#every week this show finds a new way to tear me asunder

[hobermallowed]

Lestat…talking to Louis…via Armand…

[eirikaanemo]

Venti falls in love with an Inazuman rebel. The rebel has no vision, but what they do have is a belief that everyone has an inherent right to live freely. How does Venti know about this rebel in the first place? I honestly have no idea...

Visionless Visionary

Venti x GN!Reader

1.8k Words

Warning: Minor character death mentioned, prayer (if that bothers you)

Disclaimer: I knew next to nothing about Baal when I wrote this, so it may not be an accurate representation of her character.

Inazuma is a mess. That is just a fact now. Baal has suddenly become violent and a danger to her people. So many had done nothing but hold a vision she had bestowed upon them in the first place. And because of that, she struck your cousin down. You can still remember the thump of his lifeless body hitting the ground and the steady tap, tap, tap of Baal’s shoes as she walked away.

She seemed completely unaffected by her actions. You were anything but. The scene played over and over in your nightmares for weeks, and continues to haunt you. So when the rebellion reached out to you for support you were happy to assist. You found out he had just joined their ranks and that’s why he had been targeted.

However, you don’t have a vision so there’s only so much you can do. Of course they always welcome financial support and you gave it to the best of your ability. But you knew there had to be more you could do. So you spoke to some people and it was agreed that you would go to Mondstadt and position Barbatos for his support for your cause.

He hadn’t been seen in centuries, but he was the god of freedom, right? If anyone could help them, it would be him. So with the rebellion’s blessing you took your savings and made the long journey to Mondstadt.

Finding lodging was fairly easy. The people of Mondstadt were more than willing to help you. Especially once they found out what you were there to do. ‘Such a great and admirable cause,’ they said. ‘May Barbatos bless you!’ And all you could do was hope he did.

You prayed every morning and every night for help for your people. The heavens seemed quiet, but you didn’t let that dissuade you. Surely your sheer persistence would make a difference, you reasoned. And so you kept on.

One night, rather early on, you ran into a bard not long after your evening prayer. He had been not too far from the statue and you were captivated by the beauty of the song he played. It was ancient Inazuman and for just a moment you were able to forget and be caught up in the memories of better days.

When the song ended you were disappointed and tried not to pout. Judging from the laugh the bard let out when he saw you, it must have still shown on your face. “Did you like the song?” He asks. “I know I didn’t play for long. Would you like to hear another?”

“I would love to,” you admit. He smiles and simply starts on another song, this one also of Inazuma origin. From there he transitions into a more Mondstadtian style, singing The Ballad of Freedom. You know it well, as it’s a favorite of many of the rebels. As the last note fades he turns back to you.

“What brings you here, I wonder. Has it to do with your country being torn asunder?” He inquires.

“Yes,” you reply. “I’ve come to ask Lord Barbatos for his assistance in our cause. We fight for freedom from Baal, who has become nothing but a tyrant. As for me personally, well, she killed my cousin right in front of me. Her only reasons being the vision she bestowed upon him herself not many years ago and his belief that what she was doing was wrong. No one should have to suffer that.”

“Indeed, it seems you have a need. Your cause is just and swords you thrust. But the archons don’t just help everyone, so prove to him you’re worthy of some.”

“But how do I do that?” You question the cryptic bard.

“You’ll see in time, dear friend of mine!” He winks and you find your face warming. “Though I have a question if you don’t mind. Is the assistance you’re seeking a vision like mine?” He taps the glowing turquoise vision sitting on his belt by his hip.

“No,” you shake your head. “After what happened to my cousin, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with a vision. For me they’ve been nothing but trouble.” He nods in understanding.

“I see how that would be. I must take my leave for now, we’ll see each other later anyhow.” And he’s off into the night.

He’s right that this is far from the last time you see him. And he’s right that you start noticing the tests that Barbatos has set before you. More and more people seek your help in one thing or another, especially since the one they call “honorary knight” left to Liyue. There’s much to do, but you’re happy to help them.

Eventually you stop helping them because it’s a test and start helping them because you want to; because it’s the right thing to do. You help Lisa organize the library. You help Barbara clean the cathedral. You help Amber keep watch. You help Venti with his performances from time to time. You stand in for Diluc’s barkeep while he recovers from an illness.

Days and days have passed and your relationship with Venti grows and grows. You notice more and more things about him that you rather like. His laugh. His eyes. His hands. His music. His sense of humor. His optimism.

Really, everything about him is amazing. You try to deny it at first. But you know deep down that you’re falling in love. And you’re seeing some hints that he might be too. Lots of them, because he’s started flirting with you almost constantly.

However, as your relationship grows, your hope dwindles. It’s been weeks! You’ve helped so many people and have prayed so many times. And yet you have not received an answer. Not even an acknowledgement that he has heard.

When you express your concern and discouragement to Venti, he is very concerned. “I’m just not sure how much longer I can stay,” you explain. “While I would hate to return empty handed, I can’t stay here forever.”

“Try just one more time, for me?” he asked you, looking a little guilty despite not having reason to be. It’s not like he was keeping Barbatos from speaking with you. As if he could sense your hesitance he sweetened the deal. “If you do, I’ll give you a kiss!” He wiggled his eyebrows at you and flashed you a mischievous smile and you felt a warm blush bloom on your face.

“Alright,” you grumble good-naturedly. “I’ll try one more time.” His resulting cheer and more cheery smile were nearly enough to have made you do it by themselves.

That night you approached his statue, feeling unreasonably nervous compared to the nights before. “Lord Barbatos,” you prayed. “I seek thy assistance for my people’s cause. We seek the freedom thou dost represent. Someday may we all be free to live our lives reasonably, but as we please. This is my vision, my hope. Please, if it be thy will, let thy winds be not still. Guide us to better days, for this is what I pray.”

You stay there for a long moment, waiting. Then, the wind picks up and you hear a voice from it. It seems vaguely familiar but you can’t quite figure out why.

“Your diligence and passion for your cause has secured my blessing,” the winds whispered. “My winds will be at your back and support your cause. However, if you accept a vision despite your fears, you will be able to do far more. The wind will whisper secrets to your ears. All plans spoken will be carried to your ears.

“You need not fight with it. Trust in me, that I will not strike you down for accepting this gift. In your time here in my home I have found you to be a friend to us so I will be a friend to you.”

You feel tears come to your eyes. “I accept,” you whisper. This will be incredibly valuable.There’s no way you could turn it down. And this is the kind of god you can trust and accept a vision from. He is as kind, generous, and benevolent as his people.

After a moment of silence, the winds calm and a gleaming turquoise vision lies before you, dangling from a necklace like a pendant. It’s smaller than some others you’ve seen and is hidden easily when you slide it over your head and under your shirt. That will be invaluable when you return to Inazuma. It would be most suspicious for you to return with one after everything that’s happened.

You take another moment to catch your breath and wipe the tears from your eyes. Then you take a particularly deep breath to steady yourself and make your way back to Venti. “How did it go?” He asks, and you smile in response.

“It went very well,” you said, pulling the pendant out to show him your new vision. “Now we match! Now… I believe I was promised a kiss?”

The smile on his face at your teasing words could have lit up a room, if you were in one. He took your hands in his and tugged you closer gently before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. It was a pleasant kiss, chaste but lingering and sweet.

He giggled at the face you made when he pulled away. You joined it, adding your laughter to his. Between the blessing and his kiss you felt like you were on top of the world. Then you remembered something that brought you down from your high.

“Venti, you know this means I have to leave now, right?” You inquire.

His face fell to a serious and thoughtful expression before it softened and he sent you a small smile. “Yeah, I know. You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” you respond softly. “I love you too.”

He nods. “Then I’ll wait for you. So don’t take too long, okay?”

“Of course, I’ll do what I can,” you reply.

Your parting is sad, but hopeful as he waves you goodbye until you’re so far away that he can’t see you. He sings nearly nothing but sappy love songs for the next week. He misses you, but knows you’ll be back. His winds won’t let anything happen to you after all.

When you return to Inazuma you find that all the rebels with anemo visions had their power boosted, the ships sailed swifter with the wind behind them, and the information the wind brought you gave you many victories. The struggle was still difficult, but the help you had obtained made a serious difference and soon enough you were headed back to Mondstadt.

You are headed home. After all, home is where the heart is.

tag list: @clouds-rambles

[haledamage]

Oh there are so many good ones, but I’m gonna go with either aspectabund or petrichor for Nadia/Kurt bc I must ENABLE😇

aaaaand here’s the other one 😁 (first one is here)

aspectabund - letting emotion show easily through the face or eyes

have 2000 words of pure hurt/comfort! putting everything including the notes under the cut because it’s pretty spoilerific

Takes place right after the Prince’s Secret/Treason!/Suffering of Constantin parade of earth-shattering revelations. That was a really rough day for De Sardet and I wanted Nadia to get a chance to actually process it before moving on to the next adventure. Nadia/Kurt, pre-relationship but only barely (like, literally the difference of a matter of days. They would have left to deal with Major Hermann in the morning 😉)

---

They had only just stepped into the warmth and relative safety of the De Sardet residence before Nadia left the room with barely a word or glance at any of her companions. Kurt felt her gentle dismissal like a blow to his chest, and the quiet click of her bedroom door latch carved a hollow space behind his rib cage. It didn’t feel right for her to be alone with her sorrows, no matter that at least some of the blame for her pain could be laid squarely at his feet.

He only realized he’d moved to follow her when a hand fell on his shoulder. When he turned to confront its owner, he found Vasco there, his expression grave enough to disperse Kurt’s anger before it had a chance to build. “Best leave her be. She’s had a trying day. Give her time.”

He was right. Kurt knew he was right. That didn’t mean he had to like it, but he tried to listen to his advice nonetheless.

He went to his own room, right across the hall from Nadia’s, and mindlessly stripped off his armor and weapons with the conciseness of routine. He tried not to think too much about the blood he washed off his skin, or if he’d known the person it belonged to; they had made their choice, and so had he.

Clean and dressed, Kurt was out of distractions. He considered patrolling around the property on the off chance that someone lurked with the intent to do Her Excellency harm, but instead of reaching for his sword he found himself reaching for the door handle. His feet carried him across the hall before he’d asked them to. It was only at the terse tap tap tap of his own knock that he realized he was at her door.

The woman who answered the door was not the Nadia de Sardet he thought he knew. He’d known her more than half her life and always she’d been a lively creature, clever and curious and full of mischief. But not now. Now she looked delicate and subdued, her normally bright blue eyes dull and ringed in red, ginger hair bedraggled and falling from its crown. She was still wearing her armor, caked in mud and blood and who knew what else. Her hand clenched tightly on the edge of the door, but it wasn’t enough to hide the way it trembled.

She was beautiful even so. He felt guilty for thinking it at a time like this, but not enough to consider taking it back.

“Kurt.” She tried to smile at him, but it fell far short of believable. Her voice shook like her hands did. “Is something the matter?”

“I think I should be asking you that question.” He clasped his hands behind his back like he was presenting himself to a superior officer for inspection, weighing his words and movements carefully so as not to bludgeon through this. She looked like a strong wind or word would break her entirely. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Even after everything that had happened, she didn’t hesitate before stepping aside in silent invitation. He slipped past her into the room before she could change her mind.

Everything looked completely untouched. A bath had been drawn for her, but the water remained pristine and had been left to cool. Nadia’s sword and rucksack sat in a chair against the wall, but they were the only sign anyone had stepped foot in this room in weeks.

Nadia herself still hovered by the closed door, arms wrapped around herself but shoulders straight. Her voice was stronger but still far too small. “Please tell me you aren’t here with any new world-shattering revelations. I don’t think my heart can take any more.”

“I just wanted to see you,” he assured her quickly. “Check on you, make sure you were…” The last word turned to ash in his mouth. Of course she wasn’t okay. That she was still even trying to smile was nothing short of a miracle.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She made no attempt to make it sound believable.

“No you’re not, Nadia. You don’t have to be.” She sagged, as if him calling her by name had severed the last of the bravado holding her upright. He caught her before she could collapse, one hand on her elbow and the other cupping her cheek. “Let me help you.”

She studied his face for a long moment, though what she was looking for he had no idea. Kurt let her search as long as she wanted, letting his thumb trace a line along the edge of her jaw as she did. He could feel her mark under his fingers, smooth lines and whorls like that of a newly-inked tattoo or the veins of a leaf.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she nuzzled into his hand, letting out a sigh of what sounded like relief. Then, finally, she nodded in assent.

Slowly and carefully, he helped her disrobe. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her naked--bathing in rivers and dressing each other’s wounds were part of the life they led, and he was too old to blush at the sight of a bit of bare skin, no matter who it belonged to. A traitorous part of his mind - one that had grown vocal of late, no matter how much he tried to push it away - wished that the circumstances were different, that he could be undressing her with a different outcome in mind, but he squashed that thought as soon as it arose. He wouldn’t take advantage of her distress like that, would not allow himself to consider such a thing right now.

Nadia was completely compliant under his direction, silent and passive as he removed her armor and led her to the bath. She didn’t so much as flinch at the touch of the cold water as he cleaned the blood and dirt from her skin as gently as possible. Kurt gave her a quick cursory search for injuries, but it seemed she’d at least had the wherewithal to heal herself at some point. Satisfied, he dressed her in fresh clothes and led her to the edge of the bed.

He sat next to her and set about unbraiding her hair. It was tangled and wild, and he considered brushing it for her as well, but didn’t trust himself to be gentle enough to do so without hurting her. Perhaps he should ask one of the others to help with that, later on.

And then Kurt was out of things to do and had no idea what to say to fill the quiet. He shouldn’t linger past his welcome, he told himself, no matter how much he might selfishly wish to remain in her company.

He climbed reluctantly to his feet, but stood in front of her a moment longer to see if she awoke from her trance. She didn’t, and so he reached out to rest his hand on the crown of her head in a way he hoped she found comforting. “Get some rest, Green Blood. If you need anything at all, you come find me. I’m right across the hall.”

Nadia still didn’t answer, and so he sighed and turned to leave.

“Kurt.” Her hand shot out and grabbed his. There was life in her eyes again when he turned back to her. “Thank you. For this and for… everything.” She looked away, distracting herself by tracing the lines of old scars on his hand, her touch light and yet deliberate. Kurt tried not to shiver at the sensation. “I can’t imagine how difficult of a decision it must have been. What you did today. I hope you don’t regret it.”

“The only thing I regret is that I couldn’t tell you sooner.” When Nadia didn’t look back up, he knelt in front of her, raising the hand that she didn’t still cling to up to her face to get her to meet his gaze again. Her eyes shimmered with tears, only barely held at bay. “D’you want to know why I did what I did? Why I chose you over the Coin Guard? Because they tried to order me to kill you, and you are sitting here crying your eyes out worried about how I feel about it.”

He’d told her once that her soft heart would get her killed one day. As it turned out, it may have been what saved her life - or saved his.

Her bottom lip quivered until she clenched her jaw to force it to still, but the action made the tears finally spill over, falling silently down her cheeks. He brushed them away, though more fell to take their place almost immediately. “Though I would bet these tears aren’t all for me, are they, Green Blood?” 

She shook her head, though he didn’t really need the confirmation; the last day had brought revelations from every corner, but worst for her would be Constantin’s condition. Her cousin had always been her closest friend, and he might be considered her only real remaining family. 

Kurt tried to force a bit of optimism in his voice, though he doubted it was convincing. “He’ll be okay. If anyone can save him, it’s you.”

“I couldn’t save my mother.” Nadia’s voice broke, and with it the last of her composure. “Can I even still call her that?”

Times like this served to remind Kurt that he did in fact still have a heart, because he could feel it break for her. Tears stung the back of his own eyes for a moment before he forced them away and sat on the bed once more, then gathered her into his arms. “Come here. I’ve got you.”

She buried her face in his shoulder with a whimper, gripping his shirt with a surprising strength, and finally let herself go.

Her body shook with the strength of her sobs, as if all of the day’s events struck her at once and tried to tear her asunder. Kurt held her through it all, whispering things he would only half remember if he tried to think of them later, attempts at comfort and confessions and promises that he knew neither of them would ever hold him to.

At some point, they fell back on the bed and Nadia pressed herself to his side like she was made to fit there. He continued to hold her close, stroking her back and hair until she had finally cried herself out and relaxed against him.

“Thank you, Kurt.” She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. It was a familiar motion - Nadia had always been free and easy with her affections when it came to those she cared about - but this time it burned like a brand, leaving a claim on him for the world to see. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and murmured against her hair, “You’ll never have to find out.” It was the easiest oath he’d ever had to make, and he meant it with every bone in his body.

The last of the tension bled out of her, and he could feel her go slack as sleep claimed her at last. 

He continued to caress her back for a while longer, the repetitive motion as soothing for him as it clearly was for her. He knew he should leave now that she was asleep, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to move. He didn’t want to wake her, he reasoned to himself. She shouldn’t be left alone in this state. It would be easier to protect her if he stayed--just in case more trouble came for them.

He was still trying to convince himself when sleep dragged him under too.

[rabid-heart]

Through the Threads of Space and Time (I’ll Always Love You)

Kicking off Sefikura Week!

For @sefikuraweek 2021. Day 1 - Prompt: Meeting In Another World

After living and dying countless times, Sephiroth and Cloud finally find paradise, with each other. But all good things must come to an end.

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: Some implied sexual content and a description of a serious injury.

Read on Ao3 here.

--- 

It took them far too long to come together. They had danced in a battle across the threads of time and space, the clash of their blades louder than any words or feelings they might have wished to share. At the start, there was nothing more than bitter rage and anger – how could Cloud feel anything else toward the man who seemed destined to destroy every world he awakened in?

But then something changed. It might have been the hundredth meeting – might have been the thousandth, for after years and lifetimes, it was hard for Cloud to keep track – but this time, when his sword cut through Sephiroth’s body, the man did not look at him with shocked arrogance or disdain. Instead, those green eyes were glazed with tears of longing, of hope, of relief, of thanks.

When Cloud awoke the next time, he was haunted by those eyes and the ghosts of unspoken words that swirled behind them. Over the following lifetimes, over the repeated sight of those green eyes, Cloud had tried to push the dangerous thoughts away – the traitorous what ifs that kept him up at nights, that made him hold his sword with just a little bit more uncertainty. He had stubbornly convinced himself that there was no other path to follow. And why wouldn’t he? In all the lives he ever lived, there was only one constant: Sephiroth would destroy and Cloud would be his executioner.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe there was a part of him that thought to simply try something new. Or maybe the thought of seeing those eyes grateful for the death that Cloud had given them had vexed Cloud’s last nerve. Because at one point, finally, the warrior had had enough.

When he let go, stepped back and let that long silver blade pierce straight through him, Sephiroth’s green eyes were not thankful. They were not triumphant either. They were afraid. They said, pleaded, begged, please don’t leave me alone.

In the next life, that was all Cloud could think about.

In hindsight, the fact that it took them this long, this many cycles, this many lives, to get to this point was ridiculous. Cloud and Sephiroth were tied together, irrevocably, inescapably. It was a fact of the universe as was the force of gravity. No matter how far they were at the start, they would always collide. But this was a different type of collision – not of swords, but of lips and limbs and bodies and hearts and souls. It only took one night together for the realization to sink in: this was what they were meant to be. For there was no one else in the world that understood the dark crevices of Cloud’s mind and cherished him for it. And in turn, there was no one else in the world that Sephiroth knew would never truly leave him. It was perfect.

But the Planet itself seemed to disagree. It clawed its way between them, tried to tear them asunder, tried to set them back on the fated paths they were always meant to walk. It was too late, though. Cloud now knew what paradise felt like and it was waking up to silver hair and dazzling green eyes and warm arms. And if Sephiroth kept one thing from his repeated reincarnations, it was obsession. They would never stop fighting for each other, even if it would tear the strands of the world apart.

In the end, they had decided to run – find a corner of creation that would be theirs and theirs alone. And it is here that Cloud finds himself now, in a meadow of wildflowers and late summer breezes and clear blue skies. He feels like he once did as a young child, without worries or care, warm inside like nights by the fire with a mug of hot cocoa. He is walking as he does on some mornings, listless and barefoot, letting the flowers and tall grass graze through his fingertips. In the bed inside the house up the hill, Sephiroth is still sleeping.

Cloud rarely wakes before the man, but when he does, he walks. Because it is in the hazy morning light that Sephiroth looks the most human, asleep with his hair falling out of the tie that had come undone during the night. When Cloud sees that profile, feels the soft breath on his forehead, hears the steady heartbeat under his ears, it is just shy of overwhelming. The sight never fails to awaken something in Cloud: the mounting of a thousand promises, of heartfelt devotion, of the desire to remain there pressed into that man’s chest forever. Because in those mornings, he is reminded that he loves Sephiroth so much, that he can hardly breathe for it.

So, Cloud gets up and walks, for fear of drowning. He knows now that Sephiroth does not mind. He even understands, watchful eyes always assessing, always knowing, always wanting. He will stay in bed until Cloud is ready to come home, offer the fond and sleepy smile that he has now learned to give so freely, and allow the blond to climb onto his lap and show him just how much he loves him. It is a ritual now that feels even more exhilarating than the battles they used to perform (though every once in a while, they dig up their blades from storage and enjoy a dance or two, for old times’ sake).

