#fired within the first half hour of opening my mouth

[janearts]

I originally created Roisia in Divinity: Original Sin, which had some phenomenal (and/or phenomenally corny) combat barks, so I came up with some more for her to shout in Baldur's Gate 3 to keep with tradition. UwU

And thank you so much for these lil notes! ;o; They cheered me up.

[rueclfer]

evergreen

𖤓 part vii. | series m.list | prev | part viii.

touya had been at camp for less than 24 hours and he could already feel himself cracking. you were insufferable, stubborn, and self righteous, but it doesn't take him long to remember that you always had been.

betweens silent sips of the beer bottle twirling between his fingers, he thinks back on the summer after his sixteenth birthday- which he concluded was the last good summer before things started getting bad.

this was the year that touya had forgotten to pack deodorant for one of japan's hottest summers within the last decade. knowing you, it didn't take much convincing for you to practically beg him to take your spare. you two spent the entire summer smelling like lilac and white tea.

touya distinctly remembered all the teasing from other campers that so obviously made its way under your skin. you've always been so easily irritable. he probably spent that entire summer warning you about getting a crinkled tan line right in between your eyebrows from all the scowling.

he almost audibly laughs to himself. compared to the look on your face when you two made eye contact earlier today, he half-way wished it was that scowl instead.

touya leans his head back and lets it hit the smooth wood of the cabin wall, bringing the opening of the bottle up to his lips. this wouldn't be the first night he'd be drinking with you on his mind.

"dude, get your fucking shoes off my bed." tomura tosses a pillow off of hawks' bed, hitting touya's shoulder.

he rolls his eyes and straightens his legs, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed.

"loser." he mutters into the back of his hand as he swipes it across his lips.

"and if you throw up on my bed, i'm setting your cabin on fire." tomura downs the remainder of the contents in his red solo cup. "y/n in it and everything, you fuckers can die together."

touya rolls his eyes with a glint of a smirk on his lips. 

“always such a romantic, shigs. you’re more than welcome to burn with us.”

"shut up, I can't stand emo on emo crime, or flirting or whatever the fuck you guys are doing." hawks slurs, swivelling back and forth on the desk chair with his cheek pressed against the palm of his hand. "y/n is just another one of touya's victims, leave them out of this."

tomura drops his head into his lap, slapping a hand over his mouth to suppress a fit of drunken giggles. hawks look over at him with a wide grin.

"that wasn't even funny, shigs." he giggles. "shut up or else touya's gonna beat your ass."

"me?" he exclaims. "you're the one who said some stupid shit, not me. i'm gonna tell y/n and have them beat your ass." he says in between laughter.

touya's eyes flicker between the two bickering and laughing back and forth in their drunken daze. if he was a bit less intoxicated, he'd have more to say to his idiot friends and their antics.

maybe that was a cue for him to leave.

touya sits for a bit longer. it would be wise of him to sober up before stepping out into the open woods and making the trek back to his cabin- especially if he had to come to face you this late. is this feeling excitement or dread?

he taps on his phone screen. 12:37 AM.

he wonders if you were done packing. it's been almost three hours since curfew. what would you be doing now? making a summer bingo card? read a book? going through his things? plotting his demise? you were always a mass of type-a unpredictability.

the cabin door suddenly swings open, bringing the bickering to a halt and inviting in the warm summer night breeze.

while the breeze rolls in, the air sucks out of touya's lungs.

"what?" you sheepishly say, suddenly self conscious over the amount of eyes on you.

touya noticed the familiar old jacket slung over your shoulder. there was really no need for one on a warm summer night like this, but of course you had to grab it.

just in case!

your voice rings in his head.

"am i interrupting something?" you cock an eyebrow, eyeing the line of empty beer bottles lining the wall. "weren't you losers just saying something about missing me? what're you guys so quiet about?"

"you're late." hawks exclaims, breaking the wall of silence. "shots. now. you need to catch up." he reaches down from under the desk and pulls out a half empty handle of vodka.

"nah, put that shit away." tomura slides himself off of hawks' bed and stumbles onto his own beside touya "i wanna go to sleep."

"pull it together, crustbucket." you huff, taking his spot on hawks' bed across from the others. "you can handle a couple more shots."

you silently said your prayers. you and touya haven't seen each other since the bonfire, and he hadn't bothered stopping by the cabin before heading off to hawks and tomura's. you weren't sure if you were unintentionally-intentionally avoiding each other, or if things really are different now.

get a grip.

you silently curse to yourself, accepting the handle of vodka that you were sure had been passed around many of the other counselors that had stopped by earlier.

you squint your eyes shut in anticipation before tipping the bottle back, taking in a deep swig of the lukewarm alcohol.

you hold your breath through the burning sensation crawling down your throat. a beat passes. then two.

your eyes slowly open and catch touya's. he doesn't notice his lips curling into a smirk or his head nodding in approval as you pass the handle over to him.

you were grateful that in this weather, with this alcohol settling in your stomach, the heat prickling your cheeks and ears could pass off as nothing.

"where'd you learn how to do that?" he casually brings the spout up to his lips, the smirk never disappearing.

"you don't think i know how to drink?" you cock an eyebrow at him.

"can't i be impressed?" he playfully rolls his eyes. "you used to be such a wimp when it came to this stuff."

you don't reply, but instead press your lips together and avert your gaze down to your shoes.

if they were kids again, touya would take this as a success. you don't let him win often- or at all, really, but there's something bitter laced with your silence.

things feel different.

a/n: ok time to check in how r we feeling abt this fellas!!!! i rlly do writing shigs n hawks like this like i lowkey think they should all kissssss heh

tags:

@iluv-ace @bitchyfestivalbouquet @redr0sewrites @babylambdietcoke @bnhabadass @hanmastattoos @1ndee @starsryi @nesrynsblog @twoplayergaymers @suksatoru @ita606 @pookiebear16 @fictionalcharactersownmyheart @in-the-marina-trench @haruhi269 @itgetzweird08 @ilophilia @chimimon @emluvs-sugu @punishblue @whorror-complex @akumakitsune21 @maddie-rose-1 @ixeyi @commonmisery @ggriwm @exselily @kryscent @starrmage @vannyinthestars @burnishingbagels @soobhns @kaybug88 @lantsovheiress @0skullyard0 @albakugo @sleepyk0dyz

[simplepotatofarmer]

handmade warmth

for the @sixteenth-day-event

The cold made Dream’s leg hurt. He rubbed a hand over his residual limb, massaging the scarred flesh and the muscle remained. It was a phantom pain and it annoyed him, that unwanted reminder of what had happened in the prison. He had told Techno that if it was in his mind then he should be able to control it and Techno hadn’t laughed but had given him an oddly tight smile and said he wasn’t sure it worked like that. Leaning forward, Dream held his hands out to the fire. It was low now, as the evening had dragged into night, and that was letting in the chill that caused the aching in his joints.

He thought about calling for Techno, who had disappeared upstairs for something he promised was important, to add another log. He could do it himself on a good day but he was tired and the muscle spasm in his leg when he had moved still hadn’t faded. Some rational part of his mind said it had been barely over a month since he had escaped the prison and it made sense he wasn’t up to much yet. Dream had been studiously ignoring it.

The metal poker was just within reach if Dream tipped the chair over just a little.

“If you fall, I am gonna laugh at you,” came Techno’s voice from behind him.

The chair dropped back to floor with a thud and Dream turned around with the best scowl he could manage, cheeks red and hot.

“I’m not—Shut up, Techno, you’re—you’re the one who left me here for, like, three hours,” said Dream, eyes flicking to the window as he tried to judge how much time had passed. The snow outside, tinted purple by the beacons, made it difficult.

“Bruh, it was not three hours.”

Dream rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, sinking into the chair.

“It felt like three hours.” Dream glanced down. “What’s that?”

The ‘that’ in question was a large package that was tucked under Techno’s arm. It was wrapped in paper decorated with snowflakes and holly and it was lumpy. The bow that had been carefully tied around it was crushed a little. Techno held it out and patted one hand against it.

“It’s a present, Dream,” he said, crossing the room to stand in front of Dream. He set in his lap. “Merry Christmas, man.”

Blinking a couple times, Dream ran his hand over the package and then frowned.

“It’s not even Christmas.”

Techno glanced at the fireplace then reached for a log. He carefully placed it on top, the flames licking at his fingers, and if it burnt, he didn’t seem to notice. Pulling his rocking chair a little bit forward, he sat.

“Eh, it’s Christmas Eve. Close enough.” Techno shrugged. “Beside, that’s as much for me as it is for you. Go on, open it, man.”

In the fireplace, the flames licked up the new log. Dream’s frown deepened. There were half a dozen protests he could make – that Christmas Eve still wasn’t Christmas, that he hadn’t gotten anything for Techno – but he began to carefully tear open the paper.

“Whatever,” he muttered. The embarrassed blush was still on his face.

Once the paper was removed, it took Dream a moment to figure out what it was. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, a patchwork of different patterns and colors. Flowers and swirls and geometric shapes. Greens and blues and spots of reds. Dream unfolded the quilt partially. The back was three large blocks of fabric, all shades of dark navy that reminded Dream of the night sky in the arctic. He looked up. Techno was watching with a satisfied expression, mouth curved into a smile, tusks glinting in the firelight.

“What d’you think? Now you can finally stop hoggin’ my blanket,” said Techno.

Dream pulled the quilt further into his lap, letting it spill down across his legs. It was thicker than he had first realized. The weight on his lap was surprisingly comforting. It was warm. The mismatch of colors was pretty and Dream knew it’d be prettier once it was spread out. He loved it.

He said, “Heh. Hogging.”

In the chair across from him, Techno groaned and slapped a hand to his face in an over-exaggerated manner that was mostly to hide the grin. He got to his feet.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m takin’ it back, you’re outta here.”

Those words would’ve once caused a flutter of panic in Dream’s chest, would’ve birthed a snarky comment about wanting to leave, but Techno didn’t mean it. He knew that. Dream tugged the quilt up to his chest.

“No, fuck off, Techno. You made it for me, it’s mine.”

Laughing, Techno bent and tucked the blanket up around Dream’s shoulders.

“Yeah, you got me there, man,” he said. “I’m guessin’ you like it, then.”

The phantom pain had subsided. Dream shifted in the chair and rubbed his chin against the soft fabric of the quilt. A smile slowly worked its way across his face.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Thanks, Techno.”

[fcthots]

here with some Christmas gus ask 💪💪

when jason sets up the Christmas tree he has to place the decorations of the tree high enough, out of gus's reach, because gus always plays with them and knocks the Christmas decorations if they're within close reach

- 🦇

Merry Christmas nonnie!! Gus is the best present

Tim had a minor injury. Very minor. That was why he collapsed on the fire escape of your apartment. Okay, maybe the blood loss wasn't ideal, but hey. He's not dead yet.

Though he thinks he might die out of spite when he sees the large orange ball of fluff staring at him from the window. Gus's screech of a meow does not help the migraine brewing behind his eyes. Though he supposes he should be thankful when said demon screech alerts you to the bleeding bird on your balcony. He watches the shock and worry on your face as you use one hand to tear open the window and the other to hold the still yelling cat away from his desired escape route.

"Tim, what the fuck??? JASON"

He tries to say "it's fine," but to be completely honest, he's not sure he gets the words out. He sees Jason come barrelling down the hallway, eyes checking over your body for injury until he spots Tim still laying in a pile on his fire escape.

"Hey." He is fairly confident that he managed to get his mouth to move this time. Jason does not respond to his greeting in the same kind manor Tim had opened with. Rude.

Jason manages to pick Tim up and deposit him into a chair. He spends time stitching up the knife wound Tim got from what he swears was "just a lucky hit." Tim takes Jason's mother henning in stride while you make him something to eat, insisting that a granola bar doesn't count as dinner. Gus is not happy about Tim's intrusion into his home, watching his every move. Tim assumes the cat thinks it's being subtle, but all 20 pounds of cat do not hide behind the leg of the kitchen table as well as it may think. Especially when it flops over as Jason passes, heading to grab some spare clothes for Tim who "shouldn't grapple home with a stab wound."

Tim huffs and crosses his arms, only slightly wincing as it tugs at his stitches. It's only then that he notices the tree, the tree that only has the top half decorated. Almost three feet above the ground of this tree has no ornaments. He can find no discernible reason. He knows Jason would have decorated the apartment November first and it is well into December. He's seen the ridiculous number of ornaments that the two of you own. To be honest, he's not sure where you keep all the decorations out of season. The working theory is an extra safe house somewhere, but after working this pet project in his spare time for two years now, he hasn't figured out which one. Regardless, he can think of no reason, nay, negative reasons as to why not all of your tree is decorated. He stares at it so long that he spaces out and loses track of time.

Come to think of it, has your tree always been like this? He's noticed that the bottom of your tree usually has less ornaments, but the no ornaments thing has to be new, right?

"Uh Tim?" He whirls around to face you where you hand him a plate of something that looks like pasta. He briefly looks at you and then back over to the tree. "You good there, bud?"

"I am losing my mind. Why is only half of your tree decorated?"

"Is that why you've been staring at the tree for over a half hour now?"

"It's bothering me. Please. I have to know."

Tim isn't sure why he was expecting it to be some earth shattering secret. He probably should not be disappointed that it wasn't because you were sending an assassin a top secret code using trees. He is only mildly ashamed to report that his mouth hung open with slight judgement and shock as you said, "Gus likes to knock the ornaments off the tree for sport, and while we're usually just glad he's getting exercise, last year he tried to eat the glass of a broken ornament so we're just playing it safe this year."

The cat seems to laugh at Tim's descent into insanity from behind the table's leg. The cat could be an assassin now that he thinks about it.

And now that he thinks about it harder, maybe he lost more blood than he was previously aware of.

[arget-star]

red 'cause i'm shy, you're my angel in white

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

A/N: Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates! I hope they are a joyful time <3 Title unashamedly taken from Christmas Love by Stray Kids This is set within the By Any Other Name verse, but you don't have to read that first :)

tags: none! just fluff :)

wc: 2k

about: Sakura has never experienced a traditional Christmas Eve. He wants to make is special for you

For all the mystery surrounding Sakura, he can be surprisingly easy to read. There’s no hidden agenda with him—what you see is what you get. Even his angry outbursts are easy to decipher, once you get to know him.

Something’s weighing heavy on his mind. That little crease forms on his forehead when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and you’ve caught him texting more than once over the last two weeks. His phone never stops buzzing, courtesy of Class 1-1’s group chat, but he usually scoffs and ignores the thing. Replies from him are a rare thing; a text conversation actually holding his attention is unheard of.

When you asked him about it, an offhand little inquiry over dinner one night, he’d shrugged. “Umemiya’s plannin’ our next captain’s meeting.” But he couldn’t meet your eyes as he said it. Sakura went as far as shoving his phone in his pocket, face a charming shade of pink. You didn’t push the matter; Sakura will tell you when he’s ready. It’s not like you’re concerned he’s cheating or involved in some nefarious matter. He’d struggled enough asking you out for your first official date. Not to mention, if he ever did try and pull some nonsense, Suo and Nirei wouldn’t hesitate in knocking sense back into Sakura’s head.

A day or so after you’d asked him, the texting stopped. He was more engaged than he’d been recently, so you considered everything done and over with. Whatever was going on sounded like Bofurin business.

The odd behavior starts up again a week before Christmas. This time around, along with the increased texting and furrowed brows, he keeps opening his mouth, like he’s about to ask you something, then closing it just as suddenly. You remain patient, despite the worry niggling the edges of your thoughts. Sakura’s demeanor towards you hasn’t changed. If he was upset about something you did, he’d be straightforward enough to tell you.

You both opted to stay in tonight—Sakura’s patrol ran late because everyone in town, according to him, needed help shoveling snow away from their storefronts. It’s sweet, how much he cares, and equally endearing how hard he tries not letting it show. You didn’t mind a lazy evening in yourself. End of term exams consumed your school hours, leaving you exhausted by the time the final bell rang.

You have a sneaking suspicion Sakura prefers lounging around his apartment. There’s no chance of anyone in town purposefully riling him up when they catch sight of the two of you together.

Curled up on the secondhand couch, you lean your weight against him, holding out a volume of some new manga Nirei had recommended. Sakura’s only half paying attention; he keeps asking you to go back a page, or who that character is, or why they’re at that other guy’s house. You’re in the middle of summarizing the last chapter when the cushions vibrate.

Sakura jolts. Fingers scramble for the phone laying underneath his thigh. You trail off mid-explanation, watching Sakura’s expression. A blush creeps up his neck despite the prominent frown curling his lips. The phone buzzes again, his knuckles tightening around the device. Yikes; whoever’s on the other end is in for it next time Sakura seems them in person.

One more buzz. His eyebrow���the white one—twitches. You close the tankōbon, setting it carefully beside you and shifting so your body is facing him. A charged silence settles around you. Patience can only go so far; you’re worried, and a little irritated he’s not making even the smallest attempt at communicating. More messages arrive in rapid fire succession. With each, Sakura’s cheeks turn darker, emanating a heat you can practically feel. He keeps sneaking glances at you, little flashes of gold from beneath a fringe of white bangs.

“Sakura, what’s going on?” You ask gently, daring to rest a hand atop his knee. Physical affection is still a gamble with him. The rules change depending on where you are, who you’re with, his overall mood. Figuring them out is a bumpy, ever evolving road; one you’re proud to navigate so long as it’s with him.

“Hah?” Nothin’!” He says, far too loudly, jumping both at your voice and touch. (Too late, he realizes you didn’t use his first name.) You remove your hand. He fumbles with the phone, finally turning it off and letting it drop unceremoniously into his lap.

Now you frown. Sakura isn’t the type to keep secrets. There are things he doesn’t discuss, like what led to his arrival in Makochi, and that’s fine. You don’t care about any of that. You do, however, care about what’s currently going on in his life, especially as it pertains to your relationship. “It’s clearly not nothing,” you reply, with more bite than you intend.

Mismatched eyes meet your own for what feels like the first time all evening. Gold and blue widen in momentary alarm; he’s caught, and you both know it. His throat works as he swallows back an undoubtedly angry retort. In any other circumstance, you’d be proud of him. Right now, you’d take his misplaced anger over whatever this is.

