that’s the case you should introduce me.” she said, earning a laugh from them both.

“Hey what’s your name? I never caught it.” he remarked.

The girl stiffened before replying. “L- Lucy. Call me Lucy.” she said.

Richter, who could smell a fake name a mile away, nodded. “Alright. Call me Ricky then.” She nodded, and seemed to relax a little. “So, got any plans for tomorrow night?”

As his wedding drew ever nearer, and he continued to studiously ignore it, Richter spent more and more time with Lucy. They went out to the finest restaurants, they attended the theater to see the latest raunchy comedies on display, and upon realizing that she was an adept fighter with a sword the spared together as well.

Richter loved being around her. She was intelligent, brave, and with a hidden humorous streak that he found endlessly charming.

But even as he grew closer to the blue-haired beauty, he felt a growing sense of despair. By the time his wedding was mere two nights away, he had to face facts, He was falling for Lucy. Hard.

Life was a major bitch sometimes.

But even as his under the table courting continued, neither realized that they were being hunted.

Torr was the perennial “low man on the totem pole” when it came to vampires. He was reasonably strong, but lacked the brutal cunning or raw power that it took to become a “Somebody” in the vampire world. He’d been the mule or punching bag for one powerful vampire or another as the years went by, but now he had a plan to advance.

He had formed a small gang of vampires like him. Those who wanted to rise up in the vampire hierarchy and make their names known. And the easiest way to do that was to kill someone stronger than you.

He figured that killing the Belmont runt would at least earn him some favors. And maybe doom the line entirely. That would be sweet.

Tomorrow.

He hated that.

Tomorrow the fantasy would end, and Richter would get married. But strangely, he was dreading that less than telling Lucy.

She wouldn’t cry. She was too tough for that. She’d get stony faced and accept it, and then she’d go home. Maybe she’d cry then, or maybe she’d push him out of her mind and heart entirely.

Maybe he was arrogant for thinking that way, but he couldn’t help but feel that he had a connection with her, and he hoped she had a connection with him.

But, Richter was an expert at avoiding issues.

“So then, he tries to get the damn thing out with another fish hook!” he said as Lucy laughed. “And you can imagine how well that went. So now the dumbass has TWO fishhooks in his hand and he starts running around like a maniac, screaming at the top of his lungs.”

Lucy was laughing so hard, tears started to form in her eyes. “Ricky, that has to be bullshit! There’s no way anyone’s that stupid!”

Richter grinned. “Oh really? Remind me to tell you about the noodle incident.” he said. “That’ll change your tune about stupidity.”

“Well if you’re anything to go by, it certainly is hereditary.” she joked, shoving him slightly.

They walked in silence for a few more moments before she spoke. “Ricky, are you alright? You seem… nervous.” she asked.

Richter gulped and spoke again. “Lucy… I need to tell you something.” he said.

Lucy winced, but met his gaze. “Me… me too. I need to tell you something to.”

Before either could speak, they became aware that they were not alone.

There were twelve of them. All of them emerging from the shadows like wraiths. And they looked hungry.

“Lucy, get behind me.” he said quietly, the familiar calm of the hunt falling over him. But there was something new there. Something harder. Angrier. He was not about to let them touch Lucy.

“Don’t matter none.” snarled the leader of the group. “Yer both dead. And the Torr is gonna be big once I off the Belmont brat.”

He heard Lucy gasp, but Richter would deal with that later as he drew his whip. “Come and try it.” And, without further warning he lashed with his weapon, knocking one of the demons headless.

Taking that as a signal, the other’s charged. As Richter fought, he had one thought: Keep them away from Lucy.

As it turned out, he shouldn’t have worried, for Lucy had drawn her sword which had begun to glow with golden light. The blade flashed, and struck a vampire through the chest. the demon shrieked once and was instantly turned to dust by golden flames.

They fought together. two halves of a whole. Their synchronicity and skill making swift work of the demons.

Meanwhile, Torr was sweating. He had not thought this through. He had hoped to catch the brat drunk or with his pants down. But now he was starting to see why even the greatest of vampires feared the Belmont name.

But maybe he could still snatch a victory here. after all, that Altean bitch had left herself open.

The scream alerted Richter as the last demon fell. Richter spun to see the leader of the abominations had lanced his sword through Lucy’s ribs.

Close to her heart. Maybe… too close.

Richter loosed a primal scream of fury and tackled the monster. No whips this time. No swords. Just his bare hands. And with a a single devastating punch with strength Richter never knew he possessed, he smashed the monster’s skull to pieces.

But there was no sweetness in victory. “Lucy!” he cried, running over to her. “Lucy. No… shit… Lucy! Please…” hs=e picked her up and ran for home.

It was several hours later that the doctor emerged from the room where Lucy was being treated. “She will live.” he said grimly. “Barely. But she will make a full recovery. A few more inches and the heart would have been pierced.

Richter loosed a sigh of relief. she might never speak to him again, but she would live. And that was okay.

Moments later, Simon Belmont entered the room where Richter was sitting beside a sleeping Lucy, stroking her hair.

“Richter.” he said gently. “I have heard what happened. You destroyed that vampire with a single blow.” he said. “How, may I ask.”

Richter didn’t look away. “Her.” he said. “She… did something to me. Made me strong.” He glanced up at his grandfather. “Does that make sense?”

Somon smiled. “More than you could ever think.” And with that he embraced his grandson.

“Now.” he said after breaking away. “About your marriage tomorrow. It seems it must be postponed.”

“What?” asked Richter.

“Well, you never bothered to learn the name of your betrothed. Had you done so, I feel that much of this could have been avoided.” said Simon, an evil smirk on his face.

Moments later, Richter was beating his head against the wall while Simon laughed his ass off as Lucina, daughter of the hero Chrom slept through it.

A few weeks later, the arranged marriage between Richter and Lucina took place, and both could not be happier. And, as Richter told the story to his children, Chrom and Simon sobbed while Lucina threw herself into a very manly Richter’s arms.

In reality, Simon’s eyes were dry. It was Richter who sobbed while his beautiful bride carried him into the sunset.

[crypterion-moon]

Red Prince Eternal/4

Tim’s nightmares haunt him constantly, the words that bit him to the bone and stripped him of his dignity and he was kicked to the ground. The despair still haunt him. But the longer he spends with Kon, the more he begins to realize how much the superhero means to him.

His new companion is wary of such attachment.

He was aware that Batman was not the most welcoming of men or heroes but it didn’t make the words any softer in Tim’s mind.

“Back off, kid, this isn’t a game you can get into and out of.”

“I know Bruce,” there’s no one around, no one would hear the whisper of his name but Batman heard it loud and clear and it made him stiffen. Natural, a little boy knows who he is and little boys can say anything.

“I’ve always known, the lines were there, I just connected them and what evidence I had, I know Dick is with you and so was Jason. I’m only here because I want to help.”

“Don’t talk about them.”

“What-”

Suddenly Batman lost it, and he sent the table flying, “Don’t talk like you know, Tim, they suffered and still fought like soldiers. They know what it’s like to be stuck in the filth this world can offer, what do you know about that?”

“I know, Batman, I’m no street urchin or orphan, but pain is everywhere,” Tim stopped, remembered Jason, “I’m sorry about Robin.”

Bruce glared at him for the longest time before he turned, “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

Of all the people, he would’ve thought Dick would understand, but even the more cheerful counterpart to Batman was...less than pleased. Especially when Tim showed up on his front door with an apology. Dick spent the next hour denying he was Nightwing.

“Dick, I’m not dumb. I still remember the day at the carnival,” Tim fished the photo from his jacket, “The day we took this picture together.”

It was Tim and Dick years younger on the night Dick’s parents died, their performance sabotaged by Zucco. Dick was holding Tim while their parents stood happily behind them. Tim wearing a big baby faced smile. Seeing his parents’ faces made Dick grimace. Tim quickly put the photo away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

It was a bad move to mention the man’s parents, an old scar that he’d opened up unwittingly. Dick held face and his eyes became stern.

“What do you want, Tim, this is beyond you.”

“What I want is to help, Bruce is taking things harder and he’s trying to do it alone. He doesn’t believe me, no one does, I came to you because I hoped-”

“No,” Dick said, finality in his tone, “No way in hell.”

“But-”

The sudden bang as Dick brought his cup down hard on the table made Tim nearly jump right off his chair.

“No! You have no idea what it’s like. It’s not fun and games, people get hurt if you make a mistake,” you won’t last a week so just stop, forget it.”

Dick had enough of the discussion, glancing at the clock. Get out. The unspoken words rang out, striking Tim in his heart. He thought-, he’d hoped, it might work out this time but there was little chance if not even Dick believed in him. Tim nodded and left promptly.

He may not be able to join their fight in person but at least he could drop important information disguised as someone else. Tim was a computer genius at a young age and he was nothing if not persistent. Informer became a vital addition to their missions, his information drops invaluable. All the while they’d assumed it was a mysterious person who had established himself elsewhere, never Tim.

When Jason returned, Tim felt the thread in his network tremble. Red Hood, notorious avenger and unabashed killer of criminals. He was so different from the Robin he’d met one night it was frightening but Tim hoped still that there was a way to redeem the former Robin. So he pulled some strings, dropped notes until they all found out thanks to Oracle and her superior tracing, they managed to trace the trail all the way back to the little ten year old. No, they definitely weren’t pleased, especially when they realized that Tim had taken advantage of a loophole. It was as if, he had a feeling, that they were angry or disturbed that he was far more crafty for a little boy his age should be. True.

What truly scared Tim though, was that Jason had said nothing while Dick and Bruce lay into him with all the reprimanding, but his body was tense. Wound tighter than a spring and ready to break. A storm was brewing.

Tim startled awake and realized where he was, back in the present and in his bedroom lit only by the glow of his computer. He sighed and kneaded gently at the knots in his neck and between his eyes. His memories haunted him even in sleep or what little there was of it. He wished he could boast that he’d gotten over those years, the hurt, but it still weighed on his conscious and subconscious. Perhaps, in time, but certainly not for the time being.

He can hear the rustling behind him as he worked on the latest client, well, victim actually, but they didn’t need to know that. The noise is intentional. Tim knows because Tiamat, as beautiful as he is, is frightening all the same. Too much shadow and of enough human on the outside. He’s used to it by now or else he’d have jumped up a few feet off his chair like the first time he slithered up behind him. It’s been a while since Tim first brought him home but already they fit, it’s...weird though, he’s...

“Happy Birthday,” a soft voice hummed by his ear. A body slithered up behind him. He could almost feel the grin.

“It’s still a few days off,” Tim chuckled.

“Hmm,” Tiamat let out a soft breath, a chuckle, “I wanted to say it first.”

“Congratulations, you got to say it first before all the other goofballs get here.”

Tiamat’s expression dropped a bit, “I won’t be able to when they do.”

