#happy surrender day folks~~~

[redvexillum]

A/N: Hoe, Hoe, Hoe! Happy Holidays, folks! Can you believe it? We've made it to Day 25, and there's just one more story left before Smutmas officially comes to a close! This story is particularly special to me because it's a direct sequel to one of my very first ventures outside my comfort zone—Off Script—where I took on the challenge of writing Alastor as a sub. I really hope you all enjoy it! I did my best to keep him in character, so fingers crossed it hits the mark. And finally—Kit, let’s both finish Smutmas tomorrow with a… bang!

SUMMARY: Alastor thought he was being clever when he snuck extra spices into your gingerbread mix, but his bratty antics had consequences he clearly wasn’t prepared for. As sweet as you usually are, you’re also a master of dominance, and tonight, Alastor learns exactly what that means.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, pleasure dom! reader, bratty sub! alastor, alastor has a tail, oral sex, overstimulation, pegging, anal plug, aftercare, p in v, fluffy-wuffy, no ANGST (because people be thinking I'm writing angstmas??? >:U)

The first time you broached the topic of introducing your particular interests in the bedroom to Alastor, it did not go as planned. In fact, it spiralled into an entirely unforeseen direction. He veered off script, revealing an unexpected side of himself. It didn’t take long for you to realize something that honestly shouldn’t have been too surprising: Alastor was, perhaps, the most delightfully bratty submissive you had ever encountered. 

At first, you had been hesitant, cautious even, testing the waters with a delicate touch. You started slow, pinning his wrists above his head while straddling him, your slick folds gliding teasingly along the hard length of his cock. His body was tense beneath you, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he fought to remain still. And yet, you could see it—the flicker of amusement, the glint of curiosity, and the unspoken challenge in his ruby eyes. 

“Darling,” he rasped, his voice a mix of feigned irritation and genuine arousal, “you do realize I am the one in control here.” 

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. “Oh, of course, love. It’s all for you,” you whispered, your voice dripping with honeyed submission, knowing full well how the words would stoke his ego. 

That balance—teasing the line between control and surrender—was crucial with Alastor. He was willing to explore these new dynamics with you as long as he felt the game was his to win. Over time, these intimate games deepened your connection, building trust in a way neither of you had anticipated. 

It was in these moments of play that you discovered just how much he enjoyed being edged. He saw it as a competition, a challenge, and every false word of bravado he muttered only made you more determined. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted one evening, his hands tied above his head as you licked a slow stripe along the underside of his cock. His body betrayed him, trembling with the effort of restraint even as he smirked. 

“Oh, you’ll see what I’ve got,” you replied sweetly, revelling in the sharp gasp that escaped him as you abruptly stopped, leaving him throbbing and desperate. 

In time, Alastor even began to participate in choosing the tools for your escapades. When you brought out a selection of dildos, he would inspect them with a meticulousness that was almost comical, tilting his head and tapping his chin as though he were selecting fine wine. 

“That one,” he’d say with a grin, pointing to the one you knew he loved. And when you took your time with him, thrusting the toy deep into his ass while your lips wrapped around his cock, he would surrender so completely it left you breathless. His body would go slack, his head tilting back as he moaned your name, every line of tension melting away. In those moments, he was utterly yours, and the vulnerability he showed was nothing short of beautiful. 

But, as you learned, this came with its own set of challenges. 

Take the time you had decided to edge him for hours as “punishment” for one of his pranks—spiking your tea with a hellpeppers just to see your reaction. He had whimpered, begged, and finally come undone in a way that left him breathless. But instead of deterring him, it only seemed to spur him on. From that day forward, his pranks became more frequent, each one more mischievous than the last, as though he were daring you to make good on your “punishments.” 

Like today. 

You had been looking forward to baking gingerbread cookies, humming softly to yourself as you worked. But when you took a bite of the first batch, you nearly gagged. The sweetness was overwhelmed by a fiery burn that made your eyes water. Whirling around, you saw him standing there, hands clasped behind his back, his signature grin stretching impossibly wide. 

“Alastor!” you snapped, pointing accusingly at the tray of ruined cookies. “Did you do this?” 

His laugh was a low, melodic hum, a sound that made your skin tingle. “Why, my dear, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he replied, though his twitching nose and barely contained snicker betrayed him. 

You narrowed your eyes, stalking toward him as he took a step back, his grin faltering just slightly. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” you said, your voice syrupy sweet and laced with intent. 

The sharp click of your teeth echoed in the quiet kitchen as you fought to rein in the rising tide of frustration. Your eye twitched, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you surveyed the latest in a string of sabotages. The day had started with a simple enough task: helping Charlie decorate the hotel with festive holiday cheer. It should have been done in two hours. Two. Instead, six gruelling hours later, you were still at it, thanks to Alastor’s relentless interference. 

Like a mischievous shadow, he’d been everywhere, undoing your progress with a gleeful flourish, all while flashing that infuriating grin. 

Now, staring at the ruined cookie dough—a batch you’d painstakingly mixed, rolled, and shaped—your patience finally hit its breaking point. The thought of starting over from scratch, gathering ingredients, kneading dough, and baking again made your stomach churn. 

But just as you were about to storm off searching for a quiet space to collect yourself, something stopped you. 

The faintest movement caught your eye—the way the back of Alastor’s coat fluttered as he turned, the eager, almost expectant glint in his eyes as he glanced your way. 

And then it hit you. 