You’re rarely truly upset with him. Huffy over petty squabbles here and there, like any couple, things that blow over in an afternoon. This time, there’s genuine hurt flickering in your eyes, and Sakura notes how you’ve stopped touching him completely. A sigh escapes his nose a split second before the cursed phone buzzes again.

“They never shut up,” Sakura grumbles. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, turning his attention to the floor. “I asked ‘em for advice.”

You pause. The admission halts your rising annoyance in its tracks, makes you reconsider the situation. Christmas Eve is around the corner. Judging by his unspoken past, it would not surprise you to learn he’s never celebrated the holiday properly. Your heart skips a beat. You’d love to give everyone who ever made Sakura feel less an incredibly loud piece of your mind. Perhaps a taste of your fists, for good measure.

“Advice about what?” You prod softly. His phone remains untouched in his lap. A lengthy pause follows your question. You’re about to encourage him again when he finally, finally, catches your eyes.

“…D’you wanna go out on Christmas Eve? With me?” Using every ounce of will in his body, Sakura forces himself to stay put. A faint tremor runs through him with the effort. His brain screams at him to run, that old irrational fear of his that you’ll wind up laughing in his face overriding any reasonable thoughts to the contrary.

He knows he’s terrible at this. But you always take it in stride, smiling at him like he’s somehow worthy of being loved.

You’re smiling now. “Haruka,” you say with a surprised exhale—or perhaps it’s relief—cradling his burning face in your cool palms. “Of course I do.”

He’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name. He can’t take it anymore; he looks away, shoulders dropping as the tension leaks away. Dammit, when he tells everyone, they’ll blow up that stupid messaging app all over again. If he waits until he sees them in class, then he’s just asking for them to all pile on him in celebration. Which isn’t so terrible anymore, all things considered.

What a study in contradictions, you think, watching the gears turning in his head. The brilliant blush of his has yet to fade. He’s subtly leaning into your touch, and you swear you catch the faintest hint of a smile tucked in the corner of his lips.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Initially, you’d planned to spend another quiet evening with him, laughing over homemade karaage while watching the snow fall outside.

“Yeah, well, I did!”

Honestly, you’re impressed he lasted this long without letting off some steam. It’s an improvement from the day he’d asked you out, officially—after barely getting the words out through gritted teeth and a blush to rival this one, he’d stalked off without waiting for your response. Later, you’d heard him yelling at who you assume was Suo-chan. You never did give Sakura a proper answer; just showed up at the agreed restaurant five minutes early and that was that.

Laughing, you release his face, settling back down on the couch. “Please tell everyone I said hello.”

“No.”

(It’s the first thing he does upon entering class the next morning.)

Sakura keeps his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as you stroll along Tonpu Street. Something as simple—as normal—as threading your fingers together is out of the question among the crowed streets. Too many eyes on him, too many people liable to say the wrong thing and set him off. Part of discovering his unspoken rules about physical affection required learning it’s not just how Sakura feels while doing it; it’s how others affect his overall feelings.

Put plainly, he doesn’t want to give anyone more ammunition to start a fight with him.

So you’ve found little ways to compromise. He maintains his dignity and you can still satisfy the urge to be affectionate with him. A desire you know for a fact he also feels. One day, you’re sure he’ll overcome whatever mental hurdle prevents him from doing so in public.

Tonight, you wrap your left hand around his right bicep, both of your shoulders brushing with every step. You prefer this arrangement to holding his hand, truthfully. Not that you’d ever tell him that—you don’t want to risk ruining his carefully built-up comfort.

“We helped put some of these up,” Sakura says, tilting his head at the many strings of lights crisscrossing the street. Their golden glow turns the snow the same burnished bronze as his eye.

“Beautiful,” you reply. Predictably, his cheeks redden, though you don’t think he caught on to the fact you meant him instead of the lights.

You steal glances at him as you wander down the street. Lights reflect off his hair, highlighting the snowflakes stuck to the black strands. He’s scanning the streets with the same purpose he does while on patrol, but you catch him lingering on all the Christmas displays. Beautifully decorated trees adorn various shop windows. Little kids all bundled up in jackets and beanies weave between the crowds, giggling as they clutch boxed up pastries in their gloved hands. A few couples pass by; Sakura misses the first pair, but he makes a surprised noise when the second one stops a few feet in front of you, the girl placing a kiss on her partner’s cheek.

Sakura’s arm tenses beneath you. Muffling a laugh, you tug him along, following the pervasive scent of fresh bread. “Come on. I think Cactus made Christmas cake!”

He follows for a couple steps without protest, if only to get away from the affectionate scene playing out in front of you, and then his brain catches up with your statement. “Christmas what?”

Again, you’re struck with the urge to pummel everyone who ever ignored Sakura. He’s rubbing off on me.

“Christmas cake!” You repeat cheerfully. That doesn’t answer his question, but he appreciates how you never make him feel like an idiot when he unintentionally reveals just how little he knows about the world. “Sponge cake with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s delicious.”

Sakura considers this. He doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth—all that sugar gives him a headache—but the last thing he wants to do is kill your enthusiasm. “If you say so.” It’s petulant, because he doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s trying, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.

You squeeze his arm and lead him through Cactus’ front door. One of the bakers snaps his head up from behind the counter to greet you and Sakura, recognition breaking across his face. “Oh, you’re one of the Furin boys! Hold on, please!”

What a difference it makes, being singled out for something other than his appearance.

A handful of other customers begin whispering to each other. You catch a faint thank you! from someone that goes unanswered. Sakura’s tensing up again, scowling through another blush. Another five seconds and he’ll start throwing punches. “Tch, I’m just takin’ care of business.”

You’ve stepped into his line of sight, prepared to calm him down should he need it. Pride glows warm in your chest instead; he’s looking off to the side as he says it, though you consider the fact he said it at all a victory. You smile, a soft, sweet thing, the type of smile that makes Sakura feel all weird inside. Weird in a good way, he determined all those months ago—because now he has the oddest impulse to smile right back.

The baker returns with a box in his hand. “Enjoy the cake, you two!”

Sakura’s almost-smile drops. He swipes the box, then pauses. “Ain’t this a bread place?”

“He means thank you,” you sigh. Tactful as ever, your Sakura. The baker, to his credit, looks unbothered. He waves before darting behind the counter to assist another customer. You usher Sakura out of Cactus, the little bell above the door chiming in time with your exit.

“It was a genuine question,” Sakura states, hands curled carefully around the box.

“They’re allowed to make other things. Like a special cake for Christmas.” A pause. “Ready to go home?”

You say it so casually. So easily. He doesn’t understand how you’re able to do that. He also doesn’t understand what’s so important about this damn cake, and why it makes your eyes sparkle, or why it suddenly matters to him that this is the best slice of sponge-strawberry whatever you’ve ever tasted.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice suddenly a little hoarse. “Let’s go.”

Truthfully, you would not have minded enjoying the Christmas lights a little longer. Everything felt more magical this year. Most likely due to the boy sitting on the tatami across from you, staring dubiously at the slice of the expertly crafted treat on his plate.

You’ve never spent Christmas Eve in love before.

But you could tell his already wire-thin patience was fraying down to practically nothing. The clear thought and effort he put into this entire evening is more than enough for you.

Sakura cuts off a piece of cake with his fork. You watch him eagerly, your own dessert momentarily forgotten. He chomps down on it, lowering the fork as he chews. A crumb clings to the corner of his lips.

“Well?” You prompt when he swallows.

“It’s…why’re you starin’? It’s good, alright?” There’s no anger behind the words; they’re just a reflex at this point.

Triumphant, you cut your own piece of cake, raising the fork in a mock toast towards him. “Merry Christmas, Haruka.”

That weird feeling returns. He almost—almost—wants to run away, or start shouting, but the reaction is delayed. Distant. Whatever you’ve done to him, he doesn’t hate it. Finding comfort in someone else isn’t the worst thing in the world. His expectations of other people have changed. Slowly. He’ll never completely shake what the lessons of his youth taught him, but he is grateful that tiny shift allowed you into his life.

“M-merry Christmas,” he replies, spearing another bite of cake onto his fork.

[luimagines]

You Give Him a Massage Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

Part three will include Hyrule, Legend and Sky

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

It was a long day. One that everyone nearly collapsing over themselves at the end of it. You were thankful that there wasn’t a lot battle that you had to do but that didn’t make it any harder to keep awake at the end of the day.

The group finally settled down to break camp but you couldn’t muster up the energy to help them sat anything up.

Looking around, it looked to be the general consensus of the rest of the group. No was willing to do anything. Wild takes out a flaming sword and makes the camp fire by striking a bunch of wood and calls it good.

He makes kabobs and that your meal for the night. 

You’re tired enough to find that you don’t really care for the lack of everything.

You sit by a tree, watching everyone half hazzardly throw round their bed rolls and flop into them for the night. You plan on staying up a little bit longer. At least until it finally becomes the hour your normally sleep at. You don’t plan on tossing away your sleep schedule that way. It would take weeks to get it back on track if you did. 

Wild goes to bed. Wind was the first to fall asleep. Sky follows his example within minutes. Warrior and Time struggle to decide which one of them goes to bed first since someone still has to take the first watch. Legend offers to do it just so they both shut up but he’s ignored.

Hyrule throws his bed roll close to you and flops down just like the others. It’s a little funny how similar they all are even if they don’t to do it. It makes you giggle

Hyrule looks up at the sound with a cross face. “What?”

“Nothing. Good night, Link.”

His face softens and he scoots closer to you. He places his head on your lap, making himself comfortable. You snort. “Better?”

“Yes.” He grins.

With an affectionate roll of your eyes, you put your hand sin his hair, carding through his locks gently before you start massing his scalp. You can see the way the stress of the day melts off of his with every pass of your hand. “...That’s nice...”

“Good night, Link.” You repeat yourself. Distantly, you think that you’re also going to have to sleep soon and you’re going to have to figure out how to get the boy off of you without waking him up- but that’s a problem for future you.

You keep massaging his scalp, taking quiet wonder at how soft his hair is despite the lack of up keep.

Your subtle, minute motions lulls you into a deep calm as well. You think you see Four awake still, even though he’s lying down. Twilight is also up against a tree on the other side of the camp but he’s huddled into himself. That’s going to be a horrible position to wake up if he stays asleep like that. You don’t want the same thing to happen to you.

You can feel yourself nodding off despite yourself.

You have to move Hyrule. You have to lay down before you also fall asleep against the tree. How do you move Hyrule without waking him up in the process?

You fall asleep with Hyrule still in your lap.

Legend

Legend growls somewhere off to your right.

You look over to him curiously.

Legend’s been rubbing the side of his head for a while now. His face is twisted in pain and his hair has been mused up in the process. His cheeks are pink and his hat is about to half off of his head from everything he’s doing.

You frown. “Legend, are you ok?”

He hisses but looks to you. In an instant his gaze softens when his eyes land on you. He had looked borderline angry before, but you’re thankful to know that it has nothing to do with you. “...I have a headache... hurts...”

You’re heart hurts for him. “How bad it is?”

“Bad.” He says. “I feel like someone is trying to cave in my skull with a hammer.”

You open your mouth.

“Not that anyone’s tried to do that before.” Legend eyes you tiredly before you can speak.

You press your lips into a thin line. Now’s not the time for poorly judged jokes. “I can help.”

Legend gets almost a pleading look on his face. “Really?”

“I can try.” You amend. Walking towards him, you take off his hat and urge him to sit down nearby. “Just let me know if you want me to stop, ok?”

“...ok..” He says, clearly willing to do anything if it means relief from his headache.

You start by gently running your hands through his hair. It takes a minute or two but Legend’s shoulder eventually fall from their hunched position. From there you start to rub small circles into his scalp, now that you’ve cleared away more of the tangles from his hair.

You start small, a little worried about the pressure you’d put on his already sore head but with time you gradually get firmer. You try to keep the pressure slow and steady, going in circles around his head.

It doesn’t take too long before you seem to find the area that’s been bugging him the most and focus in on it.

A small sound leaves Legend and you pause. “All good?”

“Mm-hm.” He hums and slowly moves his head this way and that. A beat passes and you see his face contort again.

You take that as your queue to start up again since the pain had returned. “Have you had any water today, Vet?”

You didn’t think he heard you until he finally makes a noise of acknowledgment. “...I think...”

“Hm.” You’re not impressed. “I’m going to go get you something to drink and if this happened because you were dehydrated then I’m going to yell at you.”

“Please don’t.”

“I make no promises.”

Sky

“Ow.”

You ignored it the first time.

“Ow.”

You ignored it the second time.

“Ow.” He hissed for the third time.

You sighed and looked over. “Sky? What on earth are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” He bit his lip, trying to whittle a piece a wood into submission. You’re not entirely sure what it is he’s trying to make but he looks like he’s struggling with it. His hand makes a move and he hisses again. “Ow- by the three-!”

He drops the knife to his lap and cradles his hand. He seems to be pressing his thumb into the palm of his hand.

You move over to his side and take his hand. “You’re learning their figures of speech.”

“Completely on accident on assure you.” He growls, pouting as he watches your movements.

You bring his hand closer to you, tucking it close and slowly kneading into the palm of his hand. You can already see the problem. There’s a muscle out of place. Whether it’s twisted or stretched, you’re not sure. But it looks painful.

“How did you manage to do this?” You whisper to yourself, bordering on horrified.

Sky hears you anyway. “I’m not entirely sure. I just woke up this morning and it was like that. It doesn’t bother me too much, only when I move it a certain way.”

You grunt and keep up with kneading into his hand. Sky bites on his lip when you go particularly deep and squirms in his seat. You look up and tilt you head. “Hurt?”

“That time. Yes.” He keeps his hand limp in your hand at least, trying to not make it harder for you. “You don’t have to do this.”

“If someone doesn’t help you fix it, you’re going to make it worse.” You don’t leave room for argument. “What on earth are you thinking? Why would you be whittling? Clearly your hand needs to rest instead so that it can get better from whatever the hack happened to it.”

Sky at least has the decency to appear a little sheepish. “...I’m bored.”

“And dumb.” You flick his forehead.

“Hey now...”

“Hush.” You grin, not letting him defend himself. “It’s out of love and you know it.”

“Yes, I feel very loved right now.” Sky rolls his eyes, relaxing a little more as time goes by. Little by little, you’re moving the muscle in his hand back into place and it’s hurting him less and less. “...Thank you...”

You snort. “You’re very welcome.”

[bumblebugwrites]

Are You Mine?

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember you and Lockwood had butted heads. Always getting on each other’s nerves, getting in each other’s ways. You basically hate each other. Right?

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Cursing, Angst (like lowkey)

Word Count: 3.8k

If there existed within the planes of this earth a man more detestable than Anthony Lockwood, you had been lucky enough to avoid making his acquaintance. Though Quill Kipps may have made for a close second, you would rather spend an hour locked in a room alone with the latter than fifteen minutes solo with Lockwood in the kitchen of your own home. It had always been that way, with some minor exceptions and though time managed to cool some of the ever-raging conflict between you, you never quite saw eye to eye.

It was a well-known fact that you and George came as a package deal. The brains and his bodyguard, that’s what Lockwood called you. And for what it was worth, it wasn’t too far from the truth. You were, always had been, a strike first, ask questions later kind of girl. Where George had the perspective and the research to see the world in shades of gray, your situation forced you to see only in black and white. Maybe that’s why you and Lockwood had always hated each other so much. Everything was always an act with him, and you simply didn’t have the time to peel back the layers. 

From your very first meeting two weeks after George was fired and you quit to ensure his safety, your chances at friendship had been dismal. The pair of you had been staying in a small, rundown hotel with what little money you could spare from your previous stint of employment, getting by on only one meal a day, a small black coffee passed back and forth and one half of a bagel each. It was miserable to say the least. Needless to say, not many people were looking to hire a fired Fittes employee and his weary sidekick. Then, on the second Tuesday since your loss of employment, George found Lockwood’s ad in the papers and after calling and being informed that you would be given the chance to interview immediately you couldn’t help the small plum of hope that settled deep within your chest at the opportunity. George on the other hand was ecstatic, fantasizing eagerly about his first meal post hiring before even setting foot in the door. That is until it opened, revealing a boy no older than you, outfitted in a freshly pressed suit.

“Mr. Lockwood?” George questioned, as you held back taking him in.

“That’s me, come in.” He signaled you forward with a smile so dazzling you were forced to avert your eyes. Your gaze fixed itself on the ground instead, taking note of the unsullied sill and the doormat, that’s edges aligned themselves perfectly with the jambs on either side. It was pristine. Alarmingly so.

“I take it we’re your first interview of the day?” The boy looked caught off guard by the sound of your voice, but quickly readjusted his features into an easy grin. 

“The rest were here yesterday, so you’ve just missed them.” You quirked a doubtful brow but remained silent and followed as he beckoned you forward into what looked to be a small library of sorts. 

“Normally I do my interviews one-on-one,” Lockwood spoke, looking back and forth between the two of you as you sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch. You felt George shift uncomfortably to your left.

“Well, we’re a package deal. We come together or not at all.” The phrase weighed on your tongue as it left your mouth. You’d been using it all week and where at first it felt simple, some sort of obvious truth, it was growing harder and harder to use. Especially when George had his parents to rely on and you had, well, nothing.

“Right… Well, the tests don’t work quite as well when you’re both in the room.” George leaned over, squeezing your hand in a signal that all would be well, before standing up to move to the hallway.

“That’s fine, I’ll wait my turn.”

After a series of demonstrations regarding your Talent, easily passed as you’d always had a fairly strong sense of Sight and a long wait in the hall for George’s turn, you were back in the room once more. 

“Right then, that’s all I’ve really got for today, so you can be on your way, and I’ll be back to you tomorrow with my decision,” Lockwood smiled, leaning back into his armchair.

“Tomorrow?”

“(Y/N)--” George attempted to place a soothing hand on your shoulder, but you shook him off with ease.

“No. I want to know what is going on here.” Once more Lockwood’s brows arched in surprise, but he kept the remainder of his features under control this time.