He always disappeared when they arrived, slinking off into the shadows in Tim’s room and avoiding them all together. Usually, he’d still be there, watching from the shadows. If Raven was there, he’d be gone completely. He’d rather not, Tim quite enjoyed the feeling of Tiamat’s presence in the room, though the others unaware of his new roommate did not, for some strange reason. Beast Boy would always note a certain uneasiness. Tim would shrug it off. He was certain it would be a bad idea to tell them judging by their reactions alone. They might even end up fighting.

Tiamat was still recovering from the wounds he’d gotten when Tim found him on the banks of a nearby river, severely weakened and shivering like an injured animal. He brought the stranger back and tended to him as much as he could. He couldn’t eat anything for some reason, nothing Tim brought him helped They were tentative at first, Tim didn’t know how to deal with this strange creature that had literally fallen outside his doorstep and Tiamat,  a shadowy figure who looked strangely familiar was shiftier than a cat, he spent a lot of the time staring straight at Tim and didn’t speak, not until he’d seemed to have acquired all he needed to know about the boy.

“I never told you my Birthday,” Tim remarked, a question disguised as a statement but he knows the answer.

“Our birth dates are similar across worlds, Tim,” not one but many, many more Tim Drake’s out there, this one was his shadowy mirror. Honestly, he’d never imagined meeting another him, less likely imagine himself in a form like this. Tiamat has mostly abandoned his former life.

“Is it strange?...” to call me by your name? Our names. We’re supposed to be the same but we’re so different. Tim doesn’t say it out loud but Tiamat smiles a smile of many answers and more questions. He stops and jerks to look at the window.

“They’re here,” Tiamat hissed, drifting off into smoke. Just as the knocking on his window drew Tim’s attention. He padded over and pushed it open to greet two teenagers and a green bird.

“Hey there, Tim,” Kon said with his lopsided smile, “Can we come in?”

“Sure,” Tim stepped back and allowed them to float closer and climb through, Beast Boy flew in and settled on the carpet as he transformed back into a boy. Without acknowledging his guests further, Tim went over to turn his computer off. Thankfully, nothing unscrupulous was open, but just to be safe. Kon looked around, his ears perking.

“Guess they’re not home again?” he said rather disappointed for Tim.

“Three month trip this time, they won’t be for a good while.”

“That’s no way to live,” Cassie said.

“You’d be surprised how a people can live once they get used to it, so,” Tim sat down casually at his desk, twirling around to face them, “How can I help you?”

Con shifted uneasily from foot to foot as if unsure of how he was going to form his next words. Cass elbowed him rather harshly as Tim waited patiently for the response.

“Well uh, we’ve hung out a lot at your place and the Titans haven’t really thought of going anywhere else, and uh, we found a pretty cool spot recently while we were busting some alien asses last time, that was so cool you should’ve seen- OW!” Kon yelled as Cass elbowed him again, this time a bit harder, “Geez, you’re gonna bruise me. So I was saying, since we found a pretty cool spot I thought all of us could-”

“Oh for goodness sake,” an irritated bratty voice growled as another figure hopped onto the window sill, “Can’t your small half-kryptonian brain at least form one simple request?”

Damian was Robin now, congratulations, and part of the Teen Titans. Something Tim would have dreamed of in another lifetime. From the looks of it, and the silence that still graced Tim, Robin hadn’t disclosed anything about his mentor to the Bats, just as he’d asked. But now, there was awkward tension between them, Tim could guess that somewhere in Damian’s mind, he was still confused as to why Tim wouldn’t want his father and now brothers to know about him. That he was required to treat him as a stranger and whenever they met.

However, Robin respected his decision and even covered for him whenever Kon or anyone was close to revealing Tim’s role in their lives. Tim owed him an explanation, he really wished he could, but some things are better left unknown. Tim glanced at Robin briefly before turning back to the three amigos.

“So, where is this place we’re going?”

Later, when the whole group had left, settled back in his chair, exhausted mostly by the strain of having to talk more than usual. Normally, he wouldn’t be so exhausted, Tim wouldn’t exert himself so, but having to deal with so many people, with Kon and his endearing idiocy sometimes and have all the patience of a sage pushed Tim a little further than usual. His health hasn't been right, since the fall, and the depression that followed. He’s never been a fittest but he’s sure things would’ve been slightly different if he’d had any reason to train his body. But no, what’s the point, so what if he had a failing defective, body. It wasn’t as if anybody would care.

“Why do you push yourself for them?” A whispering voice reached around, seemingly to wrap around Tim and comfort him. He nestled in his chair not even caring that the lights had gone out.

“I don't usually, but it's been getting worse,” Tim let his fall back on the headrest, “I don't know, I don't know why I….That's not true, is it?”

A face in the darkness, reflecting his own, Older and beautiful, they both have the same eyes. This dark soul that bound himself to Tim. He could feel his own stained heart whenever he looked at the shadow, like a cancer spreading over him. Maybe that's why he does it. To cling on to the light he found even if he'd convinced himself the opposite. So irritating and yet, the times when Kon made him laugh, when he and Raven formed a powerful pair of sarcasm and dry wit, when he genuinely admired Cyborg's good taste in technology and pizza, those moments were when he felt most human. Not an object useless or otherwise, made to be on display, discarded and pushed away. Moments when Kon held or brushed against him, when his eyes held a certain unnamed emotion for Tim, was when Tim felt more like a person, enough to start loving again.

“You love them don't you?” it wasn’t a question and Tiamat did not wait for an answer, “And him, far more deeply.”

“What? No, no I...he’s a friend too, he-, he was the first person who treated me like another person and not something with a name on it,” the first person to call Tim by name, “But I don’t...there’s nothing between us.”

He was lying to his own reflection, or he might as well been because those eyes were looking straight through him. Into his heart.

“I can’t...”

“Because you are weak, and broken?”

Thou art weak, a poor broken child

“I can’t...”

“That you can be thrown away?”

Easily thrown aside, thy heart’s love

“Please,” Tim felt himself collapsing without even realizing he was no longer seated, that he’d gotten up only a few seconds later. It was so dark, he couldn’t eve see what he was doing. He felt hands on his face, covering it, his hands, he wanted to cry but they’d dried up long ago.

“I don’t want to go back, I was an idiot, I don’t want to go back to being an idiot, I don’t care what I have to become.”

Hands not his but his likeness, smooth as silk yet cold and solid as marble until they conjured fire from their palms gently slid his own down from his eyes, sapphire eyes glowing in the shadow stared deeply and tenderly into his, capturing his soul as Tiamat spoke, “You have time, when your decision is made, ask me again.”

Time still remains, when thy decision is made, call upon me once more

[lovebeyondmeasure]

Cormoran/Robin, roommate AU + in vino veritas AU

This AU is a continuation of the Bookshop AU + Neighbors AU prompt, now with love confessions, because I deliver, babes.

Robin’s staying in his spare room, and it’s fine. It’s totally fine that his shower smells like her shampoo, and that she likes to sing along to the radio while she cooks, and that she doesn’t mind him yelling at the footy while she reads on the other end of the couch. (And if he can hear her crying sometimes, late at night, that’s fine, too. It’s not his business. It’s not.)

He knows that eventually, Robin will let go of the simmering anger she’s carrying in her chest, and he’s right. And for all of a week, it seems like she’s taken Matthew back. Cormoran braced himself for the inevitable; after all, she stayed in his guest room, as a guest, for only a short time. That’s what a guest is. Someone who leaves after a while. But then Matthew gets a job offer on the continent, and accepts it…without even consulting Robin. She’s working her usual shift out front, while Cormoran squints at his expenses and worries, when she comes to the back to take a phone call, and he watches her crumple into herself silently.

“What do you mean, you took it?” she asks, and her voice is wooden, heavy. The voice on the other end of the line is jubilant. “I know it’s a great opportunity, Matthew, but I’m not moving to Amsterdam. Congratulations, though.”

When she hangs up, he’s at a loss. She wipes her face, plasters on a smile, and goes back out to run the shop. And that night, he goes to find her in the pub, and brings her back to his flat, because she’s not going back to the one across the street.

“He thought I would just…. follow him,” she says, laying on the couch at 3 am, full of white wine and that familiar bubbling bitterness. “That I would just drop my life and trail along like a good little wife. Thank god we pushed back the date. I don’t know what I would have done if we were already married.”

“So what are you going to do?” he asks, kicked back in his recliner, his prosthesis on the floor. 

“I’m going to sleep this off,” she says, flinging a bare left hand over her eyes, “then I’m gonna deal with this in the morning.”

“Are you…” Cormoran doesn’t know how to phrase it. He knows what it is to have your life so entangled with another person’s that it seems impossible to extricate yourself. 

“I’m not going back to him,” she says, her voice like stone. “Not ever. He thought my job with you was some place-holder that I’d be happy to drop the moment something better for him came along. He never understood how much I love our shop.”

Our shop. That sounds good to Cormoran. It sounds…. right.

In the morning, he makes Robin eggs and toast and tea, and offers her a proposal.

“I know you don’t have a plan,” he says, as she nibbles on her toast. “I don’t want to presume anything, but. Well, it wasn’t bad, having you here for a week. And you’re a much better cook than me.”

She smiles at this, and it gives him courage. 

“I don’t have to pay rent on this flat, since it’s part of the shop building. I just have to keep paying back my loan and paying the original owners their share of profits. So if you wanted to- that is- fuck it, do you want to move in here? You can keep the spare room, and you wouldn’t have to pay rent. If you want to. I don’t know if that’s weird, or-”

But now Robin is crying, and he takes that for assent, and now he has a flatmate. And he certainly doesn’t have feelings for her. Not even a little bit. Sure, she’s objectively attractive. And smart. And caring. And a great cook. But she’s not just his employee or his flatmate, she’s his friend, and he’s not going to fuck that up, not for anything. Not even for his foolish heart.

And it’s… good. Robin fetches her things from across the street, and suddenly his flat acquires things like matching bath towels and throw pillows. She begins re-decorating, packing up things that belong to the older couple to put up in storage, and the flat starts looking like it belongs in the 21st century. He hadn’t thought he cared about such things, but it’s nice. Homey. 

And they live together, and work together, and somehow it’s easy. It’s natural to switch out in the washroom in the mornings, and to run upstairs to fetch leftovers for lunch, and to talk about the shop over dinner. It’s not like it was with Charlotte; she doesn’t demand his time or attention constantly, and she likes his friends, when he finally brings her along to meet them. His friends, in turn, like her. 

She and Ilsa get on like a house on fire, and he regrets introducing them immediately. Nick nudges him with one elbow, watching the women laugh at their booth in the pub. “She’s sweet,” Nick says. “It’s good to see you happy.”

“She is,” Cormoran agrees, “but it’s not- we’re not-”

Nick nods, sipping his beer. “Of course not.”

And watching Robin’s face light up when they bring back the next round, the way she smiles at him, makes Cormoran feel off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with how many Doom Bars he’s got sloshing around inside him. 