Cloud thinks about that routine now and looks back at the house, anticipation and excitement and joy curling in his heart. He begins to make his way up the hill, when he notices dark shadows rumbling over the grassy fields, green cracks of lightning shooting through the sky. The edges of the world around them begin to dissolve, like sand in water, and as the air begins to thicken with smoke, so too does the fear grow in Cloud’s heart.

They’ve found us.

He runs, bare feet pounding hard against the dirt, still wet from the morning dew. Though it has been many years since he called upon it, the old speed still has not left Cloud, and it only takes seconds before he crosses the threshold into the cottage. He tracks dirt in as he makes his way to the bedroom, and belatedly thinks about how Sephiroth would chide him for the messes he makes.

“Sephiroth,” Cloud breathes, standing in the doorway in his mud-covered feet. The man in question had still been asleep when the blond had wandered in, though Sephiroth was now groggily starting to stir under the sheets. Cloud moves to the side of the bed, shaking him more urgently. “Get up, we have to run.”

“Run?” Sephiroth counters cautiously, still blinking away the sleep from his eyes. As a by-product of no longer spending the days fighting, the former General had begun indulging slow rises, among other comforts he had not enjoyed before this life. It is almost endearing, seeing him this way, vulnerable and confused and still unbelievably handsome all the same.

But Cloud does not have time for this, not if he wants to keep this life he’s built alive another moment. He takes the other man’s face in his hands, brings it close, their eyes locking, and says, “The Planet, it’s come for us, Seph.”

It takes a moment for the understanding to dawn. When it does, Sephiroth shoots off the bed. He moves toward the closet, pulls on a shirt and some pants, and states, “Get your things. I’ll get your swords.”  

Cloud does as he is told. He shoves a bag full of some of clothes, and rushes to the front closet to grab their boots. By the time he returns to the bedroom, Sephiroth has retrieved First Tsurugi and its accompanying harness from the storage closet in the basement. Cloud does not bother with the harness, simply grasps the combined blade. “Can you get us out of here?” he says, pleadingly.

Sephiroth closes his eyes for a moment, trying to dust away the cobwebs of the old magic he used to wield so effortlessly. After he had created this space for him and Cloud, he hardly practiced the art anymore. Most of his god-like abilities, he had abandoned, and if his wing ever made an appearance, it was only in bed and at Cloud’s request. The reduction was a sacrifice he had been willing to make for a lifetime with his love. But neither of them had counted on this.

The man tries to conjure a portal to another world, but the threads of the spell slip from his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’ll need time.”

“We don’t have it,” Cloud says, slinging the bag over his shoulder and moving closer to the silver-haired man. “But maybe we can buy ourselves some.”

Sephiroth nods and wraps his arm around Cloud, holding the smaller man as to him as tightly as possible. He conjures his wing and a moment later the two of them are in the sky, soaring far away from the cottage they had lived in for nearly countless years now. As they fly, Cloud watches as the dark shadows and green tendrils begin consuming the entirety of the peaceful meadow, swallowing their home whole.

Cloud tries not to let the feelings overwhelm him now, but they are there, building armies in his mind. Despair, for one, which is ironic and terrible and cruel in itself. But there are others, like fear and anxiety and desperation, too. He had thought that they successfully escaped from it, the cycle of repeated lives and lies and deaths, the dreadful fortune the wheel of fate continued to turn and turn for them. He had thought that they had defied destiny itself. But despite all their strength and power, they had failed. And now, they could lose everything. That alone was enough to break the dam of his tears, and Cloud finds himself crying soundlessly.

Destiny, it turned out, was a stubborn mistress.

“Cloud,” Sephiroth whispers, pausing for a moment mid-air. He notes the dampness of the shoulder of his shirt. “You’re crying.”

“I’m fine, keep moving,” Cloud whispers, curling into his lover tightly.

Sephiroth opens his mouth to say something, but lightning strikes suddenly through the sky, and the next thing Cloud knows, they are falling. He sees Sephiroth’s eyes, wide with a fear that the man rarely shows, and Cloud knows own his eyes mirror the same expression. The inevitability begins to sink in as gravity takes over. And still, Sephiroth grasps him tightly, shifting their positions to brace their fall, and before Cloud can protest, they land in the dirt, hard and with a sickening crack.

For a moment, there is silence, and Cloud wonders if he had briefly passed out, if this is all just a terrible nightmare, if he will just wake up and be in that bed that he had made with his own two hands, in the arms of the man that he loves more than the world itself. But unfortunately, when the blond opens his eyes, only the latter is true. Sephiroth is still holding him, but his breathing is ragged, as if he is trying to stifle the pain that keeps rising out of his throat. Quickly, Cloud rolls off of Sephiroth and surveys the damage. The man’s wing had torn into shreds from the lighting strike, the bones of it broken and jutting through the feathers from the stun of the fall. He looks at Cloud now with watery eyes that still hold such fondness, such resilience, such power, such grace.

Like a fallen angel.

“Are you alright?” Sephiroth breathes, reaching out to Cloud.

Cloud just sobs in response, moving to cradle Sephiroth’s head in his lap. “Oh, Seph, I’m so sorry, I—”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped.”

But he did, because Cloud was crying and Sephiroth, for all his logic and strategy and intelligence, loves him far too much to not try and comfort him. It is so bittersweet that Cloud apologizes again anyway, pressing kisses to that perfect face. He can taste the hint of salt on his lips, but whether it is from his own tears, or Sephiroth’s, he does not know.

“Is it bad?” Sephiroth asks, half-jokingly.

Cloud hates it, hates that the man has tried to develop a sense of humor to entertain him over the years, hates that he is using it now. But he leans forward and presses his forehead against Sephiroth’s and says, “No, it’s fine.”

Sephiroth closes his eyes, because he knows Cloud and knows well enough when he is lying. “Then you have to go.”

“No.”

“You are running out of time.”

“I am not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

Cloud shakes his head furiously. “No. No. I’m never leaving you. I’m never leaving you, ever. I’m yours and you are mine and we are never going to be apart, ever again.”

“If only that were true, my love,” Sephiroth murmurs back, and reaches a hand up to tangle in those blond spikes.

“I’ll make it true,” Cloud says. “With everything I have.”

But as the words leave his lips, they both can feel it, the dark shadows approaching. They had ages here, in this world they created, days and months and years folding into each other. And somehow now, with only minutes left until the end, Cloud feels that all that time is not enough. He wants more. He wants forever, an eternity. He wants Sephiroth, the only thing that had filled the empty chasm in his soul, the only thing that makes him feel real and whole.

Sephiroth looks at him, and Cloud swears he can see the man’s heart breaking. “You must go, Cloud.”

“No.”

“They’ll take you. They’ll take you and take me and in the next life, they won’t let us be together, not again.”

“Then I’ll make them,” Cloud fires back, and in his eyes are anguish and fear but also devotion and steel, all the things that make Cloud so utterly irresistible and utterly unbreakable. Sephiroth wants to believe him, wants to believe in that strength that had challenged and defeated him again and again, wants to believe that it may be enough. He looks at that sunflower hair, that freckled face, those dazzling eyes, and thinks that there cannot be anything more beautiful to believe in than this. For if there is something more stubborn than destiny, then it had to be Cloud Strife.

 And Sephiroth himself never went down without a fight.

“Then I will find you. In the next life, I promise, I’ll find you,” he says.

Cloud responds, “And I promise, I’ll save you.”

Sephiroth seals the vow of meeting again in another world by pressing his lips against Cloud’s, fierce and full of all the longing in a heart that he had thought lost all capability to love long ago, in a heart that he knew belonged to this man, forever. Then, the darkness descends upon them, tumbling through their bodies and ripping their souls apart and away, leaving nothing behind at the edge of creation, except the ghosts of that kiss and the last words they whispered to each other.

I’ll always love you.

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 99

Chapter Summary -  Tom and Danielle continue their holiday. When they are spotted at a tourist attraction, Tom is slightly surprised at Danielle's reaction.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​​​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​​​ @nonsensicalobsessions​​​ @damalseer​​​ @hiddlesbitch1​​​ @winterisakiller​​​ @fairlightswiftly​​​ @salempoe​​​​ @wolfsmom1​​​​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

The Burren

Tom stared at the landscape in front of him and inhaled deeply, taking in the sight in front of him, when he turned to look at Danielle, he smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She smiled back, looking over at an island a mere few kilometres from the shore.

“It’s incredible.” He agreed. “I had no idea there was something this beautiful over here.” “Why do you think people make Ireland their ‘Holiday of a lifetime’ spot? Wait until I show you the rest.” “The rest?” He asked, worriedly.

“Yes, this is only a part of it.” She explained with a smile. “Do you want to head back to the car?” “I can drive if you want?” He offered, noting how much he had been slacking on driving on their trip. “No, I know the roads better and you get to look and see the scenery.” “Speaking of driving, you’re really at ease driving a big car.” Danielle looked at him with a raised brow. “I thought you were uneasy with it, and that is why you would not drive mine.”

“No, I won’t drive that because it’s a sixty-thousand-pound car.”

“It’s a car and you are a safe driver.” Tom pointed out. “You will need to drive it sometime.” “What possible reason could I have to drive it?” “In the case of an emergency,” Tom suggested light-heartedly.

Danielle laughed as she got back into the car. “What sort of emergency requires me driving the Jag? If we go to some fancy event at a Polo Club and it’s either that or a Bentley?” Tom laughed at her as he sat back into the car. “No, seriously, ‘it’s an emergency, someone get this old rich dude to the hospital, preferably a private one, he is having an allergic reaction, a peasant touched him, he’s in anaphylactic shock, we have an ex-paramedic, she can take him, but we only have Hiddleston’s Jag or Montague’s Bentley Continental’.”

Tom just laughed as she put on a ridiculous upper-class British accent. “Very funny.” Danielle grinned at him. “I thought so.” “You never plan on driving it?” “Nope.”

“This is a BMW and you are driving it.” He indicated to the car they were in, one that Danielle was less than impressed to see waiting for them in the airport after Tom had stated that he would arrange the hire car.

“Yes, well, I was unaware of your idea of a rental, seriously, a Kia Cee’d would have sufficed.” “They have terrible legroom.” Tom pointed out. “The last visit gave me cramp.” “Okay, I’ll give you that.” Danielle conceded. “By the way, tell me when you see the sign for the perfumery, I want to get some more perfume for your mum.” “How will we get it home, you can’t bring liquids through customs.” “I’ll do what I always do, post it over.” Danielle shrugged. “How do you think I always got you that fancy Jameson for Christmas?” “I knew it was not available over home, I could never find it anywhere,” he declared.

“Yeah, we keep the best for ourselves,” Danielle smirked.

“It’s ten kilometres ahead.” Tom pointed out as he noted the sign for the small perfume place that Danielle had asked him to keep an eye out for.

*

Poulnabrone Dolmen

“So, there were people buried under this?” “Yep, thirty-three adults and children.” “That’s incredible,” Tom looked at the dolmen in front of him, “Do we have any?”

“I think there is literally a handful, this was sort of an Irish clan thing.” “Amazing.” He smiled enthusiastically as he walked cautiously around the structure, not wanting to fall and injure himself on the peculiar ground. “How do you know all about this?” “My dad brought me around here more times than I can count, we spent every other year in Lahinch for a week.” “Lahinch?” “A surfing town not far from here.”

“Surfing, you can surf?”

“I did lessons as a teenager, only for something to do, never really liked it though.” “I was not aware of that,” Tom confessed. “I did it when I was in Hawaii for Thanksgiving since of course, such a holiday was wasted on me, I felt somewhat similar, it did not really entice me to want to continue.” *

Incoming call – Luke

Tom pressed the answer button on his phone, frowning slightly at what his friend could want. “Luke?” “So, how is Ireland, it looks as though it could rain.” The publicist spoke as though it was a simple conversation.

“We’ve been noticed I take it?” “Well, I have Googled the top attractions in that entire country and it is arguably the winner as to most visited slash the greatest must-see, so it is no surprise you were spotted,” Luke commented.

“What are they saying?” “That you chose to let the public know beforehand to be hoping for some privacy. That it is the Swift and Rome thing all over again,” Tom’s jaw clenched at that, “But the general consensus is that you are the cutest pairing since, well, whatever is deemed cute these days.” There was no response for a moment. “Tom?” “So you are telling me that people are not attacking Elle?” “Of course there are people attacking her Tom, she is your girlfriend, there are people saying they want to push her off the fucking Cliff, but to say they are the minutest of minorities and that people are rounding on them or ignoring them is an understatement.” Tom swallowed at Luke’s words that some people would willingly say such a terrible thing about Danielle. “Jesus.” “Tom, you knew that these people were out there, so does Danielle, they are keyboard warrior’s, the most they ever do is spit venom online, you know to ignore them.” “I know, but Danielle…” “Is a big girl and stronger willed than most any other woman you have ever looked at.” Luke pointed out. “Can she hear us?” “No, she is gone to the bathroom.” “Are you going to tell her?” “I am not sure.” Tom felt wrong for considering telling Danielle, but at the same time, he was certain no one ever wanted to hear that other people who did not know them would want to be pushed off a huge Cliff. “What is the person who wrote it, to begin with, saying?” “Just that they saw you and your new girlfriend at the Cliffs of Moher, I am not sure I pronounced that correctly, and that you look like a normal couple, that Danielle is shorter than they expected and that you are wearing those grey shoes.” “Really?” “Yes, I have read more comments on those shoes in the past year than your acting.” Luke sounded bemused on the phone. Tom chuckled. “There was no malice and no threatening words in their comment, just that they saw you.” “No pictures?” “Just one, sort of a ‘proof’ one, it is grainy and taken with zoom yet still far enough away, there are people around you both and you are looking at Danielle while she is speaking, nothing odd.” Luke rambled off, though it was clear he was focusing on the picture in front of him for details as he spoke.

“Okay, they won’t go accosting her so.” “If someone says something to Danielle, she will not be the victim, she will tear them asunder. I had the guys go through the page, the person seems harmless, a big Marvel fan, they met Evans before, got an autograph, nothing creepy.” “Good.” Tom saw Danielle coming back to him. “Thanks for the call, Luke.” “Enjoy your holiday, I will keep you posted on everything that comes up.” “Please do.” Tom smiled as Danielle looked at him as though contemplating giving him the space to finish his phone call. “Take care, Luke.” He hung up. “Sorry.” “What is it?” Tom looked at her, feigning ignorance. “You said it was Luke, is everything okay?” “We were spotted, just someone noticed us and put it online.” “Okay.” She shrugged and walked on.

Tom stared at her in disbelief, “Are you okay with that?” “I have to be, it’s done and nothing I say or do will change that,” Danielle stated as though it was obvious. “What do you expect me to say?” “Nothing, I just…” Tom kept in step with her as they walked a little further along the path. “I thought you would be more upset, I know you said you wanted to keep away from that.” “Well, we did come to the largest attraction in Ireland, so it is not like we can say we are shocked someone spotted us.” Danielle laughed. “As long as no one gets in my face with a camera, I am okay with it, because there is nothing I can do about it.” She pointed out as she looked out across the water, the wind blowing the free strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail off her face as she did so.

* Tom had to agree, the B&B was a lovely spot, quiet and tranquil as they placed their bags on the ground next to their bed. As soon as Danielle placed her phone on the bedside locker, he brushed up against her. “What are your plans for the next half hour?” he gently kissed her neck as his hands snaked around her waist. “Get a shower and throw a cold bucket of water on you apparently.” She jested, but she leant into his touch. “Why?” “I am craving you.” He gently tugged at the hem of her hoodie.

“We need to get dinner.” Danielle scolded. “I am hungry.” Tom gave a slight growl. “Behave.” “Or what?” “I’ll have to spank you.” Tom looked at her, slightly aghast. “What do you think of that?” she grinned. “I know you love me digging my heels into that incredible ass when you are pounding into me, I think you actually make the sexiest sounds if I smack it slightly as you…” She giggled as Tom pushed her onto the bed, she turned with a wicked grin on her face as she noted the wild glint in his eyes, telling her that her teasing had the desired effect. “Or maybe we should test how good the walls really are.”

Lahinch

Leminagh Castle

Dungaire Castle

The Burren is an odd landscape unique to County Clare Ireland. Lahinch is a holiday village in Ireland, renowned for its surfing. Poulnabrone is an Iron Age burial site. The Cliffs of Moher is Ireland's premier attraction and almost made the list for the Seven Wonders of the World, I think it is number 8/9.

I do not own any of the images, but I am lucky enough to have lived a mere 1-1.5 hours away from the furthest one of them. These would all of been places Tom and Danielle would have seen on their drive from Galway down through Clare.

[thecrookedtower]

19. Dreams of Home

Campaign context: Morcego has been exploring the swamp, and has experienced all manner of horrors. The worst of which being the party’s encounter with a succubus. The fiend charmed several of them, forced Morcego to attack her allies, and gave her a draining kiss that almost killed her. Morcego’s dreams have been full of nightmares since. Vitor still stews over the letter from entry 15.

--

The wizard and the rogue, though separated by many miles, had both endured restless nights. High in his tower, Vitor sat, slumped in his chair. Quite uncharacteristically his hair was unkempt, and stubble roughed his cheeks. He had cleaned his desk, at least. Though, the letter that gnawed away at his mind was still there, folded neatly and tucked back in its envelope.

Vitor had penned a reply, but Morcego was unable to read it. She was off in some wretched swamp and had been for some time now. The tiefling seemed to be on route back to Saltmarsh, and he hoped that things might improve then. For now, he was left with her words and the sting of her absence. The stone walls felt hopelessly cold without her countenance to fill the halls of the tower with warmth.

Vitor reached for the silver mirror that seemed always at his side in these recent weeks, and one of the few things that brought him comfort. It was through scrying that he could at least know that she was safe. He had tried to give her space, though he yearned to visit her or cast a sending to hear her voice, he had refrained. Yet, each night since her departure he had checked on her before he went to bed, just to know that she still lived and breathed. Her new way of life was rife with peril, and he worried about her constantly. Not because she was weak, no, she was clever and quick... but from far away he could do little to protect her as he had for all those years. The injuries inflicted upon her by the hateful villagers were as etched into his memories as the scars that marred his lover’s beautiful wings.

“Show me Morcego.” Vitor whispered, his voice gravelly and tired. The silver mirror’s polished surface shimmered, seeming almost liquid, before it revealed her sleeping form. Alone, in a tent, unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. The moments between casting the spell and seeing her were always tense. He feared she would not appear, or she would be injured. Though he resented himself for it, there was the worry that he would see her with someone else. Yet, save for the time she had gone missing in the Azure sea, the mirror revealed her as it always had, safe.

Her sleep seemed plagued by nightmares, as it had for the last few days. She writhed and cried out softly. As Vitor watched her, he wondered the cause. Morcego had the occasional bad dream, but never like this. The duration of it concerned him, he had not intervened in previous nights out of respect for her privacy and wish for space…but something seemed off. What could be hounding her sleep? What had she experienced to make her so distraught? Tears slid down her cheeks as she tossed and turned. The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose, he could watch her suffer no longer. He let the image fade from the mirror.

Vitor’s eyes narrowed in focus as he tried to remember the location of all the items he would need. Crossing the room his fingers brushed against the handles of the many cabinets that contained a myriad of spell casting materials. One by one, he procured them: a small handful of sand, and a writing quill that had been plucked from a slumbering bird, and an inkpot.

He sat in his chair and spread the sand out on the desk. Vitor dabbed the quill into his inkpot, and then pressed the tip of it into the sand, whispering a small sequence of words as he did. The ink seemed to work its way into every granule, staining the sand black. With the wave of his hand, he scattered it. The sand rose to the air in a plume of glittering particles, light like dust. He felt his consciousness fade.

--

Morcego’s dreams were flashes of horrible images and stained with crimson. A terribly beautiful woman caressed the tiefling’s face and kissed her passionately. The entire dreamscape shook with the pain that Morcego experienced, and the horror of losing control of her body and mind. She was dying, she was watching her friends die, torn asunder by beasts or by her own hands. A spiraling cascade of fears and harrowing experiences seemed to crash through her mind, and she was wholly lost to them.

The wizard kept himself hidden as he watched the thoughts and memories play out for a moment, finally learning what had been eating away at his companion. Her mind was wounded, she had taken a startling amount of psychic damage, and the ghost of it haunted her dreams. No more, she would rest easy tonight. Using his magic, Vitor shaped the images carefully, banishing the terrors and replacing them with familiar locations.

Morcego felt the fear dissipate as her dream shifted away from the dreadful Drowned Woods to the homey interior of the crooked tower. She was in the small personal library, seated in a small alcove that held a small table and cozy chairs. The smell of chamomile tea and worn pages replaced the scent of blood, and she felt at ease. Vitor watched, as invisible as the spirits in the walls. How many times had he seen her read at that table? How he wished he could run his fingers through her hair, but in these dreams he could not act. He could only twist the images. He could speak to her, but he would not, not tonight. He manipulated only the surroundings, he would not show himself, he would not ask her the burning questions on his mind. She deserved peace.