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re not excused. You have an ad in the papers calling yourself an agency, but you’re obviously just some sad excuse of a one-man operation, sorry one-boy operation. I mean do you even have a Supervisor?”

“Well–”

“Oh, never mind that, because worse yet, you’ve been lying to us since the moment we set foot in the door. There haven’t been any other interviews, have there Mr. Lockwood? And you had better tell me the truth because I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.”

“You do realize I’m the one conducting this interview? As in I have the power to employ you, or not.” The boyish facade vanished in only a moment and the clear hint of a threat laced his tone, but it didn’t matter, because you were outraged. Act first, think later, right? Your hand flew without hesitation to the rapier at your side and within a moment it was drawn and swinging directly towards the boy in front of you. Not to harm of course, just to return the threat. But he was fast, faster than you’d realized, and by the time your blade was making its descent, he had risen from his seat to meet it with his own.

“I highly doubt you would like to face the implications of attacking me in my own home.”

“I was just leaving anyways.” You resheathed your sword in one quick motion, and began your warpath towards the door, George calling out after you. He caught your arm just as you reached your destination.

“(Y/N) please. He’s actually considered us, that’s more than we can say for any other place.”

“I am not here to be to entertain the fantasies of some boy who’s decided to play grown up for the day.”

“Come on, this seems real enough, he’s certified and everything. Besides, we’re running out of options, and you know it–”

“We can find another–”

“We can’t. I could always go live with my parents, but it will take years for anyone to hire me after Fittes let me go. And you– Well I doubt any of those places from before will take you now, and it’s not like you have–”

“That’s enough George–” You cut him off as Lockwood appeared in the doorway to the library, a knowing look painted across his features. “We should just go. I’ve caused enough of a mess as is and it’s not like he’s making his decision any time soon.”

Your stature deflated as you reached once more for the exit.

“Actually, I made my decision the moment you both passed my test.” You and George spun around in unison. “You were right,” he said, hanging his head sheepishly, “there were no other interviews.”

“So, what are you saying?” It was George who spoke, but Lockwood kept his eyes fixed on you as he made his answer.

“I’m saying you’ve got the job.”

Since then, you and Lockwood had come to a sort of understanding: as long as George was safe you would do anything he asked. Any job, any task, no matter how dangerous. Still, that didn’t mean you would take his shit either, a fact he picked up on rather quickly, and though he never let you in completely, a trait that went both ways, he told you enough to gain your trust and you returned the favor. 

And so it went in the year before Lucy came. You weren’t friends, necessarily, but you knew at the end of the day he had your back, and in return, you had his.

Still, Lucy’s arrival made the waters more murky, as she went about breaking down walls like they were nothing. One night, Lockwood happened upon the pair of you in your shared bedroom, giggling like schoolgirls at a story from your youth, splayed out across the attic bed in identical fits of laughter and though you missed it, Lucy told you in a barely audible whisper that night of how his gaze had lingered on your scrunched up face. How his eyes had softened. How for a moment, the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to vanish as he stood there in awe. Just a boy looking at a girl. No more, no less. 

“You should have seen his smile,” she whispered, her body turned to face yours beneath the covers of the queen. 

“Trust me I’ve seen the ‘Lockwood Smile’ more than enough in one year of acquaintanceship,” you huffed out a laugh, rolling your eyes.

“No, no. It wasn’t like that. It was– He looked so–” She sat up then hands flying at the air as though they might grasp the words she was trying to say.

“He almost looked like a kid. So… unburdened. It was pretty disturbing actually.” She broke off with a laugh. “Look I can’t explain it, but it was like he was actually happy and not just using his dashing good looks to get whatever he desires.” You rolled your eyes at the final bit, but tucked the rest away deep within your heart, stashing it beside that single plum of hope from that very first day on his doorstep.

By the following morning the whole thing was nothing more than a distant memory. You stood, pouring yourself a coffee, watching George scribble away at his notes on your current case when, Lockwood slipped by, swiping the mug from right under your nose.

“That was for me.”

“Well, I pay for everything in this house.” He smirked from behind your steaming cup.

“You don’t even like coffee.” Without breaking eye contact, Lockwood took a long sip and physically incapable of suppressing his reaction scrunched his brow in disgust. Then, parting the drink from his lips he smiled.

“Delicious.”

“You’re such an ass, now I’m going to have to brew another pot.” He shrugged off your inconvenience and took the seat beside George at the table. After putting another pot on, you joined the pair, ditching your previous research in favor of etching your new mantra into the tablecloth. Anthony Lockwood is a pompous ass. Anthony Lockwood is a pompous ass.

“What have you got so far George?” Lockwood questioned, setting down the mug in his hand after just one more sip. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a Type One I think, probably a Lurker.” 

“Excellent, Luce and I should be able to handle that on our own.”

“Lucy? I’m sat right here.” You glared across the table, daring the coffee thief to disagree with you.

“Besides you know my swordsmanship is superior even if she is basically the Stephen Hawking of ghost hunting.”

“Which is why she needs the practice.”

“And there is a wonderful place for her to do so in the basement. Come on Lockwood, it’s like you won’t let me go anywhere since–”

“Since the last time when you acted like a bumbling idiot and almost got yourself maimed?”

“I had the situation completely under control.”

“You fell down a staircase.”

“You can’t keep me on house arrest for forever.” Lockwood groaned and drew a frustrated hand across his face.

“Fine, but if you screw up like that again I’m locking you in the archives with George myself.” With that he withdrew, coffee abandoned on the table. Dragging it towards your person you let out a deep huff.

“It’s like he doesn’t trust me at all.”

“Or maybe he just cares about you?” George suggested, but quickly averted his eyes following a threatening glare thrown in his direction.

It was late when you reached the house, later than you would have liked. Lockwood had forgotten his rapier, so you’d had to turn back, though you had a suspicion it was some sort of ploy to get you to stay home and let Lucy go instead. Still, you held your ground and remained patient. Well as patient as you could.

“Lockwood, what the fuck. You said this place was ten minutes away, that was a thirty-minute metro ride. Not to mention the fact that that man beside us was trying to look down my shirt the whole way here.” You shivered at the thought but continued to fix Lockwood with a glare as you spoke. Through your anger you almost missed the slight shift in his demeanor at the second comment.

“Well, we’re here now are we not? Besides, it’s only a Type One, we’ll be fine.” 

You were not fine. Within only a moment of stepping foot inside you felt the temperature drop dramatically.

“Lockwood–”

“I felt it too.” His face twisted into a more serious expression. Still, you continued inside to further assess the threat. Dropping your bags several feet inside the entryway, you crouched almost immediately to sift through them for the filings when from across the house, a shadowy figure flew by.

“(Y/N)--”

“One second, you did an absolute rubbish job of organizing the kit, I can’t find the filings anywhere.”

“(Y/N), really–” 

“I said just a second Lockwood–” But he cut you off by using two fingers to drag your chin upwards, fixing your gaze upon the glowing figure lying in wait across the room. 

“That is definitely not a Lurker.”

“No shi–” Lockwood was cut off as the ghost unleashed an unearthly scream, launching itself towards the pair of you. The boy beside you was quick to draw his blade and, tucking yourself into a small ball, you rolled deftly out of the way in an attempt to attack the Type Two from behind. Pulling your rapier from its sheath, you took a defensive position as Lockwood struck at the figure from in front. After causing the ghost to dissipate into thin air his eyes quickly sought yours out.

“We need to locate the Source. Now.” With a shared nod, the pair of you began to advance throughout the remainder of the house. Upon entering the kitchen, something caught your eye immediately.

“Lockwood, look.” You pointed your rapier in the direction of what appeared to be a hand carved cuckoo clock, hung high on the wall. “He was a clockmaker, right? That’s what the file said.” 

“That has to be it.” Lockwood nodded in agreement. Moving at a slow and measured pace, you advanced on the clock, before realization hit and you grabbed Lockwood by the arm. 

“The net–” You stopped short as a glow began to form in the upper corner of the kitchen.

“Go, I’ll handle it,” Lockwood ordered and with a final concerned glance in the direction of the ever-expanding light, you set off in a run down the hall. Distant clattering sounds informed you that the ghost had made its appearance in the other room, and you pushed forward harder, now at a sprint.

Skidding to a halt, you all but dumped out the entire bag of kit in your effort to locate the silver net, before grasping its cool material and spinning on your heel. Distantly, you thought you heard Lockwood call your name, though any reason as to why was beyond you until your eyes caught on the ghostly figure just before you. 

Easily dodging its first attempt to harm you, you slid past its grip and through the doorway to the hall. It followed close behind and as your feet pounded against the wood floor, you could feel the atmosphere around you grow colder by the second. Flying in a panicked fury through the doorway to the kitchen, you just managed to catch Lockwood’s eye before an unseen force threw you against the counter. Your head hit the marble edge. Hard. And in a single moment you crumbled to the ground.

All sound in the room became distant, including the noise of several items on the counter’s smooth surface being dislodged with your impact. And then, in a tone you’d never heard before, Lockwood’s voice cut through all the muffled, pounding noise. 

“(Y/N)!” Your head jerked up just in time to watch as the knife peeking out over the counter teetered over the edge. In a single moment of clarity, you angled your body towards the ground, clasping your head with your hands. A piercing pain laced your shoulder and you let out a scream. Distantly, you noticed Lockwood, backed into a corner, swinging wildly with his rapier, fear etched deep within his normally steady features. That was all it took.

Ignoring the sharp pounding of your head, you reached back to dislodge the knife, pulling it from the deep, now severely bleeding wound in your shoulder. It took most of your energy not to call out in pain at the action, but you knew it would only shift the ghost’s attention back to you. Dragging yourself across the floor, you snatched the net from the ground before using the wall to pull yourself up.

Three things happened at once then. Lockwood’s eyes fixed on you from behind the ghost, wide with concern and something else you couldn’t quite place. Simultaneously, your hand made contact with the clock, instantly alerting the ghost to your presence. Finally, the Type Two turned on you. 

In one fell movement, you wrenched the clock from the wall, just as the ghost launched itself in your direction and covered it with the net, the creature disappearing mere inches from your face. Lockwood took a breath. It was mesmerizing, though you couldn’t understand why, that moment of quiet. And then you began to sway.

“Lock–” But the name died in your throat as you began your descent towards the cold linoleum floor. You were out before you hit the ground, though not before you felt the comfort of two arms as they wrapped themselves around you, breaking your fall.

It had been two weeks and Lockwood could still barely look at you. By the time you awoke in the hospital, he was gone, though George and Lucy had stayed, tangled up with you in the hospital bed, a mess of sleeping limbs. Once they awoke, you questioned the pair on the absence.

“Where’s Lockwood?”

“Said he was too busy to wait for you to wake up,” mumbled George bitterly, but Lucy only chided the other boy.

“He was worried sick about you, really. It’s just, well you know. He’s Lockwood.” You smiled at Lucy’s words, but a seed of disappointment planted itself firmly in your gut.

Your arrival back at 35 Portland Row was not much better. Lockwood remained hidden away in the library as Lucy and George helped you through the door. 

And so, the first week continued. Wordless breakfasts in the kitchen, cold greetings in the hall. One time after you accidentally grazed his side in passing, he physically flinched away. 

On the eleventh day, you found yourself near tears with the behavior.

“I think he hates me, Lucy.”

“Lockwood could never hate you.”

It was day twelve of Lockwood’s one-sided standoff when you caught him in the kitchen alone near two in the morning.

“Could you make me a cup?” You’d questioned, coming up behind him to search the cupboard for some bread as he poured himself a cup of tea. Nothing. Not even a glance.

“Come on Lockwood, it’s been days, can you just drop it? I’m fine.” Still no response. No matter. You’d always known how to get a rise out of Anthony Lockwood.

Waiting until he’d set the kettle down to reach for some sugar, you moved quickly, sandwiching yourself between the counter and the boy. For the first time in days, his eyes met yours, though he dismissed the moment with a quick huff and reached once more for the cabinet above your head. You gave him a shove.

“Fuck you Lockwood, talk to me.” His eyes glinted in a warning, but he made no effort to speak. He didn’t move a muscle. You shoved him harder. 

“Talk to me you prick.” He caught your wrists in his hands as you pulled back for another shove and gripped them tightly.

“Say something!” As you struggled against him to give one final push, your shoulder caught at an odd angle and the searing pain from your still healing wound nearly sent you crumpling to the ground. Nearly. As you began to curl in on yourself, Lockwood removed his hands from your wrists and caught you by the waist.

“You’re going to reopen the gash on your shoulder.” He chided, his tone cold, but his arms continued to hold you in place.

“I know that you hate me. And that’s fine. But this– The silence, it’s too much… It hurts too much.”

“You’re an idiot. You acted recklessly and without forethought. You could have died. You could have gotten yourself killed–”

“I was just–”

“I’m not finished,” he continued, his hold on you tightening, “you jeopardized the entire mission with your actions–”

“I saved your life!”

“I had it under control–”

“Oh, like I did with the staircase?”

“I should never have brought you.”

“Because you hate me? Yeah, I know.”

“Because you are nothing but a distraction.” You froze. Body rigid in his hold. He pushed on.

“Because all I could think about the entire time we were in that house was you. If you were safe, if you were– if you were alive.” One of Lockwood’s hands traveled carefully from your waist to your cheek.

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about since the staircase. It’s why I couldn’t bear to go on any missions with you, it’s why I nearly made you George’s bloody research assistant, it’s why– it’s why I nearly fell apart when I watched you hit that oven– when I saw that knife about too–” 

You could hear his breaths becoming labored and his grip tightened once more as his eyes clouded with the anxiety of distant memories.

“Hey. I’m fine.” You reassured him, bringing a hand up to caress his face. “I’m okay, really.”

“I think I’m– I care about you, so much it hurts.”

And there it was, the boyish face Lucy had seen that night in the attic. Young and afraid. Completely unguarded. You really couldn’t help kissing him.

Bunching the fabric of his shirt in your hand, you pulled his lips down to meet yours, and though surprise initially stilled his mouth, he quickly pulled you closer, kissing deeper, pressing forward to meet you. His hand curled gently in your hair, his other arm pulling you closer, closer, as though if he loosened his grip, you would simply slip away. You only pulled back to catch your breath though you could barely convince yourself to do that much as his lips followed after yours, looking to meet again.

“I love you too Anthony Lockwood.”

[according2thelore]

It's still wincest wednesday in my neck of the woods, so here's what's been chewing up my brain all day (full house of wincest, ahoy!):

They have to be.... selective with how and when they play this game. They have to be planning to leave -- not on a hunt; for good -- within the day. Dad prefers if their bags are already packed and in the car; Dean argues that an empty room screams of entrapment, that they need his pile of dirty clothes and Sam's broken-spined paperback splayed out on the bedside table to sell it. (Sam could give a shit if they're packed or not; this is his absolute favorite, the one thing he's asked for his past two birthdays.)

Sometimes Sam gets to play the bait, but usually he lets Dean do it. He's had more practice, and besides... Sam doesn't mind one bit if he has the spend the first part hidden in a closet or bathroom, so long as there's a door to crack open. (Sam likes to watch.)

Sam loves to get that cryptic omw+1 text from Dean, his cue to scamper into his hidey-hole, make himself unseen. Dean's had his way this time -- half the room is still littered with teenage-boy detritus, meant to look like Dean's been crashing here unsupervised for who knows how long.

Dean's loud when he comes in, always makes a show of banging into doorframes and tables and luggage racks, all so Sam can push his fingertips into Dean's bruises later. Whoever's day Dean has chosen to ruin is always behind-beside-all-over him, and always different -- classmates, sometimes, but more often marks he's picked up in the park, the truck stop bathroom, the side of the road. Men, mostly, but sometimes women. Girls and boys -- one time both at once, Chandler West and Alicia Wichman who sat on either side of him in Algebra.

Sam watches raptor-like, knows all of Dean's moves and where each one will lead, a chess master of this particular board. If this, then that. If they kiss Dean's throat, he'll unbutton his shirt. If they touch his chin, he'll tuck his head all fake-bashful so he can look at wherever Sam's squirreled away through the fringe of his eyelashes.

Dean likes to still be partially dressed, but Sam and Dad both like him bare, so rarely do they compromise. Dean's running the show here in the room, but Dad says his exhibitionist tendencies are likely to land him in trouble someday if he's not careful -- he likes to be looked at, can practically get off just from being petted and told how strong and good and pretty he is.

Dean's stripped down to his socks and shirt, his bare dick leaving wet-black streaks on the inside of his grey tee. Sam wants to ruck it up under his chin, to make Dean hold the wad of fabric between his teeth so Sam can see everything, but Dean's still playing shy, tugging the hem down to cover himself. The man of the hour -- gas station clerk, Sam realizes; the one who's sold them cigarettes and candy bars after school more days than not for the past month -- reaches underneath to get himself a good solid handful of Dean, moans load and unselfconscious right against Dean's neck.

He's muttering something about "could tell from the first time you came in" and "standing outside, smoking like you couldn't stand not to have something in that mouth for more'n a minute, fuck" and Sam's over it, he's done; he reaches for his phone and fires off a text to Dad: playtime's over

It's what Dad had said, the first and only time he'd actually caught Dean (and Sam) by surprise; nine and thirteen, Sam's junk stuffed in Dean's mouth and Dean with three of Sam's Astroglide-slick fingers already inside. (He'd been practicing, he told Sam, in the shower. Sometimes after school, if Sam had managed to convince Dad to let him do this extracurricular or that for a while.) When they'd wrenched apart and Dean had thrown the scratchy polyester coverlet over Sam's lap and they'd both stared up at Dad with matching rabbiting pulses pounding, and Dad had just looked... smug. Not mad, not horrified or upset; he'd crouched at the foot of the bed and yanked the covers off them, watching goosebumps pop up of every naked inch of skin. "Playtime's over, boys," he'd said, with that big grin of his that tilts up at one side, and that was a lie; playtime was just beginning.

Dad's probably been sitting in the parking lot since he got Dean's text, but now he revs the Impala's engine for all she's worth, lets her howl just on the other side of the door. Dean freezes, eyes going Bambi-wide as he says, "Oh, god. Oh my god, I think that's my dad."