She supports him as they stumble to the Tube station to take them back to his flat, and she’s tall and sturdy enough to do it, and her waist fits so nicely under his hand; once they’re seated, he lets his head lean down to rest on her shoulder, just because he can, and he wants to. She just smiles at him and twists her arm free, laying it across his shoulders and scratching gently at his scalp. He shudders, pressing closer, enjoying this perfect moment of closeness, wishing in his softly drunken haze that he didn’t have to move ever again. He doesn’t realize he’s said as much aloud until Robin stiffens up, tugging at him to tell him it’s their stop.

She gets him up to their flat, silent all the way, and Cormoran is so focused on putting his prosthesis firmly on the ground that he doesn’t notice. The next morning, groggy and hungover, he doesn’t even remember his murmured admission. Robin remembers, though. And she can’t stop thinking about it. She’s just about convinced herself that he was enjoying the head scratching, not her closeness, when she begins to see their interactions in the new light of this one moment. The way he treats her with respect for her intelligence and contributions. The way he smiles at her while she’s cooking them dinner. The way he calls the bookshop “ours.”

Maybe, she thinks. Maybe… he feels something too. But she’s just out of a long relationship, and so is he, and it’s the worst timing, and more than that, they’re flatmates, and he’s her boss, and it’s all so… complicated. 

But still, Robin wonders. And then it’s nearly All Hallows’ Eve, and she’s up on a ladder hanging decorations. She’s convinced Cormoran to sign up the shop for the trick-or-treating event that goes from shop to shop, and he sighed and gave her what she wanted. She’s nearly got the cobwebs hung from the doorway between the children’s room and the classic when the ladder slides beneath her, and she’s just begun to scream when Cormoran catches her from behind. 

Clutched up against his heaving chest, Robin’s head is spinning, but she can feel the way he presses his face into her hair and breathes deeply, the sigh of relief he lets out. She’s got her hands wrapped tight around his one arm, and her life has just flashed before her eyes, and she doesn’t even think. She twists around in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck to return the embrace, nearly sobbing. They haven’t been this close since the night she brought him home sloppy drunk, and she’s been wondering for so long, and she’s drunk on the rush of adrenaline pounding in her veins. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he says, and she can feel the way his voice rumbles in his chest. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she says in response. 

His grip loosens, and she can see him shaking his head, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re just being nice because I saved your life,” he tries to joke, but she shakes her head.

“You are,” she insists, but the adrenaline is draining as fast as it came, and he’s not- he doesn’t-

He reaches out to tuck her hair back behind her ear, and she turns into his hand, seeking this one last touch, this one sign of affection. His hand stays on her face, and she looks up at him, hoping-

The bell on the door jingles, a customer entering, and they spring apart as though they’ve done something wrong. Robin thinks that that’s the end of it, and hopes fervently that things between them aren’t ruined forever. 

He doesn’t come up for dinner that night. Robin stares at her chicken and potatoes, wondering if she ought to leave him alone. But he’s just downstairs in the office, staring at columns of numbers on a screen and not seeing them, and when he touches his shoulder he jumps. 

“I brought your dinner down,” she offers, setting the plate on his desk. He nods, jerkily, silent, and Robin doesn’t know what to say. “I… I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, earlier,” she tries. “I didn’t mean to.”

“If you did what?” he asks, and his voice is raspy, his throat dry.

“If I said something wrong, or did something…” she trails off, twisting the hem of her top between her fingers. 

“You think-” he says, turning his chair to face her fully. “You think I’m mad at you?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s all so- I mean, I don’t want to mess up things-you’ve been so good to me, and I don’t know what for, and I’m just- I’m so lucky, and I don’t want to make you feel like-”

“Jesus, Robin,” he says, hauling himself to his feet on the edge of the desk. “Shut up, would you,” and his hand’s slipping behind her ear, and he’s- jesus, he’s kissing her, and it’s everything- it’s- she melts into the kiss, letting it blaze up and consume her. 

He leans his forehead against hers, and it’s like the world is standing absolutely still. 

Robin starts laughing. 

“What?” Cormoran asks, expecting a shove, a slap, maybe a kind letdown.

“I was so afraid that you- and you-” she laughs. 

“You’re impossible,” he growls, and she laughs up at him, so fully alive with surprised happiness that he’s hopeless not to love her in that moment, and he kisses her again. And again. And again.

And things are complicated. They’re not perfect. But there are moments like these, and that’s more than enough to make it worth it.

[ send me two tropes and a pairing, and I’ll tell you how I’d mash them up ]

[panticwritten]

Jay on the Striders

Jay is one of my many para(me)s in my daydreams. The Striders are more paras pulled from Homestuck There are eight of them in the Cube. Two pre-scratch Daves. Two pre-scratch Dirks. Post-scratch Dave. Post-scratch Dirk. Davesprite. Hal, Dirk’s Auto Responder.

I think this is the first thing I’ve posted from Jay’s point of view, which is cool.

PSA: Jax is the certified Best, please be prepared for that.

So, I mostly wanted to write Jax and Dave interacting. Mostly Jax. And Jay accusing the (7/8 of the) Striders of being mother hens when uh. Yeah. Jay’s the oldest out of all us sibs, hahaha, so they’re kind of the ruler of mother hen land.

Word count: 3,838

TW:

Mentions of prior abuse

Fairly severe self-loathing

Loss of a family member

Casual references to character death

Abuse related anxiety

Humans will pack bond with anything.

Look at Roombas. They don’t even look like humans, not like an animal, no reason to think they might have feelings. They rove around, picking up crumbs. Round pieces of hardware, and still they—

We.

—have an urge to treat them as living things with feelings and emotions.

That said, my lab has always had its fair share of visitors when I let slip news of a new android, clone, or piece of machinery. Recently, a coarse scientist from another universe has been finding his way here. Connor comes to check in, now and then, looking through my new models. Sawyer and our other siblings sometimes come to see me.

Some days I wish they wouldn’t. Others, I wish they would visit more often.

Visitors come for help, occasionally. Sometimes, I’m the first stop, checking in before resorting to the magic so easily found in the Cube. Sometimes, I am the last resort. Most often, I’m called when they need discretion.

Mercenary clans asking for new equipment. I’ve had to keep a lock on that sort of work since Sawyer found out about the shackles. They were never meant to be used against us. I never intended that, but there were safeties in the design for that eventuality. The original human keeps a much closer eye on me now, likely flicking through the records in their Room as I work.

I smile at the thought, tightening a screw in Jax’s shoulder.

Sawyer likes to think they aren’t a busybody, that they don’t pry, but they watch people far more often than they let on. You can see my thoughts right now, can’t you, reading those journals?

But then, we’re a family and they mean well. I’m the last person in the Cube to critique anyone’s methods. Morally gray, the way Connor refers to it, is an understatement.

But, as I said, humans will pack bond with anything. Some more than others. There are a handful of people that will come just to talk to the various robotic projects I have.

Then there’s the Striders.

“So, I didn’t accidentally fuck them up or anything, right?” Dave asks. I’ve been around the block with this one enough to identify the anxiety under the soft chuckle he tacks onto the end of that. “Like, is their arm stuck like that forever? Wait, no, that’s dumb, I know, you can just replace the arm if it’s that bad, but—”

He cuts off when I glance over to see him turning a stray spring over in his hands. His face points toward Jax, though I can’t tell if he’s really looking at them through those sunglasses. I smile anyway, turning back to my patient.

Since the moment I acquired this space for my labs, it seems I’ve had at least one of them loitering at any given time. They latched onto the lab of an emotionally stunted clone, back when common talk was that I was torturing people back here. They certainly aren’t the only ones, but they’re the ones that feel the most like they belong. Like family.

Except one. The oldest one. The version of Dirk from the pre-scratch Earth within their universe clusters.

He used my servers, and I thought it was innocuous until I grew curious of what he was doing. I haven’t seen him in nearly a year, but that could be because I came so close to killing him the last time he was here. Even a prideful, abusive, antagonistic asshole knows when he’s not wanted in a home, it seems.

“What do you think, Jax?” I redirect his question as I delve deeper into their shoulder, probing for the broken connection. “Do you think you’ll live?”

“No, because I’m not alive, although I promise I know you’re being facetious,” they answer, the beginnings of what I know will be a long prattling loop. That should calm him down. They talk nearly as much as he does, and the flow of speech seems to help them both. “I will, however, be fine. I think it’s a few sections to the left, though. The broken line. I can almost feel it.”

A few weeks later, the others started hanging around. The first of the pleasant Striders to knock on my door was the post-scratch version of Dave.

I already knew D had to be a sweetheart underneath the layers he’d covered himself in, just based on my limited interaction with the other younger version of him outside of the lab. D’s slightly better adjusted than this one. Doesn’t try to cover it up when he shows emotion, vulnerability. Doesn’t jump at the gentle sighing of machinery in the labs.

Doesn’t break down if he topples a project or shatters a beaker. Though, that only happened once before he become comfortable enough in the lab to relax. He didn’t know how I would react, and I’m used to that.

Most of my siblings are the same way. Skittish, assuming that things will go badly because that’s how they were raised. I’d like to have more words with Dave’s ‘Bro,’ but I presume he knows I’m not a fan of his after I wiped all traces of his ‘work’ from the Cube.

I enjoy the three (four?) Daves’ presence more than I think I should. D asks about all of my projects when he stops by, lets me bounce things off of him when I hit a roadblock. Most of it is silence from him, or flat reminders of things I’ve already said, but it usually helps.

He’s the reason I managed to create the first real model of J355, named out of sentimentality and exhaustion. Well, him, the younger Dirk, and Hal. The earlier attempts were too buggy, overheated too much. We finally got the AI working, but I was so caught up in having a working AI I forgot what I needed the damn thing for.

“I still want to check the rest of your circuitry,” I murmur. “I don’t know what you get up to out there, but I’d rather take preventative measures than have you short out in the caves.”

“Shit, that could happen?” I don’t look at Dave, keeping as relaxed as possible. “How likely is that, do you think?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I tighten another screw, and Jax shifts uncomfortably. I think that one attaches to their neck, so it’ll likely be a little uncomfortable for a few days. “As long as we keep up with regular repairs they’ll be fine.”

“But if it does happen, just theoretically.” The nervous timbre to his voice has vanished, but the speed is faster, rhythm syncopated. Cover panic with cool affectations, it’s something we all do around here. “I just gotta ask how that would be handled. Like, middle of the caves. Dark, spooky, suddenly my source of light and my friend are both out of commission. Possibly in danger, doesn’t matter, I can handle it, but—”

1.2 couldn’t feel the way they did, not for the work we do. They had to either be capable of turning those feelings off or not having them at all. I was reminded of this when they first refused to complete a test on the clone group.

Not to mention the lingering glitches I couldn’t quite fix without tripping a hard reset. I nearly did, but D stopped me. I would have regretted it if I had gone through with it.

I had to start over.