Morcego felt content to leaf through the books and found that they were her old field guides. Filled with pressed flowers, illustrations, and descriptions that both she and Vitor had written. These were soothing sights, and as she turned each page the scenery around her shifted to the places that she had been while collecting the samples. Rolling fields of flowers, high mountains and open skies, then a small pond tucked away on the outskirts of the village. 

It was all so vivid, far more-so than her usual dreams. The way the pond shimmered with starlight, the crispness of the night air, the wetness of the grass and then scent of plant life. These images were not mere dreams, they were too real. Yet from each scene there was something-- no-- someone missing. These had not just been her experiences. She pushed herself up from the dew-filled grass and surveyed the pond that glowed in a soothing moonlight.

Morcego realized that if these were her memories, he should be beside her as he had been that night. The area was darker, the dim light cast its shadows longer. This was the glade seen through human eyes. This version of the memory was Vitor’s. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, and she felt a warmth in her chest.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” She asked of her surroundings. There was no response, save for the cool wind that rushed through her long hair. She reached out for it, wondering if he was there, somewhere among those dark woods, or if he was simply the fabric of the dream itself.

“Thank you.” Morcego whispered, and she felt the dream fade into the darkness of slumber as Vitor pulled away the tendrils of his magic.

--

The necromancer’s eyes fluttered open, the trance induced by the spell ending. He leaned back in his chair and loosed the breath he’d been holding. Vitor hadn’t expected her to realize the influence of his magic, but he was not surprised. Morcego had always been clever. At least she seemed thankful, and the dreams had calmed her. He tried to hold onto the sound of her voice and the sight of her, she’d reached out for him, should he have revealed himself?

The room was spinning slightly; the wizard was still a bit disoriented from being in the space of someone else’s thoughts. Being so sleep deprived probably didn’t help either. With an unsteady hand Vitor poured himself a short glass of fire whiskey. The warmth as it went down was grounding, helped him remember how to move his physical body.

Seeing and hearing her had brought him some measure of peace, but also impatience. Within a few days he’d have a response if she deigned to answer his letter. He felt a resentment towards her traveling companions for having dragged her through the swamp, having put her in constant danger. Rationally he tried to remember that it had Morcego’s decision to take part in it all, but he could not forgive them for how they’d let her suffer afterwards. Had she no council among them, no shoulder to lean upon? She spoke highly of this group, but they seemed just as unreliable as any he’d ever met.

Could her new friends really protect her if the threats continued to intensify? If Sebastian or the bulk of the Sea Princes decided they were too much of a nuisance? Vitor felt as he was walking on a tightrope. Morcego wished for him to relinquish the Princes as an unnecessary evil, but now more than ever he needed the power and sway with the pirates to help make this world safer for both of them. The goal at the end of his long pursuit seemed closer than ever now, but it could not be brought to fruition without the continued access to information and resources. The region grew more tumultuous by the day, and Morcego seemed hellbent on finding herself at the heart of it.

Vitor would find a solution, he always did. It was late, and for now there was little he could do but sleep. He took a small measure of comfort knowing that far away, his lover also slept soundly.

[ahoforhavoc]

Patience

Prompt #56 - "What if I told you I’ve been in love with you since I was eleven?”

Requested By: @themistrollsin || Requested For: Pete Dunne Words: 3103 Contains: angst, language warning || this is DEFINITELY going to be a multi-parter. i know it's late for the schedule but hopefully the length makes up for that. things have been pretty hectic with work and the holiday coming up and i'm definitely in love with the idea of where this is going so, keep your eyes peeled for future parts! i have a four day weekend coming up next week so it'll definitely have some headway made.

2005 - Birmingham, England

It had been a year. A young Peter England had been sitting on this feeling of fluttering butterflies that threatened to rip his stomach in two for one year now. You had been his best friend since you were five; seven years of time put in. But, he felt like that was long enough to know. You'd gone from strangers to friends to best friends and Pete was sure the future would only get better for you if you stuck it out but... friendship wasn't enough anymore.

It really started to hit him the prior year. You'd left for the Summer for camp and came home different. Worldly. Matured, to a young mind. The time away had made the difference, though. He'd gone from having you there every day to not having you there, communicating through the rare text and post card. Absence really made the heart grow fonder, and he wanted to make sure that you knew how much you meant to him.

He had a single flower in his hand, the stem clutched to his palm, and the edge of his palm pressed to the small of his back. Today was the day: the day he would do something about those fluttering, jittery feelings.

Today was the day he was ready to admit to the world, admit to himself, and admit to you... that while he couldn't be too certain what love is? He's pretty sure that he's in it with you.

He'd dressed up as best he could. His nicest jeans, and a shirt that wasn't filthy. A few pimples on his face showed the nerves he'd been dealing with while he mulled over his decision for the anxious days he'd spent trying to plan just what to do and how to handle this.

Those plans were torn asunder when he saw young you, sitting on your porch with your face in your palms. You were weeping, and Pete felt his instincts kick in as he approached you and climbed the two stairs to reach you.

"Y/N," He said, a look of hurt in his eyes as you lifted your weary head and your eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Peter, I-" your lower lip trembled, a mourning sob escaping you before you could finish.

"What? What is it?!"

He asked with a frighteningly cruel look in his eyes. You were important to him - his best friend. One of his only friends. No one could upset you like this and get away with it! You could see this side of him. It was something different. But, your breath caught in your chest, while words failed to find you. Unfortunately, answers didn't fail to find Pete as a few movers exited your home with boxes stacked on top of each other and pressed to their chests.

"Ay, lad. Move outta the way!" The mover said to Pete, prompting the young boy to move. It all made sense now.

"You... you're moving..." He said, piecing things together, his heart racing and panic in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me!?"

"I didn't know, Peter!" You said, hating the look of hurt in your best friend's face. "My mum just told me that she'd been packing while I was away. Dad got a transfer, and now... we're leaving. I swear, I didn't know."

"So, where are you going?" He asked, biting back a palpable frustration that left him red in the face.

"America." You answered, frightened.

"AMERICA?!" He bellowed. "Why?"

"I told you. My dad was transferred..." You sobbed, brushing at your waterline with your fist, sniffling. "We didn't get a say in the matter. Now, I just... I know I'll never see you, or my mates again and I'll have to learn new customs, and..." you completely lost your train of thought, overwhelmed.

"We'll still see each other." He promised, taking a knee on the stair before you, trying to comfort you. "We'll video chat. And we'll..." He was lost for promises, taking a moment to let the dead air linger. "I don't know, but we'll make something work. You're my best mate, Y/N. And we'll find some way to do something. In fact, you're kind of like..."

He fiddled with the flower in his hand, his fingers trying to feel if the petals were still in one piece. He knew he'd been squeezing the stem with all of his might to resist letting out a guttural howl of agony at the crushing blow he'd been deal with the news. He lost his train of thought when you looked at him with glassy eyes that had a hint of red veins showing on their surface from just how long you'd been sitting on the step.

That devastated him. It made him feel like he failed you. Somewhere, it lurked in the back of his mind he couldn't save you from this fate. But that was a small voice of reason in a sea of screaming.

"You're kind of like... more than my best mate, y'know? You're just... and me? And I-"

Pete was tongue-tied while you looked at him, confusion never more evident than at this moment. He cleared his throat, a small blush taking over his face.

"What I'm trying to say is that... I think that... n-no, I know that I-"

"Y/N!" You could hear your father bellow out. Pete nearly shrieked with frustration, tugging at his short hair.

"Hi daddy." You lowered your head, ashamed that you'd been crying.

"Oh, hello Peter." He turned his attention to the boy, knowing the two of you were best friends. He hadn't suspected a thing. "How are you today?"

"I've... been better, sir," he said, looking down to Y/N. "Is it true you're leaving?"

"Well, yes, lad. The last of the bags have been packed. We're gettin' ready to head to the airport now and then our stuff will be shipped to us post-haste." He said, with a smile on his face.

"Wait, now?!" Peter asked, shock and frustration on his face. "But, what about Y/N's school? Friends? What about all of that?"

"Don't be silly, boyo. The school year's only just begun and it's a new adventure for us all. It's a wonderful opportunity; you'll know all about them when you get older, I'm sure." He smiled, turning his attention to you. "But, Y/N, we need to go. Your mum is already packed and waiting for us at the airport. If we don't leave now, we'll miss our flight."

You sighed. That was kind of something you were hoping for; but, you knew it wouldn't change a thing. Picking yourself up from your spot on the step, you wrapped both arms around the neck of your best friend, the one who would no longer live right down the street from you. The one who would no longer visit you spontaneously. The one who would no longer be there for you as he had been your entire lives. In a quiet, broken voice, you said after a sniffle. "Goodbye, Peter."

He hugged you tightly. Not wanting to let go. Not wanting to accept this goodbye. But your father's hand on your shoulder prompted you to break that hug, as he led you to the car while your attention was turned down to the pavement. As your father entered the car to cart you to the airport, Peter removed the flower from his back pocket. He dreaded the fact he'd not given it to you. Looking at it in frustration and mourning as you turned the corner and left his life for what he could only presume would be forever... he threw it down on the ground, stomping on it hard.

"I'll find you, Y/N. Somehow... some way... some day... I'll find you and tell you everything you didn't get to hear today."

Peter pledged. He had a good idea too for how to make that dream a reality.

Wrestling.

His passion. It was what he aspired to do, waiting until the following year to be able to start training. If he were good enough... he'd get to see the world. He would get to find you.

present day, 2017

As the years passed... you and Peter hadn't made too good on your promise, unfortunately. As you got older, things fizzled out. His training schedule had gotten more intense, and your school work had taken priority. You made new friends. Local friends. Ones easier to be around, out of convenience. You'd grown to care about them a lot, but it didn't mean you didn't ever feel like you were completely home.

No, home for you was England. England in all of his gray overcast skies and dreary weather. All of its hustle and bustle and banter. You'd always been homesick, but never able to do anything about it, until now.

You were an adult now. Your father's decisions no longer bared down on you. You'd earned the money to go home. It was a round-trip visit, because the life you had now was back in the states. But, you'd never stopped being homesick. Twelve years was a long time, though. They felt like they'd flashed in both an instant and the blink of an eye. But, it was on the train that you saw a poster advertising the WWE UK Champion, Pete Dunne. You studied his features while he posed with the title hanging from between his teeth in a burgundy singlet and a faux fur vest. He seemed familiar... too familiar.

You'd been a casual wrestling fan since you were young, thanks to it being almost all that Peter had ever talked about. It seemed practically criminal not to check out an indy show. The UK Scene had exploded and it was always all over the radio, printed publications. Plus... prices were reasonable enough.

And that's when you saw him... and in person, it clicked.

Pete Dunne was Peter England. The boy you grew up with. The boy who not only talked about his dreams but actually made them a reality. A quick check on your phone confirmed it and you had a new, vested in the show you'd gone to on a complete whim. Watching him and leading the cheers in an arena where he was normally booed. Of course you caught his eye more than once. He knew how this worked by now... there was always someone ironic, cheering for the heel. BUT, you did it... almost in an out-of-place way. Off-tempo, all alone, like a sore thumb.

When the match ended, Pete showed his nastier side, attacking his opponent after the match with a brutal series of sledgehammer shots followed by a Pedigree. He hoisted his UK title in the air while his fist rested on his jaw, making the crowd - minus you - boo out loud. When the show ended, a number of fans had gone to meet the talent for pictures. There was only one line you wanted in, though: Pete's.

It felt like forever to get to the front, Pete scowling and snarling with every fan beforehand, indulging in a picture but clearly distant and with anywhere else he'd rather be. When you arrived to the front, you pocketed your hands into your jeans. Pete avoided eye contact with you, beginning to pack up his shirts and photos as if you weren't even there.

"Peter England..." You said, with a smile.

"It's unbecoming to call a wrestler by anything other than their wrestling alias." He said, coldly, while packing his stuff into boxes and crates.

You frowned at his response, and planted your hands onto the cloth-covered table, leaning in. "Pete, don't you recognize me? It's me! Y/N. We grew up together in Birmingham, and-"

"I know who ya' are." He said, stacking a few 8x10's neatly against the table, planting them into the box. "Doesn't change anything, though."

"Pete..." You frowned; even if he didn't seem hurt, you knew him well enough to know his body language and the small signs. "Mate, are you okay? I don't ever seem to recall ya' bein' so cruel and nasty."

"It's mate now? You're not Americanized after over a decade Stateside? I thought for sure I'd be your 'friend' at this point. If that." He locked the box with a padlock to assure no one got into it and stole his merchandise; it was the bread and butter of an indy worker. "It's been a long time, Y/N. People change. Not always for the better."

He lectured you with a coldness and cruelty, pulling the tablecloth you were leaning on and you had face-planted the table.

"What's gotten into you? You were absolutely heartless to that lad out there, you're nasty to me. What's changed so much?"

"You don't get it at all, do you?"

You frowned. It had never been your way to admit shortcomings, failures, or defeat, but he had you cornered. You were in his world now, expecting things to be the same as they were twelve years ago. It couldn't happen. You knew that. It didn't mean you were ready to accept that that was reality, though.

"I'm the fuckin' bad guy. I'm SUPPOSED to be 'absolutely heartless.' The difference is that I do that for a show purpose. YOU do that because it's who you are."

"It's who I am? What the fuck are you talking about?!" You defended yourself, anger booming in your voice, security approaching but backing down at a wave of Pete's hand. "This is the first time I see you in twelve years and this is what you have to say to me?"

"It's not the first time it HAD to be. You grew bored of me after what? Three months? Maybe six? I tried calling you. Those calls went ignored. Emails, letters, all the same. I wanted to wrestle not just because it was my passion, but because I hoped I'd find you. But... I didn't. I couldn't find you, unless you wanted to find me too. Now, I'm living the dream, and you come back into my life without a phone call, without an ounce of any type of effort to show you give a fuck?"

"I don't want your money, if that's what you're implying, Peter!" You scowled right back at him, hurt that he'd even suggest it.

"You don't want my money, Y/N. I know that. You don't want my time. You don't want shit from me. It was fucking clear years ago. Nothing's different now than it was then."

"What has gotten into you? I know we've grown up but you're acting like it was my fault that my dad got transferred to the states. People grow up. They get different hobbies. They build a life for themselves. I never meant to cut you out. The time zone was a huge role in that, and my grades, and my career-"

"All excuses. Those things applied to me too, and I STILL put in the effort. Because you were worth it to me." He emphasized further. "Were."

He began to fold up the table that you'd pulled herself up from, pushing it to the side. Anything to keep his hands busy and himself in check from all of the resentment he had for you. He finally made eye contact with you, for the first time since you arrived and were something other than just a face in the crowd.

"Remember the day you left? We were on your porch."

"Yeah. That was the worst day of my life. I've never been so gutted."

"I was talking to you and your father pulled you to the towncar while the movers towed your stuff out. You drove away from me. Left me on the sidewalk, staring at your car while you left." He looked to the floor, his nose crinkling in anger. I had something to say to you, but I never got to say it. And you... you certainly never made it easy to get it off my chest."

"Oh, you have something to say to me besides all that you've let off your chest now?" You asked, offended, both arms folded under your chest. "Why not just open the ENTIRE can of worms, Peter? You've already made it clear that coming here and seeing you was a waste of time. So why not just tell me what you've been holding onto for so long that's made you such an inconsolable little prick?"

He grinned, turning his focus to you with a cold, dark gaze. "What if I told you I’ve been in love with you since I was eleven?"

"Well I'd... what?" You said, proving you hadn't been listening, but planning your next response and to defend yourself. "What did you just say?"

"I know you heard me. I've spent years pining after you, and hating that I NEVER got to tell you what I wanted to say. And you... you just never cared enough to find out."

"Is this true?" You asked, examining him in shock.

"It was. I was never a priority for you, Y/N. And like I told you. People change."

He pulled his bag up over his shoulder now, and took hold of his trunk of merchandise with his other hand, keeping it in tow behind him.

"Peter... I don't know what to say. I had no idea. But, you know, it... it wouldn't have changed anything. We were just kids. And I had no say in the matter. And things are different now..."

"They are. I'm not some lovesick little fucking twat any longer, and you're not who I wanted you to be. You wasted your time coming here, Y/N. Now, go home."

He pulled his bag behind him, heading for the parking garage area where his car was waiting. You watched the boy who was your best friend leave without so much as a glance back or a goodbye, having answers to questions you never wanted asked or answered. Rubbing at your teary eyes with your sleeve, you followed security on the way out of the building.

[thorne93]

Not What You Thought It Was (Part 6 - FINAL)

Prompt: What happens when Victor Frankenstein and an electrician’s assistant meet? History.

Word Count: 3055

Warnings: Spoilers, if you have NOT seen Victor Frankenstein and want to - TURN BACK. Maybe language. gore, etc.

Notes: This took me forever to write, and for that, I’m angry. But thanks to @queendivaofthedark I finally got it. Also, this is based on the 2015 Victor Frankenstein with James McAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe

Tagging: @cocosierra94​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once you made the long journey to Scotland, the plans for the man begun. You and a team of helpers were given assistance, materials, and time to work. However, with every organ placed inside the body, with every stitch sewn on the skin, with every minuscule step toward completion, Victor seemed to lose that much more of his sanity. He became less like a man and more and more obsessed by his passion. He was blinded by a resolution that may never come.

 But you never said anything. You dutifully worked with him to harvest and pluck organs, to fit them into the body. You worked on the machines to make sure the current flowed correctly and well. You slept in a drafty room in the castle at night but spent sun up to midnight working on the creature.

After 3 grueling weeks, finally, Prometheus was finished. Finnegan and his father were there to witness the show. You only had one shot at this. You couldn’t do a test run.

 Everyone was scurrying as you worked around the machines, earning scowls from the other men. Victor had told them to leave the electricity to you, and that seemed to irk them, giving you much satisfaction on the contrary.

 You were at your station, awaiting the order from Victor. He was marching around, checking with all of the stations. You were on the other side, checking dials when you heard him.

 “Y/N?” Igor said.

 “Igor?” you turned, eyeing him. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

 “We have to stop Victor. You have to know what he’s doing is wrong.”

 You bit your lip. “Igor...I want to...But I can’t. He has to see this creation.”

 “Why?”

 “You know why…” you said softly.

 “Listen to me, Finnegan tried to have me killed. He almost succeeded. I think he’s going to kill Victor and probably you, too.”

 You gasped lightly, glancing to the aristocrat on his pedestal in the castle. Your gaze narrowed as your blood boiled.

 “That rat bastard. I knew I didn’t trust him.”

 “So you’ll help me stop this?”

 “Yes.”

 “Good.”

 You two started to jog to find Victor when Igor asked you, “Did you continue this pursuit for your sister?”

 You nodded. “Yes. I couldn’t let her go. I still can’t. Part of me still wants to see if this will work.”

 “Well, we can do it on our own, without the threat of death,” Igor said.

 Before long, Victor was in front of you two.

 “Victor,” you said, rushing to him and hugging him. News that Finnegan will kill him made him a sight for sore eyes.

 “What are you doing here? You need to be at your station.” His eyes traveled from your face, to over your shoulder at Igor. “Igor? I'm so glad you've come.”

 “Finnegan tried to murder him,” you said quickly.

 “What?” he questioned, an amused smile on his face. “That’s absurd.”

 “He’s going to kill us next, as soon as we give him what he wants.”

 “Did father send you?” he asked to Igor.

 “What? No. Don't be ridiculous! He'll stop at nothing, and you don't know what he's capable of! We can still get out of this, but you must stop this experiment.”

 “I don’t care,” he said flatly.

 “What?” you and Igor said simultaneously.

 “Finnegan's motives mean nothing to me. I will turn the tide of human existence here, tonight. Then this world which has spurned me…will forever remember my name!” Victor said almost as a cheer and you tried to keep the tears back.

 “No, if you do what he asks, no one will remember Frankenstein the man. Only the monster!” Igor argued emphatically.

 “Victor, he’s right. Listen to him, please. Let this go.”

 “I can't and you damned well know that,” he snarled.

 “I miss Margaret, I miss her just as much as you miss Henry, but risking our lives for a madman to take claim on our discoveries is no way to try and bring them back,” you said, choking back tears.

 “Victor, I know you want to stop the pain of having to endure his death,” Igor said. “Your brother, Henry? I know you feel that you’re responsible.”

 “You told him?” Victor accused, angry at you. The tears finally flowing from you, no longer hold in your fear, worry, anxiety, and heartbreak.

 “Don’t be angry with her. I only wanted to understand, and I do, Victor.”

 “None of this is about that though. It’s about redressing the balance. I have to create life.”

 “None of this does that. This only brings more and more and more pain. And whatever path this is that you've gone down, this is not you. You're a good man, Victor.”

 He began to speak but then Finnegan shouted for him that the storm was almost there.

 “Victor, no,” you whispered as he started to move toward the middle of the castle, to continue the experiment. “You want to create life?” you asked desperatley, your hands on the sides of his face. “Do it with me.”

 “I have, our creation is out there right now.”

 “No, not that. Something natural,” you retorted. You took his hand and put it on your stomach. “Something real. Help me create a baby, a new life. Together, we can do this.”

 “That’s hardly the same as what we’ve done here. We have done the improbable. We’ve given life to flesh.”