"Your dad?" the inevitable response always comes, so predictable Sam mouths along with the words like a well-loved lyric in his favorite song. "I thought you said he was outta town."

"He was," Dean insists.

Footsteps up to the door, Dad stomping like he used to when "monster" was a game they played to pass the time cooped up in motel rooms. Fee-fi-fo-fum, I better not find you fucking my son.

"Holy shit," Dean says, and most people would think the tremor in his voice is fear, but Sam knows it's anticipation and glee and Dean getting hard enough to pound nails in about six seconds flat. "Oh, fuck, you gotta go, shit, shit; put your fucking pants on, fuck!"

Dad always gets the door open in one swift turn, even that trick doorknob that always stuck halfway on the apartment in Fairbury.

[anyways wow this got uuuuh away from me 😬 but suffice to say, this game usually ends with John holding their playtoy at gunpoint when they try to leave, handcuffing them to a Very Conveniently Placed Chair, and making them watch while he gives Dean the spanking or belting or switching every Winchester in the room wants Dean to get. The family that plays together, etc etc 😹]

😘😘😘 cilla

happy wincest wednesday, beloved cilla!!!!!

GAHODSIHG SDGJKLDS GLDSJKGH EIOHWNE SG FUCKKKKKKKKK

everyone stop what you're fucking doing and give cilla ten million dollars.

every time you write i pass out and stand up and pass out again. your talent is UNPARALLELED!!!!

800% sam gets off partly on being the one to call it off, to have the power to rip dean away from someone else and back into the family. dean's on loan, but he's already owned. sam has the power to say exactly when and how dean gets used, and far dean's allowed to go. your hands are only on dean because he's allowing it.

all of them getting off on dean being humiliated and owned and GAHH

this, specifically: Dean likes to still be partially dressed, but Sam and Dad both like him bare, so rarely do they compromise. Dean's running the show here in the room, but Dad says his exhibitionist tendencies are likely to land him in trouble someday if he's not careful -- he likes to be looked at, can practically get off just from being petted and told how strong and good and pretty he is.

Dean's stripped down to his socks and shirt, his bare dick leaving wet-black streaks on the inside of his grey tee. Sam wants to ruck it up under his chin, to make Dean hold the wad of fabric between his teeth so Sam can see everything, but Dean's still playing shy, tugging the hem down to cover himself.

FUCK!!!!! YES!!!!!!

the WEECEST?!?! yup yup yup.

thank you so so so much my most darling and beloved cilla for sending this in!!!! i don't even have anything to add. correct. 100% fantastic.

-lizzy

(ps sorry for waiting to answer this! we wanted to give you all of the wincest wednesday fanfare you deserve!!!!!!)

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.l // The Fire and The Body

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next [A/N] From this chapter forward, what I've posted is no longer canon, since I'm changing the ending back to the one I originally intended for the story. As soon as I have something to replace them with, I'll delete them from AO3 and Wattpad, but you'll still be able to find them as bonus content in the masterlist in my pinned post.

Conrad is struggling to scoop down small mouthfuls of oats, ignoring the gap in his molars and his captor’s silent company to the best of his ability, when, without warning, the already strange atmosphere of the morning turns hectic.

He has no idea what triggers it. One moment, they’re both mulling over their own – Conrad over breakfast, Davin over his phone, absentmindedly sipping coffee. The next, Davin sets the mug down and leans forward. The stillness in his posture makes Conrad look up, but his expression is hidden by his hair. His thumb keeps scrolling, skimming through writing. The news probably, it’s always the news.

Conrad uncertainly lowers his spoon to the bowl. “Wh—”

“There’s no fucking way,” Davin mutters. He looks up with an expression Conrad has never seen in him before, knit brows over half-squinted eyes, lips parted. His gaze drifts from Conrad to the table, then back to the screen. “It’s been one hour. How the fuck is it possible t—”

He stops.

“The house,” he says low.

Something in it has made Conrad lean back widen the distance between them, but before he can begin to ask, Davin pushes up from the table, rushing through the kitchen. He disappears down the hallway, the sound of his steps travelling, and Conrad hears a door swinging open with enough force to thud against the wall.

The uncharacteristic urgency makes him lightheaded. Instinct tells him there’s danger here, that he should do something, but he’s nowhere near steady enough on his feet; Davin had to lend a shoulder just to get him to the kitchen.

Hugging himself with his good arm, Conrad grits his teeth, listening intently to for the sound of footsteps eventually scaling the stairs, then the creak of floorboards, or occasionally, the sound of something dragging. Then it’s back to the stairs, heavier thuds on the descent.

When Davin emerges from the hallway, he’s carrying a large duffel bag over his shoulder, one identical to those he carried the first night. He doesn’t say a word, just drops it in the middle of the floor and leaves again.

Conrad stares open-mouthed at the bag.

He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Davin is clearly packing up; all he knows, really, is that as long as he’s this clueless about what’s going on, he won’t feel a hint of reprieve. Why would they leave the house, if this wasn’t the end, somehow? The knot formed in his chest overnight tightens with growing anxiety, until breathing feels difficult and strange.

Davin returns, setting down a second duffel bag as well as a rucksack. Jaw set, he unwinds an elastic from his sleeve, bunching up his hair on the back of his head.

Conrad nervously clears his throat. “Did, did something happen?”

One last twist of the elastic, lips pursed in an otherwise neutral expression, before Davin turns his attention to him, setting off in a rapid beeline as he digs for something in his pocket.

The sudden, determined approach makes Conrad instinctively stumble to his feet, whining at a half-step on his bad leg. His fear doesn’t make Davin slow down. The moment he’s within reach, he grips Conrad’s wrist, yanking his hand forward.

“Dav—”

Interrupted by a wheeze when cold metal locks around deep abrasions, Conrad accidentally struggles to pull away, which only aggravates the feeling. Once his hands are cuffed, Davin pulls him forward, but his legs give out again. He cries out, but still hears the low grunt of frustration as Davin scoots him off his feet, dodging an elbow to the face when bound hands flail at the loss of balance.

An arm under his knees, the other on his back, steady enough, but Conrad still clutches at the man’s clothes as they head for the entrance. His head is spinning. “Wh-what, what are you—why are you—”

Davin opens the front door with an elbow. The rush of freezing air hits Conrad like a wall, instantly raising the hairs on his naked arms and biting through the thin sweatpants, bare feet curling in some attempt to shield from it. There’s a car parked in front of the driveway that he hasn’t seen before, a shiny grey Mercedes with half-melted snow dripping from the roof.

“Where are we going? Davin, where are we g-…?”

Davin doesn’t answer.

Maneuvering him into the back seat takes a while, not helped by the fact that the rush of freezing air quickly makes Conrad shake. Following the gut feeling that he’s better off complying, he does his best to move along, but the effort to shiver makes his whole body ache. When Davin lifts his hands to zip-tie the handcuffs to the grab handle above the door, the pain in his newly set shoulder makes him jerk back involuntarily. It looks like resisting, and Renee might’ve made him hurt worse for it, but Davin simply tightens his hold.

Three ties secure the short chain between his wrists. Conrad flinches as Davin pushes the door shut, thoughts hazy, but he’s grateful to at least be out of the biting wind.

Davin briefly circles the car to retrieve something from the trunk. As he walks back toward the house, he’s carrying a large petrol cannister in each hand. Pushing the door open, he disappears into the house.

It doesn’t take him more than a minute minutes to reappear. By then, Conrad is fully shaking from the cold, legs curled up into the seat, one bare foot covering the other to save the remaining warmth. In the brief glimpse allowed before the door swings shut, he thinks he spots a flickering yellow light in the kitchen. A moment later, a flame licks up a wall in one of the downstairs rooms – Davin’s room, to be specific. It’s quickly followed by others, puffing out plumes of black smoke as they curl up a dresser, charring white paint by proximity alone. It’s hard to see through the reflections in the window, but he’s pretty sure the room is clouding up already.

Davin is silent as he ducks into the car. Fishing out his laptop from the rucksack, he flips it open on the passenger seat. From where Conrad sits, it’s hidden by the backrest, but he can see Davin’s eyes flicker intently back and forth, searching. Eventually he straightens up, and his gaze shifts from the continual flicker to slower, arching movements, as if he’s watching a fly walk across the screen. Pursing his lips, he settles back, turning the key in the ignition.

Conrad’s wide eyes fix on the house as the car sets off from the sidewalk. In the closest corner of the tile roof, another small, glowing tongue quickly darts out from under the gutter, disappearing, reappearing, joined by others. The fire has already spread to the rafters.

Not long after the drive has begun, Davin makes the first of many, many unanswered calls.

💵

It’s darker down here, but a bit of brass catches the fluorescent lights when Davin half-releases the clip into his palm. Satisfied, he pushes it back in, cocking the slide, and then sits back with a drawn-out sigh, resting his elbow on the center console. “You keeping warm back there?”

It’s the first thing he’s said to him directly since this all started, and now that Conrad’s been able to glean a sliver of context, it feels like whiplash. Not long after they arrived in the city, Davin found a roofed garage without CCTV, and Renee called back. As with the first call, Conrad only heard half of the conversation, but there was an austerity in Davin’s voice that made even him snap to attention. You need to focus. Calm down. Listen to me. A short list of directions, and further off-handed mentions of what sounds like an army of cars, canines, helicopters…

Whatever’s happening right now could well involve a hundred people, and indirectly impact a thousand others. Gleaning the scale of it all makes Conrad dizzy, not because he didn’t know his case had garnered attention, but because it feels as though it zeroes in now, it rears its head – all because of him.

“I should’ve brought your jacket,” Davin mutters absentmindedly. “Slipped my mind. I’m sorry about that.”

Cars line the rows of booths on either side of the entrance, but people only walk around in the distance, closer to whatever stairs or escalators bring them to the ground floor of the mall. Some push carts, some are groups or couples milling about their daily lives side by side, colorful clothes almost dot-sized. If Conrad screamed, if he clacked the cuffs against the tinted window, none of them would hear him.

Huddled in the corner between the seat and the door, he tugs at the cuffs a little to ease the discomfort in his shoulders. He’s not warm, but at least he’s not shaking anymore. “How did, how did they find him?”

Davin sniffs. “Pertinent question, isn’t it?”

Conrad’s breathing has gotten somewhat rougher during the trip, and it feels familiar in a way that makes him nervous. He licks cracked lips, trying not to wince with the battered side of his face. Whenever his eyes shift to the gun, it’s hard to pry them away again. “They’ll find your DNA in the house,” he says carefully.

It prompts a chuckle.

“Or in his car, or...”

“Mhm.” Davin turns his attention back to the laptop.

“Maybe they already know about you. Right? If they knew about him, then…”

“He’s close now,” Davin mutters.

“So are they.”

“I appreciate the concern, but these guys are decent enough to keep their distance in populated areas.” Davin waves the gun vaguely in the direction of the passenger seat. “You can’t even see them in the live feed.” 

Conrad clears something from his throat. “What’s the gun for, then?”

Davin casts him a glance in the rearview mirror. “Self-defense. Renee’s on a bit of a spree, it seems.”

“What, what – what does that mean?”

They both turn their heads at the distant sound of sirens, whispering eerily through the air. Not long after, a low thunk echoes down the corridor of parked cars. From a down ramp, headlights creep around the corner of a wall, a small, blue car Conrad’s never seen before. Its tires whine on smooth concrete, front bumper grazing in a rather inelegant transfer to the level floor.

Davin turns on the ignition.

Conrad is scared to move. His voice is small. “Did… Davin, did Renee kill someone?”

The car stops five, six yards from the Mercedes. Overhead lights reflect in the windshield, blocking the view of the driver, but the door pops open soon after, only to swing half-shut again.

Davin lets out a breath. He picks up a cap from the passenger seat, flipping up his collar as he steps out. Passing the rear window, he’s tucking the gun into the back of his waistband, appearing in the rear windshield with his arms casually at his sides, although his pace is quicker than usual. With the driver’s side door still ajar, the cry of the sirens is exponentially clearer, steadily growing in volume, second by second.

Conrad grits his teeth, watching Davin pull the blue door open and lean down, only to rise a few moments later with an arm draped over his shoulders.

Despite Renee’s height, his silhouette appears eye level with Davin’s: folded forward, head bowed, legs bent at the knee. He’s limping, generally seems off-kilter, as if he’d drift to either side or outright collapse if Davin wasn’t propping him up. When the door opposite to Conrad is opened, Renee practically falls inside. A smell hits, the sickly sweet, almost oily singe of copper.

Davin wastes no time getting him settled. Slamming the door shut, he ducks back in the driver’s seat and immediately sets off, weaving through rows of cars towards the far side of the lot. As they near it, Conrad begins to hear a continuous, low whir.

Renee’s hand leaves behind a glossy print on the seat’s leather, arms visibly shaking as he pushes himself up. “Hi, Connie,” he says, a tone that might’ve been casual if he didn’t sound completely winded. He dumps back against his own door with a pained expression, shoe dragging a muddy track on the middle seat as he draws one knee up.

It’s not until the Mercedes nears one of the exits and indirect sunlight refracts through the cabin that Conrad realizes.

Half of Renee’s sweatshirt, collar to waist, is covered in blood. It’s on his neck, on rolled-up sleeves, on his forearms and hands, and it runs down past his crotch, seeping into the denim on his thighs. A large patch of the fabric on his stomach is so saturated, the light reflects in the same way it would a puddle.

Conrad’s mouth opens.

Renee curls one hand around the other, gaze drifting out of focus. His skin is so pale, even his lips have lost color. “Ah… god...”

“Stay awake,” Davin calls back.

Letting out a vague laugh, Renee leans the side of his his head on the seat. “Yeah...”

Another short ramp feeds from the garage to a main street, forming a small queue of three cars, Mercedes included, steadily leaving the garage. Once they clear the roof, the sudden burst of daylight makes him miss, hands curling over the restraints. The whir is louder, beating the air like a fast drum. Overhead, a news helicopter circles the block, red logo stark against the sky.

Breath hitching in his throat, Conrad strains against metal to press his palm flat against the tinted glass.

Davin follows the row of cars slowly snaking around the perimeter of the mall, joining others as they shift toward the sidewalk at the sound of approaching sirens. He looks down, cap hiding his face as a police cruiser rushes down the oncoming lane, close enough to sound deafening as it passes by the Mercedes – for a split second, the mirrors are mere feet from each other.

Keeping his head on a swivel makes him dizzy, but Conrad can’t stop himself from staring out the back window, where the cruiser swings across the road to block the ramp they just came from. He lets out a small sound, heart hammering in his chest.

“When did they shoot you?” Davin says over his shoulder. He turns at a green light, following the flow of traffic away from the mall. “Hm? Renee.”

There’s no answer. Despite the rapid rise and fall of Renee’s chest, his eyes are closed, body swaying loosely with the movement of the car. Clusters of small scratches on his cheek and chin makes it look like he stuck his face in a pile of broken glass.

Davin curses.

The sound of sirens wanes before that of the helicopters, but even those are nearly inaudible by the time Davin blinks down a smaller street, then turns into an alleyway. Putting the car in park, he twists out of his seat, back pressed to the ceiling as he climbs across the center console.

Renee stirs when Davin maneuvers himself over him in the tight space, one knee on the seat while his other leg keeps balance on the floor. His gaze flickers, but doesn’t settle. He doesn’t react when Davin flicks a knife open, just murmurs. “F-… finger hurts.”

Davin snorts. “I think you have bigger issues.”

He lifts Renee’s collar and splits the fabric from top to bottom, peeling it off his torso. Two fingers gently pry at the edges of a seeping wound, almost like a star-shape on Renee’s stomach. The sweatshirt left behind a general haze of red, but already, darker streaks trace down his side.

“Does it go through?”

Renee slowly nods, not meeting his eyes.

“And this is the exit, mh?”

It takes a moment for him to think through the answer, and even then, it doesn’t sound entirely certain. “N-no, no, it’s…”

At the sound of sirens, Davin stops what he’s doing and stares intently at the street, but as the whining reaches its zenith, no cars drive past the alley before it once again disappears. They must’ve been on the main road. Letting out a tense sigh, he turns back to Renee, reaching around his side, seemingly to feel around. “Goddamn high caliber,” he says under his breath. He swiftly runs the knife down the sweatshirt from the other shoulder, cutting loose a square that makes up almost the whole front, which in turn is cut in half. “Did they sic a fucking sniper on you?”

Renee’s been expressionless, eyes following the movements of Davin’s hands. He squints at the question, brows furrowing slightly. “Tree,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“T-… tree. Or, uh… it went th-… through… uh…”

More comes out of his mouth after that, but it’s too slurred to make out, and his eyelids are drooping.

Before his chin can drop to his chest, Davin catches it. He sharply cracks an open hand against his cheek. “Stay conscious,” he says tersely. “Tree, hm? You got impaled on something?”

Renee blinks a few times. His eyes remain unfocused, but his breathing picks back up. “Y-you hit me.”

Davin hums an affirmation. He roughly balls up half of the blood-stained fabric and places the bundle over the wound in Renee’s abdomen, then guides his hand on top of it. “Hold this,” he says. “You don’t have to put pressure, just hold it.”

While Renee blinks down at himself, seemingly confused at the task, Davin undoes the clasp of his own belt, pulling it off in an arch.

Renee snickers lazily. “Ha, yeah…” A syllable or two per breath; he doesn’t seem to be capable of more. “You’re not… not my…”

Looping the belt behind Renee’s back, Davin bunches up the second half of fabric, feeling around for where to place it, before he props it in place by putting tension on the belt. He peels away Renee’s hand from the front, lining up the black strap with the cut fabric, the wound. “Alright, I need you to exhale as much as you can.”

Renee blinks vaguely at him.

“You understand?” Davin places a hand flat on his sternum, pressing down. “Breathe out.”

Hesitantly, Renee shuts his eyes and blows, cheeks puffing slightly as he does.

“Keep going,” Davin says, “keep going…”

 Two or three seconds later, he tightens the belt with a single, hard tug to the side.

Renee’s whole body jerks, one foot kicking Conrad in the process. His head snaps back and hits the window, veins in his neck standing out as he grasps Davin’s arms, airways frozen on nothing.