I was as gentle as I could be when I told them that I couldn’t use them in the lab. They were still crushed. I still don’t know how many of their emotions are real versus simulation, the software was so buggy. At this point, it likely doesn’t matter.

“Dave?” He shuts up, and I hear him shift behind me. I tap a dented joint deep in Jax’s shoulder. I’ll worry about that when he isn’t here, when he can’t blame it on himself. It should keep until then. “You have the key to my lab, correct?”

“Wh—” I hear him shuffle behind me, then make an affirmative sound.

“So, even if that did happen it would be fine.” I withdraw and screw the panel shut, moving on to the next one while I scribble a note about the joint on a pad of paper. “You could bring them back here. No one would be mad at you. There’s nothing that could permanently destroy them, alright?”

“But…”

They befriended—surprise, surprise—another of the Striders, the sprite. They fell in with the lot of them, but those two are closer than I would have thought. J355 1.2 still visits me from time to time, and that makes me happier than I would ever admit to them.

Then D started working with the mercenaries, the Scouts. He doesn’t come by as often, though I’m not bothered. Everyone has responsibilities.

It was Hal, the young Dirk’s now-humanoid AI, that worked with me to create new algorithms for the next model. He never told me if he approved of the idea of creating a mid-level AI with a nearly suppressed emotional core, and I never asked. I just needed someone who would help me with the projects I would rather not share with the rest of the Cube.

Sawyer may be able to see them, and I may be willing to enact them, but I’m more than aware of how many of them look. Everyone knows I do questionable things, but I won’t parade it around. I know better than that.

I try a different tactic, stilling my hand in Jax’s back and leaning forward.

“Have you shown him your designs?” I ask them. I catch, this time, my voice rising into the cadence of a delighted parent. Connor, my siblings, and the other Striders would have a field day with that. Several field days.

Jax whirs, a whistling in the back of their throat that I’ve come to associate with excitement. “No, I haven’t! I should, though, shouldn’t I? That’s a friend thing, one of the ones I can do. Want to do.” They shift, slightly, but still again when their limp and exposed arm rattles against the table.

I place my instruments on the tray beside the table and tell them to wait a moment. Dave turns his head to track me as I walk away, but must look back because his words aren’t directed at me when he speaks.

“Designs?”

Jax simply whirs again, and I hear them bounce on their place on the table.

In the end, we created a lab hand that could follow instructions, but was intuitive enough to be more of an extension of myself than a tool. It was perfect. It had a low emotional bandwidth, low enough to do the work I needed done.

High enough to express that it felt like a part of the family. High enough to stop me from crossing the worst of the lines I dance around. I needed that, I think, something that knew everything and could still stand to be around me. Could keep me from making mistakes.

Then everything with Jordan happened. AA. The memories.

J-Negative.

I return to them with a thick stack of papers. Dave looks between the two of us, and I’m relieved to see intrigue overriding the Strider Mother Hen Instinct™ (I’m going to bar Sawyer from my lab the next time they manage to get me adopting their speech patterns) and his hero complex, exactly as planned.

“Which one’s the one you want next, the one on top? Or the bottom?”

They shake their head and beckon me closer. I oblige, dropping the stack on the table beside them.

“I could explain the organization system, but it would be boring and self-aggrandizing.” They shuffle through the papers with their working hand, and I can hear the smile in their gently undulating voice. “The latter would be an ego boost, the former would lower the coolness factor of this reveal.”

“By how much?” Dave chimes in, and I smile to myself, returning to my work. “Uncool enough that my B-”

My stomach turns over in the instant he pauses.

“That Dirk would shut it down?”

J-Negative got out of the cells. She was going to bring back Tchaikovsky. Or open another door. Any number of possibilities, really, most of which I’ve talked about with Hal.

It disguising itself as one of the more essential of the Sawyer siblings and hunting her down was one of the better outcomes. It making the choice, with Sawyer and I standing right there was a good outcome. If it had let go of her arm, she would have vanished. If it hadn’t pulled her into the short term memories, who knows what she could have done.

That’s what we tell ourselves, at least. Hal was almost as torn up about it as I was. Am.

Almost.

And the younger Dave’s started coming to the lab with Dirk more often. Maybe Hal told them to come, maybe the aforementioned mother hen instinct extended to me even back then. I don’t know.

We speculated what could have happened, how 2.16 could have made it. How it could have ended differently. None of it was good. None of it was acceptable. But it made it hurt a little less, knowing it really did make the right choice.

“Dave.” Jax says in a deadpan, distracting us both from his slip-of-the-tongue, but they evidently can’t suppress a rattle in their chest that nearly always comes as a precursor to laughter. Or, perhaps they do it on purpose. I can’t tell. “Dirk would be ecstatic to hear all about this radical shifting algorithm with which I rate my design priorities. You would be on a one way trip to a refreshing nap because your grasp on advanced mathematics and coding is tenuous at best.”

“Hang on just a—”

“Don’t even try to convince me of your hacking skills. There’s a reason Sollux programs our maps, not you.” They finally extract one of the more precisely detailed plans from the stack. “And this is, objectively, Fairly Advanced Shit compared to that.”

Dirk, on the other hand, deals with grief the same way I do and was more than willing to help me throw myself into my work. According to him, he wasn’t very close with 2.16, but he does live with Hal and Hal knew that I needed more healing than I had let on.

I tried uploading its programming to a new shell, but it wasn’t the same. It had all of 2.16’s memories leading up to that day, but it didn’t know exactly what happened other than that it had been destroyed.

But I knew. I knew.

So Dirk helped me change the algorithms. Sometimes Hal came, plugged himself into the server to look for inconsistencies and broken code. All three alpha Daves would come, the older one taking up his role as a sounding board for all of us, the younger ones making sure we didn’t run ourselves into the ground or take ourselves too seriously.

“Jax, be nice,” I chide. They pause to look back at me, brow raising into a smooth arc and clearly calling hypocrisy. “Nicer, at least.”

They disregard that, turning back to the still-waiting Strider. Both D and Dirk have made a point of telling me that they see more of his real smiles—smiles that he doesn’t try to hide when someone outside of his circle sees—since he started spending time with Jax. They seem good for each other.

“Alright, Dave, hold onto your shades or this might blow your mind.” They slowly unfold the paper, and Dave adjusts his sunglasses with a smirk. They pause before flipping the last fold, straightening up more. “Also, I think this will make you feel much better. About the possibility of me getting hurt, I mean. If me getting hurt was even remotely possible, considering I’m a literal robot. I’m not like Hal or V or (does AA count?) or, you know, any of the other sort of machines. I’m honest-to-god, homemade, artificial.”

They don’t sound like they’re going to stop any time soon, and Dave has gotten noticeably paler, so I flick the back of their neck. “Hey. Just show him.”

We did it, eventually, creating a hybrid of the two processors. At first, I thought 3.21 would be more like 2.16. They were cold in the beginning, in the new learning phase, until they met this Dave, the nervous one, and all of the best parts carried over from 1.2 started to come out.

They learned so fast. When I asked how they felt they were doing a month after they came online, they processed longer than I thought they would. They told me they felt loved, the same way you might tell someone it’s sunny outside, and returned to the 3DS I had given them not long before.

Which they had taken apart and put back together within an hour and were using it to make (what I found out later to be) a port to play the games faster, without taking up their hands.

Needless to say, I needed a few minutes to recover from that. The Striders agree that our being able to raise them to feel loved is not only mind-boggling but a massive relief. We all had dysfunctional childhoods, and that’s putting it mildly.

They lay the design on the table, Dave sliding from the counter to come look (and assist, since maneuvering a large sheet of paper is difficult with one hand). He runs gentle fingers over the blueprint, quiet next to Jax’s continued whirring.

I nudge them again. “Which one is it? I can’t see.”

“I drew it on the sixth. This month. Finished it at…” A buzz, while they find the archived information. “Six fifteen in the morning.”

I almost tell them that I still don’t know which one that is, but they continue.

“With the rose gold bolts. Darker synthetics with crow designs—tattoos—copper nails, amber eyes. Um.” They hum, and I grin when the image of it appears in my mind’s eye. “Shorter hair, I left the color to your discretion.”

They still wanted to do their duties in the lab, but by then I had more than enough smaller helpers around the place. I didn’t need them as much as I needed 2.16. Unlike their predecessors, I made them out of desperation rather than a necessity.

I was terrified of letting them leave the lab, knowing that it isn’t safe out there. Hell, 2.16 was right next to The Lounge, the safest place in the entire Cube complex, and it was destroyed. D talked me down when them asking to run around with the Striders practically threw me into a panic.

He came up with the idea of the designs. Total transparency. Real time downloads of their memories. If something happens and their body is destroyed or their local data is corrupted, I can reupload them into a new body. One they designed and picked out.

That soothed my nerves enough, though I still wasn’t completely at ease. They started exploring the Cube with a handful of others, improving the mapping systems. The young Dave’s been working on that with a group of friends ever since the Cube expanded a few years ago. The progress has increased exponentially with an android on their team.

“Think of it like this, Dave.” I see him look up in my peripherals, but I can finally see the broken connection. I try to keep my voice soothing. “This is a lot like your history with your time abilities. Mistakes lead to dead Daves. Dead Daves are awful, it’s traumatic when dead Daves happen, but they are far from the end of the world so long as we plan accordingly.”

I tug on the shifted connection, and it slips back into place. Jax’s arm tenses, a soft hum emitting from their shoulder as everything comes back online. Now, I watch Dave while I smooth Jax’s synthetic skin back over the mechanics on their back.

A carefully neutral expression stares back at me, and I smile in response.

“I know you worry about your friends, that you want to protect them,” I say slowly, carefully, while Jax flexes their fixed arm. They can handle the synthetics there, so I push my rolling chair to face the both of them. It’ll keep them distracted, from derailing me. Dave needs to hear this. “This is not something you have to carry on your shoulders. That’s my job. You don’t need to worry about breaking them.”

Eventually, they asked about 2.16’s memories, why it wasn’t around anymore. They asked to download the data.

I couldn’t say no. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

It was the first time I had the experience of hearing the grinding in their neck symbolizing tears they aren’t capable of shedding. A warped, crushing version of their excited whirring I had already become so used to.

They balance their time more evenly between home and friends now.

Dave looks back down at the blueprint. He traces more of it. He sniffs, his posture portraying indifference, but his profile allows me to see him blinking furiously behind his sunglasses.

Silence stands in the lab for awhile, Dave staring at the blueprint, Jax staring at Dave, me staring at both of them. I hold my breath, waiting. For Dave to say something. For Jax to break the silence. For either of them to move.

He looks back up at Jax, a brilliant grin lighting up his face.

“Can I see some more of these?” His voice breaks on the last word, but the flicker of disappointment I’m used to seeing from him doesn’t come. My heart swells at that, but neither of them are looking at me now.

Jax immediately jumps into action, sliding off of the table and rifling through the stack of prints. They pull another out and smooth it over the first. They lean over the table, explaining the design to Dave.