 “Yes, yes, we have Victor, but now it’s time to do something for us. No more death, no more bodies, no more parts. Just...life, a child. I know it’s not what you envisioned, I know it’s not any scientific breakthrough, but it’s a sign of life. A sign of love.”

 You’d never spoken of children to each other. Your focus for all your life had been career for you, medical school for Victor, then you came together on this insane endeavor. You had never truly spoken of a family, of life after the experiment, of marriage, of children. After a moment, he finally nodded.

 “Alright.”

 “Alright?” you asked, hopeful.

 “Let’s do it.” A light came into his eyes as he kissed you. “Let’s create life…”

 “Victor! The storm is upon us, man!”

 And like that, the light was shut from his eyes and he sadly said, “I’m sorry, but I have to see...I have to know. We’ll create life once we succeed at this.” He started to leave and you did your best to pull on him, to try and stop him.

 “No, Victor, no!” you cried but he was stronger and simply escaped your grip. “What do we do now?” you asked Igor.

 “We wait. I have faith that Victor will come to his senses. At this point, we just let him do this. This is his therapy.”

 You nodded as Victor instructed everyone at their stations. You ran back to yours, tears streaming, as you hit the main conductor when he instructed, Igor standing beside you. He was shouting to give more power.

 “Victor, we’ll overload!”

 “Do it!” he screamed, his face a mask of complete fury. You glanced to Igor and pushed the power higher.

 “Y/N,” a voice said steadily behind you. You turned to see Turpin, pointing a gun at you yet again.

 “Inspector,” you breathed. “Listen…”

 “No! You listen. You and your fiance will burn for what you’ve done here. You are in league with Satan. You do the devil’s work. This is not science.”

 “Please.”

 “Make one more move and I’ll shoot.”

 “More power!” Victor shouted, not looking at you. You didn’t want to move, but you didn’t want to disappoint Victor.

 “I’m sorry,” you whispered as you slammed the dial forward and then the shot rang out as lightning cracked above all of you. Every other sound stopped. The noise of the gunshot had stopped as Igor shouted, coming to your aid as you fell backwards onto the hard ground. The pain ripped through your chest as you coughed, blood spewing from your mouth.

 “Y/N!” Victor screamed. He left his post and hurried down to you. “No, no, no, no!” he cried, cradling your head. “Don’t go. I can’t lose you too.”

 “The creation,” you coughed. “Does it live?”

 “Don’t worry about that now,” he shushed.

 “I need to know.”

 “I’m not sure.” He turned to look, seeing that the creation breathed. “Yes.” With that, the chain broke and the contraptions started to come down around you all. Victor and Igor huddled over you as Turpin moved back away from the flying debris. The bed had slammed into where Finnegan and his father were standing, destroying the area. When you all finally looked up, the bed was empty.

 “Victor,” you asked with panic, starting to sit up, the pain subsiding a little. “Where did he go?” If he was anything like Gordon, he’d be homicidal and hard to stop, and he was twice Victor’s size.

 “I don’t know,” he said, worried as his eyes darted the area. “Don’t move.”

 “Find him,” you instructed.

 The creature was right behind him though. You all stood up. You stood behind Igor and Victor, until he started to move toward the creation. For a moment, you held your breath. You’d done it. You and Victor had created life from nothing.

 “Victor, don’t,” you pleaded but he held up a hand.

 “Out of the way, Victor! Out of the way!” Turpin said as he pointed the gun at him.

 “No, please!” you begged as you stood in front of him, your arm and chest on fire from the earlier gunshot. “Don’t hurt him. Either of them.”

 “He is an abomination,” Turpin argued.

 “Come to me. I am your brother,” Victor cooed as if he’d gone completely insane.

 But when you turned, you saw that he started to realize this creation is not what he thought it would be. Hell, it’s not what you thought it was.

 “Oh, my brother Henry, forgive me. I have wronged you. For this is not life. This is not life! You are not life! Live!” Victor had become maniacal, pounding on the creature’s chest.

 You saw now that this was not life. This was no life indeed. This was...an unholy creation. Your heart tore itself asunder as the realization hit you.

 “Victor, stop!” you pleaded, fearing the creation could turn at any moment. “Victor please!”

 “Listen to your future bride, Frankenstein. Step away. Get out of the way.”

 “Live! Live! Live!” Victor half-begged, half- commanded, continually slamming his fists on his chest, making you want to rush to his aid. Then, suddenly, the man picked him up and threw him far away.

 “Victor!” you screamed, running to him. He was a little disoriented but he was okay. In the meantime, Turpin was shooting at the monster.

 “We need to stop him.”

 “You think?” you mocked.

 “You can’t do it, you’re wounded. Go find shelter, Igor and I will take care of him.”

 “No, I’m not leaving your side.” The adrenaline must’ve been helping you along because you weren’t sure how you were standing or talking. The monster had hit Turpin as you tried to get Victor to his feet. He began hurling all sorts of objects at anyone left in the castle. You went out and tried to stop him. You threw a lantern at him, but it just landed at his feet, not phasing him. Eventually, Igor joined you two as you hid for a second.

“What are we going to do now?”

 “The only thing we can do,” Victor said.

 The three of you marched out as Victor picked up some debris and broke it so a pointed end was created. You found a splint of long, sharp wood. All of you were on high alert for the monster and he made himself known across from you as he launched a huge piece of machinery toward you. You winced as you ducked and Victor touched your arm, trying to cover you. Igor threw another lantern that didn’t land near him. Victor ran at him, throwing the weapon he made at him, but he missed the mark and hit his shoulder. Panic tore through you as the monster started to bear down on him. Victor turned to run but fell through the floor, slamming his face. You could no longer stand there and do nothing. You sprinted toward the monster, launching yourself on him, ignoring the pain that went with it. Your legs were wrapped around his torso as you continually hit him, shoving the spear in his neck. He peeled you off of him effortlessly and threw you, your back hitting bars before you landed on the metal grated floor, knocking you unconscious.

 “Y/N!” Victor shouted.

 Igor worked to distract the monster, keeping it away from Victor as he climbed up. He ran to you, slapping your face to wake you.

 “Y/N, wake up, please. Wake up. Come back to me. Y/N!” he screamed. His anger turned all consuming, as all his emotions did. He let you go as he turned, a mission clear in his mind. He grabbed two metal pieces and ran, diving into the air to land on the monster, much like you had. He planted the weapons in his chest, but the monster slammed him against a column, crushing him. Igor electrocuted him relentlessly until he could stab him in the heart. The only flaw was that he forgot he had two hearts. The beast stood back up until Victor shoved a spear in his chest, rightfully killing him.

 As soon as the best was dead, he raced over to you, Igor not far behind.

 “Darling? Darling? Please, for the love of God, wake up,” he begged, his eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I was an insane full. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

 “Victor, think,” Igor suddenly said. “Think of where her wound is, and what he did.”

 “What in God’s name do you mean, Igor?” he asked, perplexed.

 “The wound, it’s right above her lung. Dig the bullet out, it probably got pushed into her airway when he threw her.”

 “Dig the--are you insane?”

 “It’s either that or she dies.”

 Victor stared at him but ran to the lab and cleaned some tools quickly before running full speed back, working to dig the bullet out. Once it was out, he sat you up, trying desperately to wake you.

 “Please. My love,” he begged, crying and holding you as he rocked back and forth. “Wake up. I’m so sorry. We’ll have children if it’ll make you happy. We’ll have a hundred babies if that’s what you want.”

 Finally, you could breathe, you awoke and stuttered, coughing blood on Victor’s shoulder.

 “Oh thank God!” he cheered as Igor smiled at you.

 “A hundred babies? That sounds like hell,” you said weakly.

 Victor laughed happily as he gripped your head and kissed you. “I thought I’d lost you.”

 “Never.”

 “See, Victor, you can bring people back from death,” Igor said quietly. “Using real science and real medicine.”

 ------------------

 Turpin agreed to help clear your name after the ordeal, after much begging on your part, stating that he owed you his life, in return for your own.. Stating that Victor had a break of temporary insanity due to schooling and that freezing the real Igor Straussman was part of the madness to save a dear friend. He got charges put on Finnegan for attempted murder. Igor and Lorelei began courting and you moved into a house away from the city, but not so far that commute was awful to work or school for Victor.

 Victor worked hard at school and made top marks. He only had one year left before he would be a doctor. You worked hard too and soon you were named co-owner of the electrician's shop, going into a partner business  

 In the summer, on a beautiful day, you were married, with Igor and Lorelei and other friends present. Victor’s parents even showed up, happy to support both of you. You had talked more on children and said that when it would happen it would happen. You wouldn’t try harder or more, simply let fate decide. Your only rule was that should you have a baby, you wouldn’t give up your life at the shop. Victor happily agreed to let you keep working.

 After a year since the nightmare, you were blissfully happy. You came home from work, tired though one day.

 “Dear?” Victor said as you came in the door.

 “Yes?”

 “Would you...pee on this?”

 “What? Victor, not now. I’m so tired, I can’t do another experiment.”

 Victor was actually putting his skills to good use now, rather than using them for forces of unholiness. He was always having you do something with him regarding an experiment for school.

 “Please? It’ll take five minutes at most.”

 “Fine.” He handed you a long, flat, wooden stick with paper on it. “You want me...to urinate on his?”

 “If you don’t mind.”

 “You’re utterly insane, Victor,” you mumbled as you went to the bathroom. You did as he asked and sat the stick on a towel on the table for him. “So, now what?”

 “Now we wait.”

 “For?”

 “To see if it changes color.”

 “What’s it going to change to?”

 “Possibly blue.”

 “Possibly? What kind of an experiment is this?”

 “You’ll see!” he said with excitement. “Now hush.”

 You rolled your eyes as you began to wash up to make dinner as Victor had left to tend to some other experiment. You started to heat the pot and cut the meat when you glanced to the table. You grumbled.

 “Victor, it’s blue!” you shouted throughout the home. “Can we throw this nasty thing away no--”

 Before you could finish, Victor’s mouth was on yours once he ran in the main seating area.

 You laughed happily. “What’s this for?”

 “Because...my love, we’re going to have a baby!” he announced as he picked you up. “I used chemicals to measure your hormones. You should only have this hormone if you’re pregnant!”

 “We’re...we’re going to have a baby?!” you shrieked, thrilled.

 “Yes!” He spun you around and kissed you again.

 “See? You can create life, Mr. Frankenstein,” you teased gently before kissing him again.

[lyriumlotus]

A New Dawn: Asunder Chp5

The dragon bristled its scales, shook its massive form then bellowed the most ferocious of roars.

Letting go of the scaffolding it dived into the World below.

Wings wrapping against its body, it barrel dove, twisting and twirling its great form, as it cut through the air like a released arrow, until the right time presented itself and it unfurled them, a great wingspan of spectrum coloured blue, buffeting the dragon back up into the skies.

Below, a beast had caught sight of it and was scurrying for cover, but alas it was too late for the creature, because the dragon had let forth another roar and had followed up with a ball of flame.

The hit was direct and instant and the creature shrieked as fire enveloped its entire being.

A sound that was instantly silenced by the dragon that pounced on it during its confusion.

Talon and teeth tearing throat and windpipe.

Wings wrapping around to cocoon and trap its failed escape, as well as smothering the fire.

Its own flames did not harm it, for it was a fire dragon and its scales and body were immune to the dangers of burning.

It drank of the creatures blood and feasted upon its cooling flesh, leaving little but bone, when it was done.

Both women,

Lailani and herself, sat wide eyed and impressed,

clapping at the sight of the dragon catching a mouse.

Lailani quickly turned to her then with a giggle

“You know, I could really use him one night, if you don’t mind it, there’s a few mice in my room too that need removing.” The girls laughed

and Amanita nodded when the dragon happily squawked up at them in approval

“I think he approves, so its a deal” She promised.

Mythalen, when finished, caught hold of the beds blankets and crawled up to where the two sat,

curling into a little ball to sleep between them.

They gently pet the little blue beast and it purred loudly in response as it yawned and snoozed.

It had been a long day.  

Firstly, she’d received word that she had been approved as a scouting leader for a small party that would head out in the next few weeks.

Secondly, she had gotten mail from home, her parents were well and missed her, she responded with the news she had made friends and was still getting used to the area.

and lastly, she had been helping Lailani set up a new art class, since the parents were becoming more interested in what their children had been learning and taking home.

Enough so that they also wanted to learn to use magic to create art.

Now the two girls sat, chatting away as they did at the end of most days,

until the end of day chime rang, to inform the City of the dinner halls being opened.

Amanitas’ stomach grumbled, as she hadn’t eaten much that day, not having the time to,

and when the chimes finally did resound across the city an hour or two later,

she was famished and eager to get there, for need of something warm to fill her belly.

Mythalen had awoken to the sound, and clambered back up and into the safety of her shirt.

, and they got up and left.

It wasn’t so hard to find the Dining Halls. You just had to follow the crowds there.

The chimes, or bells rather, that went off were usually delivered by helpful spirits that floated above the buildings, giving out the call, ensuring all whom were hungry, that it was time.  

Ellas’elera awaited them as he usually did by one of the main entrance ways.

She hadn’t seen him yesterday nor today and had yet to introduce him to her new scaled friend.

“Wasn’t sure you girls would show tonight..” he greeted them and they walked in together apologising for their lateness.

The scent of roasted meats and vegetables, of creamed corns and soups made her mouth absolutely water and she grabbed up a plate and cutlery then followed the other two in search of a table.

Tables were long here and all assortments of foods lined the middle. With Elves and Spirits helping take trolleys of other nutrients and condiments to the tables that lacked them.  

Usually they sat by themselves, as the Arlathanians tended to avoid them or make excuses they were saving this seat for someone else who had yet arrived.

Sometimes they didnt even bother making excuses,

they would just say “Your kind are not welcome here” and wave them off,

or they would just get up and leave themselves.

Ellas'elera would joke it was probably because his good looks were too distracting.

Tonight however, she heard a loud robust voice calling out her name and

saw that it belonged to none other than Telahmis, who was currently waving her over;

“AYE?! Amanita? Right? Come! .. Come! … Come sit with us!”

“A friend of yours?” Ellas’elera leaned in to ask and she nodded lightly to him

“Apparently so. He’s really nice though… So shall we take him up on the offer?”

He nodded and the three wandered to the table.

Sitting opposite of him and his friends.

Instantly, Amanita looked across and was surprised to see an

equally surprised Abelas looking back at her.

A second went by, and then another, and Abelas stood, as if to make to leave.

However a firm hand fell upon his shoulder and Telahmis made him sit again

“Oooh no… you don’t” The burly fellow laughed.

“You promised to try to be more social.. So.. be more Social...”

Then looked to her and her friends “Now, Don’t you go mindin’ him.. He’s usually really very charming” A hint of playful sarcasm in his tone.

Amanita smiled sweetly at Abelas “Yes, we’ve met a few times now already actually….”

Then to Telahmis, her tone more genuine,

“It is good to see you again Telahmis…. These are my friends, Ellas'elera“

Ellas’elera bowed his head “It is a pleasure to meet you all..”

“-And Lailani Lyandria” She motioned to Lailani, who could only wave shyly then clasp her hands in her lap and look down to avoid the far too many sets of eyes that looked their way.

Telahmis nodded approvingly, then seemed proud as he introduced his own gaggle of comrades.

“Well, you know Abelas. Obviously” He laughed, and Abelas simply sat there stewing with his arms crossed.

“So to the left, we have Telana”

A dark woman grunted a hello at them, inbetween ripping through steak with her teeth. Her hair was  shaved or she was naturally bald, her eyes were cold yellow and her well toned arms and upper body physique hinted at the fact that she was much like Telahmis. A heavy hitter.

Mythal Vallaslin in white, decorating her face.  

“Elion” The one named Elion, greeted them.

He had a handsome look about him. Like the ‘farmer boy next door’, look.

Tanned brown freckled skin, brown mop of hair and lovely hazel eyes.

What was more interesting was he wore Vallaslin that was not of Mythals.

It was of June.  

“Y-you are Dalish?” She asked befuddled and he nodded in response;

“Indeed I am. I know, many of us do not keep the Vallaslin tradition anymore, however, I was always pretty partial to mine so opted to keep it rather than have it removed.”

They were the only two Dalish at the table, and she wanted to pick his brain more, for he’d clearly become accustomed well enough here… however he’d already gone back to eating,

and Telahmis had continued to the next;

“Then we have the lil guy.. Roshan...”

“I’m not little…You’re just really big” The little guy defended,  as Telahmis ruffled his hair like he were a child. “Thats what all the girls say..”

Telahmis barked then proceeded to laugh at his own joke.

Roshan sighed and looked across to them and repeated again “I’m not little… I’m 223 years old”

He said proudly.

Amanita didnt know how old that made him in Arlathanian years, he was clearly an adult in appearance, but still had a young look about his face. Impish in a way.

Short parted brown hair, and the smallest version of Mythals Vallaslin to his face.

“And lastly, past Abelas over there we have Yulan.”

Yulan had his head stuck in a book, reading so quietly to himself,

she wouldn’t have even known he was there, until he was pointed out to them.

When he heard his name, he lowered it enough to peer over at the three of them.

She was a little startled to see his eyes, looking like those of a dragons,

or no… it was more like snakes eyes, with large slits in-place of where the pupils usually were.  

“Don’t let his appearance frighten you.. “ Telahmis quickly added, probably due to their shock;

“He’s eccentric is all, and just a little obsessed with beasts that he tends to dabble a little too much in forgotten arts and bizarre practices.”

“Now now Telahmis” Yulan lowered the book, and they saw more of his appearance, to be a pale almost green skinned thin faced man. Bald, yet with thin white eyebrows, looking to them.

“It is a pleasure to meet you all.. I do hope my people have not been too impolite to you all and that you have found the city hospitable enough to your needs”

Telahmis motioned to a large scar over one of Yulans eyes and the back of his head.

“You see those scars?

Thats what he got for sticking his head too close to a poisonous snowy Wyvern.

Almost took his head clean off.. And he’s there stuck with his head in its jaws, going ‘Oh my how Fascinating!’” he finished in an overly exaggerated mimicry of his friends regal voice

Yulans eyes narrowed to his friend.

“I do not sound anything like that.. And it ‘was’ quite fascinating.”

Looking back to them, he interjected

“Did you know a snowy Wyvern is capable of producing enough venom in a single bite to kill an entire army of human men?”

The three of them shook their heads.

Telana snorted “Did you know, If I hadn’t sliced its neck open at that point…

You’d be dead?”

Yulan sighed “You tell me every chance you get, Telana….”

Telana picked at her teeth with a bone “Yeah, that’s cause you ain’t learned your lesson yet, Old man, you still keep getting too close to dangerous things”

Abelas remained quite the entire time.

It amused her that even here at the dinner table, he still wore his hood over his head.

Elion nudged Roshan with his elbow “What’d we tell you about looking at women?”

Roshan who was staring transfixed to her chest,

Jumped, like a child busted with his hand in a cookie jar. “I wasn’t!” He defended.

Then Telana snickered “Idiot… If you wanna see a woman’s tits that badly, I’ll show you later in my chambers” A wink that had Telahmis, her and Elion laughing.

Roshan was as red as could be “I wasn’t… not this time, seriously.. Its just..I saw her chest move.. Honestly”  

All of them looked to her chest now.

Awkward much?

But he was right, for it did, again.

She cleared her throat and a tiny dragon head popped out from atop her shirt.

Ellas’elera leaned in to Lailani beside him and whispered  “You see that too.. right?”

She nodded and he sat back letting out a breath of relief.

Yulan however, closed his book and leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the dragon.

“This is Mythalen, I take it?”  He asked

and his side of the table all went silent

“How he get so small then?” Roshan asked them.

“Xenon caught him and had him miniaturised, actually.

Then gifted him over to Mythal as a peace offering...” Abelas, finally spoke.

She had no clue who this Xenon character was, but Yulan clearly did.

“Nice fellow, that one.. Gave me an entire chest of yarrowberry seeds for free once,

just because he liked my work.”

Fishing into his back pocket, he pulled something free and handed it across the table to her.

“Would you mind, slipping this over his neck Miss Lavellan? I would be very grateful”

She took the item and examined it. A beautiful stone, encased in a leather collar of some sort

“What is it?” She asked cautiously.

“A small security measure.” He replied simply “Fear not, Miss Lavellan. It will not hurt him”

Abelas now, replied “I had Yulan make something, so that Mythalen could remain under your guard if you do so wish.. Unless of course you have changed your mind and are willing to hand him back over...” He let the question hang

And Amanita looked to the little dragon that craned its neck back to look at her.

Big eyes glittering, as if to say “please let me stay”

She sighed, taking the tiny collar and slipping it around the lizards neck, then fastening it comfortably.

“Lavenan’dalla Kolla Viss tor vak!” Yulan uttered, and the collar illuminated then morphed, into something that by all appearance looked rather permanent.

Sure enough, when Mythalen realised what had happened, and tried to remove the thing with its front talons, it did not budge.

“You tricked me.. “ She frowned at them. It was kind of a dirty move on their part.

Mythalen for his part, hissed at them along with her .

“I apologise for the foolery, Miss Lavellan.. However, he is a well known thief.