Davin closes the clasp with ease despite the hands clawing to push him away. “You’re good,” he says. “Deep breath.”

Renee finally does choke down a gasp, curling over his stomach, face contorted. He lets out a growl, deep in his throat, but weak. “I’ll f-fucken…”

“You’ll what?”

A gasp later, the sneer is already sliding into that distant look, heaving losing volume.

“Nope. Stay awake.” Davin grabs him by the chin again, pressing his head up and back against the window. Renee fumbles for his arm – Davin grips one wrist in return. “Get mad, Renee. You’ll what?”

Glazed, half-lidded eyes failing to properly focus on the other, sweat dripping down his face. He struggles to swallow. “Hah, you could’ve… You could…”

“I could,” Davin concedes. “But you made it personal, and I’m finding it hard to forget an attempted stabbing. Maybe I’d like you to feel it.” He leans in slightly, and his voice lowers. “You don’t get to touch me.”

Perhaps it’s the proximity, but Renee’s gaze widens and gains focus then, although the grip coiled in his sleeve still looks feeble.

Davin lets him go with all but two fingers still pressed into his wrist, and the thumb pushing contra. He lingers there for a moment, then nods. “Better.”

There’s a flicker of hatred on Renee’s face when Davin crawls back in the driver’s seat, one he manages to maintain for the first ten seconds back on the road, until a pothole makes him flinch, curling up.

A minute after that, maybe two, is all it takes before his body begins to relax again. His arms slack across his abdomen, eyes flickering with an attempt at movement before they roll back, and his head lolls to the side.

Some of the blood on his hands looks to have dried, a reddish brown splitting into separate continents. It’s only noticeable now that he’s unconscious and his fingers aren’t trembling.

“H-he passed out.” Conrad is already far away when he says it.

Davin shakes his head. “Kick him. We’re not far.”

As if it came in two distinct layers – one that managed to mostly coagulate before the other seeped through the resulting cracks, sticking peeling flakes to his skin. If Conrad throws up, he has a feeling that his heart might sneak its way up his throat and fall out of his mouth. Conrad can’t speak. He’s hollow.

“Kick him, Conrad.”

It should’ve ended with a death, one single death. A chance for his family to heal with the knowledge that at the very least, nobody else has to grieve in the same way. Why does everything have to get so dark?

It might not be good, morally or otherwise, but when his mind begins to blur, he leans into it. Conrad doesn’t kick. The body doesn’t kick.

The muscles of its arms relax, weighing heavy in the cuffs, but the pain in its hands is temporary, fades over time as circulation is diminished. As its breathing slowly evens, it closes its mouth. The driver speaks to it, and the sound melts into the noise of traffic. Light and shadow flickering over a vision filled with red, slowly dulled, desaturated, vanishing.

Nothing can be lost that wasn’t gained in the first place. The only thing that’s changed is… it’s…

The passage of time, maybe.

The body doesn’t feel a thing at the sight of Jackson Auto, but then again, that memory barely had any time to form. The garage door is open, letting the car turn into the floor of a shop with rows of blue shelves and stacks of tires, and an engine hanging from thick chains in the ceiling. There’s a grave in here, right in the middle of the concrete floor. About the size of a casket. Maybe it’s six feet deep, too.

The driver shouts something as he gets out. The garage front slides down, blocking out the sun as two other people rush out. Hastened speech, and the car vibrates with closing or opening doors.

The troubled breathing wasn’t just from fear. It’s still there once the body’s pulse settles, as if there’s bubbles in its chest with each inhale, a rattle in its throat.

Wherever they carry the dying murderer, the body doesn’t see.

It sits still, mindlessly staring at the grave.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[lefarte]

omg hiiiiiiiiiii fellow funger connoisseur[leans on my bugatti, misses completely and falls into a bed to cash] ;]

anyway, may i ask for a moment of respite with August during termina? just a lil break in the bacchanalia. a moment of normalcy, like dinner 🙏

Yall,,,,,, I want that old man cannibal

Brown trout in the Vlata river are good and fat, but very fishy, so they go best with salt and herbs. An oven is the best, but in a pinch a spit will do just fine. You never knew a man could gut a fish so elegantly. August can use a knife like a fine instrument, and can keep a fire roaring even in the damp season. He splits it open, takes out the guts (“Would you like me to take the head off for you too, my dear?”) and uncerimoniously dumps them in the river. It goes up over the fire, he puts yarrow on it and something called “Česnek medvědí”.

“Are you trying to impress me?”

“No, no,” He chuckles. “I am just an old man with a hobby. That’s all.”

The fire is at a low purr like a cat. The sun has long since set. This part of the woods was unnaturally chilly, even compared to the city. You had been wandering westward for no particular reason and then got caught spinning around in circles. You survived three or four hours of this monotony by snacking on raw mushrooms (one of which gave you a tummy ache), until you saw a manmade knife slash on the side of a tree. You followed, and found another. You kept following, and here you are.

“What other hobbies do you have?” You ask. “Is that bow a hobby too?”

“It’s my occupation.” He pats the quiver on his hip. “I’m a… hunter by trade.”

You tilt your head. “Oh. There’s not many of those anymore.”

“Eh, no. But I do it because I love it.” He smiles.

He takes out a bottle of vodka and offers you a sip. It smells strongly. You shake your head. He gives you a shrug and takes a shot.

“I also saw you jumping from buildings.”

He nods sagely. “Did you like it?”

“…oh, so you are trying to impress me now…”

He has a nice deep chuckle that sounds pleasant to the ears. “The fish is done.”

You were borderline ravenous from the smell, so you perked up instantly. He cut you the most tender pieces, and ate the head and tail himself. You two ate with your hands, for lack of silverware. He seemed to watch you eat with fondness, even though your hair was ratty and your face tired.

He suddenly reaches out his hand. You flinch from the unexpected contact, but he makes a noise that’s almost… cooing at you.

“You have something on your face.” He takes his handkerchief up to your mouth, and dabs your lips gently. “I’m not supposed to be so fond of you, you know. I have a job to do. But you are so… cute.”

You lean into the warm touch. Afterwards, he sets the handkerchief in your hand. It is soft and embroidered with his name. “A memento.”

“I will have to go by the morning.” He says, quite suddenly. “You will probably never see me again.”

Your heart sinks. You don’t want to be alone in the deep woods, freezing and with an awful dry autumn wind. You don’t know how to get back to the city. You don’t want to. You’ve been chased, hungry, and beaten half to death all within the span of one day. It felt like you were here for years. It felt like you would be here for centuries more. You like the fire. It’s good and warm.

“I don’t want to,” You ball up your fists without even noticing. “It’s… cold.”

“I know, my dear.” He sighs. He wraps his big hands around you in a side hug. You realize just how big he is. His hands are calloused. Under the dinner jacket, he is muscular. “There’s quite a chill.”

He puts half of his jacket around you, so you’re sharing heat. You feel heat for the first time in a while, with warm food in your tummy and a bit of a blush.

“I’m a bit drunk,” he admits. “So I’ll just ask outright. I suppose you’re probably not used to sleeping on the grass, so you don’t suppose we could… cuddle up a bit. We wouldn’t want you catching a cold, now.”

You hesitate.

“You don’t have to say yes. If I’m being pushy, I apologize.”

“No, no, I’m just.. happy.”

He grins. “Good. That’s good.”

He lays down and sets his arm out, so you can use him as a pillow. He’s so gentle with you. He gives you a headpat before sleep. The night is still. You feel calm, good and calm, and your muscles relax. It’s good, it’s great even. He doesn’t snore, you hardly know if he slept at all. It’s not too long before you fall asleep. And as he said, in the morning, he was gone.

[asnowdriftsomewhere]

Daylight pt8

Cassian x f!reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

AN: we have a longer one here, folks. Buckle in, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: You and Cassian have a difficult conversation

Warning: talking about illness, loss, and death.

Words count: 3317

The next morning, Cassian woke with dread in his heart and fear in his bones. You had not told him anything as you watched the stars together in taught silence. You had refused to say more than ‘not tonight’ when questioned by Rhysand and Feyre, who had approached you after more than an hour had passed. You simply stood and thanked them for the meal before taking the Illyrian by the hand and walking out to the front lawn. He understood without needing asked and shot you both into the sky towards the House of Wind. When he'd set you down on the veranda minutes later, you smiled at him. A small, brittle thing that made whatever vice around his heart squeeze and he'd struggled to let you go.

You saw the conflict in his gaze. The fear and need that wared in his hazel eyes as his fingers wrapped around your slender wrist. His hold on you wasn't painful, but it was unyielding, and you found your free hand going to his cheek in a gentle caress. You pulled his head down to your height so his brow rested against yours. You inhaled his scent of fire and wind and the first light of dawn and closed your eyes. Content to just breathe and just exist within this moment with him.

When you'd opened your eyes again, Cassian's hazel eyes had closed, and he was also breathing deeply. As if memorizing the scent of you, the feel of your hand on his face. You kissed the corner of his mouth. Just a quick press of your lips against his skin before you slipped your wrist free and disappeared into the hall. He stood there, frozen as he watched your retreating form vanish from sight. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and his soul longed to follow after you. To take you into his arms and never let you go. To protect and serve you for as long as he was able and find a way, any way, to convince you to fight for your life and not let whatever disease gripped you win. He didn't know what ailed you, which of the few fae illnesses had sunk its claws into your blood or bones, but he knew they all were deadly and that your chances were slim. But they were even slimmer if you did not wish to survive. If you did not wish to fight.

He stumbled, half asleep, into the dining room the next morning feeling as if he'd been fighting an entire army for hours with no end in sight. Rage and dread swirled around in his head like a cyclone fueled by his fear for what had not yet passed and what would become of him when it did. He hadn't known you long, but that didn't matter. His heart yearned for you in a way he had never experienced before. And he didn't know if he ever would again.

“You look awful,” your voice was small as he snapped his head up to see you curled in one of the low backed chairs at the table. Your knees were pressed to your chest, and a throw blanket was draped over your shoulder as you pushed eggs around on the half finished plate in front of you. And while you still glowed like the morning sunrise, just beginning to peak above the horizon, even that seemed dimmed as you rested your chin into the valley between your knees.

“So do you,” he breathed out heavily as he took his usual seat up the table from you.

“I couldn't sleep,” you admitted with the smallest shrug Cassian had ever seen before. If you hadn't been the subject of his entire focus, he would have missed the gesture entirely. “My thoughts kept circling like vultures.”

He nodded once, “Same.”

A plate of food appeared on the table before him and the two of you ate. That same taught silence from the night before stretching between you but heavier now. As if weighed down by every question and answer that neither of your dared to voice. Too afraid of everything that might be said once you began.

But you had to begin.

“A question for a question,” you whispered in a small voice. Your eyes never strayed from the plate in front of you.

You heard him swallow once, “Okay.”

There was another beat of silence while you both struggled with where to start before -

“What is the strip of light that follows you?” He asked suddenly. Your eyes snapped up to meet his in surprise. “I've seen it a few times. It reminds me of Azriel's shadows but…”

You lifted your head to nod once. “It is very similar.” You set one hand on the table and let the daylight slide from your skin. It pooled into a sphere, the size of a chicken egg, just beyond your fingertips before it moved. It seemed to stretch like a cat waking from a nap before it slithered across the dark wood to where Cassian watched. Something akin to wonderment flickering in those hazel eyes as he tracked the daylight that wrapped around his wrist.

“My sister and I were born different from the high fae of the Day Court,” you explained, watching his face closely as he marveled at the slip of light traveling up his muscular arm. “While your brother is called Shadowsinger, we are called Lightbringers. We glowe like sunlight lived in our blood and answered to our every whim.” Another ball of light slid from your fingers to pool on the table. A third appeared. A fourth.

“Like Azriel's shadows, my daylight can listen and whisper. Though they are significantly less stealthy.” You tipped your head to the side. Four sunbeams danced and played across his skin. One ducking into General's long hair only to pounce on one of the others and chase it around his thick neck. “And far more unruly.”

He laughed once, “They're like kittens.”

You laughed as well, “That is more true than you know.” Your face turned serious for a moment. “When did you first see them? They've never allowed themselves to be viewed by anyone other than my sister - my twin - and I before.”

“In the library the first time we met,” he answered as the daylight on his shoulder wiggled and jumped as if trying to get to the table. Only to slip and tumble down the arm below it. “When I was leaving, I saw it return back to you.”

Your expression became unreadable as you bit your bottom lip, “Interesting.”

“What is your twin's name?” He asked, his voice softening as he watched you.

You told him, a deep sigh escaping from your chest as you looked down at the table. “She died in the last raid of the Grand Library. Just before Amarantha was put down.”

“I'm sorry,” he offered. “I didn't know.”

“It's hard to talk about,” you admitted.

Another moment of silence passed between you. The Daylight on Cassian's skin was still swirling and playing. One of the beams appeared to be gnawing on his fingertips as they lay splayed across the table.

“Do you want to see something I've never shown anyone but her?” you asked softly, and he tipped his head to the side before nodding once. With the snap of your fingers, the daylight slid from his skin and gathered on the table. All four slips of light began circling each other. Swirling around and around as they lay flat and expanding against the dark wood surface until there was a swirling void of light the size of a dinner plate in front of him.

He blinked in confusion. “What…” his words trailed off as images and pictures began to form within the light. The Grand Library, with its towering pillars of gold and silver. A veritable mountain of books within the clear quartz structure. Courtiers and scholars walked through, some acknowledging you in the memory as you walked among them. Some were too deep in their debates to see the female who passed them. It never bothered you. Gods knew you'd been that way plenty of times. You smiled and looked up at Cassian, whose jaw had gone a bit slack as he looked from you to the memory playing across the table.

“I didn't know it was possible to share memories like this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Outside of the Veritas, I mean.”

“It wasn't,” you smiled fully at him then, pride rippling off you in waves. It made you look younger, somehow. As if you were not weighed down by all you had endured. “This is new magic. A spell of my own design. You do not need to be a Lightbringer to perform it, but it certainly makes it easier.” Your expression fell as the image rippled and changed within the void. A female, a mirror image of you, smiled broadly and without restraint as you wandered the stacks collecting books. It rippled again, and now the two of you were standing on a balcony at dawn, as the winds of Day swept through your hair. Another ripple, and she was waking you up. It was the dead of night based on the darkness that could be seen through the wind behind her, but she didn't care. She wanted to show you her latest magical feat. A spell to allow fairies without wings, the ability to fly.

“It was a deal we made with each other,” you told him, not daring to drag your eyes from the image. “Any discoveries we made we were to show each other first. We were each other's biggest supporters. We wanted to share in the others' joy… And… And then…”

The image on the table changed. Every scholar and Courtier within the Grand Library went still as the warning from Helion's father went out. Amarantha was coming to sack the Day Court.

“My sister and I managed to hide a great many priceless books over those fifty years with our… talents.” You spoke as the images showed people grabbing tomes and scrolls and shoving them into a few sections of the library. You and your twin coming together to weave your magic around the stacks until every book and artifact vanished from sight. “Amarantha's cronies didn't know what we could do - Why we glowed. They just thought that it was some quirk of our bloodline and didn't bother to look into it. If they had, then they would have gotten rid of us much sooner. Whole wings of the library became barren under our glamor. Beyond a regular sight shield, our magic made it not only look empty but also felt vacant. Unworthy of the time it would take to explore it.

You sighed heavily, dropping your chin back onto your knee. “For fifty years, I rose with the dawn, and my sister woke at dusk to make sure one of us was always awake to maintain the spell that kept our most prized collections safe. But as the years went on, we became more and more tired and weak. We could never relax, never truly rest. And then…”

“One of you fell asleep,” he murmured.

“My head dropped for just a moment, but it was enough.” You closed your eyes as the memory played in the light. You were sitting by the window, the evening sun so low in the sky. A moment of black, and then you shot out of your seat. “The power of those books rippled through the library, and she woke up. She ran to the doors just as Amarantha's soldiers did, and they cut her down.”

Rage, old and familiar burned in your chest as the images played on the table. Your sister, your twin, beautiful and strong, unleashing a wave of daylight that burned the soldiers from the inside out. Boiling them alive at the cellular level until they were nothing but husks at her feet. And then she fell among them. Her injuries were too severe for her immortal blood to stave off death. You ran to her, held her in your arms, and cried as the light of her skin slowly dimmed and then winked out all together.

“A few hours later, Amarantha was dead, and Helion had returned to us.” You swallowed down the emotions that had risen up your throat and lifted your gaze to meet his. “He gave her a hero's funeral. Every honor he could bestow he did and I…” The image flickered to show you walking through the library. There was no light, no joy in the memory. Everything had gone dull and lifeless. Helion approached at one point, concern clearly expressed across his features, but you just pushed past him.

“I think part of me blamed him for not ending it sooner.” You admitted in a small voice. “I know it's stupid, but I was so angry in those first few months. I'm still angry at him, though, for a different reason now.” The image rippled to Helion coming to you and whisking you away to the Night Court where Rhysand was waiting for you with an offer to use his library below the House of Wind for the next six months. A look at your High Lord told you it wasn't a negotiation. And while now, a few months later, you could see the love and concern in his eyes, you remembered only feeling betrayal and rage in the moment. Helion was doing what he thought was best with the information he had. You couldn't fault him for that.

You looked up to Cassian, who had sat quietly enough through your story, to find him staring at you in return. It wasn't pain or sympathy that you saw there, but something like grim understanding. He knew what it was to lose someone and to rage at the world for it.

“Can you fly?” He asked, a nod towards the light that now swirled blankly over the dark wood of the table. “That spell she showed you… Can you still do it?”

You nodded once, the corners of your lips lifting just a bit, “The cost of magic is great, but yes. With enough rest, I could fly alongside you. Maybe even faster.”

He snorted, “In your dreams, Glowbug.”

Something in your chest fluttered at the nickname. Your cheeks blushed a faint pink as you smiled more freely at the Illyrian across from you.

The light on the table flickered and changed. The image of Cassian appeared, and you went entirely still. The Illyrian was lying flat on his stomach in his bed. His arms were wrapped around the pillow, his face was half concealed within, and soft snores could be heard coming from his body. You were sitting on the floor beside the bed. Your chin rested on your crossed arms as you watched the warrior sleep. There was a look in your eyes you weren't expecting to see. Something like soft bewilderment as you studied the smooth lines and rugged features of the General before you.