I take the opportunity to back out, letting them chatter on. They’ll be at it for bit, until Dave gets tired. Until Jax notices and makes him go back to the flat.

I don’t know when I started thinking of them as more of a child than a machine, or even a partner. Maybe it was when they first came home after trip into the In-Between had sheared a portion of their head off (this Dave wasn’t there, thank god, I can’t imagine how he would have reacted to that). It could have been when they came back from their first week in charge of the body on the outside with a they/them/theirs magnet fixed to their chest.

I know I was far, far gone by the time they sat me down and told me that their new name was Jax.

[seasauvage787]

A Heart To Come Home To The Jonsa Gift Exchange:Milestones

for @geekprincess26   hope you enjoy!

The first time Jon and Sansa meet.... or is it?

Sansa Stark took the phone call. The man on the other end hesitated before he spoke.

“Hello, I…um… am looking to purchase an older home that needs to be restored. Kind of a fixer-upper.”

“You are interested in moving up north?” asked Sansa trying to get some more concrete information.

“I’m kind of interested in finding a calm place, a place I can work on.”

“And you currently live in Kings Landing?”

“Kind of. Not really. I stay with my parents most of the time. I have to travel a lot with my job, so I live in hotels more or less.”

“We have plenty of older properties that we represent here in Wintertown and all the way up to The Gift. Winterfell Realty Associates pride ourselves in our selection of unique properties.”

“Yes, I was referred by a friend who relocated north. Brianne Tarth.”

“Oh yes, my sister worked with her. She found her a lovely home last year. In fact, my sister is currently working with Ms. Tarth to acquire an old armory to turn into a fencing academy.

“Ms. Stark, I have a tight schedule. Is there any chance that you could show me some properties? I will be out of the country for the next 2 or 3 weeks.”

“I can certainly make arrangements. Will the day after tomorrow suit?”

“Could we make it tomorrow? I’m already here in town visiting friends. Do you know the Tarleys?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I usually like to give a days notice for the sellers to ready their property.”

“Actually, since I’m looking for something that will be a project, I don’t think condition will matter.”

“Well then, Mr….? I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name. And we’ve had such a long conversation. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Sorry, I didn’t actually introduce myself. I’m Jon Snow.”

“Certainly, Mr. Snow. I’ll be busy setting things up today. What time will be good for you tomorrow?”

“I’d like to get an early start. Does 10:00 am work for you?”

“Yes, that will be wonderful. Thank you for calling Winterfell Realty Associates.”

“I’ll be at your offices at 10:00, then. Thank you Ms. Stark. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Thank you Mr. Snow.”

Sansa hung up the phone and literally screamed “Arya, oh my fucking gods where are you? Get over here! I just got off the phone with Jon fucking yes, Jon fucking Snow.”

“Yeah, how do you know that? I bet you just got pranked.”

“Because he said that he was friends with Brianne Tarth. Remember you told me that she was the fencing consultant on that gladiator or something movie.  And aren't you working with her right now to buy the old armory for her fencing academy? She referred him.”

“Yes, I am but that's beside the point. You are so shitting me. That can't be. This is the north. There's tons of people up here whose last name is Snow.”

“And are they all named Jon? Doubt that one.”

“Oh yeah. How many Jon fucking Snows are there? Google it.”

“I don't know how many Jon Snow's there are and I’m not going to google anything. It sounded like him. You know, that kind of husky... growly... sexy kind of voice.”

“All right Sansa, now you are imagining things. I bet you’ve never even seen his movies or TV show!”

“If you think I'm imagining things, then listen to this. He said he wanted to buy an old place that he could fix up. He said he travels a lot and needed a calm place.”

“I won't believe it till I see him.”

“You will tomorrow when he shows up to go looking at houses with me.”

“Then you better get your ass going and find some properties to show him. Maybe I should call him back. Ask him to be a little more specific and I’ll be the one showing him houses!”

“Oh no, you won't. This is mine. I took the call, I’m going to do the work and I get to take him to tour the properties.”

Sansa was on the computer and phone for the rest of the day. She looked through all of the properties they were representing and the MLS for the region. She was frustrated that she only came up with a handful of potentials.

Lucky for her the unique properties were all represented by Winterfell Realty Associates. She found a loft in the warehouse district of Wintertown, an ancient homestead with major wooded acreage on the edge of Long Lake, about 50 miles north, a creepy windmill with a couple acres of pasture 30 miles away, and an decrepit log cabin in the middle of the Wolfswood just 10 miles out of town.

She was sure from his vague description that he probably wouldn’t be interested in the loft, but it was located in the historic district where Brianne Tarth was looking to purchase. So it was worth a shot.

She ran a search on the Tarleys. They lived on the edge of Wintertown in one of the newer suburbs that were springing up around the University of the Northlands. They must be affiliated with the school. Why else would people move north?

Sansa left her office after everyone else had gone for the day. Since she finished her MBA a year early, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. So she went back to her family home at Winterfell and worked with her father and sister in the family’s real estate business. Actually, she was grateful. She had rushed through her BA in History, but at 20 she felt too young to be a high school teacher. Of course, she then rushed through her MBA as if the added degree would give her more direction. Not really. Not yet anyway.

All evening, Sansa was mulling these things over in her head.  She was glad that everybody was out of the house for once, even the boys. Everyone had someplace to go except Sansa. She had a glass of wine with dinner and another as she sat at her computer scanning the MLS again. Maybe if I watch his TV show, I can match his voice. I know what he looks like. What he looks like on TV in character, anyway.

Sansa signed into the family’s HBO To Go account and pulled up Jon Snow’s series. She didn’t really follow Path of Honor. It was a semi historical drama set in England and she hated when they got the history wrong. Her logical mind just refused to make that leap into fantasy. She didn’t like Lord of the Rings, either. Sansa cued up the latest episode and sat down on the couch with her third glass of wine.

She was standing in a huge drafty room. It was cold even though there was a roaring fire. She had her coat and gloves on, but she could still feel the bitter bone deep cold. Sansa looked down to rebutton her coat. There were no buttons, in fact she was wearing some sort of woolen and fluffy fur cape and a very heavy long dress that felt like leather armor. The dress itched where it caught her waist and down the front of her legs, even through the thick woolen stockings. She was definitely not wearing high heels.

The door at the far end of the room slammed open and a group of men in huge fur cloaks and similar leather armor strode into the room. This brought a strong gust of cold wind sweeping through, causing the candles to stutter. She watched the dark haired man at the front of the group stride assuredly toward her. He was frowning in the most handsome way. As he approached, she saw that his consternation was fading the closer he got to her. Sansa took in a deep breath as he knelt before her.

“My Lady Sansa. I am most humbly at your service.” he said and lowered his head.

She watched in stunned silence as he turned his head slightly to look up at her through thick dark lashes. He winked as he took her hand in his. He kissed it and whispered “My love.” into the palm of her hand.

Sansa woke up disoriented. She looked around. She was stretched out on the couch and the TV was on the home screen. Clearly she had slept through the show. It was 2:00 am, so she clicked off the screen and went upstairs to bed.

Sansa was looking out of a window on an upper floor of some sort of stone tower. There were people sparring with longswords below in the training yard. She could hear the metal clash and scrape. The two men moved like dancers and the arc of their swords careening toward impact was mesmerizing.  Did they know she was watching? She hoped not. She leaned out to get a better view. As she did, her elbow knocked a loose stone from the ledge. She watched it fall in slow motion and land with a thud. The two men froze, then looked toward the sky expecting an attack.

“Oops, sorry.” she called down to them feeling her face flush with embarrassment.

The man with the dark hair turned toward the sound of her voice. He smiled.

“Why Lady Sansa, I didn’t know you were interested in our daily training.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Everything that keeps us safe, I guess.”

“My Lady, I am always here to keep you safe.”

Sansa woke at the sound of her alarm. What crazy dreams!  She got herself together over a cup of Earl Grey that her mother had left in the teapot. After her shower, she did her makeup carefully. Too much blush or lip and Arya would accuse her of flirting. She could hear Arya upstairs and was determined to get out of the house before her. Sansa knew they were going to be driving around all day and walking each property, so she decided that a suit wasn’t the best idea. Instead she chose a pair of tan leather jodpers and cream silk blouse. She grabbed a fuzzy wool sweater and her trainers just in case, to protect her new suede boots. She stuffed everything into a huge bag she used for her yoga mat and gym clothes. There were already four bottled waters at the bottom. She gave herself a once over in the hall mirror and walked out to her car.

It was 8:30 when she unlocked the main door to the office. She flicked on lights on the way to her office and set the pot to brew up some coffee. Sansa walked around straightening things before going back to her office to check addresses, contacts, lockbox keys and anything else she might need. It was only 8:45. A bit more than an hour until her celebrity client arrived. Wouldn’t it be hysterical if it wasn’t THE Jon Snow. Arya will never let me live this down.

Sansa went back to her office. Curiosity was killing her. She googled Jon Snow and clicked images. Hundreds of them appeared instantly. Jon Snow in costume, in street clothes, publicity shots. Ok, so if it’s actually him, I’ll know it. She glanced at the clock. At 9:30, Arya walked into her office.

“I’m hanging with you until he comes. I’ve seen every episode of Path of Honor at least 4 times. I think I deserve at least a selfie, don’t you?”

“Since when are you a fan girl?”

“I’m a secret fan girl. Come on, any show with sword fights is my type of entertainment.”

“It’s about 10:00, he should be here.”

“He isn’t, so there. See, I told you that you got pranked. Probably by your crazy ex bae, Joffrey. Why is a ‘to die for’ celebrity going to want to buy a house up here? And a fixer upper at that. Come on Sansa.”

“I’m going to reserve judgement on that until I meet him.”

The minutes passed. 10:05, 10:10, 10:12....... At 10:24, the office door to Winterfell Realty Associates opened. By this time, they had migrated to the foyer in anticipation.

“This is quite the welcoming party. For me? asked Ned Stark. “Or are you waiting for the young man just parking his car?”

“The man parking the car, of course.” replied Sansa. “I have an appointment to show him some properties today.”

“Then Arya, you scatter.You both look like..... I don’t know what you look like but, it’s intimidating. You two look ready to pounce, that’s it, like girls waiting for an autograph from a movie star.”

“Dad,” started Arya “Autographs are out of style. Selfies are so much better.”

“Don’t you dare, Arya.” said her father with mock sternness.

“Then you know who he is?” asked Sansa.

“Of course, I watch Path of Honor every Sunday. Your mother and I wouldn’t miss it.”

As they were all talking, Jon Snow quietly walked in the door. He stood there waiting until Ned looked up. He stepped forward and extended his hand to Jon and shook it heartily.

“Nice to hear that you follow our show. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“I do, I do too.” added Arya extending her hand and energetically shaking Jon’s. “I love the sword fights. I’m a fencer.”