This will ensure he cannot run away, without us being able to find him again” Abelas replied.

But to her, the apology felt hollow.

They could have just said so.. She may not have liked it, but.. would have compromised.

Yulan handed Abelas a pouch now “The twin stone and its incantation is within here.

I am sorry it took a little longer to complete Brother.. I had to wait for the right craftsman to be available in town.”

Abelas nodded “I thank you for taking the time in this regard, Yulan. I can rest easier now.”

Ellas’elera peered over at her “How come I always miss the interesting stuff?”

Lailani giggled then fell shyly quite again when Yulan looked her way.

There was faint colour to his cheeks, then he went back to his book.

If Amanita didnt know any better -

Telahmis broke her train of thought, when he took one of the plates of meat and offered them as means of breaking up the tension;

“Try the spiced and charred Elk. The meats are soaked in wine before they are spiced and cooked. Damn good eatin’ and It’ll put a little hair on your chest.”

He thumped his own chest and she almost remarked she wasnt interested in growing chest hair, until the smell caught her attention and had her mouth watering again.

She gladly accepted instead, and sliced a few pieces off for herself, cutting a few tinier ones for the little bottomless pit that squeaked and whirred for food under her chin.

She had soon put away 5 potatoes, half a plate of mixed steamed vegetables and many slices of varied meats.

Telana was impressed “How you people eat so much? You are so tiny and scrawny compared to us. Where does it all go? Do you have two stomachs?”

Elion laughed and pointing out “You’re people live longer though,

and as a result, burn food slower, so you require less to keep you going.

My people on the other hand, burn food faster, as we age faster and so on..”

“From what I have read and seen” Yulan replied without looking up from his book “Dalish and the Free Elves, did not always know where or when their next meal would be. So they ate as much as possible whenever they could. Their stomachs are designed that way, to combat starvation.”

“That’s pretty neat and kinda really horrible” Roshan replied.

He was playing with Mythalen now, since the dragon felt safe enough to wander about more freely.

Lailani was a shy eater herself, barely touching much off her own plate, so Amanita had also put a few things aside to give to her later.

But it was getting late and Arlathanians had started wandering off back to their own quarters and sections.  

They finally stood to leave, and thanked the ancient ones and the Dalish one.

“Join us again tomorrow. Because you guys serve as much better company than this lot” Telahmis laughed, ignoring the punch to the arm from Roshan.

Abelas stood before they passed, pulling the tiny dragon up by its tail.

In its front claws, It held his pouch.“Forgetting something?”

He asked, brow raised,

and she scooped up the little thief making him let go of the stolen pouch

so she could hand it back to the Sentinel.

“Sorry” She dipped her head to him and bid them all a good night.

As the three walked back, Ellas’elera took to teasing the girls now.

“Lailani.. that weird guy kept lookin at you.. did you notice?”

He asked,

and she lowered her head more in an attempt to hide her blushing face behind her hair.

“N-No… I don’t know what you’re talking about..” She blundered.

Ellas looked past her to Amanita;

“Did you notice? I think she’s gotten herself an admirer”

“Ellas’elera, even if she did.. don’t tease her about it.. “ Amanita tsk’d.

He frowned, rubbed his chin then continued

“And whats the story between you and Abelas then? Seems like you both know each other well..” She snorted “Trust me.. there is no story”

“Really? Do you know he is one of Mythals most trusted sentinels?”

She froze, and they stopped to look back at her

“Come again?” she croaked. Had she really gone and had a tiff with Mythals own personal guard?

“Yeah, he’s like some old respected leader here. Everyone knows him…Heck, he trained half of them himself“ Ellas’elera responded.

Amanita groaned and hurried upto them

“I don’t wanna think about it right now.. I Just wanna go back to my room and sleep..”

The rest of the walk back involved Ellas’elera telling terrible jokes he’d heard from students that day and Lailani and her begging him to please stop telling them.

Finally she wished them goodnight, gave Lailani the stash she’d put aside for her,

and the two left her to go further inner City.

Making the climb up the steps, and to her room and its inviting bed, that she fell upon after she’d changed into sleepwear.

Mythalen slithered over to her other pillow and it took little time til they both fell asleep.

It was still late into the night, when she awoke to the sound of scratching at her doorway.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she looked over to see Mythalen was the one, scratching at the door.

“What’re you doing? Mythalen? Mythalen?! Come back to bed..” She mumbled sleepily.

The window was opened alittle.

If he had need of going to relieve himself, he could go out there.. but

he didnt seem interested in heeding her words, just gave a little shriek and sniffed under the doorway impatiently.

This prompted her to get out of bed finally.  

“What is it?” She asked, going slowly to the doorway, she pressed her ear against it, but heard nothing. Then slowly, she clutched the handle and opened it.

Mythalen stuck his head out first, clearly the coast was clear and she chanced a peek out.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She had good sense of smell like all Elvhen and Elven people,

but no smoke or distinct scent of any kind, caught her attention.  

Something had for the dragon however,

as he begun sniffing and snuffling his way along the ground.

Something had passed her room? Gone further up into the towers beyond here?

The only thing up there was extra stacked furniture and things as far as she knew..

but she followed the dragon regardless, as it made its way to the storage room.

The steps up there winded upwards into a spiral, but she carefully stuck to its walls, keeping her eyes peeled for anything above.. Until finally coming into the storage room.

Everything seemed quite up here, and …. cold.

Cobwebs decorated the corners and little light soaked the room.

She was about to head back down, satisfied it was nothing when someone moved in the shadows.

“Who goes there?!” The voice was authoritative

and a sentinel stepped out, with his sword raised in defence.

“We.. heard something” She replied quickly, hands up to show him she was unarmed.

“You shouldn’t be up here, return to your r-AGgghhh” A long sharp blade stabbed straight through the Sentinels mouth,

with the tip of the blade, mere inches from missing her own face.

She looked back into a face of horror.

A face that belonged to someone whom knew he was dead.

Amanita screamed jumping back and the dragon let out a frightful yelp, sending puffs of fire randomly into the room in futile attempts to hit the murderer, but neither the dragon nor she could see anyone else in the room with them.

The sentinel fell to the floor as the blade was pulled out by the mysterious murderer,

clutching his throat as he gurgled and chocked on blood, then collapsed into his own pool of blood.

He no longer moved after that.

Amanita had her back to the wall as she held her fists up in defence, waiting for another attack.

This time on her, but nothing came.  

“Mythalen, get help!” She cried but the dragon refused to leave her side

She screamed again, when something brushed past her, her heart racing so fast and hard it actually hurt, but whoever it was, they were no longer there.

She could however, hear panicked voices coming up the steps and she collapsed then, beside the dead sentinel, knowing she had dodged death today.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Abelas surveyed the room.

Black scorch marks on the walls. Mythalen no doubt.

Footprints. One large male, The sentinel,

one smaller set, the Dalish woman,

and tiny feet for the dragon.

No others.

He bent beside the dead sentinel.

Sorrow in his chest for he knew this one, had personally trained him.

And now he was dead. Some coward had taken his life from behind.

Blood splatter indicating entry wound.

“The woman?” He asked one of the guards at the entrance way.

“In a holding cell, awaiting further questioning Sir” The guard grunted.

Hm.. He would have to speak to her. For this was a mystery indeed.

He left the room and went straight to the cells.

Early morning light had only just started to peek.  

Soon, everyone would wake, and rumour would quickly spread throughout the City.

It was the first murder. Here.

Two guards greeted him at the door, then guiding him down, into the holding cells below.

They were all empty, except for one.

One of the guards unlocked the cell door for him to enter,

and Abelas couldn’t help but notice this guard had a few tinged hairs atop his head.

Entering, he saw the Dalish woman with her arms chained behind her back and her face bloodied. “Who gave the order to beat the prisoner?” He asked, firm.

Some clearing of throat and stammering, until one spoke up “She gave us a little trouble Sir. Wouldn’t co-operate”

“Liar” She fumed, baring her teeth “You got a little punch happy, with someone unable to defend themselves”

The other guard. A thinner elf spoke “She’s telling the truth Sir.

Yultor broke protocol. Wanted to interrogate her, himself.”

The bigger one Yultor, shot the thinner one a look.

Meanwhile, Abelas approached and bent on knee to face her.

Taking her chin in his hand, he moved her face side to side, gently, examining the damage.

Busted nose counted for the majority of the blood down her face, and there was one bruise

close to her temple.

She thought she had seen him cross before, but this was another look entirely.

He began Running one hand across her face, and she could feel the pain in her nose, easing. Healing.

“I am no talented healing mage, but this will ease the pain until we can send one to you.”

He didn’t sound overtly kind as he said this, but he also wasnt being mean either.

“Thank you...” Amanita said appreciatively, then waited expectantly for the questions to come.

“Tell me, what you saw” Standing up again, He asked, and she told him what she knew.

She told him that the Sentinel was alive when she went up there.

She had witnessed him being murdered,

but neither Mythalen nor herself saw anyone else in there with them.

Only a blade. A long slender blade. Used to kill the Elvhen.

“You are a rogue class. Could the person have been cloaked?”

“I don’t.. think so.. It was .. it was something different. Something.. I hadn’t seen nor felt before”

“Felt?” He asked. Walking slowly around her as he asked the questions and she gave her answers.

She nodded.

“The room, it was a little colder then normal. There was something ‘off’ about it.

Maybe it was just the adrenaline? .. but.. but it didn’t feel like some normal rogue or assassin attack.

“Why did they not kill you?”

She shrugged

“I had screamed.. twice.. Others must have heard me..

Perhaps the killer didn’t think they would have the time to.. and fled.“

“There are no other set of footprints on the scene.. How can we be sure you are not making this up?”

“Keep me in here, If it helps. I won’t be going anywhere nor demanding my freedom.

But please, keep looking.. Maybe theres something you missed or ... or someone else saw something? Just please… Keep searching.”

She looked desperate. Either she was a really good liar, or she was telling the truth.

“You lie, Dalish wench!” Hissed Yultor, who looked to Abelas’s back

“You cannot be buying this story? We found her covered in the victims own blood..”

“Idiot” She snapped back at him “Why would I wander around in sleepwear, kill someone and then scream about it, bringing attention to myself rather then flee back to my own room and play dumb.”

“I don’t know!… to throw us off? Dalish people are wild and cunning.. You cannot be trusted.. “

“Silence!” Abelas commanded, and Yultor quickly fell quite again.

“Very well Miss Lavellan. I will come see you again if anything comes up.. good or bad”

He promised with a sigh, then made to leave.  

Pausing at the exit door a moment “Yultor. You will come with me.”

[sending-the-message]

A Mouse in the House by jonny_z

What do you do when you have a mouse? Get a cat, I suppose. Seems logical. What do you do when the mouse eats the cat? Well, I decided to study the fucker. Turns out, that was not the best idea I’ve had. Ok, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. I live in what some might consider a shithole. I myself, consider it… rustically charming. So, living in an older house with, shall we say, ample opportunities for renovations, you’re bound to end up with the odd, freeloading quadruped about. It started simply enough: little gnaw marks on my cereal boxes, chew holes through my trash bag, small black dookie pellets littered hither and yon. Evidence that I had an interloper who was attacking my Cinnamon Chex. Nobody, but nobody, fucks with my Cinnamon Chex. You see, I don’t have much anymore, after that Harlot left me heart-broken, penniless and with a 400 credit score. My entire world consisted of work, whiskey and Cinnamon Chex, so anyone attacking one of my three pillars of this shit existence was branded as my nemesis.

The first act was to try and catch the sonofabitch myself. I set out about my dilapidated, three story garbage heap to try and find the fucker’s hiding spot. The problem is, I really didn’t have baseboards to speak of and one would be hard-pressed to find a section of wall, floor or room that didn’t have mouse-sized holes in it. After about a week, none of the traps were sprung and I had all but given up on hunting the cereal thieving bastard. Even laying down flour near his normal “dining area” to try and trace footprints back to his escape hatch was fruitless; it seemed that the flour was too obvious for the conniving little douche. So, I decided it was time to up my game and find myself a natural predator. As fortune would have it, my shithole house was in a shithole neighborhood and I had an abundance of semi-feral felines roaming the alleyways. One never had to wait too long before one of the local Toms knocked up an alley hussy and she spit out a litter of furry hell-spawn. It took little more than a hunk of McGarbage on a boot string to corral one of the wee guttersnipes into my foyer so that I could apprehend him. He was a feisty little shit: the first afternoon that I made him my prisoner, after distracting him with the other half of my McYucky sandwich, I attempted to pet him. He bit me for my trouble. I named him Dick. He didn’t care.

I figured Dick would probably be too full of processed beef abominations to want to sniff out my intruder, but I grossly underestimated the voracity of an infrequently fed feral feline and he set about with little haste tracking around the other critter’s munching ground. Low to the ground, I watched Dick as he slinked about my mismatched wood flooring in search of a live, wriggling meal. He made his way, weaseling up the stairs like a slinky in reverse, on to the second floor. He paused for a minute, regained his bearings, acquainting himself with the yet undiscovered level of my domicile before proceeding up the stairs once more, en route to the attic door on the third floor. I personally never made many trips into the attic. When I had moved in, I noted that it was filled with rubbish and ruined furniture from previous tenants, probably dating back a few decades. Between the mildew smell and queef squeak of the floorboards, I found no reason to ever fully explore that particular room. To be honest, my time was spend drinking on my dirty, jizz and tear stained futon with occasional trips to the commode to shit, shave and shower. But I digress. Dick stopped outside of the attic door, which had a sizeable gap between the base of the old, paint peeled door and the discolored floor boards, the threshold long ago either rotted or kicked away. He got almost flat to the ground and began to let out that low, guttural cat yodel, signaling that his target had been acquired. He stared at the door, tail twitching in a perturbed manner and continued to grumble. “Well,” I thought. “This should be short work.” And I trekked back down the stairs to my futon and cheap bottle of whiskey to drink and sulk myself to sleep, as per custom.

The next morning, I expected to find the gory evidence of mouse murder. Gore, I found in spades. Mouse bits? Not so much. What I did find was a ragged, jagged, gnawed hunk of cat tail just outside of the attic door. This was an unexpected turn of events. So, shit-snacks... I may have grossly underestimated my rodent opponent. What should I do now, I wondered aloud, to no one in particular. I’d like to pause and interject here. As I am writing this, I am more or less sober. This a great deal different than my usual states of incredibly drunk or incredibly hung over. In moments like now, I have the virtue of extreme hindsight and clarity. At the time, this was not the case. Instead of realizing that something was truly amiss with this creature sharing my house, I just assumed that it was more ‘rat’ than ‘mouse’, and being that Dick wasn’t full grown, I just passed it off as a battle royale that ended in the rat’s favor. Perhaps, I surmised, there were two or more rats involved. A gang of rats, even. So, I decided to adjust my tactics and impose a heartier predator to take on this vermin infestation. In much the same manner, using my urban fishing skills, I wrangled two decent sized, surly Toms who clearly regarded me as their lesser and they strutted, nuts swinging, across my floor to the plate of McDysentery that I had prepared for them. For sure, I thought, this would be the end of my invader. After all, I had cereal to think of.

In much the same way, the two Toms skulked their way up to the third floor attic door and yowled at the brood beyond. This time, I thought, I was out to win the game. I grabbed my bottle of turpentine flavored whiskey and proceeded back up the crumbling steps to the third floor where to terrible Toms sat outside the door to my attic. In fact, I grabbed a camping chair and a bag of stale chips to complete the ambiance and prepared for a little, quadrupedal gladiator show. I quickly set up camp and opened the door to the attic to set loose those magnificent bastards and was immediately assaulted by the mold scent and a new, yet undescribed funk. Something deep and rich in its awfulness, with the slight twinges of metal at its outskirts. As if the mold wasn’t bad enough, I imagine this was the rotting remnants of poor little Dick from the other day. The Toms wasted no time and bolted in to the shadows in the back of that rotten attic. Obscured by the foul-smelling darkness, the sounds of mayhem and murder ripped through the otherwise silent room. Munching my stale chips, I wondered if I should grab a flashlight to catch the action as it unfolded. The action, however, lasted as long as a Mike Tyson fight. I could tell by the tone of screeching from my two tough Toms that the tide of the battle had shifted against them. The low, guttural war cry sharply shifted to a pleading cacophony of retreat. Retreat, however, was not on the enemy’s agenda. Briefly, I saw the mangled form of one Tom try and drag his way out of darkness into light, like a soul damned to the pit, groping skyward for the heaven he would never reach. The poor shit was dragged menacingly back into that awful blackness to assuredly be ripped asunder by whatever ungodly creature resided in the blackness.

After the melee, I sat for a long time and pondered what had just occurred. In as little as three weeks, whatever had taken residence in my home had graduated from cereal to kitten to full grown alley cats in as much time. This did not bode well for yours truly. Thoughts of whatever was in that attic haunted me in my half-inebriated state. But, much to my later chagrin, whiskey has the dubious moniker of “liquid courage” for a reason. My thoughts shifted from fear to anger at whatever the fuck thought it could intrude on me, eat my cereal and my fucking cats! It didn’t matter that I had them each for less than a few days; they were like my miserable extended family: a reflection of myself in their shoddy, unloved and disheveled state. An inexplicable rage burbled up inside of me like the first wave of violent bourbon induced vomiting and I leaped from my chair and grabbed my now empty bottle of whiskey to swing like a deadly cudgel against whatever mutant rat was living in my attic.

I burst through the entryway like a demented warrior, bottle raised above my head, yelling like a maniac at top lung and hitting the room at full drunken lumber. As I closed my distance into the shadows, time itself slowed to a heated heartbeat pace. Each moment in those few seconds, etched like a camera obscura forever into my thalamus, no matter how much I try to kill the memory with booze….

First heartbeat

I hit the separation between the light from the landing outside of the attic door to the dark of the inner attic sanctum.

Second heartbeat.

The shadows revealed themselves to me, like a two dollar whore dropping her filthy dress to the cigarette burned carpet of a seedy roadside motel.

Third heartbeat.

From the level of my waist, eight glowing orbs, so red that they were black, shot up at my direction and fixed on me; a predator honing in on its prey. They spoke destruction in their gaze, and that gaze was pointed right at where my giblets were housed.

Fourth heartbeat.

A low, hungry rumble undulated from just below the glowing orbs. It was a song of death. My death. I was man-bacon. And I had stepped directly into the motherfucking frying pan.

Fifth heartbeat.

I shifted my forward momentum to one side of my body and spun around on my heel, parlaying my forward drive into centrifugal force, propelling my terrified ass directly out the way I had come. Suddenly sober, I sprinted with every ounce of fleet footedness I could muster. Pure and primal survival kicked in as I heard the scraping its nails made as it dug into the floorboards for traction, preparing to make me into its next meal and presumably grow to full human height. I managed to grab the door, slamming it shut mere seconds before that whatever-the-fuck-it-was locked its teeth into my ass cheeks. I heard it hit with a thud and grunt as I continued into the half functioning bathroom. See, like a proper loser, I kept bottles of whiskey in about every room just in case I found my idle hands wanting. Opening the top, I ripped my shirt off and stuffed it into the open maw of the whiskey bottle (after taking a solid pull from it, of course, because fuck sobriety right now) and produced the Zippo my bitch of an ex had bought me one birthday. Lighting it with a practiced flourish, I set ablaze the Molotov cocktail right as that eight-eyed carnivore discovered the concept of doorknobs.

With the skill that only middle relief pitching in little league could bring me, I hucked that flaming bottle at the mass that held those goddamned eyes. In a magnificent explosion of whiskey fueled fire, the cocktail hit home and set that shit-weasel ablaze. It screamed bloody murder and began to thrash back to the shadows of the attic, lighting the old boxes and musty furniture in its retreat. As the fire quickly spread from shit heap to shit heap, the creature made it’s exit through the window, screeching as it fell. I paused a moment to catch my breath, smiling like an idiot in victory until I realized that my house would probably burn around me if I didn’t get the hell out of dodge, post haste.

Grabbing another bottle of whiskey on my way out, I walked away like the closing scene of a John Woo film, building artistically blazing behind me. I paused, a sudden thought occurring to me… so few times in my life had I fought a battle and won, that it seemed a waste not to revel in my one victory a bit. I took a hearty swig of my dime store booze and sauntered cockily over to the rear of my flaming house to physically piss on my fallen foe.

As I rounded the corner, I saw in full, clear view what I had unwittingly vanquished. Lying twitching on the ground was what looked like a rejected HR Geiger sketch of a spider: the size of a small dog with a pale, hairless, smooth white body, dagger like legs and menacing mandibles which were still soaked in the blood and viscera of my poor, poor pussy cats. I could see that my flaming onslaught had melted three of its eight eyes, but, other than that, it looked more dazed than wounded. Staring at it, swaying drunkenly, I lost myself momentarily in the wickedness of the thing. What a perfect predator: quiet, sleek, ruthless… I wondered for a moment how large it would grow if left unchecked. It began to stir, ever so slightly, proving to me that I had indeed only stunned it. Any moment now, it would shake off the haze like the end of any of my lonely, whiskey soaked nights, courtesy of a heartless succubus who took my time, my money, my happiness and left me for some cocksucker with a better job and a sports car… And then, the angel on my shoulder was smited by the devil on my other as a dark grin cracked over my face, growing until my teeth bared and my skin began to crack.