Your blush burned deeper now as the Illyrian at the table arched an eyebrow and looked to where you tried to curl in tighter on yourself. “The quirks aren't completely worked out,” you mumbled. “The magic tends to show what it wants.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You were in my room,” his lips curled in devilish delight. “Watching me sleep.”

“You'd been watching me,” you pressed your lips together as you looked away from the male across from you. “It only seemed fair that I returned the favor.”

“You fell asleep in a communal space of the house,” he pointed out. “And all I did was cover you with a blanket.”

You sighed heavily, your cheeks on fire as you made yourself look at him. “Do you want me to apologize?” There was no defensiveness to your tone. No aggression or irritation. Only a genuine offer should he want it.

Cassian shrugged once, “Don't worry about it. Trust me, Rhys and Az have done much worse than just watching me sleep.”

You laughed once, “Brothers usually do.” And another one of those smiles drifting across your face. The ones that made his heart beat unsteady and his lungs constrict in his chest. He found himself answering it with a grin of his own before your words from last night flitted through his mind.

“I'm sick.”

Like a wave of ice crashed over him, his body went rigid. His mind quickly counted questions before he slowly opened his mouth to ask. “What-”

“Don’t,” you stopped him. Your eyes turned pleading before they dropped to the table between you. “Please, don't ask.”

“Y/N,” his voice was soft as he reached a hand towards yours where it still rested on the table. “I want to understand.”

“You don't need to know what is killing me to understand that I will soon die.” Your own voice came out weak as you pulled your hand away before he could touch you. Wrapping your arms around your legs as you curled in tighter on yourself.

“You don't know that-”

“Come now, Cassian,” you laughed once, a sound with no joy in it, only cold resignation. “You know the statistics when it comes to Fae illnesses. This,” a nod towards yourself, “is worse. Trust me, there is no surviving it.”

“Then why the research?” He asked, anger leaking into his tone. “Why look into it if you don't have a chance?”

“Because despite what you think, I don't want to die.” You spat at him now. Your own rage rising to meet his. “I wished and prayed and researched, hoping to find something, anything to give me the barest hint of a chance, but there is nothing. Nothing to stop this. Nothing that can save me.

You swallowed back a sob as you pressed your eyes into your knees. “Last night, I went over it all again. Every scrap of research I had. And it all just confirmed what I already knew in my heart. In my soul.” You looked up at him again, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I'm already dead.”

Cassian didn't back down, his hands balling into fists on the table between you. “There must be something we can do. Someone we can ask- Madja-”

“You think I haven't been to every healer in the realm?” You demanded, your nails digging into your skin. “That I didn't think to seek a medical professional when I realized something was wrong?”

“I don't know what to think,” he nearly shouted at you as he leaned forward in his seat. “Because you won't tell me-”

“I am dying, Cassian!” You shouted back, “You are not entitled to any more information than that!” But even as you spoke, the light on the table shifted and changed. It showed the memory of your sister's death again. The glow of her skin slowly dimmed while you held her and wept. But it also showed you. Your own light flickering, your cries turning from devastation to pain as you collapsed to the floor beside your twin. It showed the bond between two bodies lying on the floor, one alive, the other dead. And it showed what you had always known, but no one ever understood. A sphere of light, gentle and sweet, with ropes of gold that touches the hearts of both females.

One soul, two bodies.

And the rip that severed you completely.

You heard Cassian's breath catch in his throat but didn't give him time to react before you were running. Out the door, across the veranda, and jumping over the edge so that you were in free fall. You only just saw him diving after you before you winnowed away entirely

AN

[mysticwolfshadows]

Taken - Zutara - Part 3

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When Katara opens her eyes again, Zuko has kept his word. He's slumped over onto a table, breathing softly. She can't help the little laugh that escapes when she notices the little line of drool coming from his open mouth. Her laugh only grows when Zuko jerks up in surprise.

"Whats so funny?" he demands, his cheeks somewhat pink.

"Nothing," she said. "You just reminded me of my brother."

They'd never really talked about her life before the Fire Nation, and he was clearly surprised. "You have a brother?"

She nodded, looking away. "His name is Sokka. He's a year older than me. He wants to be just like our dad." When he doesn't say anything, she looks up to find him watching her very intently. She can't help the heat that grows on her cheeks. "What?"

"You'll see them again," he promises. "I said that I was going to get your home, remember?"

His insistence on an impossible promise made months ago surprises her. She knows that it will never happen. If she isn't able to meet Ozai's demands, she will be executed, and if she is able to, the Fire Lord will never let her leave. So Katara just smiles and thanks him. She can't possibly expect him to keep his word on this.

There was something about that day that led to a change in Zuko. He comes to see her every day to get her out of work in some way. If he isn't able to come see her, he will warn her the day before. Within a month, if Zuko says he will do something, Katara can trust that he will have it done. He becomes a man of his word.

As months go on, others take notice. Katara starts to hear maids talking about how he is becoming an honorable young man, listens as governors express delight at having such a diligent and trustworthy prince next in line. A swell of pride fills Katara each time she hears them talking about her friend.

Months turn into another year, and then another. Katara spends each day with hard work under the Palace physician, with most afternoons interrupted by Zuko pulling her away. Some afternoons, they visit the training hall, Zuko now allowed in without a tutor, and he has her bend with him. Other days, they sit by the turtleduck pond, Zuko occasionally asking about her family. Rarely, Azula interrupts them, but Katara is able to get Zuko to ignore her, and his sister usually gets bored and leaves.

As her strength grows, Katara finds herself content with this life. She can live here, healing people and bowing to the Fire Lord's demands. Someday, Zuko will be Fire Lord. Perhaps he would be able to take her home then, but that is years and years in the future. Several decades, at least. By then, Katara would be unrecognizable to her people, and her people alien to her. She already begins to forget what her family looks like.

It's about 3 and a half years after Katara came to the Fire Nation that the fragile peace of her new life is shattered.

It was a very normal day for her. Zuko had warned her that he would be trying to join a war meeting, and wouldn't be able to see her if he managed to join. She spent the day in the clinic, healing stray soldiers and guards, and the occasional official that wasn't really injured. As the morning turned to noon, she found herself with nothing to do, and sat to have lunch. An hour later, the doors were being thrown open, a fanatic servant calling for a healer. Katara, being the best there was, grabbed up one of her water pots, and told the servant to lead the way.

She hadn't expected to be led to Zuko's quarters.

Rushing to her friends bedside, she ordered the servant to bring more water. Iroh was knelt at the other side, and as she pulled the wet cloth from Zuko's face, she demanded to know what had happened.

"There was an Agni Kai," Iroh said, his voice heavy with worry. "Zuko, he... He didn't fight, and then... Please, Miss Katara. Please heal my nephew."

Her hands were already glowing, gently laying bending cooled liquid on Zuko's red and clammy face. She didn't say a word, focused solely on healing the only friend she knew. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she panicked each time Zuko made any noise. He had to be in immense pain, had to be going through something unimaginable.

She worked on Zuko for nearly five hours. Her body swayed when she tried to stand, and her stomach rolled. Zuko would be fine. At least for now. She had never dealt with a burn so severe before, and had done her best. There would still be a scar, a terrible ugly thing that she knew would change his life forever, but she had been able to heal it enough to hopefully save his vision at least.

"Thank you," Iroh breathed as she leaned against the wall. "Thank you... Please... Rest. You have done so much for us already, and I can not ask you to remain beside him through the night."

"I want to," she said, voice soft. "Please, let me stay. I want to be here when he wakes up, and if something happens..." She trails off, unable to finish the somber thought.

"The room next door is empty," Iroh insisted. "You will need your strength, should he need healing again, but you have already done so much. Please, at least sleep. I will come to fetch you if he shows any sign of waking."

Of all the Fire Nation royals, Iroh had been one of the kindest to her. He loved Zuko dearly, and she trusted him to do just that. So she dragged herself into the room next door, and landed with a flop on the bed.

Only, when she woke in the morning, it was not to Iroh. The early Fire Nation sun glared through the somewhat open screens. A blanket had been thrown over her. She went to Zuko's room immediately, only to find Fire Lord Ozai leaving it.

There were guards now stationed outside. Quickly, Katara dropped her head into a bow, not wanting to risk being pulled into some impossible task when Zuko was still recovering. She waited until she was sure he was gone before lifting her head and trying to enter.

The guards stopped her.

"Return to your quarters, healer," one guard said.

It was always healer with the guards. They did not use her name, and had originally called her waterbender, as if it were an insult. Now, most used healer almost in reverence. Some she had saved from serious injury, cuts or burns that could have easily caused a scar if treated without bending. None had been as terrible as Zuko's, however.

"Why?" she seethed, anger and shock turning her voice into venom.

"Fire Lord Ozai's orders," the other said. "No one is to enter. Return to your quarters, healer."

Katara wanted to lash out, whip water at the guards with a move she and Zuko had been working on. But she had no water, and couldn't risk being on the chopping block again. She had to stay calm. She would have to see Iroh.

The general was nowhere to be found. She spent three days and sleepless nights trying to get anything out of anyone. No one would tell her anything.

It was on her third sleepless night that the world began to spin, her eyes staring blankly at the moon. It was late. Midnight, perhaps. She hadn't been keeping track of time. All she knew was that her friend was locked away in his room, a grievous wound across half his face, and she could do nothing about it.

As she blinked at the crescent moon, it began to blur. There was a buzzing in her ears, and she began to tilt. She vaugely recognized the sound of her name, before the world tilted and fell completely dark.

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

[dandunn]

My bad on that first one, I have fixed it:

Lupin, Jigen and Goemon are bunkered down in a hideout after a heist. It's winter and freezing when they get there because the stove hasn't been lit. What do they do?

“Come on you antiquated piece of-”

The grumbling voice is cut off by a loud clang and then a muffled curse. Goemon doesn’t move from his kneeling perch on the floor, avoiding planting himself fully on the floorboards and therefore losing precious body heat.

The door bursts open, bringing a flurry of snow with it and a man dressed in a jacket so puffy and fluffy it seems to be consuming the body within it.

“Did you find wood?” Goemon asks without opening his eyes. The muffled voice within the jacket and balaclava again gives the impression of someone half-swallowed.

“I can’t see an arm’s length in front of my face, let alone find a tree” the man says as he pulls the balaclava down from his mouth, and Lupin gradually emerges from the ring of thick fur making up the hood of his silvery jacket. Snowflakes cling to his jacket and he shakes himself like a dog to remove them, “how’s Jigen doing?”

The voice that Goemon has been hearing getting gradually more irate for the past hour bellows out a sharp “FUCK!” and another clang rings out through the small hotel. 

"Not good, I assume." Goemon says.

The building they’re squatting in is a small hotel closed for the winter season, causing Jigen to attempt to rattle Goemon by regaling him with a story called ‘The Shining’ where a caretaker goes mad from being isolated in the high mountains during a snowstorm and attempts to murder his wife and child, prompted to do so by the murmurings of ghosts. Apparently the story ends with a boiler exploding and taking the building with it, making Goemon wonder if Jigen clanging around the machinery is in any way wise.

“If I was confronted with such a situation, I would simply defend myself.” Goemon had said, as Jigen waited gleefully to see if his attempt to spook him had worked.

“The hotel was haunted, Goe. You can't cut a ghost."

“Zantetsuken can cut anything.”

Goemon pulls his thick cloak around himself a little tighter as the wind snakes around his ankles, watching as Lupin fights the door closed by shoving his upper body against it. Underneath the hood, his brow is pink and slightly sweaty.

Around Goemon is stacked innumerable piles of cash: fresh crisp bills wrapped in plastic. A successful heist, but the money won’t mean a lot if they can’t survive the storm blowing outside. 

Lupin pulls Zantetsuken out of his coat and hands it back to Goemon, since he had reluctantly handed it over to aid with cutting down any trees he found. As it stands, a bundle of thin twigs is the only prize. Goemon hugs his sword tightly, then watches as Lupin kneels in front of the wood burning stove 

Lupin open the little door and shoves the twigs inside, crumpling some old newspapers under them to serve as kindling.

“Better make this wood last,” Lupin chuckles, “otherwise we’ll have to burn the loot to keep warm!”

“It is entirely possible.” Goemon agrees. 

Lupin turns with an unlit match in his gloved fingers, “I was joking, Goe-Goe. You know, trying to be light-hearted.”

“And I was not joking."

Lupin sighs as he flicks the match alight and then carefully tosses it into the stove, closing the small door and locking it up tight. Gradually, a pathetically small fire glows to life behind the glass. Goemon’s partner holds his hands over the front of it, his breath puffing in the frigid air. Then he lifts himself upright from his kneeling position and turns towards him. 

“May I join you?” he asks, pointing towards Goemon’s expansive woollen cloak. He lifts a corner up to invite Lupin in and then they crouch together, cheek to frozen cheek.

“You’re so warm,” Lupin huffs with a smile, “how do you do it?”

“Muscle mass,” Goemon says, “generates heat.”

Lupin turns and kisses Goemon’s jaw with a smile, cuddling closer to him. Unfortunately the movement causes Goemon to hiss quietly, the injury he's been trying his hardest to ignore flaring to life.

"Are you okay?!" Lupin's voice trembles with worry as Goemon's brow folds down in pain. The only part of him that feels warm is the hot, feverish skin around the fresh wound across his arm and shoulder. Jigen patched him up and firmly bound his arm to his chest to prevent any further damage, but they're low on pain meds, and medical supplies in general.

"I am fine, it is not your fault." Goemon murmurs, shuffling a little to try and ease the throbbing in his arm.

"Don't try and be a hero, we have a few painkillers left, if it gets to be too much-"

"It will not be too much - it isn't too much." Goemon cuts him off. "Something worse might happen, we may need those supplies."

"What could be worse than this?" Lupin chuckles sadly, "I hate seeing you in pain, you're not as good at hiding it as you think you are."

Goemon rankles, but perhaps Lupin is right. Seeing him sit with a furrowed brow, still as a statue from tensing up for hours on end, unable to rest as he fights to transcend the pain and the limits of his body…

It all must look rather pathetic, after all pain is the body's signal to tell the brain that something is wrong, natural endorphins can only go so far.

Lupin cups Goemon's cheek and tilts his face towards him to kiss his face again, but this time he plants a chaste kiss on Goemon's lips as well. The softness of it startles him and causes him to jerk backwards with a hand over his mouth.

"Lupin!" Goemon's eyes go wide.

"Hey, I had to do something to show you how much you mean to me." Lupin grins, closing one eye.

"While Jigen is in the next room?"

"Right. If he weren't here, would you let me kiss you?"

Goemon thinks briefly back to all the times he's had to avoid Lupin's flirting, especially when he's tipsy and seems to get very invested in giving Goemon an extremely French kiss. 

"I am not going to dignify that with an answer."

"Technically that's still an answer." Lupin purrs with his cat smile.

Goemon breaks his air of haughty composure to speak english, "Fuck you."

"You're too fun to tease, I can't help myself."

Lupin slides an arm around his lower back to embrace him and Goemon starts to rest his head against his partner's shoulder. He doesn't want to show it but his body is starting to ache from his rigid position, and weak thoughts of a warm futon and thick blanket are starting to creep in. The thief continues to press warm kisses against his forehead and into his hair, and Goemon's strength saps out of him with each one.

"Hey, Goe-Goe, in case of certain death, I just wanna say I'm really glad you came back to partner up with us."

"It isn't like you to be sentimental in the face of potential death, thief." Goemon jabs at him, "We have survived worse, and you have survived even worse than that."

"Oh I didn't mean me," Lupin presses three fingers to his chest, "I'm going to live forever! But you and Jigen are probably goners, I'll miss you when I'm off living out my gorgeous, immortal existence alone."

Despite himself, Goemon starts to chuckle, which turns into an ugly guffaw.

"I knew that would get ya." Lupin smirks.

[stray-kaz]

Chasing Fire : an Istredd x f!reader oneshot

Summary: Having known your family since you were a child, Istredd has witnessed you grow, seen all your phases, as he himself has hardly changed at all. But when he returns to the home you share with your parents and you are one and twenty years old, he realises he’s missed this last phase and doesn’t want to miss what’s next. He doesn’t want to miss you.

Word count: 5.4k

Rating: 18+

The flower covered cottage looked to be deserted as Istredd approached it, but as he drew nearer, the door opened and a middle aged woman emerged, wiping damp hands on a thin towel. She saw him and smiled.

“Istredd! It has been too long this time. My sunflower girl will be thrilled to see you again.”

He gestured to the cottage, flowers crawling all over its walls. He had helped with that, when you were just a child, and had watched him magic the blooms into early growth. He had looked over his shoulder at you, hiding a grin at the wide eyed awe on your face.

“She isn’t here?” he asked your mother.

She shook her head.

“No, she went for a walk. She still loves those woods.”

A rueful smile tugged at her mouth as she no doubt remembered countless hours calling for you, demanding you return home for supper or chores.

“Smart as a whip, that girl, but no more wise, Istredd. She will be pleased to see you, though.”

She pointed in the direction he should take before retreating to the cottage, the door closing quietly at her back. Istredd looked out at the woods, the wall of green and floral beckoning him to it.

The trees seemed to close in around him as he wandered, leaves rustling high and green above his head. This was your home, your comfortable place, not his. He was more at home in the dark, with books, than out in the sunlight. But you mattered, so here he was, in your element.

Almost half an hour passed before he found you. The trees opened up onto a small clearing ringed with flowers. This was obviously your place. Sunflowers bowed toward him as he stepped out of the shade, blue eyes finding you with ease and first widening, then narrowing.

You stood in front of a tree, pressed up against it, really. A young man stood toe to toe with you, pressing you into the bark, his face buried in your neck and one hand vanished up within the folds of your skirt. Your eyes were half lidded, teeth digging into your lower lip.

Istredd stood feet planted wide and arms folded across his broad chest and waited. Something must have snatched your attention, for you looked up, caught his eye, and beamed. Looking at your face was like staring into the sun. He wondered if the boy with his hand between your legs knew that. You pushed the boy away and ran for him, his name on a shout of joy.