“Yes, I love the fight scenes. You’re working with Brianne on her fencing academy, am I correct?”

“Hi, I’m Sansa Stark. We spoke yesterday. I have some properties per your request. They range from from about 50 miles out of town on Long Lake to here in town.” She said in a very business like manner, hoping to get past any discussion about his show. She didn’t want to admit her lack of enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a day. Shall we get going, then. Do you mind if I drive?” asked Jon. “I love it up here.”

“Not at all. I’ll get my things and we can be on our way.”

Jon followed her down the hall and into her office. Sansa didn’t realize he was standing there as she turned with her iPad, purse and bag stuffed to the brim. Her bag caught on the desk corner and the contents began to cascade out. As she reached out, she lost her balance, falling awkwardly toward Jon. He caught her in his arms and held her for the longest 30 seconds of her life.

“Oops, sorry.” she said very flustered and embarrassed.

“I am always here to keep you safe.” he replied.

[black-strike-otp]

part 84

It's been a long, long, long day and I’m just happy I managed to finish this and look forward to crawling in bed now.

Poor Blackout. He doesn’t like being a dick to Nova but what can ya do. :/

Blackout faltered outside of the mechanical door in front of him. To his left and to his right, bots were busily hustling by. The majority paid his awkward appearance no attention; but some were quick to mutter a quick respectful muttering while they passed with their helm down.

He felt foolish. They had practically agreed not to go beyond necessary or required contact. Anything outside of the essential was liable to draw attention back to them. It was obvious from previous notions from Megatron that he had his optics on them. He didn’t seem to trust them not to stab him in the back or bring his empire to shambles it seemed.

The very idea he thought they cared was laughable. None of them wanted to even be involved any further in this war. But just as Satan felt distrust of those around him, it seemed that most felt just as mistrust and judgmental of their appearance in this star system; as if they were destined to arrive or had plans to destroy them.

Standing here all evening just wouldn’t do though. Venting, Blackout finally reached up with a fist and tapped the door.

The light beside the door’s keyed entry pad turned green as it opened. Blackout shuttered his optics with surprise to see no one at the optic-level as he predicted before looking lower. The wing tips caught his optic and from there he met the reddened gaze and craned back helm of the dragonic creature staring up at him.

“Good to see you Blackout,” Infiltrator acknowledged with clipped professionalism. “Can I help you with something?”

“I was looking for your tutor,” he growled.

Dipping his helm, the beast responded, “Certainly, Lieutenant. You’re welcome to enter as you please.”

With the scrap of metal claws and paw pads, the drake stepped aside to give Blackout plenty of room to enter. Sparring not so much as a glance back at any bots who may be giving him a suspicious glance, he stepped into the medic’s personal room.

It was neither as wide nor as packed with shelving as his own room. Nighthawk was allowed a room with a personal showering area though, which came as a surprise to Blackout. Usually such rooms were allowed to those respectable, of higher rank. Medics were important and such a status would usually allow them such a berth area; if not a more grand one such as himself, but after the warlord had thrown the red seeker around he had believed him to be placed in a regular room.

Like every other inch of this ship, Nighthawk’s room had a console; which he currently was sitting at. One of his servos was pressed to the patch on his side while the other held the edge of his arm rest. He relaxed his talon’s grip when he realized who was coming in and sank back into the seat further.

“Inviting yourself where you see fit, hmm, dog?” the medic stated in a cool voice.

A quiet rumble moved through the giant mech’s chassis. He looked around the room for a moment. Although no place on this ship made him feel particularly comfortable, this room felt especially invasive. It felt like someone was watching.

“I am a commanding officer, loyal follower of Lord Megatron,” Blackout grumbled, his voice thick and vaguely threatening as he walked into the room. “I am obliged to step relatively anywhere I want on this ship.”

As he moved his vision back to Nighthawk, he could see the passiveness of the mech’s optics. The lack of affliction at all made him wonder if he did strike a nerve, but there was the slightest move of his helm in a nod.

He must have felt the awful feeling too. But that only made Blackout wonder if they were just both that crazy paranoid. It also made him curious as to why the seeker’s sway in emotions seemed to change like day and night; melancholy at one point, bitter and snappy the next, and almost numb and deadened a nanoklik later.

Did he experience this feeling all the time?

“Can I help you then, oh great and powerful one?” Nighthawk sarcastically hissed, crossing his arms in front of his chassis.

“No.” Blackout offered, flashing a grin. “I just thought I would make you aware that I have secured the replacement parts needed for your chassis and cockpit. You’re welcome.”

Infiltrator released a quiet sigh of relief at Blackout’s side. The wvyren walked by him slowly with his helm hanging just slightly as if he was nervous of walking beside the powerful Decepticon. They both knew otherwise.

“Thank you, commander, but I didn’t require your help.”

“I didn’t realize you grew so comfortable having that patch.”

“It’s not,” the medic snapped with annoyance.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Blackout for helping us acquire these pieces,” Infiltrator softly answered on his teacher’s behalf, bowing his helm.

“If that’s all you have to say, you may go now” the senior medic testily tacked on, his optics narrowing behind soft semi-translucent glasses. “You need not be troubled to come all the way to my personal chambers to tell me all this, sir.”

“Of course, but I thought you might like to have the replacements put on sooner rather than later, unless you prefer replacements and chancing disease getting in your wounds,” Blackout drawled out with a sneer.

He turned away, ignoring the curled lip of the seeker. After taking a few steps to the door, it peeled open once more to his presence. He paused, looking around as he added on in a still sarcastic voice: “My apologizes, medic for my attitude the other evening.”

For a nanoklik, Nighthawk appeared honestly puzzled. He seemed to understand Blackout was referring to how he had reacted after the mine incident after a few more moments.

He had promised Novastrike an apology, after all.

With a curt nod, the crimson seeker tented his digits over his lap. He looked no less tense; from the obvious strain in his shoulders to the squint of his optics and the hard lines in his posture. But his helm horns moved forward somewhat, and he offered a tight and hard to catch smile for just a moment.

They were being monitored at the moment. He knew that was the closest to a respectable apology he would be getting as they tried to shroud their communication.

“If you don’t mind, commander, I would like to get ready to head for the medical room to allow my pupil to work on my armor. I’m sure you have far more important things to do than stand in my room all day, anyway,” he grumbled in answer.

Snorting, Blackout turned his helm away quickly. He stepped out of the room and the single door sealed behind him as he turned to walk down the hall. Relief rushed through him, but only slightly. There was still a strange edge like he was being surveillance, but the air wasn’t thick with anxiety. It didn’t feel like a bot was staring directly at him, breathing down his mech, ready and waiting for just the right ways to find a reason to gut him.

Mostly, it seemed not like an unhidden face watching him, but more of the Eradicon glancing as they went by or the cameras in the room felt like they momentarily focused in on him. Nighthawk in comparison had a spotlight on him; he could feel it. While Megatron clearly no longer saw him as the great warrior he once was, the tyrant had it out for the medic.

He had stolen property though. Blackout had simply stood up for him and didn’t perform as admirably as desired on a smaller, hardly worthwhile mine operation.

Something told him that his once thought perfect master still had something in mind for that old geezer of a seeker. It made him actually worry on behalf of slagger. The very realization was strange. Once he would have given anything to flog that annoyance and rattle him around a bit; not kill him, but at least get his point across. Nighthawk had always pointedly stood against what he did, things he said, his unwavering loyalty like he had no thoughts of his own. They’d always been at ends, for as long as he remembered.

Yet now all he could feel was dread and concern that he was going to see another bot perish for dragging him in to another mess he’d allowed to congeal.

~

The scorpion pursues his target. He’s done this a thousand times; a million, maybe more. He knows he has her, locked in a corner as his barb coils back like a loaded spring. And as he goes to strike, he realizes the error he has made.

It almost doesn’t register; so smooth and fast, in the blink of an optic she’s using the edges of the wall to her advantage. From one wall to the other she pounces until she soars over Scorponok.

Novastrike witnesses the alarm and fury in his optics. He goes to strike, and his barb flies under her. She extends a leg as she falls, hitting the floor on one pede and using the remainder of her momentum in a wide swing.

She hits him in the rear, hard. He barely registers. She’s still far too light and small to be much more than a nuisance this way.

By the time the minicon can recover and turn around, she’s moved. He fires a small eruption of ammunition along the floor. She dashes away with ease; weaving her way towards him.

Light glances off Scorponok’s tail. Nova brings her arm up, blade extending from her forearm. The two meet; his barb glancing off the edge of her blade and sliding by. Before he can retract the little femme’s servo moves out in a flash of lightning. Grabbing his arm, she brings her arm up, skimming her other arm’s blade against the segment just below his barb.

Ineffective weapon; rendered useless now as though it had been detached in a real battle, Scorponok closes the metal around his barbed tail. One of his drills lunches forward for her and she backflips. The first time she’s barely out of his range. By the second backflip, she has distance. At the third, sufficient distance.

Clicking with irritation, he fires off a mock empty rocket. Novastrike goes flat to the ground as the dud hits the far wall. Diving forward, Scorponok tries to jab her with his drill. She slides beneath him in the tight space, barely squeezing between two of his side pedes.

Whipping his ‘barbless’ tail, Scorponok whacks her in the shoulder. Grimacing, Novastrike slices at his side, the covering over her blade moving over his armor. The maneuver brings her arm down until she crosses to one of his pedes.

Disabled: leg missing now in combat.

Curling the single appendage under his belly, Scorponok chatters and scuttles to turn back at her as his tail flicks out again. Nova lets out a whoosh of air as it strikes her in the tummy, sending her rolling on the floor.

Her helm feels rattled. Pushing herself up, she half-jumps half-rolls out of the way of Scorponok’s quick jabs. He comes at her again and she barely evades.

It was all she could do to escape the scorpion as he continued to advance.

He wasn’t going to let her on her pedes again. Stumbling back, the small femme reached at her sides as she rolled, and continued rolling. Dizzily she sat up, the bug coming at her in a rush as she pulled free her stun guns.

While her optics recalculated, she fired randomly. The first shots whizzed by the minicon, but as he got closer, the splash of electrical currents fizzled over his face and helm, and then his massive drills. He let out a squeal as he stepped back, trying to wipe at his faceplate as his optics blinked erratically out of sync.

One of the pronged arms vaguely flew out to strike her and she parried with her arm blade. The golden pieces hit her shoulder and she growled. Scorponok lunged into her and she raised her pedes, slamming them into his armor and forced herself back.

He hissed, raising an arm while lunging forward.

Instinctively and a bit harder than necessary, she slammed a pede into his faceplate. Her sparkbeat picked up with a flash of terror.

Shrieking with genuine pain, the bug retracted, shaking his helm. A stream of clicks emitted from him as Novastrike scrambled backwards and out beneath the mech that had been just about hovering on top of her, panting.

“Scorponok, I’m sorry,” she breathed, cycling air out quickly. She reached out tentatively to his face.