A box, some tape, a note and a short drive was all it took. She always liked surprises. And I recall, she often told me she was fond of my eyes… well, I have new eyes to show her, and those eyes scream out murder.

[transgressivepistoleer]

FNV Bounties One Shot: Only Fitting

           Jericho crouched behind one of the few standing tombstones, her breath steaming fast and hard in the snowy sky. Her hands burned and cramped and bled. She hadn’t taken the time to let them heal from the cruel wounds they had received. She hadn’t had the time to take. Jericho had to strike when all her foes celebrated her burial, and Marko was out of the main town. Both were taking a breather in their dance to oblivion, and Jericho couldn’t help recall how she wound up here.

           The Mojave was far away from this frozen hell. Jericho missed the heat, the lights, the towns. She had come to find new appreciation for the smaller things in life after being dragged from her own grave, a bullet lodged in her skull. Things were up and down after that. She needed caps, so she joined a fledgling bounty hunter outfit and rose through the ranks to the top. Well, she guessed she was the only one besides Steven Randall, gods rest his soul. Judge Richter was what first brought her into the attention of Marko. The Judge was with some kind of syndicate, and possibly a child molester. It was hard to ask him with fifteen bullets clogging his lungs.

           Steven had been slain by one of the Judges hired guns, so Jericho was on her own. She had built a reputation then, in that near lawless desert. She tracked Red Bear, Marko’s second in command at one time, and convinced him to give up. He was tired. So very tired, and Jericho gave him a way out. She didn’t know if it was because of his hostages, the vast array of guns pointed in both directions, or a glimmer in the man’s eye, but it ended bloodlessly. Which was more than could be said for the Ghoul Gunslinger Johnny Rounder and Marko’s own brother, Sergio. Both fell to Jericho’s gun and will.

           It was Sergio’s death that made Marko snap. By his own admission, he would’ve left her well alone if she hadn’t brought family into this. She tried to explain there was no other way, but he refused to listen. Of course, this was way after she found a man named Virgil waiting for her by Steven Randall’s old shack. After Virgil showed her the backlash of her bounties. After Virgil took her to Utah. After Virgil unveiled himself to be Marko, and walked away into the blizzarding night before Jericho could fire upon him.

           Jericho found her way to Frosthill nearby, and the bounty hunter camp soon after, led by Steven Randall himself back from the dead. Sure, he was a Ghoul, but she had no trouble with that. The next week was spent slowly taking out Marko’s forces. One by one they surrendered or were shot where they stood. On the eve of the final confrontation, Jericho found a dirty secret. A bloody betrayal by the NCR official brought in to fund their group. In exchange for the town to be brought under NCR’s wing, Jericho and Randall were to be brought alive before Marko. And every other bounty hunter in the camp were in on it, save one.

           Jericho watched, gagged and helpless as Marko grandstanded before her, blew Steven Randall’s head into red mist, and then massacred the entire town. He took her hands and stabbed through them, hoping to prevent her from every handling a weapon again. Marko then took her up a hill, and buried her alive with her guns. “Only fitting,” he had said. Jericho didn’t know how long it was in that airless dark. She didn’t know if she screamed or saved what little breath she had. In her mind, she kept seeing those she had shot down, and wondered if they were as terrified as she was.

           The withered corpse of Mr. House had begged her for mercy. Ceaser had fought defiantly to the last man. President Kimball didn’t even know what hit him. But she had her reasons for all of them. Mr. House, the tyrant, the man who lived too long, who thought caps could buy any soul in the Mojave, had had to be put down before his madness could spread. Ceaser was a monster, plain and simple. His Legion boiled Jericho’s blood like no other. And Kimball was rabidly focused on bringing the Mojave under the NCR. So many resources and lives down the drain for his dream, Jericho found it a mercy to end his wasteful imperialism.

           All these thoughts swam through the darkness of her crypt. Jericho didn’t know if she was going to Hell, or if there even was one. Joshua Graham thought there was one. Dr. Mobius didn’t. Ulysses wasn’t sure with her. But Jericho was certain the she was going to die. Certain until she felt the earth above move, and light and air seeped into her coffin. What followed was a whirlwind of explanation and Stim-paks. One of the Bounty Hunters hadn’t joined with Marko and his crooked deal, instead hanging back. He had seen everything, and was petrified through it all. He dug Jericho up as soon as everyone had gone back to Frosthill. He offered to help her back to the Mojave, to let everyone think she was dead, to let her live in obscurity for the rest of her days.

           But Jericho couldn’t take him up on it. Not after the betrayal and the massacre. She couldn’t let Marko get away with this, couldn’t let that bastard live. Couldn’t let Ford celebrate his part in Randall’s death. Couldn’t let all those killed lay unavenged. So she geared up and headed down to Frosthill with fury in her heart.

           When Jericho kicked the door to the saloon open it was better than she hoped. Every turncoat was there, drinking and cheming up in celebration of them being rich. Every turncoat’s jaw dropped as Jericho stood in the doorway. Every turncoat fell as she let loose a tidal wave of lead and fire, screaming like the souls of the damned. She didn’t stop until the building groaned ominously, its supports riddled with holes and its floors soaked with blood. Jericho stepped outside and burned the saloon with the Incinerator she had taken taken from Cook Cook’s shredded corpse.

           As the embers lit up the night sky, Jericho turned towards the graveyard, where she had heard Marko say he was going. But before she left, she placed mines all around the edges of the saloon. She had escaped Death’s grip three times now, and she wasn’t going to let any of the treacherous bastards inside do the same. It was haphazard, it was dangerous, it took time, but Jericho was glad she did it. She was even more glad when she heard two go off behind her.

           And then it was time. She walked into the graveyard, Marko standing with his back to her over the fresh grave of Steven Randall. His surprise when he heard her boots in the snow and turned was delicious. His scathing words weren’t. They argued. They argued about determination and of destiny. Of legends and those who write them. They argued of sins and saints, bullets and bounties, and finally of who would walk out alive. Then the words fell silent, and only the freezing wind was heard.

           Marko slipped into V.A.T.S first. The shot from Old Scratch nicked Jericho’s arm. It might as well have taken it clean off from the inferno of pain it brought. Jericho returned the favor, her Jackal blasting rounds deep into Marko’s side. He winced, but didn’t fall. He fired again. Jericho coughed blood. She shot him in the leg. Marko roared in pain. The air was soon heavy with gun smoke, the ground littered with casings. Jericho fell back behind a tombstone and injected a Stim-pak. And it was here that she was, reloading Jackal, desperately thinking how to outdo the most dangerous man in the Wasteland.

           A bullet clipped her hiding place, sending stone shrapnel into one of her eyes. Jericho screamed, dropping Jackal and clutching at her bleeding eye. Bullets fell from her hands onto the ground. Through tears, Jericho saw something among one of them. A bullet of Jackal’s caliber, a red band around the casing. She didn’t know when she picked one of those up. Maybe during one of her spending binges she threw a few onto the pile. It didn’t matter though. All that mattered was that maybe the explosive round would give her the edge.

           Randall had frowned on using “unfair” ammo like that. He always said that if you couldn’t get by with the speed of your draw and the heat of your lead, then you shouldn’t be standing there in the first place. But Marko was just too good. Jericho knew she could never defeat him like that alone. But she still hesitated before picking it up.

           “What’s wrong, Bounty Hunter?” Marko’s voice came mockingly. “I thought you were, ‘going to show me the error of my ways.’” Jericho grimaced, and loaded the explosive shell into Jackal. Marko had cheated first. He had set the trap back in the camp, had pierced her hands so she might never handle a gun properly again, place an army of traitors between him and her. His evil would end here; she would make sure of it.

           Half blinded, Jericho stood and aimed at Marko. In V.A.T.S, she could see she couldn’t hit his head or any other vital organs. But then a thought occurred. She didn’t have to end him in one shot. All she had to do was make sure HE couldn’t do the same to her. So, shifting her aim to the left, Jericho fired.

           The bullet exploded violently by Marko’s right, causing him to cry out in pain. Jericho fired again and again, explosions tearing the earth asunder, and performing the simple task Jericho had in mind: crippling the right arm of Marko. Old Scratch dropped from his shattered grip, and he fell as his leg gave out from under him. He was alive, but could do no more.

           Jericho walked slowly up to him, pressing Jackal into his forehead. Marko stared venom into her, black hate an inferno in his eyes. Jericho stared back and cocked the hammer back. Then she saw the grave Marko lay against, and the name written there. Steven Randall. Jericho withdrew Jackal, and put it away. “What’s the matter, Bounty Hunter?” Marko spat. “Lose the nerve all of a sudden?”

           “No.” Jericho said, her voice hoarse from the cold. From her coat, she drew Steven’s gun. The gun she received from him in his will when he died the first time. The gun he had told her would slay the monster that disfigured him and slaughtered his wife and child. The gun that had felled Judge Richter, Johnny Rounder, and Sergio. The gun Jericho would no doubt give up to her successor, or to her killer, or to both. Sweet Revenge. “I thought it only fitting.”

*BANG*

[wootensmith]

Flood

“What made you wake?” she asked, prodding a fallen log farther into the hearth. “The war.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There must have been hundreds of wars since the Veil and yet you continued to sleep through them all. Why this one?” He pressed his lips tightly together, but the bitterness would not be held back. “You think I have been idle. That all this time I have lived in fantasy and ease. Were you any other, I would leave it. I have done so many things that deserve censure— but what you imagine of me, I have not earned. I watched this world, yes, let it play before me like a pageant. I have seen your wars and your heroes and villains, loves and losses. And longed for them all. They could not touch me, that is true. But I did touch them, in my way.” She turned to him and he crept closer to her. “Do you know how many people pray in their sleep? For counsel, for aid, for justice— I found as many as I could. Midwives napping during a difficult birth who asked Sylaise to guide their hands. Keepers who faced a difficult decision and wished for Dirthamen to advise them. Warriors on the eve of battle who begged Elgar’nan to give them courage. Wronged slaves who prayed to Mythal for justice. Where I could help from the Fade, I tried. I would not accept worship in the place of the false gods, but I could not abandon the people. I couldn’t let them think they were alone.” Her face was so much easier to read without the vallaslin. Love and sorrow so clear now, like the sun suddenly shining through a pane of glass. She touched his knee beside her, but was silent, waiting.

“In the name of Falon’din, I walked with the dead as far as I could to ease their fears. And I studied months and years to aid craftsmen in their inventions, connecting great minds to complete their ideas. They gave thanks to June. Showed lost children the way back to their clans as they slept, lost in the Brecilian Forest. They believed I was Ghilan’nain’s halla.” “And for yourself?” she asked. He sighed and folded her hand in his. “They do not call me the Bringer of Nightmares without reason, Vhenan. Some warnings are not heeded until the terror is made real. I harried our foes where I could. Meted out justice in the night to those who were untouchable otherwise. Warned those I would save against coming danger. Or tried, at least. That is what I did in my own name. No one ever sought me out. Not until you did, the night we returned from the Mire.” “Forgive me, I’ve spoken without thought. So many times. So many things I’ve gotten wrong about you— about the others.” He shook his head. “How were you to know? I do not regret doing these things. Not even doing them in another’s name. But— I wish to be seen, for once, as I truly am, for good or ill.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “I am trying. If you wish me to see, then you must show me,” she said. “I know,” he answered, ��I too, am trying.” He fell silent a moment. “I woke this time because the war was tearing the entirety of Thedas asunder. For centuries I had let it be. I thought it was too far, that I would overstep if I meddled more. That you had to be allowed to come to terms with the Veil and what it meant for yourselves. But then Wisdom told me it was failing. That Mythal had tried to intervene, but the damage was too great, even for her—” “Mythal? But she died a thousand years ago.” “She did. But the first of my people are not so easily defeated.” “Is she— Is Corypheus—” “No. He is something— different. I would have known what to do if he were like us. Mythal— I need to speak with her.” He felt warmth creeping into his face. “More than just shouting on a bridge,” he admitted. “You woke to aid her and have not spoken with her? How did you intend to help?” He paused. Don’t turn on me, he willed her. “The Veil is collapsing. It has been for ages, even before the Breach. Since I created it, in fact. It is imperfect, tearing wherever powerful magic or emotion is experienced, fading and leaking in spots.” “So you meant to recreate the spell? Create another?” “No, my love. I am not capable of recreating it. There were hundreds of others who aided me in creating it. And even if it were possible, should I cut us off from the Fade again? Perhaps worse than before? It would not change how people view it or how people treat mages. It would not stop more tears from occurring. I meant to dissolve it. Take it down. Undo my mistake.” He traced her fingers with his, pulling at her with his own magic. “Return you to your true self.” Her brow wrinkled in confusion and he marveled at how new the familiar expression sat upon her naked skin. “Then is it the other Evanuris you fear? We will find a way to deal with them, Solas. It should not cause you such fear. You have Mythal to aid you, and the Inquisition will—” He shook his head. “I had plans for them. Already an army gathers to hold them. And more will come, in time. They are not what I fear. The Veil— it had a result I did not expect. A benefit that I did not predict. I was unaware, when I first woke, of what would happen should it fall.” “But we’ve been in the Fade. It was not so terrible. Even Sera and Hawke were unharmed— I don’t understand what makes you despair.” “Yes, it was much more destructive being created than it ought to have been when removed. But something else was caught behind it, besides the Fade. The Veil was never intended to hold back the Blight. And yet, it did, for a time. Until Corypheus and his brethren ripped the Veil in Arlathan to tatters and unsealed it.” His face curled into a hateful snarl. “It was loose after that. Wisdom didn’t discover the intrusion for some time. When it did, it hid Arlathan away and did what it could to repair the damage. But it was too late. The Blight clung to the Imperium. Clumsy attempts were made to beat it back again. But the Wardens could not banish it for good. It was spreading, behind the Veil. Multiplying in the Titan, encouraged by the others that I’d locked away. The Forgotten Ones. The Tevinters showed them their chance in the openings made in the Veil. They sought out other weaknesses, sent legions of darkspawn forth under their command. They used the red lyrium as Corypheus does, to extend their power, to guard their immortality and return and return as archdemons.” “But they’ve been defeated each time—” He felt the low whine of helplessness in his throat even before she heard it. “No, my love, they were only pushed back. Only biding their time. They spill forth once an age to test the Veil. To find its fragile points. It will not withstand another. Not even if I allowed it to fall naturally.” He pressed against her, seeking her arms, her solid reality. “The Blight is a vast sea under Thedas. And when the Veil falls, it will flood all the world and drown it,” he broke into a shaky sob. “I cannot stop it. I cannot change it.” She was very still a moment around him. He began to hope she was calmer than he, that she’d already suspected. Found some way out of this terrible darkness. But her hands began shaking on his back and spread, a deep unending shudder. He pulled back to see her. She gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re touched, fanor,” she said. He shook his head. “Yes. Don’t fear. My Keeper has cured many with madness. All will be well—” “If only I were.” “You are, Solas, you must be. Fen’harel and dead gods and Blight infecting all the world— it is a bad dream, nothing more.” She brushed his face, as if she were soothing a small child. “We’ll go home. It’s the coming battle, I know it is. It will be over soon and the strain will lessen. You’ll recover and we’ll—” “Come with me,” he said. “When this is done, come with me. If I’m mad, what will it matter? If I am not what I’ve claimed, then no one will be harmed. The Veil will remain and all will be as it should. And if not— I cannot think of you here, suffering.” “We should—” she looked around them as if she’d forgotten where they were. She was still shaking and he knew some part of her understood. “We should talk to Dorian. He’ll know what to—” He considered allowing it to stay, this lie that she shielded herself with. Told himself it would do no good, convincing her of what would come. It was what he would have done only a few weeks before. But he’d brought her to this place to prepare her. She would not join him, every time he asked he’d known before the words left his tongue that she’d refuse. He could not leave her helpless. So he pulled the anchor toward his chest even as she looked for someone to heal him. He pressed it against himself and pushed. It flared under his magic and sliced open the boundary to the Fade. She gasped and tried to pull back but he gripped her wrist. “Ir abelas, Vhenan. There is no other way to show you.” He painted the memory on the air in veilfire unmuted by the Veil and watched the soft blue glow fill her eyes as she fell into it. He had not seen it until after he’d woken. If Wisdom had known— would it have turned elsewhere for aid? He had seen it as he recovered here, the great chasm of bonfires scattered beneath the earth. Far below even the deep roads. He’d followed the dream for long weeks, waiting for Wisdom to find him. All the time discovering the world in worse and worse peril. And when he’d shown it to the spirit— he shut off the thought. He did not enjoy remembering the bitter argument that had parted them before the Breach. The veilfire still burned in the Inquisitor’s eyes, even as they streamed with tears. She was not seeing him. Only the Blight. Only the unending tidal wave of darkspawn and the haunting, maddening melody of the red lyrium. A sob tore from her and he held her tighter, though he knew she did not feel it, not in the memory. It helped him even if it could not affect her. The magic faded at last, from shine to ember and then spark. Until she was herself again, staring at him. He was unsure if she realized the memory had ended. And then she shoved him away. He let go and she tumbled to the floor and scrambled farther from him, hunched and frightened. “Why?” she asked, “Why would you take it down when all this— ruin waits behind it?” He reached a hand out toward her, but she flinched and he let it drop into his lap. “At first— I thought I might change it. That I could halt the spread. I— there is a method, not to cure it, but to delay the Blight’s effects. Better than the Grey Warden’s methods, without the other effects.” She loosened a little, curiosity gradually winning out over her horror. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why hide it away—” “I was uncertain whether it would work. I don’t know how it will affect Shemlen. Cole has given me hope— but I cannot knowingly expose someone to the Blight in order to test it. And I don’t know how it will affect modern elves. Ir abelas, Vhenan, I cannot pretend there are no differences between us. Though I wish to.” He rose, slowly. She backed away, even so, and her fear clawed at his heart. “And then— and then there was Redcliffe. And another way. The amulet you took from Alexius— it was a chance beyond my imaginings. Some hope for restoration. I can save our people, but it comes at a cost.” She shook her head. “Such a cost.” “Yes,” he agreed, “More terrible with each passing breath. If there were any other way, I would not hesitate. But the amulet’s spell will not work without access to the Fade. The centuries I must travel are too great even for the power available through something like the Breach. Once the Veil has fallen, I may return and alter our path. Before Andruil ever finds the lyrium. Perhaps before the Titan is even infected. But it means this world must die.” “Always playing for time,” she muttered. “What else would you have me do?” he asked. She thought for a moment, watching him. He was still, wishing she would close the gap between them, willing the fear to melt away, her anger to soften. “I cannot save the world from this,” she said at last, her voice a broken, crumpled thing. “No,” he said, choking on grief. “Nor I.” “How long?” she asked. He shook his head. “I am uncertain. A few years. A decade, perhaps, if you continue to close rifts and strengthen the Veil.” “Leaks in the dam,” she said. “Yes. They multiply too quickly now. It will not last, even so. And the mark—” “I know.” She looked down at it, tilting her palm, watching the spread of the light. “You won’t— it is I who must play for time now. Did you mean to tear it down as soon as we recovered the orb? Should I recall the Wardens?” “What is the kinder way?” he asked. “I don’t trust my own judgment in this. I thought a swifter end—” “No!” she cried and did dart toward him. “Give me time to find a solution—” “Time to agonize and grieve and be ground under the weight of terror and impotence?” “Yes, if that is what must be. And time to hope and think and build an army to push it back or a cure to dissolve it. And if not— to bid farewell and love.” She brushed her fingertips over the center of his chest. He leaned forward and kissed the damp skin of her face, tasting salt and sorrow. She didn’t pull away. “Give me that much.” “Come with me. Be near me at the end,” he said. “I have my own world to save. Come back, Solas, return to me at the end. This is the world you belong to.” He tipped his forehead to hers. That she no longer asked him to stay spoke louder than everything. Her acceptance of it crushed him. “You cannot save it. It will mean your death and nothing will change.” “There are some things worth doing, even knowing I will fail. Even knowing they will end.” She brushed a thumb over his lips. “Stay in Skyhold. It will stand longer than anywhere else. It will give you time.” He flicked his hand and the stone statue at the end of the library rumbled and moved aside. He turned toward it, pulling her after him. A vial of dark liquid sat in the hollow and a copy of the notes he and Wisdom had made. He pressed the vial into her hand. “It will delay the Blight. Vivienne has the research. And the Hero of Ferelden should be receiving a copy any day. I will wait until the final breath, Vhenan, but it will come at last.” Her fingers closed around the glass. “And if I refuse to let you take the orb? Would you strike me down?” He watched her a long moment, but there was no real threat in her face, not even true fear. Just longing and sadness. “The woman who could do that would not have returned from Redcliffe. She would cling too hard to false hopes and futile power. You are not her. You know, now, what comes, regardless of the orb. And I could never hurt you. Not like that.” “And if I asked you to? If I find I cannot do this and asked you to end this before you went, to give me that swift end you think so kind?” “Don’t ask,” he whispered, turning his face away. She grasped his chin and brought him back. “If I asked?” “Yes. Even this, I would do for you,” he said, the breath a burning stutter in his chest. She twisted the vial in her hand, staring at it. He wondered if she meant to dash it to the ground. “Do you think the Fade crosses between worlds? You say it is vast. Could it connect us again?” she asked instead. “I don’t know. But whatever is left of me will search for you there. I will find you, even if it is only in that other time.” The Inquisitor’s mouth crooked into a bitter smile. “She is a fortunate woman then, this other me.” The smile dropped away and she looked up at him. “And I hate her.” Her fist shook around the glass and sparks sizzled on her nails. “Shh,” he urged, pulling her fingers gently open again. He put the vial back into the hollow and pressed cool fingers over her temples, to the back of her neck. “She does not have me yet.” He drew her into a soft kiss, trying to soothe her. “If I find a way to stop the Blight, to save this world— will you stay? Even if it meant the Veil must remain? Would you trade the memory of your people for the living around you?” she asked when they parted. “Yes,” he said, without hesitation. He would not tell her how often he’d wavered even without hope. How many times he’d wanted to let the world wither if it meant she was beside him at the end. “Then—” she gripped the ancient wolf jaw between them, “This is my oath. She will never have you.”