“Istredd!”

He caught you against his chest, one hand on the back of your head and the other arm around you, one large palm resting just above the curve of your backside. Istredd raised his eyebrows at the goggling youth, and he scarpered.

“Hello, sunflower girl” Istredd murmured. “It’s been a while.”

You pulled away a bit so you could see his face, a considerable distance above yours. You reached up to twist your fingers into his hair, now almost to his shoulders. His eyes flickered a little at the easy touching.

“This is new” you said, head cocked curiously. “It suits you, mage. I like it.”

“Thank you” he rumbled, fingers flexing against your back.

Then he moved the hand on your head to lightly grasp your chin instead, tilting your face up further. You shifted against him, unaccustomed to his heavy scrutiny. Your belly brushed the front of his coat.

“Do I tell your mother about what I just saw?” he asked, one eyebrow arching.

Your nostrils flared and eyes narrowed at him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“Do so, and you are dead to me, Istredd.”

He smiled, his eyes warming.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” he murmured. “Come. I believe your mother sent me to find you so that she wouldn’t have to.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes, fell into step next to him as his hands returned to his sides, returned to not touching you at all. But as you walked back to the cottage, you felt your smallest finger brush his and a spike of pleasure run you through, too many times for it to be an accident.

Your father greeted Istredd as he would any old friend, taking him by the arm immediately and guiding him away to show him his latest book acquisition. You smiled ruefully as he was led away from you, crossing your arms over your chest.

“How was your walk, love?” your mother asked, startling you slightly.

You looked around at her.

“It was fine” you said absently, your gaze inexorably drawn back to Istredd.

He had heard the question and was looking over at you, listening to your father with just one ear. His lips pulled into a faint smirk as the answer left you.

“Anything interesting happen out there in your woods?” your mother continued, pressing for more.

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on Istredd’s, his a cool, calm blue that had the potential to turn hot and commanding. His smirk deepened.

“No, Mama” you mumbled. “Nothing interesting at all.”

She shrugged and gave up and you retreated to your tiny neat bedroom to sit on the end of your low bed and stare at your shaking hands, wondering why Istredd had this effect on you when none of the other young men in the nearby village ever did, including the one in the woods with you earlier. Just a distraction, to keep you from wondering, again, where Istredd was and what he was doing.

There was a quiet knock on your open door and you glanced up to see that very man filling the doorway, having to duck his head to fit beneath the upper threshold. His gaze on you was quiet now, almost wary.

“Are you all right?” he asked you quietly, his voice low so as to not reach the other occupants.

You bounced up, smoothing your hands down the front of your bodice. You nodded, completely missing the way his eyes lowered to the neckline of your dress before rising to meet your darting gaze again.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, I -”

He stopped speaking as you tried to fit past him through the doorway, ending up wedged in between his body and the wooden frame. He looked down at you, pressed up against him from chest to hips, one of his legs almost slotted between your thighs. You could feel the strength of him holding you in place, feel the heat of him radiating through his clothes. At the same time, you wanted to grab onto him and also scrape against the wood frame just to get away.

“Sunflower, what are you doing?”

He was still quiet, but you jumped a little and glanced down to see that, of their own accord, your hands were fisted tightly in the front of his shirt, his coat having already been discarded upon his entry to the cottage. The nickname burned in your ears, shame faced, reminding you of the child you were, the child you didn’t want him to see you as any longer.

You let go of him and inched out of his way.

“Don’t call me that, please” you said shortly.

“But it’s your -”

“It’s not my name!”

He paused and stared at you, the fire in your eyes, the heat in your cheeks.

“Istredd?”

“Hmm?”

He leaned in your bedroom doorway, watching you and waiting.

“I am not ten summers anymore. I am grown. I love and I want and I bleed. I am not a child.”

He gazed at you deeply, read the frustration and the truth in your face. You expected him to say something, to argue, rebuke, or even laugh. Instead, he stepped away from your bedroom and leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips brushing lightly over your warm skin. 

“No” he said gently. “You are grown, dear heart. But what is it that you want?”

Istredd passed you by and returned to the cosy living area and to your father and his books, leaving you standing still and stunned in his wake.

Dear heart.

You skirted around one another as afternoon faded into evening and you helped your mother make and serve dinner, always too aware of your gaze on him and his on you. There was a moment when you thought you’d been made, found out, noticed by your parents. You lost your carefully crafted balance cornering the table and stumbled, falling bodily onto Istredd’s lap.

You heart thumped too hard as you felt him solid and warm beneath you, and your bones became liquid as Istredd wrapped his hands around your ribcage to steady you, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. Heat sliding south, you climbed back onto your feet and adjusted your skirt, praying he didn’t discern the tremble of your thighs underneath it.

You managed to get around the table and half fell onto the last empty chair, letting your hair fall forward into your eyes as you reached for a fork. 

His cool blue eyes fixed on you sitting opposite him, Istredd thought of nothing but your warm weight in his lap and the hard thudding of your heart loud in his ears. The breathy syllables of a silencing spell echoed in his head, but he brushed them aside, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it out.

He wanted only to lay you down and seduce the truth out of you, but with your parents both awake, it was not an option. Perhaps it wasn’t an option at all anyway, regardless. He knew all about sex magic, but he didn’t want falsity, he wanted the truth from you.

You could feel his eyes on you, their intensity searing through you like fire. You shifted in your chair, trying to ease the ache building in your lower belly and between your thighs. You ate little and excused yourself quickly, hastily scrubbing your plate and fork clean and disappearing back into your bedroom, this time closing the door behind you.

Istredd watched you go, eyes narrowing a little, only half listening to what your mother and father were talking to him about. Eventually, he, too, excused himself and retired to sit outside until the sky darkened and he heard your parents move into their own bedroom and shut their door. Then he reentered the cottage and sat on the low couch in front of the newly stoked fire.

He waited for sleep to take him under, but the thought of you lying alone in your bed pushed weariness away.

You lay awake but sleepy, desperately trying to ignore the growling in your stomach and the hunger even lower down, but eventually, your hunger for food grew too much to ignore. So you crept out of your bedroom and out into the living area, making a beeline for the cramped kitchen. Instead, your plans evaporated cleanly away when you glimpsed Istredd sitting up on the couch, still wide awake.

Almost in a daze, you stepped around the couch and sat beside him, tucking your head against his shoulder and sighing softly, bare legs curled beneath you. Istredd looked at you and swallowed carefully, taking in the sight of you wearing a soft pink nightgown, the straps worn thin and the hem steadily turning threadbare. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured, glancing out at the darkness beyond the cottage walls. “Not dark enough for you?”

“Hungry” you yawned.

He shouldn’t say it, he knew he shouldn’t, but the question burned his tongue until it was spoken aloud.

“Hungry for what, dear heart?”

You didn’t say anything for a time and he wished he could take it back, until you raised your head from his shoulder and looked up at him, your eyes wide and pupils like twin eclipses.

“What do you see, Istredd? When you look at me?” you asked him, sleep torn away like a cloak.

He lifted a hand to touch your jaw, the flutter of your lashes, the sweet curve of your bottom lip, all before speaking to answer.

“A woman” he admitted, voice deep as the seas.

You stared at him, desire churning inside you. You moved slowly, giving him time to stop you, yourself time to be a coward and flee. But neither of those things happened, so you settled in his lap again, this time on purpose, your back to his chest, legs open over his.

Istredd watched the hem of your nightgown drag up your legs as you shifted onto him, stopping several inches above your knees. He felt your heartbeat through your back, the trip and race of it. He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down your bare arms until he reached your hands and threaded his strong fingers with yours. At his touch, your pressed further into him, your rear rubbing over him.

“What do you want?” he murmured into your ear, words dripping honey.

“Who” you said, barely a breath.

He hooked his chin over your shoulder and your eyes closed. You felt small and encircled and safe and very, very warm. Even more so when Istredd angled his head slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Who do you want, dear heart?” he whispered.

You shivered and his body responded, kept in check by his fierce will.

“You.”

The word was swallowed as he kissed you, grasping your jaw to turn your face towards him. You whimpered quietly and a hot flush spread through him, originating in his chest and travelling swiftly south. His other hand gripped at your waist, holding you down as you squirmed over him, chasing the fire.

“How long?” he mumbled against your lips.

Your mind spun, whirling to grasp at comprehension. You reached down to grab at his thighs, anchoring yourself to the earth.

“I was seventeen” you whispered breathlessly.

“At seventeen you should have been chasing boys your own age, not pining after a stuffy researcher” he told you.

You groaned when he sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down, teasing the sting away with his tongue. The air around you was warm and low, clinging to your arms and legs, pressing lightly against your throat. You opened your eyes and stared at Istredd; his were already open as he pulled his mouth away, blue eyes almost all pupil.

“What?” he asked, but there was a hint of a smirk to his tone.

You faced away from him again, glancing around curiously at the faint blueish aura around the two of you, pulsing as Istredd spoke.

“What have you done?” you asked softly, watching it pulse again.

“Silencing spell” he answered, leaning up a bit to press himself to your back. “So you can be as loud as you need.”

Softly worn fabric creased as he slid his hands over your hips, clutching gently at the warm flesh still hidden from his eyes, and up your stomach. He could feel your heart beating into his palm as he stroked over your ribs and up, up, listening to your hitched breaths when he eventually covered your breasts with his hands. He squeezed carefully and your already hardening nipples pushed against his palms.

One hand still digging into his leg, you lifted the other to sink into his hair, your fingers finding the skinny tie he kept some of it pulled back with and tugging it free, before pushing your hand back into the curls. You heard a sharp intake of breath from him and felt him rock against you from below, his own strong fingers still teasing your breasts through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

Your legs fell further open as you tugged experimentally on Istredd’s grown out hair and felt a growl rumble from his chest. He tweaked hard at your nipples and you cried out, bowing forward over his hands and feeling him hard under you. You wriggled and he hauled you back, soothing you by stroking the pads of his thumbs over the sore peaks until a warm glow started up between your legs.

“And what if I had chased boys my age? What would you have done to Eris today if he hadn’t run?” you panted, leaning back into Istredd’s broad chest and watching his hands work you, transfixed.

He huffed a laugh against your shoulder just as his hands left you and rose to your shoulders, pausing to drag the slender straps down your arms. You held your breath as the fabric fell away from your chest, baring your breasts fully to his eager hands. As his hands returned, skin to skin, you sighed shakily and he finally spoke.

“I would have sent him through a portal to Aretuza and let the ladies there deal with him” he said huskily, peering over your shoulder as he molded you with his hands.

You snorted derisively, but the sound was shaky.

“You wouldn’t.”

Istredd kissed your shoulder and then the tender place just below your ear, receiving your shiver with a smile.

“I would. And then I would have shown you what I can do with my hands.”

“Sorcery” you whispered, arching into his burning palms.

He shook his head, dragging his lips over the top of your shoulder.

“Chaos.”

As if to prove his point, he sank his teeth in and you gasped out a moan of surprise as the sharpness was again soothed away by his tongue and his hands slid back down from your chest, left aching and exposed, and ended up on your knees. He squeezed and somehow, you managed to spread even further for him, all but laying over him, braced by his chest.

“Good girl” he practically purred, and your eyes melted closed as you relaxed into him.

His hands were warm and flames flickered behind your eyelids as they smoothed up the softness of your thighs, slowly rising higher and higher, your hem rising with them in silence. His steady breaths fell soft onto your hair as your pulse ratcheted up and up.

“How are you so calm?” you demanded, on edge as his thumbs moved gradually closer and closer to the slick desire between your thighs.

He laughed quietly and the sound sent more heat through you.

“Oh, I’m not, dear heart” he assured you. “But I am not a hapless boy needing only to rut and give no pleasure in return. Trust me.”

Your eyes rolled at his words and it was at that moment that your nightgown was finally useless, rucked up into a rumpled heap around your waist. You heard the hiss of air through clenched teeth as Istredd’s fingers came into contact with the damp scrap of fabric clinging against your most private place.

“Istredd?” you whimpered.

“Hmm?” he hummed, pressing the pads of his fingers against the damp patch and rubbing gently.

You squirmed over his fingers.

“Please.”

He grabbed at the useless nightgown and pulled it over your head, leaving your hair loose and wild around your face and neck, leaving you almost utterly bare on top of him. Then he pressed one hand down on your left thigh, fingers spread and branding your skin, holding you in place. His right hand slid beneath the cotton that covered you and you moaned aloud, both your hands flying to grip onto his hair.

“You’re playing with me” you groaned, twisting your hips.

Istredd nuzzled the side of your neck.

“What pleasure would it be to go straight to the finale?” he spoke into your heated skin as he teased his palm against you, setting nerves alight.

You whined a little and continued trying to shift your hips to help yourself, rewarded with a tight groan as you ground over Istredd’s erection.

“But I want -” you started, but did not get to finish.

Istredd had found the tiny taut nub none of the village boys had been able to locate, and you arched on a soft scream that ricocheted off the silencing spell and dissipated into the air. He cooed gently in your ear, stroking and flicking with the tip of one finger.

“Shh, love, you will get what you want. I swear it.”

His fingers slipped down to your entrance and circled gently before one pressed slowly inside. Your hips twitched and you bit down on your lip and Istredd laid siege, sucking a bruise into the skin between your neck and shoulder that would be visible for days. You keened and he eased in a second finger, the edge of one ring pressing coolly against your hot, damp flesh.

He felt impossibly hard underneath you, pressing into your still covered backside. You wanted more than anything to feel him inside you, but there weren’t any words that could get past the sensations of his fingers pumping in and out of your heat, his thumb striking at your clit with every push and pull.

With Istredd’s fingers three knuckles deep inside you, he leaned forward to whisper into your ear, your dazed mind fighting to understand his question.

“What were you doing with that boy?” he growled, holding you open with his free hand on your thigh as your hips bucked and struggled.

“He was a distraction” you panted, barely holding yourself together, rocking down onto his hand. “I was thinking of you.”

Heat crawled up your spine and you knew he was going to turn you inside out and shatter you, and you were going to let him. You were out of control now, loud and desperate, your body sucking hungrily at his fingers.

“Do you still want to be distracted, dear heart?” he demanded, feeling your muscles tighten around his fingers.

You moaned at him, yanked on his hair and turned your head to kiss him hard, no finesse, too highly strung to give him anything but unbridled passion. He licked into your mouth, searing fire, and sucked on your tongue as his fingers twisted and you came apart, relieved sobs swallowed by Istredd’s consuming kiss.

He eased his fingers out slowly once you had ceased convulsing around them and were once again resting still in his lap, your fingers tangled loosely in his hair, chest rising and falling slower and slower.

Istredd softly said your name, the first time he had spoken it since arriving at your home earlier in the day.

“Mmm” you mumbled, opening your eyes and blinking up at him.

“You are nearly naked and I am still fully clothed, love.”

A surge of energy struck like lightning and you pushed up off his lap, turning on unsteady feet to watch him stand to his full height, towering over you. You felt a hot flush all over as he gazed over your body, lingering on your breasts, nipples swollen from his attention. You watched with a bitten lip as Istredd began to undress, pulling at the cord that tied his shirt closed. He drew it up and over his head, biting back a smirk upon hearing your sigh of pleasure at the sight of his chest, strong and covered with soft looking dark hair.

“You can touch me” he said quietly, not wishing to startle you out of your reverie.

You stepped toward him and reached out, your hands making contact with his chest at the same time your breasts brushed the sensitive skin of his upper stomach, making you both shudder. You dragged your fingernails through his chest hair, gently scratching the skin beneath. Istredd bent to press his mouth to yours, his heartbeat quickening under your curious fingers.

You felt him press hard and sure against your lower belly, his desire for you perfectly evident. Fresh heat bloomed inside you and you shifted on your feet to rub your thighs together, struggling for any friction to stave it off. Only moments ago, you had been prone and sated, and now you wanted the rest of him. As soon as possible.

Your hands fell to the button clasps on his trousers, your fingertips brushing against stiffness beneath, and Istredd jolted a little, his hips bucking slightly into your touch, silently questing for more. You slowly undid each silver button, your eyes fixed on his blue pair, as you reached inside and took hold of him. He breathed out through his nose as you touched him slowly, gently, your gaze never once leaving his.

You stroked him until you felt a solid twitch and he carefully took your hand away, blue eyes rueful.

“Another time, perhaps” he murmured. 

You took a step back and eyed him as he shoved the trousers down his thighs and onto the floor. He kicked them away and reeled you in, his hands gliding across your shoulders and down your bare back. He hesitated when he reached your underwear and you nodded against his chest, your nose tickled by the soft hair there. You shivered when his hands slipped down onto your rear end, dragging the underwear down with them. You stepped out of the material and Istredd’s blue gaze traced down the lines of you as he held you at arm’s length.

“Beautiful” he said softly, dropping his hands to your hips and palming them strongly.

You felt your skin heat beneath his touch and his gaze, his eyes hot and almost electric now. Then he started slowly sinking to his knees, and you watched him with wide eyes, locking your knees to stop them shaking so hard. He reached behind you for the hair tie you had dropped on the couch and used it to secure his hair away from his face. He looked up at you, eyes flickering in the light from the fire.

“Hold onto the couch” he instructed. “Do it now.”

The authority he spoke with had you moving to do what he said immediately, reaching both hands behind you, fingers digging hard into the back of the couch. Confident you were secure, Istredd wrapped the fingers of his right hand around your left calf and propped it over his shoulder, opening you up to him. You gasped in shock and stared down at him as the edge of his beard brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh right before his mouth touched where his fingers had recently been.

“Istredd...”

His name was a breath, an airy exhalation of surprised pleasure. His beard was soft as it touched you, his mouth warm and persistent as his hands once again grasped your hips, holding you still even as he was pushing you backward and up, your right foot almost all the way off the floor, your toes barely touching, your left leg still out of your own control, draped over his strong shoulder.

Istredd kissed and lapped at you until your legs both started to tremble again and then he stood back up, gently releasing your leg back down to the floor.