Clicking slowly, the minicon shook his helm slightly, ignoring her gesture. A small grunt escaped him as she managed to grab his faceplate, trying to inspect the spot where her pede struck him.

“Novastrike.”

Glancing back, the little femme dropped her servos from Scorponok’s face. He went back to trying to rub at his faceplate, making unhappy noises.

Blackout gave a single shake of her helm.

Swallowing, her audio receptors lowered as she looked around the room. It was one of the private simulators from the ship, although for this round they hadn’t integrated a specific holographic location. It was a simple empty white room at the moment, as it usually appeared, but it gave them a location to work without many bots.

The dark armored mech gave the smallest shake of his helm. Venting, he stepped forward, extending his servo towards her in a gesture as he spoke quietly.

“He’s fine, he can take an actual hit now and again.”

“I just wanted to make sure he’s okay-”

“He’s fine,” Blackout repeated.

Biting her lip, Novastrike looked over to Scorponok. He was already staring at her, helm tilted slightly.

Turning her soft blue optics slowly back to Blackout, she lowered her helm. “I’m sorry, sir.”

As she raised her helm, she caught the look in her mech’s optics. Upset, unsure, a bit frustrated, but mostly a look of self-loathing.

Blackout nodded shortly at her. Motioning with his servo to his bug, Scorponok clicked in response. Some of his armor stood up from his underarmor and protoform as he flexed and stretched his limbs out. With a final chirp, he walked over to his master and around him. Blackout’s blades moved away from his backside to give the minicon room to climb up and fit himself snuggly into his backside.

“We’re done with training for the day,” he explained stiffly.

Novastrike gave a silent nod. She was admittedly a bit sore, although she knew better than to vocalize that on a ship of Decepticons. After a short round with Blackout she lost, a small breather, and this round against Scorponok she could use energon and a cozy spot to flop down.

Jerking his helm to the side, Blackout directed her to follow as he turned. Obediently, like the good ‘pet’ she was, Nova trailed after. Her tail flicked close against her frame and she raised her helm up so that her faceplate and chin were proudly and confidently displayed. Blackout had told her to walk with purpose and conviction. He claimed it would help keep bots from bothering her, though because she was never outside of the room without Scorponok or Blackout himself by her side, she wasn’t too concerned with others bots trying to cause her any trouble.

But it could never hurt to take the advice from someone who had lived this life a very long time before. Anything he said to help make her stay here a little more easy, she was willing to do.

Outside of the holographic training room were other bots in a larger training area. Most were focused on other areas of sparring, weapons evaluation, drills, exercise, and more. A small group of bots were standing outside of the entry for the hologram projector they had just been in. Some of them went in for their turn, while others waited with their own group. They all inclined their helms respectfully as Blackout passed them despite the fact he sparred them not even a glance.

Entering upon the hallway, a courier nearly smacked right into Blackout.

“L-Lieutenant,” he stammered uncomfortably.

Growling in the back of his throat, Blackout made a flicking gesture with his servo for the mech to step aside. With optic visor paling slightly, he quickly moved, deeply bowing his helm.

“Sir, I came to bring you a message.”

“Your timing couldn’t be more better,” Satan rumbled in the depths of his chassis. “Hurry along, before I lose my patience.”

“Yes, sir,” the bot stated, saluting. “Lord Megatron wishes to see you in the Hive Chamber.”

Raising an optic ridge, Blackout gave a nod to the courier Eradicon.

The mech stood frozen in place with uncertainty.

“What are you doing still standing here for?” the Decepticon Hound scolded. “Get back to work.”

“Immediately, sir,” the Eradicon stated swiftly, darting past him.

Novastrike looked up to Blackout with an insecure fluttering in her chassis. His optics moved down to her and a faint reassuring smile flashed over his features. It went away quickly, but the light of his optics remained warm.

“Come,” he bluntly stated.

By all the Primes, when they did leave this warship if that mech ever demanded and gripped at her like that again, she’d toss his aft quicker than bad energon.

Like an extension to the shadow of a rather terrifying mech, Novastrike followed at the Hound’s tail as commanded. Shoulders back, helm forward. They moved down the halls with ease; passing Vehicon wandering as per usual. She spotted Knock Out with his flashy shiny armor too. He appeared to be trying to get something off of his armor with a look of disgust.

A bit further down the lane, they came to a large section of doors. Blackout turned to look down at her, holding up the flat of his servo.

“Stay here.”

She raised an optic ridge slightly.

“Why? You told me to follow-”

“Do as I say, and remain here,” he rumbled under his breath seriously. Although his voice was harsh, Blackout’s optics appeared somewhat pleading.

Though she vert much wanted to stomp her foot, huff, argue, and roll her optics, Novastrike forced her helm stiffly up and down with a respectful nod. She took a step to the side, bowing her helm so she would be in no bots way.

Blackout let out a relieved quiet sigh and turned, straightening himself up before striding inside.

The doors shut just as Nova dared to lift her helm up, glittering optics trying to peer inside. There was the usual dark, dim, purplish light glowing out from the room but she didn’t catch sight of anything.

And so she waited. And she waited. And she waited some more.

Nanokliks ticked by. Then minutes. She looked down the hall and then at the door. With no bot directly coming this way, she tapped her pede impatiently on the floor. Bouncing at her hip a bit, she clicked her glossia against the roof of her mouth.

Primus, what if something was happening to him?

Her spark ached with pain. Twitching her ear, she straightened it fully and leaned forward, towards the door. Her audio stack swiveled slightly, picking up trace amounts of muffled noises in the room. She couldn’t make out Megatron’s voice, but knew his tone as he spoke. Blackout wasn’t making a sound, but that crazy Decepticon Leader didn’t sound particularly aggressive.

There was other, strange noises she couldn’t make out. A hum that sounded rather familiar. Shifting metal. Why did it sound so familiar?

She hadn’t realized she had been stepped to the door until she could hear someone’s pedes approaching it. Jerking slightly with surprise, Novastrike quickly stepped aside and stood at attention as the door opened.

Blackout’s backside was turned to her, and he bowed back into the room as he rumbled, “Your command is mine to serve, Lord Megatron.”

The tyrants pedes moved slightly inside of the room. Novastrike extended her neck, trying to look inside. It was hard to see with Blackout’s leg in the way. Maybe she shouldn’t be peeking; after all, it was simply the handsome devil she’d been concerned for.

As Blackout turned around to depart the room fully, his leg moved. A cold wash ran through the little femme as she saw visors. Countless visors, dangling from the walls and ceiling in every direction. The red thin strip glow coming off of ugly mutant-like creatures nestled together.

The messenger had said a hive. She had thought it just a name for a room, or some secret code, but he had meant a hive. An Insecticon Hive.

Twisted rage burned its way from Nova’s tanks up into her throat. Anger burned in her so hot it made her hurt. Just as Blackout’s helm turned to her, she was slipping by him.

“Novastrike.”

She didn’t hear the warning. Entering the Hive Chamber, Insecticons were in all forms, clinging to the walls. Most appeared to be recharging, while others more or less hung like lazy bats. She spotted the one on the long bridge that went out into a circular viewing platform that had railing all around.

Lord Megatron stood with the monstrous vermin, speaking to it. He made gestures with his arms to emphasis the point of his words while that hideous creature stood enigmatic.

“Novastrike.”

They were everywhere, those horrible, ugly creatures. Her fist clenched at her side as she inhaled sharply with shock and outrage. Hate burned in her spark. That crazy, vile, sinister mech allowed these manslaughtering creatures on this ship? These things weren’t just murderers; they were cruel, energon-feasting nightmares. She saw what they did on Cybertron. They listened to no bot, harvested from both factions and the factionless, destroyed bases and cities, fed on everything in sight.

She didn’t know what compelled her to stomp forward, but she did. Her legs moved forward while she didn’t even think of doing so.

The Insecticon’s olfactory sensors snuffled loudly, and he reacted first to turn away from the warlord to look down at her.

“You ugly bastard,” she snarled, her audios ringing so that she couldn’t hardly hear the rather prompt sound of Blackout’s pedes following in lengthy strides after her.

The creature let out a raspy, feral sound as its vocalizer clicked like it was about to speak, but it never released the words. Novastrike charged forward; extending the blade from her arm, and leaped.

Without so much as a stumble or flinch, the Insecticon’s chassis made a ‘thud’ as she hit him. He moved as if to swat at her and she jumped up and away from his servo, coming over his helm. As she came down her arm snapped out, slicing at the back of the bot’s neck. He released a massive roar of pain and sudden fury, and suddenly, the Hive began to hum with activity; wings rustling in the air and giving off massive vibrations.

Novastrike kicked off his backstrut to spring away as he tried slapping at her. His pedes slid across the floor as he turned, the light of his visor alert and bright now. The mandibles upon his faceplate moved open as he opened his maw to reveal sharp derma that dripped with saliva.

Stepping forward, the Insecticon let out a shrill battle cry. It’s thinner, secondary set of appendages lower on its side flicked outward as if to catch her as he lunged forward.

Diving between the bigger mech’s legs, Novastrike let out a defiant hiss. She reached for her hips to pull out her pistols.

Blackout’s leg suddenly blocked her view, placing himself in front of her. Novastrike staggered backwards with surprise, staring with horror as the Insecticon whirled around.

Pulling back its arm, it shrieked as it took a swing with its fist. Before it could make contact, Megatron’s arm shot out and grabbed the bigger bot’s arm. His own arm shook slightly from the effort it took to restrain the bug.

Throughout the room, Novastrike glanced to see the bots settling back against the wall. They all watched, a loud buzz and feral growls moving through the room.

“Lord Megatron, release me at once so that I may punish these traitors!” the Insecticon growled.

“Easy, Kickback,” the warlord snarled, yanking the mech’s arm backward. “That femme is practically a sparkling; hardly worth your time.”

Snarling, the Insecticon turned its visor to Blackout. It raised its free arm to point at Blackout as it growled, “You had better watch that snack you keep around if you know what’s good for you.”

“Touch either of my minicons, and you won’t live long to regret it,” Blackout countered with an equally grating voice.

Giving a disbelieving shrill cry, the Insection tore its arm free just as Megatron loosened his grip. It cast a venomous final look to Blackout, and tried to peer down at the small femme behind his leg before turning and transforming, flying up into its Hive of Insecticon to roost.

The sections of metal of Novastrike’s hips closed back up to seal in her weapons. Her audios pressed against her helm as Blackout turned to her. His expression was mask by rage, or maybe he was really just purely that furious.

“What were you thinking?” he growled in a thick, gravelly voice. “Wait, don’t answer that, because you clearly weren’t thinking or you wouldn’t have done something so processor-less.”

Each of his words were like a striking blow. Nova flinched, cowering lower to the floor, her frame shaking slightly. She felt the prickle of tears wanting to form in her optics while her tail pulled between her legs defensively and her ears flattened completely upon her helm.