[tameila]

a little party never hurt nobody.

Characters/Pairings: Oscar, Audrey, and friends! with brief Cullen/Audrey

Summary: [~2800 words] Oscar just wants his cousin to take one night off from working.

Notes: a birthday present for Kimmie (@mythalsfavour)!! I hope you had a wonderful day, lovely!! 😘💕✨

Oscar appreciated his cousins' presence at Skyhold. He really did.

Gunnar's songs and stories kept the troops inspired and had the staff singing through their work, and, in a pinch, his magical prowess torn forces asunder. Not to mention, Lady warmed her way into everyone's hearts with little to no effort, as was her way. She always sat at the gates when scouting parties returned, whether Oscar was with them or not, as an unofficial welcoming committee. Her person was never far away, strumming his lute or humming a tune.

 Even-tempered Jenny, with her healing skills and nurturing nature, saved as many lives as her dear siblings and cousin often took. It would seem that it ran in the Trevelyan blood to be foolhardy, but Jenny reined them in, kept them alive, even if only by guilting them into it by merely existing. In every way, she was born to be the one that others dreamed to come home to, equal measures warm and stern. Disappointing Jenny remained firmly at the bottom of any lists of 'acceptable consequences'.

 Then, there was Audrey. She possessed neither the charismatic gravity of her brother nor the gentle manners of her sister. She was a highborn lady. The Orlesian blood on her mother's side shown through when the time called for propriety - words wielded as sharp as her sword. Yet, at the same time, she rejected every inch of her noble blood, refused to take a tilted rank in the Inquisition army without first proving her worth and Oscar once watched her reset her nose after a particularly grueling fight; she did not flinch nor shed more than the usual, involuntary tears as if she had done it before, and Oscar tried not to think of any situation before then where she must have. She was relentless, hard working, and efficient. Sometimes he swore that Audrey got more done in a couple hours than he could manage in a couple days. Sometimes because she preemptively completed his work for him.

 As she was doing right now.

 Oscar trudged up the stairs to his room, stopping short at the sight of his cousin, hunched over his desk, writing furiously.

 "Please, dear cousin, come in! Make yourself comfortable! Did you pick the lock again or simply argue it into submission?"

 The corners of Audrey's lips curled, but she kept writing. "You tease me now, but give me a minute to finish this letter and I think you'll find your mood shifting," she said, casting him her cheeky smile.

 "Which letter would this be?" Oscar asked, taking his time in crossing the room. He removed the weight of his robes that he did not need anymore, casting pieces of armor onto the back of the couch as he passed.

 "The one that Josie has been requesting you write to Empress Celene for days now. Oh - I've also finished that report Leliana wanted. Do you know that you've had Leliana waiting for it for two weeks?"

 "I've been in The Hinterlands!"

 "Excuses, excuses," Audrey sang, eye alight as she waved the quill at him. "So unbecoming of you, Your Worship!"

 "Yeah, yeah," he relented, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up in mock surrender. Audrey laughed, and as Oscar came up to stand before the desk, he could see now that she may be working on one letter, but there was already a pile of more to her left. Did she find his to-write list? He chuckled as he continued,"Well, sometimes I feel as if it's you leading this Inquisition, not me."

 Audrey flushed, dropping her gaze and her quill in a quick, fumbled movement. "I did not mean to overstep," she defended, haughty even in this moment of apology. With all the grace expected of a lady of her noble upbringing, she stood from behind the desk, shoulders drawn into a tight line and chin high, and gestured for him to take the vacated seat. "Please. Take a moment at least to see what I have written up, and I promise my overstep will not appear so dire."

 "Audrey, dear cousin," Oscar laughed,"I'm only teasing you. I assure you - I had no intention of accusing you of usurping me. You know I appreciate everything you do here."

 "Oh." Audrey's shoulders dropped with a blink. "In that case," she preened, that pleased smile of hers returning,"give me a moment to finish my thoughts - "

 "Wait!" Oscar raised a hand towards her, and Audrey paused, already halfway back into the chair. "That - is also not quite what I meant...You know that you do not have to do all this work, right?"

 Audrey's brow scrunched. "I'm...not sure what you mean...."

 "You are a Lieutenant, Audrey, a valued member of my army. The work you do with Cullen is invaluable, yet you still do more. You run errands for my advisors, though they already have messengers. You take time to walk among the troops; you bring my attention to the needs of my people that I would have otherwise missed. You - " He gestured to the letter now. "You write my letters! Do you never take time for yourself?"

 Again, Audrey flushed. "I promise you, cousin, I am not overextending myself. I am happiest when I am working."

 "You are happy when you feel useful," Oscar quipped.

 Audrey's cheeks shaded bright red, and the set of her jaw tightened. "Is that so wrong?"

 "Not at all, but you deserve a break. I promise Skyhold will not fall apart if you take an evening for yourself," Oscar said, gentler now. Reaching across the desk, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She tensed at the contact, and the fire in her eyes remained stubbornly alight, but he could see that she was listening to him, or trying to at least. "Trust me - I'm the Inquisitor. The fate of the entire world rests in the palm of my glowing hand, and yet I can still sit at the tavern for an hour and....Look at that! The sky still stands!"

 Audrey turned to look out the balcony windows, as if double-checking his words. When she returned her gaze to his, Oscar smiled reassuringly until her shoulders sagged and she relented.

 "Alright."

 "Alright?"

 "Let's go to the tavern."

 Oscar grinned and used the hand on her shoulder to lead her from behind the desk. He needed to move fast or her resolve might waver in the mere presence of his unfinished reports. "Do not worry, cousin. I shall show you the intricacies of having a drink at The Herald's Rest. Just give me a moment to change into some different robes, and we can - "

 "Perfect. That'll give me enough time to finish this le - "

 "Audrey, put down the pen!"

 --

 “This is weird. Is this weird for you? I feel weird.”

 “Just relax,” Oscar urged, but Audrey sighed and stared wistfully towards the door.

 Probably hoping for some fun to walk through it.

 Oscar could relate.

 He’d hoped that Gunnar or anyone would be here, but as it turns out, he chose the worst night to succeed in convincing Audrey to relax. The Herald’s Rest was a ghost town. A new letter had arrived from Nevarra for Gunnar, and he was apparently holed up in his room, waxing poetry in his response. Even Iron Bull and his Chargers were notably absent.  The few patrons that tarried were either well into their cups or own conversations to pay the pair too much mind.

 Still, Oscar remained optimistic. He was resourceful, as mages often are. You don’t live nearly two decades in a tower and not know how to make fun out of what you’re given. All mages know that! Well, that and that fireball is an area spell, Oscar, and not meant to be cast on a candle 3 feet from you.

 Hm, actually, that might have just been him.

 “Is the tavern always like this?” Audrey whispered to Oscar, leaning into his shoulder and pulling him back to the moment before he could remember any more embarrassing childhood memories. “Is this fun? Am I supposed to be having fun right now?”

 Oscar leveled her with a withering look, and Audrey giggled and hid her grin behind her stein. “I’m sorry, dear cousin, is my company not fun enough for you?”

 “Of course, you are right, dearest cousin. Allow me to change my demeanor to better display the fun that I feel I am having,” Audrey said. She breathed deep, prepared herself, and then – returned to her original posture. After a truly amateurish amount of time, she casted Oscar a devious look out of the corner of her eye to see if her joke landed.

 It did.

 “Truly. You have wounded me, my most dearest cousin,” Oscar deadpanned, but the corner of his lips twitched despite his best efforts. ”I may never recover from this offense.”

 Audrey laughed then, outright and bright. Oscar preened. See – the night was not yet ruined! He should have expected that Audrey enjoyed banter. She was a Trevelyan, after all. A need to be witty ran in their blood. Now, to keep this up, all he needed was some backup and – Ah!

 Oscar perked up as a familiar set of horns walked through the doors.

 “Iron Bull! – “

 Audrey’s demeanor shifted as well, but not in the way Oscar wanted. “Oh, good! I need to tell him that – “

 “No. No working.”

 Audrey huffed and leaned back in her chair while Oscar waved Iron Bull over to their table.

 “How’s it going, Boss?” Iron Bull tipped his head to Oscar before he turned to Audrey and did the same. “Other Boss.”

 Audrey beamed at the nickname, glancing from Iron Bull to Oscar, as if showing it off to him. See – even the people appreciate my work, Oscar! That’s what that smile said, and Oscar felt the corners of his lips curl up as a thought came to him.

 Of course.

 Now, that was an idea.

 Standing up from his seat, Oscar waved towards it. “Bull! So glad to see you could make it in time.” Like a true Ben-hassrath, not a single flicker of confusion crossed Iron Bull’s face. “I hope you don’t mind getting the party started while I check in with the others about the, you know – ” He leaned in closer to Iron Bull and stage whispered, “surprise.”

 “Party? Surprise?” Audrey said at the same time Bull guffawed:

 “Of course, Boss! Leave it to The Chargers. Krem’s opening a cask out back right now.”

 Audrey sputtered in confusion (“Oscar? What surprise, Oscar?”), but Oscar simply clasped Bull on the arm, cast him a quick wink, and bustled out the tavern door.

 --

 Oscar found Cullen exactly where he expected to find someone so enamored with his workaholic cousin: In his office. Working.

 “Inquisitor, what do I owe – ” Cullen started, half-risen from his seat to greet him.

 “No time! You like my cousin, Audrey, right?” Cullen blushed and sputtered, so Oscar continued, “Good! Go to the tavern. We’re having an Audrey Appreciation Night.”

 --

 Oscar found Dorian in his alcove in the library, nose deep in a book, as usual.

 “You up for a drink?”

 Dorian smiled, sliding a page maker into the binding of the tome. “With you, amatus? Always.”

 “Flatterer. I must warn we will have company, though. I’m throwing a party for my cousin.”

 “Oh – Which one? I do hope it’s Audrey. I quite like her, you know. Did you see her work at The Winter Palace?” Dorian shook his head, chuckling. “Devastating.”

 “What did Audrey do at The Winter Palace?” Oscar put up a hand. “Wait – Don’t tell me! Save it for the tavern. In fact - prepare a speech! You’ll need to meet me there; I have to pick up someone else.”

 “Did you leave her there by herself?” Dorian asked as he rose from his seat. There was a curious arch to his brow, not worried but intrigued, and Oscar could only begin to consider what he was imagining.

 “Hardly. Iron Bull is keeping her company, and Cullen should be there by now.”

 “Amatus…,” Dorian sighed dramatically. “That’s worse.”

 --

 Oscar arrived at Jenny’s room but she’d already turned in for the night (or so he assumed from the lack of an answer), so he continued right along to the next room and knocked.

 “Gunnar!” He called. “Put down the quill, cousin, we’re having a party for Audrey at the tavern!”

 Silence followed by rummaging followed by a muffled curse as the door flew open and Gunnar stood before him, Lady draped casually over his shoulders, and a lute in his hand. “Party?” He asked breathlessly, grin widening as Oscar nodded. “Great! Here – Hold this, I need to, get something…”

 Oscar chuckled as the lute was placed into his hands, and Gunnar hurried back into his room and awkwardly gathered up his portable writing desk, papers and quill along with it. “I’m almost done with my letter to Summer. I received one from her today, you know, and I do not want her to wait too long for my reply,” Gunnar explained as he cautiously made his way back to the doorway. Lady still happily curled around his neck, not the least bit perturbed by the constant jostling and oddity of her position. Oscar could only stare in amused amazement as Gunnar winked, shuffled past him, and scuttled down the hall. “I’ll write once everyone’s too drunk to realize I’m not playing music anymore…Hey – Come on, come on! I wrote a new song that I need opinions on. I want to send the sheet music to Summer. If it’s good!”

 Oscar took a moment to watch his cousin, still maneuvering his way down the hall, and shook his head. Understanding Gunnar’s whims would take the fun out of them, so he placed the lute over one shoulder and jogged to catch up.

 --

 Oscar was not sure what he expected to find when he came back to the tavern but he’s sure it was not this:

 The Herald’s Rest was packed, wall-to-wall, with people. A good majority of them were foot soldiers, chattering and sloshing drinks as they all gathered around something in the center of the room. Oscar’s vision was too obscured to get any idea of what it might be. He turned towards Gunnar to gather his opinion, but just as he did, The Chargers grabbed Gunnar and the lute from Oscar’s hands, urging the bard to play ‘The Chargers’ ABCs’ and leaving Oscar to stare after them, dumbfounded.

 They all sounded quite tipsy already.

 Had he really been gone that long?

 As Oscar skirted around the crowd, he took stock of who else somehow found their way to the tavern: Jenny was seated at a table with Josie and Leliana, their heads bowed together as they giggled about something; Sera snuck a pie off the bar counter and shushed Oscar when she saw him looking; and even Cole perched on the stairs, watching whatever was happening in the center of the room.

 Right – he needed to get in on that!

 As he neared, soldiers parting respectfully in his wake, a grand cheer went up from the epicenter of the group and he quickened his pace.

 The scene he found was – interesting.

 There was a table.

 Audrey on one side and Cullen on the other.

 Their elbows rested on the surface, their hands were clasped, and – Well, Oscar felt his eyebrows lift and his lips tremble as he did his best to hold back his amusement.

 It was an arm wrestling contest.

 Between them, on the far side of the table, Dorian sat, chin rested on top of his templed fingers.

 Their eyes met, and Dorian smiled and gave a waggle of his fingers.

 Audrey, distracted by the movement, glanced sidelong at Oscar before zeroing back in on Cullen, a wicked curl pulling up the corner of her lips. Oscar could see that her arm had begun to shake and tilt towards the table; Cullen would win.

 Would have won.

 If Audrey hadn’t taken Cullen’s own distraction upon seeing Oscar to jump out of her seat, lean across the table, and kiss him square on the mouth – much to the troop’s joy, if the resulting cheer was anything to go by, and Cullen’s surprise; Audrey slammed his arm into the table while he sputtered.

 “Oscar!” Audrey exclaimed, leaving Cullen to figure out what just happened and throwing herself into Oscar’s arms. “Dear cousin, the best cousin, the only cousin I claim!” She squeezed him tight, giggling. “I can’t believe you planned all this!”

 “Yep – I did that,” Oscar laughed breathily. Wow – he would have thought that all that arm wrestling might tire her arm grip a bit, but nope.

 “Now, come on, you’re up next. Cullen’s gonna need a moment or ten to think.”

 “You’re on, cousin!”

 Dorian was the judge, so Oscar liked his odds.

 (He lost.)

[docjanefoster]

where were you when the world ended? [ part ii. ]

A  month, 31 days, 730 hours, was how long Jane sat alone in her apartment  sulking in wrinkled clothing, covering everything in tear stains, and hanging  on by a thread. Near a thousand times Jane glanced behind her, expecting her  obnoxiously dramatic roommate to announce his adventures of the day. Thoughts  such as that always led her to glance at an intricate dagger lodged in the  painting above her television, which always sparked more fits of sobbing. The memory was clear as day, Loki had been sulking in the corner of Jane’s  kitchen when she burst through the front door. He had to remind her to  breathe regularly due to her uncontrollable seething racking her breath. The  god of Mischief had no idea what to do if she fainted on his watch. Swiftly  snatching a bottle of wine from her rack and two glasses, Loki made his way  across the room to take a seat by the doctor. “Tell me about it.” He said,  proceeded to pour their drinks and offer one to his roomie.

The  god had not really been given an invitation to move into Jane’ s apartment in  New York, but how does one deny company in loneliness and some financial  support? After Darcy moved out, Jane was left to pay expensive bills on her  own, and although she was a medical professional, housing in the city was  astronomically high. So, she went along with his presence, eventually  welcoming it with open arms; although, his dramatic acts were totally over  the top, his ridiculous dress code days of Gucci, Louis, Fendi, Prada, and  Chanel- respectively-, and his customs were odd, Loki proved to be her best  friend and her highest confidant.

“I  can’t believe the hospital was rejected for additional funding. Our patient  intake overpowered our capacity limit and I don’t get why the state doesn’t  see that we need more of well, everything! We don’t have enough technology,  and what we do have is outdated. The building is completely understaffed  because budget cuts were necessary, so they dropped the nurses. We had to  deny SO MANY sick people care because we couldn’t afford to take in people  without a certain financial immunity provided by their insurance companies.”  Not a moment after Jane’s fingers touched the cup, her dominant arm chunked  it at the wall.

His  hand reached out to her with an offering. “Here, this helps more.” In the  man’s hand was a gold accented dagger carved from jade. Jane was going to  regret her next action in fear she would damage the lovely piece of weaponry,  but her frustration outweighed her guilt in that moment of time. With a  calculated swing backwards, the tiny doctor threw the dagger into a painting  of Asgard’s sunset above the television.

A  sigh fell from both their mouths as the duo sat back admiring her damage.  Loki gently placed a comforting arm around her, only for her head to slump on  this shoulder as they observed her handy work in amusement. “The knife  stays.” She stated with determination.

The  god of Mischief gave a hearty laugh at the perfect mess of human that was  Jane Foster. “Of course. Only the best décor for you, bitch.”

Her  light brown locks bounced against her shoulders as Jane chuckled and reached  to take a sip from his glass. “Thank you for everything, bitch.” Not a word left the woman's mouth since the tragic day in Wakanda. Many  teammates had said they were there for her if she ever needed anything, but  the doctor knew better. Everyone was hurting, and Jane would never make  herself a nuisance. Who could she bother? Thor? He was grieving just as much  as she was. Nat? Steve? They were busy trying to come up with a plan as a  cover to their pain. Shuri? The girl was hurting with the rest of her kingdom  over their lost king. No way Jane was going to get in between those and their  personal lives. She could make it on her own without the crutch and weakness  of confiding in others. One phone call changed her mind. Darcy had believed Jane to be dead after the  catastrophe. Honestly, she had no idea what happened to her or what her phone  call would open in Jane's mind and heart. In that moment, Jane released all  her hurt, pain, anger, and loss to her best friend. One of her only remaining  friends.

Ugly  sobs shook Jane’s body as word vomit shot from her mouth over the telephone.  The image was pitiful. She sat in yesterday’s clothing, on her wooden floor,  in her kitchen as tears streamed down her puffy cheeks and swollen lips.  After a few minutes of pure gibberish, Darcy exclaimed, “Alright, enough!  Jane, you’re alive! Don’t cry, honey. It’s all okay.”

Louder  cries erupted from her chest in response to Darcy’s comment. A moment of  silence passed, giving her the chance to speak to her old friend, “D-Darcy.  Nothing is okay…I lost him.” Jane could practically feel the confused look on Darcy’s face through the  device. “Lost who, Jane? What’s going on?” She asked, the guess that Loki had   been turned to dust came to mind.

“I  lost him. I lost everyone!” The doctor yelled, words echoing throughout the  empty apartment. Her crooked position against the cabinets looking ever so  uncomfortable to a viewer, Jane muddled in grief. Two weeks had passed before  Thor mentioned Loki’s death to the doctor due to fear for her mental state.  The woman had just lost her film buddy, her lover, her jogging partner, and  so many more. The god of thunder was afraid hearing the loss of her best  friend would push her over the edge, but the doctor deserved the right to  know what happened in space.

It  was as if the day knew what terrible news was impending when Thor showed up  soaking wet from the never-ending rain showers. After all, nature reflects  life’s events. Waiting once he knocked three separate times, he finally  forced the deadbolt backwards and let himself into the apartment. His stern,  cold expression fell into complete and utter sadness as the sight of his once  lover. There sat Jane Amelia Foster among what looked to be nearly forty  empty bottles for liquor. What once were bouncy, soft brown locks were  tangled and sticking out at every angle. All signs of life were void from her  usual vibrant eyes and the unstoppable fire in her was extinguished. Thor  shook his head as he stepped to tell her the news, to break her heart for the  second time. “Jane,” His gaze fell to the floor. “he’s dead.”

One  did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure out who exactly the god was  referring to. It was a swift test of his reflexes as the woman fell into his  arms, her pain too great to even hold herself up. So, Thor stood frozen as his  former partner sobbed in his own weakened arms. The duo had experienced  grieving for Loki before Jane picked up on his trend for returning, but this  was the last time. The god of mischief was never coming back for a ‘Ha,  gotcha!’, a ‘Good gods, Jane. Are you really going out in that?’,  or a ‘Honestly, can I just paint the walls since you won’t? This yellow is a  drab’.