You stared up at him, eyes blown and confused. He grinned and you thought you would have shuddered into pieces again right there if his grin was coupled with his previous attentions. He started to pull blankets off of the open shelves that stood floor to ceiling and draped them onto the floor, creating a soft space for you to lay down. 

Istredd walked you backward and eased you down onto your back, your legs falling apart to accommodate him, skin glowing in the firelight. Looking just over his left shoulder, you glimpsed the silencing charm still glimmering in the air, muffling all sound from within it.

“Are you ready?” Istredd asked quietly, his hands pressing heavily into the blankets either side of your head.

You reached up and pulled the tie free of his hair again, shaking it out around his face. You dug your fingers through it.

“I am now” you said softly.

Istredd shook his head, smiling to himself.

“You like my hair” he murmured. “Go on then. Do as you wish.”

You tugged gently and at the same moment, he pushed inside you, body to body, his hips flushed hotly with yours. You cried out, tightening your grip in his hair as you lifted your legs to vine around his hips. You pulled him to you by his hair and moaned his name into his mouth as you kissed him, his upper lip trapped between yours. He groaned at the pleasant sting in his scalp as you lost yourself in the heat of him and held on too tight.

You moved under him, chasing his hips every time he pulled away, aching to feel full again, and then he would return to you, welcomed home by your clutching hands and hidden warmth.

Istredd shifted slightly and snagged your earlobe between his teeth.

“Any of those boys make you feel like this, dear heart?” he demanded.

You shook your head and finally moved your hands from his hair to grab hold of his shoulders, digging your fingers in for dear life. His muscles twitched and strained under your nails and he pushed you along the blanketed floor with one particularly sharp thrust, knocking against something deep inside you that had your eyes rolling back in your head. 

Istredd pulled his head back to stare at you, the slack lines of your jaw and half open mouth, fluttering eyelids. He glanced down and saw the faint sheet of mixed sweat on your breasts and belly, and further down, he saw the place where he joined to you, felt the throbbing heat surrounding him and your heels pressing into his lower back.

He felt the imminent chaos ready to break out.

He picked up the pace and heard you giggle as you were again shunted across the blankets; he wanted to hear that sound again, so he repeated the motion and listened to your giggles turn into moans, felt your ankles cross tighter at the middle of his back.

Istredd once again touched that spot inside you and the room whirled, you clenched viselike around him and he gaped at you, panting, straining.

“Gorgeous” he managed, before he came with a shout.

You relaxed your arched back and settled underneath him, head turned to one side, breathing heavily. Istredd was bracing himself on his forearms above you, his blue eyes closed, his hips pressed hard against you. You tapped on his wrists and he eased down on top of you, nuzzling lightly at your jaw before mouthing lazily at your pulse.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him close, feeling his chest rise and fall against yours.

“So” he murmured sleepily, pressing a sweetly searing kiss to your breastbone. “Are you still hungry?”

You tossed your head back and laughed.

In the morning, Istredd gathered together his coat and boots, readying to leave. He said his goodbyes to your parents and waited for you outside the cottage. You stepped out after him, your parents watching curiously from the windows. You reached him and held out something small in your palm; he took it and held it up to his eyes, gave you a wry smile.

“My hair tie” he said, arching an eyebrow. 

You nodded.

“Will you come back?” you asked, suddenly nervous after the heat of the night.

Standing in broad daylight, it seemed like a dream, too good to be true. However, before you could worry too deeply, Istredd strode forward and crushed you in his arms, your cheek to his chest, breathing in his clean scent. He released you just enough to lift you off your toes to kiss you, a kiss that spun your senses and flooded you with more warmth you didn’t know what to do with now that he was leaving.

When the kiss and the embrace ended, he gazed tenderly down at you, your hands now clasped loosely in his. He raised them to his lips and kissed each one, feather light across your knuckles.

“I will come back” he promised. “On my life, dear heart. Just promise something for me?”

You nodded.

“Yes. Anything.”

A fleeting smile crossed his mouth before he pretended to be serious.

“Promise me you won’t let Eris under your skirt again.”

You grinned.

“On my life, Istredd” you vowed. “Only you will ever have that honour.”

He grinned back and leaned down to kiss your forehead before stepping away. He murmured a few words and a swirling portal of white came to existence behind him. He blew you a kiss, wandered into it and vanished.

Until next time, dear heart.

Tagging: @writingmysanity @elizabeth-karenina​

[armulyn]

Four months ago, listening to dark and epic songs such as I See Fire and Battle Scars and with the Wingfeather Saga on the mind, I opened a doc and wrote, as you do, just to let off some steam. What came out was a weird amalgation of different AUs of the saga that I'd plow through five pages of each and then switch tacks.

None of them are complete, seeing as the Wingfeather Saga is so wonderfully (and infuratingly) written that any attempts to make things better usually end in the utter decimation of the plot, characters, and/or themes of the saga.

Now, a month and a half post my last edit to them, I decided quite elegantly and maturely, what the heck? and decided to try letting one out.

So, what if Artham actually did find the way back into the Deeps after finding the water from the First Well?

Fun fact, this is the 'The Warden and the Bear King' WIP from that ask game a while back.

[SPOILERS ABOUND. THROUGH BOOK 3 I THINK.]

Artham finds the cavern back into the deeps of Throg about two months after exiting, and rushes in without hesitation. Maybe it's the same one he left from, maybe it isn't, but either way it's twisting, unwieldy, and difficult to get the seed-husk of water from the First Well through unspilt. Hours he winds through passages, through burrows, and through endless doubts and shrieking voices warning him to go back.

He makes it to the dungeon eventually, and he freezes at the sight of it. Music is playing nearby— he'd thought he'd heard it ten minutes ago, but he'd told himself he was imagining it!— Sing the song the voices start, and against his will his lips start to move a bit... Terrified, he flees like mad, and he might have reached the surface once more had not a clatter from behind startled him.

He'd dropped the seed-husk.

Sprinting back, he frantically picks it back up, but nearly all the water has drained away, only a few drops left. He paws at it, trying to push the trickle of water back into the husk, the useless talons scraping awfully on the stone like nails on a blackboard. It's hopeless, so eventually he gathers his strength and tattered courage and presses on with what few drops he has left. He has to find Esben now, he tells himself, refusing the voices that press upon him at the name, for it is only a matter of time before he loses the rest of the water, the only thing that stands between him and utterly failing the High King yet again.

Back into the dungeon, closing his ears forcefully against the pulsing music, ducking behind cages when a Fang wanders through, searching for Esben. When he finds him, the king is in a newly reinforced cage, further back from the exit than it had been before. They've taken precautions, but precautions are nothing to a properly motivated Throne Warden, and the cage door cracks open within seconds.

"Esben," he chokes, and his brother starts. Esben's face is as he remembers it— bearded with fur, grey bubbled skin breaking out in patches, dazed pain in his eyes— but a wonder in them as well. "You... came back." he croaks, and Artham has to dash away tears to see the chains properly. He'll break them in a moment but first— "Aye," he says, "Now drink this."

He holds the battered seed husk gently to Esben's mouth. He watches carefully as his brother drinks the few drops eagerly— they probably haven't given him water for days, he fumes— and then leans back against the cage wall, exhausted by this small exertion. But there isn't time for rest or to wait until the water takes effect, and Artham hauls him to his feet. They stumble together from the cage, through the dungeon, Artham supporting almost all of Esben's weight, and thinking that if they happen to trip and fall then they would never manage to get up again. He prays with breath he can't spare that they won't trip.

Artham has always been tall, and his strength had been renowned in years past, but he has languished in a dungeon for— years, surely. He is stronger than Esben, but two months of frantic wandering, eating whatever he can and constantly moving hasn't improved his strength so much as his endurance. Thankfully, by the time the dungeon turns back into winding caverns and tunnels, Esben seems stronger, and can walk on his own. Neither of them speak in the pitch darkness, each moving as if in a dream with only each other to remind them they aren't. Artham holds tight to Esben's hand with his left arm, and the other wraps around Esben's side, even if his brother doesn't need his support any more. He doesn't want to imagine losing hold of his brother, here in the darkness. They stumble past a patch of blooming flowers and vibrant grass sprung from the cold rock where Artham had dropped the water from the First Well.

Under a pitch-black sky they stumble from pitted stone onto night-darkened grass.

They spend perhaps a week in the Blackwood, journeying west at a stumbling pace. They grow stronger, with daylight, food, water, and companionship. Sometimes other cloven shamble past them, but always wild and untamed. Artham and Esben don't have any water from the First Well left, nor anything else to envy, and so they're left alone for the most part. In the bright sunlight, Artham can see what he'd missed in the dark of the deeps. Throughout their steady trek, the water was working upon Esben, and his face seems clearer, the grey mottled skin gone and the patchy fur a golden-brown color that matches his hair. He looks a little odd, a little bulkier and more bear-like than before, but he has come back to himself, he is Artham's little brother, and he is not broken but healed.

The brothers have a lot of time to talk on their westward journey.

At first, Artham has trouble keeping back the high-pitched gibbering his voice and words keep trying to become, especially when Esben is quiet or contemplative or otherwise not talking. Esben is alarmed when it starts, which sets Artham off even more, which turns Esben’s alarm to worry, and it all ends in a mess of I’m sorrys and heart to hearts and confessions.

Once the brothers lose each other for an entire six hours.

Artham had gotten panicked, and in his sleep-deprived state he’d run away from the familiar man who called him by name with the blue eyes that filled with pain and memories at times— his fault, it was his fault—

Esben trails him at first, tracking his brother’s panicked flight through the loamy soil, but it isn’t safe to journey alone in the Blackwood, even in broad daylight, and soon he stops to consider his options, perched high in a tree where he had fled from the reach of a toothy cow. Artham would calm down soon, and probably panic and retrace his path. Esben was on said path, and if he kept shouting his name from the tree where the many creatures of the wood couldn’t reach him…

Artham refuses to stray more than ten feet from his little brother’s side for the rest of the Blackwood.

In the original story, Artham had stowed away on a Fang ship to Skree, following a tiny pinprick of light that told him the children of the king were there. He had nearly starved in the hold, but made it to Glipwood only five years after the fall of the Shining Isle. Now, with his little brother at his side, he has more to think of than himself.

They take refuge in an abandoned cottage a few hours from the edge of the Blackwood, shifting through debris for anything useful. Artham finds an intact glass vial in the kitchen, but the last of the precious water had gone toward Esben’s healing, and so he tucks it, empty, among their scant belongings in the hope it might be useful.

-

Esben had decided, in the first clear-minded rest after their exit from the deeps, that he was not going to ask Artham about what happened to Nia and the children. He barely remembered anything about that day, beside sitting down to lunch to the sound of Nia’s laughter as she tried to coax little Kalmar to eat. Janner had been excitedly relating some epic adventure from his day to his Uncle Artham, whose strained face of the past week eased somewhat while he listened.

Then the Fangs had come.

After Esben had been taken captive, ripped away from the room of the Fane of Fire and force-marched to the dungeon, he had caught sight of Artham being shoved into one of Rysen’s well-kept cells. Seeing the fear in his brother’s eyes, the Throne Warden had shaken his head, mouthing they’re safe. That was the extent to which they had communicated for the four years of captivity in the deeps of Throg, for Esben had not been bound for the cells but rather to an interrogation room, and they were kept separate on the march to Throg. In the deeps, they had not spoken at all, both consumed by the dreadful music and their own demons.

Esben had been given a front-row seat to his brother’s breaking, though they had only glimpsed each other once in a blue moon. He could hear the Stone Keeper taunting Artham with food, with freedom, with a snatch of sunlight. He could hear his brother shouting his name, and receiving no answer. He could hear his brother muttering in his sleep, in his waking hours, mumbling and shrieking as if the voices in his mind had taken over his speech.

Artham was the one they focused on, for they knew they could count on the king to break. What had the king ever done, besides rule from the protecting shadow of the Warden? What had the king ever done to protect the kingdom, while the Warden waged wars with his own strength and the strength of those loyal to him? What had Esben ever done, besides falling to the Fangs the moment he tried to fight without his brother by his side?

The Stone Keeper came and went from Artham’s side like a scuttling shadow, but she never paused by Esben, for which he was shamefully grateful. The dark of his cell and the silence was never broken save by what peeked in from without, as the days turned and his brother went mad and Esben began to think he was forgotten by even his captors. His only companion was the music that echoed in the dungeons and crept into every forgotten corner, and filled his head to chase away the silence.

His brother, Esben decides, has gone through enough. He isn’t going to ask and possibly bring back bad memories. He isn’t going to ask about the tears that had watered Artham’s fierce eyes even as he was shoved into a cell, even as he mouthed they’re safe. He isn’t.

Sitting at the dilapidated table of the abandoned cottage, Artham tells him anyway.

[absensia-archived]

THE NUMBERS WERE UNPRECEDENTED. STAGGERING. HORRIFIC. THE CAUSES OF DEATH EVEN MORE SO. STRANGE. INEXPLICABLE WITHIN THE CONTEXT OF THE MATTER. IT WAS MEANT TO BE A SUMMER LIKE ANY OTHER. SWELTERING BUT BEAUTIFULLY SO IN MOST PLACES. A THUNDERSTORM HERE AND THERE. BUT THEN THERE WERE THE FIRES, THE FLOODS, THE WINDS SO STRONG, SO WILD, THEY COULD SKIN YOU ALIVE. OR SO IT FELT LIKE... DOCTOR WOODS: I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT. DOCTOR SELLERS: ONLY IN MY DREAMS, OR- NIGHTMARES, REALLY.

The headlines hadn't meant anything to her at first. Just like they hadn't really meant anything to anyone who wasn't immediately affected by the storms, fires, and mounting death tolls. For the most part, for most people, they still didn't mean anything. The media, while substantial in their talent for fear - mongering, still had nothing on certain cosmic entities when it came to creating nightmare scenarios. But a pattern, which until this morning had only been germinating in the depths of her subconscious, had finally come to the forefront when she happened to overhear a fragment of the story of the radio.

AN ENTIRE TOWN REDUCED TO... AND ASHES ONLY DAYS AFTER THE CARNIVAL HAD COME THROUGH. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT MYSELF. ONE MOMENT IT WAS ALL... AND THEN, NOTHING- ALL GONE, THAT... YES, AWFUL.

A sense of familiarity rose, rose like the cold, dark waters of a well, one in which she was sunk half - way in. The cold soaked through to her bones and touched her insides, seizing her lungs, and soon it'd be at her throat, her mouth. It rose and it threatened to drown her unless she figured out where she'd heard those words, seen those words before. A carnival. A town. All gone. The answer, of course, was literally staring right her. As she sat in the open stage door of the caravan, a bite of her breakfast egg sandwich half - masticated in her mouth, her eyes staring back at the open stare of the slumbering clown. The eyeballs had somehow managed to keep glistening through the night, and even now, sparkled with a glee that hinted to its dreams. It was just like It to fall asleep with Its eyes wide open. The effect was that of waiting for a jack - in - the - box to spring up, grab her by the throat, and screech at her that Its seen all she's been planning to do all this time. And yet, the vessel smiled back at it with no way of knowing if It could even see her.

At the break of dawn, Charlotte left the caravan, stole some kids bike, and rode downtown. At this hour, there would a shift change at the city morgue, a vulnerable state. Optimal for observation. She found her way into the ventilation system of the building. Cold metal pressed into her from every angle, the obvious ones and the impossible ones, too. Early morning discussions about the recent events sweeping the nation in a decidedly unilateral direction, took on a more casual tone. There was no one to impress nor mollify at this hour. Tired eyes and a sleep - wrought mind could make a gossip out of anyone. Charlotte only supposed that gossips who held positions that enabled them to be particularly in - the - know would be most helpful.

Breathing as quietly as possible, Charlotte rested her head on the bony folded cradle of her hands and forearms, and she listened. She made note of what she could see through the thin slits of the vent above the spacious autopsy theatre as one examiner walked the other through the night's revelations. They were waiting on police reports. A large number of people, both men and women, beaten to death. No clear motive yet.

DOCTOR WOODS: AS IF EVERYONE JUST, LOST THEIR MINDS. DOCTOR SELLERS: EVERYONE? AT THE SAME TIME? DOCTOR WOODS: I DON'T KNOW.

Mass hysteria was no easy feat. It took orchestration, tension and stressors, and it also took a little bit of cosmic luck. If you didn't have luck, then you could make your own. With all those pieces, there was nothing to stop you from putting on a little show, was there? Charlotte closed her eyes and felt how sore they were, tired, and they stung. Shit, she thought, we have to go.

@pennywise / WHERE ARE WE GOING?

In a quick succession of two tremendously loud bangs, Charlotte's head hit the ceiling of the ventilation shaft, forcing her head back down, where her chin smacked against the bottom of the vent. Unable to choose between the shooting pain of both injuries, her hands wavered for a moment in an odd gesture that seemed to resemble the whimsical flourish of a magician's hands before the reveal of a trick, before settling on re - bracing herself within the column of the vent with one hand while the other rubbed the throbbing spot against her skull. There was no trick to how she managed to not make a sound at her surprise; blood had already begun to seep from the meat of her tongue.

She fixed a grimace on the clown - head opposite her in the crowded metal column. It was all head, then. If there was more to It... That is, if It had managed to fit Its entire form into this small space, she couldn't see any of it from this angle. Though she didn't try and look for very long. Quickly, she turned her attention back below. The two doctors had stopped in their tracks, their heads on a swivel for the source of the odd sound. Eventually, both their gazes levelled on the far wall where Charlotte supposed the many body - storage cabinets could be found. The metal of those doors were not unlike the metal that embraced her now. Neither doctors were young or naïve enough to entertain the notion of the living dead for very long, but the silence that enveloped the pair as they pretended to shrug off the thought was telling enough. SOMETHING STRANGE WAS AFOOT. AND IT WAS ONLY GOING TO GET WORSE.

Charlotte let out a breath and released her head. " To the next city, Penny. Don't you want to keep going? See more of the world? " She'd begun to try and wriggle her way backwards towards the more spacious junction in the vents, several yards behind her. " We don't have to go right away, though. Do you like it here? " she asked, slowing as she tried to turn the lower - half of her body into the left compartment of an adjoining column. " How's the nightlife? "