“Sir, I’m-”

“Don’t speak,” Blackout remarked icily. “We’ll speak on this later, as well as your punishment.”

He turned towards Lord Megatron, bowing deeply. “My liege, my deepest apologies for the misbehavior of my minicon. She is sensitive on the matter of Insections. Her actions will be dealt with swiftly and accordingly, I assure you.”

The tyrant said nothing. He tilted his helm to the door as Blackout looked up, indicating for him to go.

Looking no bot in the optic, Novastrike shrank and hurried for the door as Blackout moved his pede to go. They walked over the bridge slowly, the echo of their pedes faint in the room of rustling bots everywhere.

“Blackout.”

He turned his helm slowly back to the warlord.

“Next time, allow them to fight,” he stated, sharp teeth flashing in a malevolent grin. “I would be curious to know who would stand on top at the end of such a battle.”

With her audios still down, Novastrike narrowed her optics as she shuffled out of the room. She already had the answer to that. She’d beat that slagger from here to Cybertron and back; the evil spawns of Unicron. She had justice so close for at least one friend so close; so close she could taste it. Silvercore’s murderers were right there, and their reckoning was coming.

Blackout couldn’t even allow himself a nod at the horrifying words from the tyrant. He merely met his gaze with his own. The hues of scarlet in his optics seemed detached as he turned away and followed Novastrike out of the room.

He had yet to decide an opinion on the matter on who would win such a fight, but he didn’t plan on trying to find out.

[rhainontheshelves]

Musical Theatre!Rocky

A/N: Please forgive me please!! You have a long-ass bullet scenario ahead of you if you choose to proceed because yo girl doesn't know how to condense rip This is dedicated to an awesome friend, @sanhatation! The feelings might be long past but I promised to write this for you. A short part 2 will be coming to describe the life under the stage lights. Happy Reading! - Rhin

Rocky originally wanted to go to school for dance

Why wouldn't he? He knows he's stellar

But, he also wanted to sing

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be possible for him to get a minor in vocal

Dance takes a lot of effort and practice hours

So he worried and thought about it a lot over his senior year of high school

One day, Sanha approached him with a poster

It was advertising auditions for the school spring play

Immediately, Rocky was interested; acting had always piqued his curiosity but he had never gotten a chance to try it

He accepted the offer

Cue many practice meets with Sanha (who was auditioning as well) to memorize the monologue required

He memorized it quickly, just like any step or note

Pretty soon he made it his own, reciting with sincerity and little hand motions

At one point Sanha wondered if it was even worth it to audition anymore because Rocky was killing it

Come audition day

The director and the people helping him judge were very impressed with this young man they only saw passing the theater to go to the practice rooms

By the end Rocky was virtually guaranteed a spot in the production

He walked out of there the proudest boy alive but also as the most internally dying and relieved it was over with

Because he will never admit it but the audition really stressed him out and he worried over miniscule details

About three days later the director approached Rocky

He wanted to talk about the role he was thinking of assigning to the boy

It was an important part, however it wasn't the lead

"It's your first time." Was the director's reason

This disappointed Rocky a bit but the director had come with a plan in mind

Rocky would also be assigned as the understudy for the lead

The director had some suspicions about the boy casted as the lead's loyalty to the show, so if he did leave Rocky would get the role he really deserved

This pleased both parties and the next day the cast list was posted

A month later, practices were in full swing after school

Rocky was well on his way to getting his part down word-perfect and memorizing the lead's lines

He liked the cast and had made some new friends

The vibe in this group was carefree and fun while still hard-working

That's Rocky in a nutshell so he fit in quite nicely

The only thing that he didn't like was the inactivity

There were plenty of stage directions, sure

places he needed to be and actions that needed to be carried out

but where was the variety?

he thought back to when he was a tot and his grandparents took him to a show

There was dancing and excitement and singing and emotion throughout the whole thing

he wondered what had changed since then

turns out nothing had

he was just in the wrong year

"We switch between musicals and plays every other year," giggled Doyeon, the girl who was casted as the female lead

"You just came a year too late. I'm sure you'll have a chance to do one sometime in the future."

Rocky sure hoped so

First show night couldn't have come fast enough

There were still parts that needed more work, which is normal in any production

But the director felt that this was the most prepared that any of his recent shows had been

certainly not because of how hard some had wanted work to catch up and surpass Rocky

The show went amazingly well but there are always the oopses

aka a couple of props falling apart in the user's hands

Improvisation is a wonderful thing

It seemed like bows came too soon

Rocky stood up at the front of the stage with the rest of the cast, smiling and waving a bit after their final bow

His heart was soaring

The only thing that compared was when he finished performing one of his own choreographed dances and he got a standing ovation

That's when he realized that this was what he wanted to with his life

Fast forward to the last part of 2nd quarter, freshman year of college

He had just finished his homework for a history class and headed down to the theater department to grab audition material for the spring musical

Gotta start early

He gets outside the professor's office and sees someone else is in there

So he hangs around and waits, because he can be patient

He ends up dancing for like ten minutes, waiting, because this meeting is taking a really long time??

The door finally opens and a really happy girl exits

Rocky swears that the hallway gets a bit brighter

She turns around to thank the professor one last time but sees Rocky and almost has a heart attack

She totally didn't notice him there

Now flustered, she rushes away without giving Rocky a chance to see if she was okay

Slightly confused, Rocky just watches her go

The professor is in the exact same boat Rocky is

So they let it go and have a small talk about what the auditions require

For the rest of the quarter Rocky sees the girl in a lot of his classes and comes to the conclusion that she has the same major he does

However, before he gets the chance to approach her Christmas Break rolls around and he's off on the road back home

3 weeks, one memorized song and dance routine later, 2nd semester starts

Musical auditions are at the end of the first week back

and that first week couldn't have seemed slower

Lectures stretched on forever and homework seemed to take twice as long as it usually did

Finally, the last class on Friday was dismissed and Rocky was out of there like lightning

his class ended about halfway through the audition hours r.i.p

He ran as fast as his dancer legs would carry him over to the auditorium

Luckily the line is semi-long so he has time to catch his breath

The line shortens to about half the length it was when another person sprints in

The thudding of tennis shoes makes Rocky look up from the sample script

lo and behold the girl that ran away that one day is bent over a couple of feet away from him

"Are auditions over?" she asks fearfully

"No, I'm the end of the line" he replies

"Okay, good" she comes over to stand next to him in line

Rocky wonders if she recognizes him

she barely got five seconds in before she dashed away so he figures probably not

silence settles

until she curses

"I forgot my music in my room" she hisses to herself, smacking her head

Rocky's mouth runs before she can

"You can borrow mine, I have it memorized anyway"

she stares at him in surprise

"Really?"

"Yeah, here"

"Thank you so much!" Her gloomy mood brightens and Rocky's world does too

"No problem"

By this time the next person is called, and Rocky is torn away from a perfect opportunity to talk to her.... again

The audition goes by fast as always

Rocky stays for the girl's audition

Now or never am i right

She does a great job

Dancing needs a bit of work but that comes with practice

He's still standing in the doorway when she comes up the aisle

she gives him a "why are you still here" look but quickly replaces it with a smile

"You did awesome!" she compliments

"Same to you," Rocky nods

"Nah, I was just average... Thanks again for letting me use your music, uh... what's your name?"

"Minhyuk, but you can call me Rocky if you want to."

Cue the Zelda "object acquired" music because a new friend has just been made: (Y/N)

Rocky walked (Y/N) back to her dorm and got to know her a bit

She indeed has the same major as him

Her dream was to be on Broadway someday

but she's going through a slump rn so things aren't going so hot

Rocky understands; that happened with him and dancing around 7th grade

He promises himself that he'll check up on her and make sure everything's going okay

so he acquires her number before she takes the stairs up to her floor

and proceeds to do just that over the rest of the semester

checking up becomes full-blown conversations complete with memes

and they became best friends

they both got into the production that year

which made them even closer ofc

Summer Break rolls around and (Y/N) and Rocky swear to not let distance separate them

it doesn't

and this friendship continues until Junior year....

when (Y/N) drops out

her parents can't continue to support her financially and she doesn't have enough to support herself

Rocky, of course, is devastated

Where will (Y/N) go? Will she be safe? What about her dream??

He dies inside while helping her move her stuff out of the dorms and into her car

He goes back to cry in his room when her car is finally out of sight

The rest of the day is spent reflecting on every single memory

especially the one where she finally remembered that he scared her that one day Freshman year

"That was yOU??????"

and Rocky realizes that his world is no longer as bright

they continue to message each other

but it teeters out after a few months bc (Y/N)'s working two jobs to pay off her debt

soon Rocky has lost all contact with his former best friend, although he never forgets her

Fast forward a few more years

Now Rocky's graduated with a Bachelors' in the Performing Arts

He just auditioned for a role in Newsies

It fits his skill set perfectly

Acrobatics?? Yas

He's feeling pretty confident until he steps out of the building and someone runs smack-dab into him

He's dazed for a bit but when he asks the person if they're okay, his brain goes on over drive

(Y/N)'s there staring back at him in shock, an audition packet in hand

Rocky grins and immediately encases (Y/N) in a hug, questions falling out of his mouth at a million miles an hour

All (Y/N) does is hug him back at first, but Rocky notices her hesitation so he lets go

"I'm so sorry, it's just been a long time and I've been worried? How are you?"

(Y/N) finally smiles and replies, "I'm just fine now."

the two catch up while (Y/N) waits in line for the female auditions

(Y/N) was on vacation and she overheard someone mention auditions

she had never forgotten her dream

and a small little voice told her that something good would happen there

now she knew what the good thing was

*nervous and awkward blushing from both parties*

(Y/N) was called in before she could say anything else, so Rocky waited for her outside

fifteen minutes later she comes out smiling

She has a really good feeling about it

About three hours later

(Y/ N) has to go back to her hotel so she can pack and catch her flight

Rocky is determined to never lose (Y/ N) again

Bc he realized over lunch with her that his world was bright again and he never wants that to end

So he walks her to the airport, insisting that he see her off

(Y/ N) pretends to mind, but she really doesn't

She really missed Rocky the second she got into her car Junior year

The exchange of cell phone numbers happens once again at the terminal

It takes Rocky a couple of minutes more to enter his new number into (Y/N)'s phone

When (Y/N) looks at his contact, she blushes

it reads: Minhyukkie 😘

it doesn't seem special, but it is bc Rocky was insistent that only his girlfriend could call him that

(Y/N) makes a mental note to ask him about it the next time she sees him

fast forward one last time to the phone call

(Y/N) and Rocky were both super excited when Rocky picked up his phone

They had just gotten phone calls saying that they had been accepted into the production

Their first reaction was to call each other

In fact Rocky was just about to hit the call button when (Y/ N)'s contact popped up

The first five minutes was just screaming tbh

Eventually proper congratulations were exchanged

But it got lost in all the excitement

They would see each other for the rest of their Newsies career

And that was possibly the best thing ever