Her  closest companion had died by the hand of Thanos like the others, but this  instance was different and much more personal. The tyrant did not have all  the stones yet, and Loki’s death was merciless and excruciating unlike the  fate of those who disappeared at the snap of a finger. Thanos watched the life  leave the god’s body rather than allow it to turn to dust. Loki frequently  commented on Jane’s intelligence, calling her mind just as superior as his  and her heart as warm as his mother’s heart once was.

Once  upon a time, the doctor snooped in his belongings, what little there were in  her home, and found a diary bookmarked to a page of heart wrenching poetry.  Jane had recited the works and had asked Thor about his brother’s hobby. He  simply replied Loki was writing it to immortalize the story of Midgard’s greatest  healer. It was a praise of respect in honor of her to be spread across the  realms when she passed away. In her drunken state since the catastrophe, Jane  had not formed the guts to read the works of literary art in her guest  bedroom as she mentally waited on the edge of her seat for any news of his  whereabouts. “So, have you read it yet?” A terrible impression of a valley girl accent  questioned. Sadie had no idea the doctor formed such a strong bond with one  of earth’s previous enemies, and she wanted all the juicy  details. Lover of Thor and possibly of his brother? Lovely to her ears. How incorrect her assumption was of the doctor’s relationship with the god of  mischief. Lovers was a title never written in their fates, but an unbreakable  friendship was carved into it. He was a go to for advice, a venting session,  and a shoulder to cry on. Losing Loki was the final string left on her heart  and patience with people. Turning to face the reporter, Jane replied, “Of  course I have.” The woman’s defeated gaze fell to the hands in her lap. A  thousand-mile stare became a usual expression to the once constant joyful  smiles that used to grace it. “Within each life we’re born alone Until we find the a place to call home.

Lost  within a world asunder A single being found full of wonder.

Her  heart hammers like the stars Her life like none of ours.

To  keep her may be witless But alas I’ll try even if the end is vicious.” Her voice was monotonous and void of all life. Jane had read over that  particular piece hundreds of times, the rhymes burned into eyes and mind.  Reciting the dead man’s masterpiece proved no difficulty to the doctor.

Silence  created tension and tension created awkwardness as Jane returned from zoning  out. The studio audience watched her every movement with pity, and the  interviewer leaned forward to cut the strain with a question, “A lovely  story, Doctor Foster, but I believe we’re all here to find out about  Wakanda.”

A  dangerous concoction of fear from reliving the events, anger towards the populace,  and self-deprecation for her state of being before the public fused in her  glare and her readiness to knock Sadie out cold. Venom dripped acidly from   each word when she replied, “Oh, my bad. Sorry to  waste your time, Sadie…” Jane paused as her façade lessened  ever so slightly. “Right, Wakanda…”

And  so the doctor began her telling the tale of her time in Africa… | to be continued |

[madly-writes]

Secrets

Requested by @darkchocolatepleasecake

Prompt: “I’m tired of being your secret.”

Read on AO3

Rating: T

Characters: Jesse McCree, Hanzo Shimada

Relationships: McHanzo

Warnings: Jesse needs a bar of soap in his mouth

Word Count: 4,017

Prompt: “I’m tired of being your secret.”

Story below the cut:

There isn’t much of a breeze. That’s good. Even with as heavy as his arrows are, even the smallest breeze can set them off his target if he doesn’t adjust accordingly. His shoulders are relaxed, and his arms just tense enough to support the bow. It’s quiet, which helps for concentration. His mind is clear, and all he’s focused on is the target ahead of him, sitting serenely. All in all, it’s the perfect condition to work in.

He inhales deeply, raising the bow up and locking in an arrow. Slowly, two fingers draw it back, the taut string no tougher than dough with all the strength he puts into it. The fletchling gingerly caresses his cheek, sliding up until it just barely touched the shell of his ear. He stares dead on at the target, his body completely rigid. No movement escaped him—he’d even stopped breathing. All of his thoughts needed to be pushed toward the target. He needed to envision the arrow soaring and embedding itself. Only then would it hit true.

With a quick and sharp exhale, his fingers released the arrow. It parted the air around it with a whoosh, moving faster than his eye could follow. Despite the target being several feet back, it only took a moment for the arrow to find its mark. The shaft wavered slightly as the last of its movement subsided, its tip deeply embedded inside of the target dummy. Straight through the heart. Even someone wearing thick armor wouldn’t be safe from Hanzo Shimada’s bow.

A whistle rings out behind him, high and piercing. He doesn’t bother to turn. He knows who it is.

“Remind me to never get on your bad side, yeah?”

Jesse swaggered forward, draping an arm across Hanzo’s shoulders and leaning the both of them forward, peering at the target. He whistled again, a bit lower this time. “Jaysus, Hanzo. You got some issues you need to work out or…?”

“I am just training.” The archer shrugs his shoulders, causing Jesse’s arm to fall away. The cowboy huffs, sticking his hip out and taking a long drag from his cigar. He waves it about in the air, the light smoke trailing along lazily. The smell is strong, if even a bit unappetizing, but Hanzo has grown used to it. It’s part of Jesse. If he didn’t smell like tobacco, then he simply wouldn’t be the same.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sticks the cigar back in his mouth, securing it between his teeth. He’s mastered the art of speaking through it, and his voice is only just barely slurred. It’s nearly imperceptible. Scratching his chest, he hums. “But you’ve been out here for a while. I was starting to get worried about you.”

Hanzo briefly glanced up at the sky. It wasn’t dark out, but the sun was beginning to move toward the mountains in the distance. They were dark and foggy against the horizon, but it wouldn’t be long before they were illuminated in oranges and reds and purples. He was fairly certain he’d started practicing at about mid-afternoon, but it was impossible to say now.

“Do not worry about me,” he responds, voice low and monotone, “I just wanted to test myself.”

He sniffs, turning around and facing Jesse. The cowboy is staring at him—scrutinizing, really. Despite playing off as a naïve man with few cares in the world, he was incredibly perceptive. Years of scratching his life out in the Deadlock Gang and working under Blackwatch made him learn to notice the smallest changes in a person. The slightest difference could show whether or not someone was preparing to kill you. He had to learn how to save his own life.

Now, he used it against Hanzo. He was searching for the answer as to why the archer was off. There was a certain rigidity to his stance, and his face was harder than usual. Hanzo attempted to throw up a mask and hide against Jesse’s abilities, but it was of no use. He’d already let the slightest hint of weakness slip, and the man had latched onto that like a predator. He would tussle with it and pry it apart until he got the answers he was looking for.

“What’s on your mind?”

Well, that was awfully blunt for having just pulled him apart like an old book. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, and he straightened out his posture. Jesse didn’t need to know. This was his issue, and it would be solved in time. Or he would lock it away in the back of his mind, only pulling it out when he was feeling especially melancholy in the night. Either way, it was not a subject Jesse needed to broach with a heart as big as his.

So, he offered the cowboy a solid look, just barely glancing up at him. “I am fine. Let us get to dinner.”

He brushed past Jesse, and the man almost reached out. His fingers twitched at his side, ready to latch onto Hanzo’s kimono and pull him back. Having known him for several years now, Jesse could tell when he was hiding something. Years ago, when they were much younger and more reckless, he’d begun to learn all the intricacies that were Hanzo Shimada. Back then, he’d angered the archer. He was loud and obnoxious and held no care for the private lives of others. He wanted to know everything, and it had often gotten him in trouble.

Enough bloody noses and bruised ribs finally taught him to respect people’s space, but that didn’t mean it’d kept him from trying to learn. He worked in more covert ways from then on, gathering everything he could from asking simple questions and observing actions. So when Hanzo disappeared after his brother’s untimely and gruesome death, Jesse was the first to know something had gone terribly wrong. But then, it was too late. There was nothing to be done.

He’d only caught glimpses of Hanzo in fleeting glances, the archer slipping away from his grasp like smoke. Overwatch may have been torn asunder, but Jesse still searched desperately for the man he’d called friend. Trips to Japan revealed so little, and when he’d once found Hanzo, no amount of begging and shed tears could bring the man back. In so few years, Jesse had seen the man grow older than he could imagine. He’d greyed early, dark circles decorated his eyes, and lines appeared with every frown.

Still, when Hanzo turned his back on him in Japan, Jesse swore he could see an intense pain and sadness in his eyes. He regretted everything he’d done, but he knew he was too far gone to fix it. In order to rid himself of any memories surrounding his brother, he pushed away everything that was connected to him. He ripped out every chunk that was once associated with anything Genji had ever touched, and he abandoned Jesse and Overwatch. It had hurt like hell.

So when Winston had called the organization back into action, Jesse hadn’t expected Hanzo to come back. As far as he’d been concerned, the man was an enigma. He was furious at that ghost, enraged that despite everything he’d done, the archer tossed him away. But how could he be mad when he saw Hanzo step off an airship, looking haggard and nervous and every bit the man Jesse had once known? He’d cried like a little kid, and the archer mocked him, saying he hadn’t changed a bit. The cowboy told him to shut his fucking mouth. And for the first time in a decade, they laughed.

They were never the same, of course. Hanzo still avoided his past like the plague, and Jesse had a bit of a darker humor. Still, they made up for lost time. They talked more and were attached at the hip, mutterings lazy nothings or telling stories about “remember when.” They grew closer in a new way, one more intimate and primal. Behind closed doors, they spoke of what they’d wanted to say years ago but were too scared to. These conversations were of sighs and whispers, but it was still a language they spoke. And Jesse was happy.

The cowboy followed after Hanzo, glancing down at him as they passed through too brightly lit hallways with enclosed walls. The watchpoints seemed to be very specific in not making themselves feel like a home, despite being a place when operatives often worked out of for several weeks. One usually grew used to it after enough time, but the narrow buildings could still make them feel uncomfortable. Jesse wrapped his arm around Hanzo’s shoulders once again, and he could feel the man stiffen.

“Seriously, what’s got your goat? You’re making me think of the time I went to one of those Korean spas.” He snorted. “They’re nice ladies, but a man has space, you know?”

Hanzo didn’t laugh. He merely gritted his teeth and sighed through his nose, shrugging his shoulders again. Jesse held on. “Have you forgotten that sticking your nose in others business has often gotten it broken?”

The words were exceptionally harsh, even if they weren’t meant to be. It made Jesse briefly stall, almost tripping over his own feet. “That was uncalled for.”

“I told you, I do not want to speak of it. Let it be.”

“I just want to help you, Hanzo.”

“It is not your problem.”

“You’re making it my problem.”

Jesse moved to stand in front of Hanzo. The archer almost had half the mind to keep walking straight through him, to push him aside. He may have been shorter than the cowboy, but he was stronger. It would only take him moments to shove past him and continue on his way. Despite his thoughts, he planted his feet firmly on the ground and tilted his chin up toward the man.

Jesse stared down with equal vigor, having taken his cigar out of his mouth. The hand holding it hung limply down at his side, and the acrid smoke tickled both of their noses. Neither of them were ready to budge; Hanzo wouldn’t tell Jesse anything, and Jesse wasn’t leaving until he got answers. The air was thick with tension, and anyone who happened to pass by would probably be wise to scurry off.

“Why you avoiding me?”

Hanzo felt his hands tighten into fists, but he forced them to relax. “I am not—“

“Bullshit.”

The cowboy dropped his cigar to the floor, putting it out with his foot. At a later point he’d come back and pick it up himself, but it was better to get it out of the way for now.

“You think I’m blind?” Jesse questioned sharply, throwing his arms out. “I’m a goddamn sharpshooter, pal. I try and talk to you, or touch you, or anything, and you shrug me off like some fly. If you’ve got beef with me, just tell me. It’s better than blowing me off.”

Hanzo forced himself to keep standing, to not take a step back. Jesse was generally a jovial person, but he could yell with the best of them. His words cut deep, and he knew it. He was trying to get Hanzo to open up by slicing into him. It wasn’t the nicest of ways to go about it, but the cowboy was getting tired. He’d been pushed away before, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

“You do not have to know everything, Jesse McCree,” the archer snapped back, his words biting, “Sometimes things are better left unsaid. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Why is it—“

“So impossible to get through my thick head, huh? It’s because I care about you, and you’re not letting me help you. You’re changing, and I’m trying to stop it.”

“People change!”

“Not like you do!” Jesse was throwing his chest out, and his eyes were alight with a flame Hanzo rarely saw. “Why won’t you let me help you? I don’t judge you, I don’t make fun of you. But you won’t talk to me.”

“I am done. Let me past.”

Hanzo began to sidestep him, but Jesse wasn’t about to let this go. He was soon grabbing Hanzo’s shoulder and wrist, wrestling him back until he was pinned against the wall. He wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but he needed to get Hanzo locked down. The man would continue to let his problems eat at him until he was entirely consumed. Jesse couldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t stand another heartbreak.

The anger in Hanzo’s eyes was intense, but Jesse stared right on back. He wasn’t going to back down. Even as the archer pushed and struggled against him, trying to pull his arms away so he could push the cowboy back, he wouldn’t let go. Hanzo may have been stronger than him, but Jesse was nothing if not a man fueled by genuine concern. So long as something was wrong with Hanzo, his strength would be tenfold.

“Get off of me.”

“Why are you so afraid to talk?” His voice was lower, but the bitterness was still present. “Are you embarrassed of me, huh? Is that it? I’ve been your friend for nearly twenty years and you’re—“

“Don’t touch me.”

He shoved him back against the wall, setting his jaw. “Listen to me, Hanzo! I’m not letting you leave again. If you think you can outrun your problems, you’re fucking stupid. You wanna know why? I tried to do the same thing. I ran because I was too scared to deal with my demons, and it got me trapped in a dark place. I only got out because I stood up like a man and talked to Jack. I told him all of the shit I was going through. I was meaner than a badger about it, but I told him.

“You and I both know I didn’t volunteer for Overwatch. I either had the option of being thrown into jail for the rest of my life, or I joined Overwatch and left all that behind me. Fuck, man, I was a kid having to make all of these decisions. But I did it because I didn’t want to throw my life away. I was young, but I knew it was better to face my problems and talk them out than hide like you are. I’m trying to protect you, but you want to run away again. Why?”

Hanzo had such great malice in his eyes, but the hatred wasn’t toward Jesse. There was definitely anger directed toward the cowboy, but the despise was reflected from within. He knew what he was doing wasn’t going to help him, and that it would just throw him further into an abyss of emotions that would destroy him. Killing his brother tore his soul apart, and it made him into a man he hated. He spoke of pride and wisdom to the younger members of Overwatch, inspiring them to be a better person.

But what was he? He was just a broken man, someone overtaken by their past. Every problem to him was magnified into a boulder he struggled to carry. Weight was piled upon his back, and he didn’t have the strength of Atlas. In time, he would give in and be crushed. But it was too hard for him to admit his faults. He couldn’t admit he was wrong. He couldn’t tell Jesse, the man he loved, that he felt insignificant and powerless.

“Let go of me.”

Jesse stared at him for several long, agonizing moments, but sure enough his hands fell away. He stepped back from Hanzo, his hands falling down at his sides. The pain on his face was indescribable, and his throat worked to hold back his crumbling emotions.

“So that’s it, huh?” He let out a short, choked laugh, reaching up a hand to tilt his hat down. “I go exposing my heart to you and it’s not enough. I was hoping you’d see something, Hanzo. I’m trying so hard.”

Hanzo simply stared at the man, using the wall as a support. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand on his own without it. Before him, Jesse looked as if Hanzo had shoved a knife into him. He looked hurt and betrayed and sad, and it was painful to see. How could he do this to him?

“It is not my goal to hurt you, Jesse.”

“Really? Because you hit the target dead on. What’s it you say? That it takes every amount of your mind to hit true?”

The archer winced. “… Why am I so important to you?”

Jesse gave him a dumbfounded look, shaking his head. “Why is that even a question? You were my first friend. You showed me that I don’t have to fight to survive. You would meditate with me in the gardens, remember? I hated tea, still do, but I would sit down and drink it with you and you’d show me how to clear my mind. I was awful at it, but you were patient.”

Hanzo had thought Jesse was a useless case when he first met him. He was scrawny and cocky and had the whole world going against him. He’d started talking to him at first because he felt genuinely sorry for the boy. They were only a year apart, but Jesse had seemed so much more naïve. Hanzo wanted to tutor him, to show him that he didn’t have to be such an idiot to get through life. He would laugh at him and tell him he was never going to get anything right, but Jesse was filled with determination.

He’d been so surprised how close he’d grown to the cowboy. God, he dressed like a cowboy. When he came into Overwatch he’d, for some ungodly reason, started dressing up like a cowboy. Perhaps it was because he wanted to stand out and be the center of attention, since he never had been before, but Hanzo had thought he looked so stupid. He told him to dress more proper, even offered to buy him clothes. But Jesse wore his hat, belt, and shoes and paraded around like the great cowboys of the old west, proclaiming outdated catchphrases and tilting his hat at everyone he saw.

He’d been ridiculous. And it made Hanzo love him more and more every day.

So seeing him like this now caused his heart to clench and his chest to tighten. Jesse looked so genuinely upset, all because Hanzo was too afraid to tell him how inadequate he felt. And wasn’t he acting like such right now? He was too weak to even tell Jesse his problems. The man was bleeding for him, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and Hanzo shoved him aside. He was cruel. He hated it.

Jesse sniffed, reaching up his hand and rubbing at his eye with the heel of it. “Dammit, man, I’m just tired of being your secret.”

Secret? Hanzo stared on at him, brows knitting together.

“I do not… You are not my secret.”

Jesse tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob. “Yeah? Is that why you push me away? Is that why you won’t let me hug you in the dining hall? You won’t let me near you in front of everyone else?”

Hanzo had believed everyone knew of his and Jesse’s relationship, but he supposed he had been avoidant of the cowboy. Part of it was in modesty, but part of it was in his own feelings of self-doubt. Jesse was so open with his emotions, yet the archer found himself lacking. He was never able to be as affectionate or as amiable toward Jesse as he was to him. He was worried all of his emotions were too stunted from having been held back for so long.

They were openly together, yet in some way Hanzo felt shamed. Jesse was too bright, too good, like a star he could never quite reach. He was all smiles and quips, and everyone adored him. But none loved him so much as Hanzo, but they would never know that. The archer was too fearful of his emotions, afraid he would let out more than he intended. So he kept himself locked away, and in the process, he’d hurt Jesse.

He inhaled deeply, raising his hand.

Jesse just stared on at him, deflated and broken. “Go on, then,” he jabbed, voice barely above a whisper, “Hit me like you used to back then. If it makes you feel better, just do it.”

Hanzo touched the side of the cowboy’s face, cradling his jaw in an unsure embrace. Jesse flinched slightly, staring down in confusion and hurt. If he was going to hit him, Jesse thought he should just get it over with. Dragging it out only broke him more.

“Jesse McCree,” Hanzo breathed out, his posture sagging and his tension fleeing. He was tired. Like a huge wave, exhaustion hit him. All that time keeping his emotions at bay spent him emotionally and physically. But for now, for Jesse, he needed to continue on.

“I do not mean to treat you as something shameful. I just feel so inadequate, like I will never be enough for you. I am a man of many faults, and I am not particularly forthcoming. I have suffered many failures, and each one has broken me down into the man you see before you. I want to hide away like I always have. I am afraid of being hurt. I speak of my own strength to initiates, yet there is none. I am no better than a liar and a cheat.

“But I never want to hurt you. I now know that every time I have pushed you away and ignored you, trying to protect myself, I have caused you a great pain. I never meant to do that. You mean so much to me, and when everyone else looks down on me for my mistakes, you always smile and tell me everything will be alright. You are too kind to me. And I thank you for that.

“I love you. And I am sorry.”

Jesse stared down at him, tears becoming present in his eyes. He wanted to be strong, but hearing Hanzo admit his fears was far too much for him. The man always pretended to be the better man, and he never let himself be exposed. But he opened up to Jesse out of sheer guilt and sorrow, and it was both relieving and painful to the cowboy. The tears spilled over his eyes and down his tanned cheeks, and Hanzo leaned forward, gently kissing them away.

“You haven’t changed.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

It was a lot less potent considering the amount of hiccups between words, but they laughed together nonetheless.

Hanzo would not be able to completely open up in one day, and Jesse knew that. It would take time for Hanzo to recover everything he’d shoved away in the dark recesses of his mind. He would have to struggle every day with opening himself up to the world, and often he wouldn’t be able to. Some days he would smile and hug Jesse back, while others he would curl in on himself and shut down. It was never easy, and Jesse didn’t expect it to be.

He was just glad that the archer was deciding to try. He would fail many times, and he might even give up. The cowboy knew that, and he was willing to pick up the pieces and motivate Hanzo to try again. Luckily, failure was rarely an option for either of them. They were both far too proud to admit that they’d been overcome, and no doubt Hanzo would continue working to the best of his ability. He could never completely shake off the demons that haunted him, but he could at least shoulder past them with a smile on his face.

And for Jesse, that was enough.