The realization came as a sharp pang of guilt. Between the influx of new sinners at the hotel, Charlie’s relentless schedule of events, and your constant involvement in helping out, you’d been neglecting Alastor. It hadn’t been intentional, but you couldn’t deny it either. Months had passed where you’d barely seen him outside of fleeting interactions, let alone shared any meaningful moments together. Even the intimacy of the bedroom had been replaced by nights spent alone in your own room. 

You sighed softly, the frustration in your chest shifting into something else—understanding, perhaps even regret. Of course, Alastor, with his peculiar ways, wouldn’t simply say he missed you. That wasn’t his style. No, this was his way of communicating, as exasperating as it was endearing. 

Walking toward him, your demeanour softened. Your fingers grazed lightly down the front of his chest, the movement enough to draw his attention. His grin faltered for just a moment as you spoke, your voice low and soft. 

“I’m going to my room,” you murmured, offering no further explanation as you turned and walked away. You didn’t need to look back to know he would follow. 

By the time you stepped into your room, the shadows shifted, and Alastor materialized before you with his usual dramatic flair. 

“Already, darling?” he chimed, his tone as jovial as ever. “Oh, I pity poor Charlie for hiring someone who can’t manage such a simple task,” he teased, his grin widening as he prodded at your lingering frustration. 

But this time, instead of rising to his bait, you smirked. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the distance between you, your eyes never leaving his. His playful expression faltered, just slightly, as you leaned in, resting your head against his chest. 

“I’m so disappointed, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice carrying a softness that belied the weight of your words. His body stiffened beneath your touch, and a shiver ran through him as your fingers deftly began to unbutton his shirt. 

“You’ve been so bad these last few weeks,” you continued, each syllable dripping with quiet reprimand. 

Alastor’s breath hitched as the fabric slipped from his shoulders, exposing his skin to the dim light of your room. “Oh, that’s what I do best,” he quipped, though his voice trembled slightly, betraying the bravado in his words. 

With a gentle push, he stumbled back onto the bed, his legs spreading instinctively as he leaned back on his arms. His cock twitched, already hardening, as he watched you climb onto him with methodical slowness. 

“And what will you do about it, darling?” he goaded, his tone laced with challenge. 

“Well,” you mused, straddling him without letting a single inch of your body touch his, “I suppose it’s only fair that I receive my recompense.” 

Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face, moving with tenderness that made him shudder beneath you. His grin faltered, his composure slipping as you let your touch wander downward. Your nails ghosted over his chest, tracing patterns against his skin, stopping just shy of his now achingly hard cock. 

“Darling,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. 

“Patience,” you whispered, a smirk playing at your lips as you leaned in closer. “After all, you’ve been so bad—surely you understand the importance of a little... delay.” 

Alastor’s eyes burned with equal parts anticipation and defiance, but he made no move to stop you. For once, he was entirely at your mercy, and you intended to savour every moment. 

“Since you love to play around so much,” you murmured, your gaze locking onto his piercing crimson eyes, “let’s playtogether, Al.” 

Your words were honeyed, teasing, as your fingers finally wrapped firmly around the thick shaft of his cock. His breath hitched audibly, and for a fleeting moment, his ever-present grin wavered. That alone was victory enough, but you weren’t finished. Leaning in, you let your lips ghost over his, so close that your breath mingled with his. 

“Hours, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice dripping with promise. “I’ll play with you for hours.” 

The effect was immediate. His eyes fluttered closed, and a soft, involuntary moan slipped from his lips. The usual bravado he wore like a mask began to crack under the slow, deliberate stroke of your hand. You could feel the way he melted into your touch, his body responding with a shiver as the tension in him ebbed away. 

He no longer held back, no longer stifled the sounds he made or the soft confessions of what felt good beneath your touch. It had taken time, patience, and trust to reach this point, where he no longer masked his vulnerability in shame but surrendered to it with you. 

You pressed your other hand to his chest, urging him back, and he complied without resistance, lying against the bed as you worked him with skilled hands. His cock throbbed hot and heavy in your grasp, silken beneath your palm as you pumped it with slow, deliberate strokes. 

“D-Darling,” he breathed out, his voice trembling, his head falling back as his hips began to roll against your hand. His moans started low, rising in pitch as his body grew more desperate, his movements frantic in his chase for release. 

You matched his urgency, your hand moving faster, guiding him closer to the edge. His foreskin slid over the glossy tip of his cock, only to be drawn back down, exposing the glistening head with each thrust. The slick sounds of your motions filled the room, mingling with his erratic breaths and soft cries. 

“Darling, darling!” he cried out, his hips canting forward one last time before his release overtook him. Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted his chest, streaking his skin with creamy lines. His breath came in heavy, uneven pants as his body trembled in the aftershocks of pleasure. A haze of satisfaction clouded his crimson eyes, but beneath it, you saw the flicker of anticipation. He knew this wasn’t over. 

Your fingers lazily dipped into the sticky warmth of his release, swirling through it before lifting to your lips. Your tongue darted out, tasting him with a soft hum of appreciation. “Mmm, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, Al?” you teased, pressing a lingering kiss to the oversensitive tip of his cock. He jolted, his hips bucking instinctively at the sudden contact. 

“You haven’t been finding release without me, have you?” you asked, your voice sweet but laced with mischief. 

“Hah!” His laugh was strained, tinged with his usual bravado as he tried to recover some semblance of control. “Please, darling, I can hold myself back just fine,” he quipped, though his eyes darted away, betraying him. 

“Is that so?” you murmured, your tone light and teasing. Without warning, you leaned down, engulfing his still-soft cock with your mouth. 

Alastor hissed sharply, his claws sinking into the bedsheets as you drew back his foreskin with your lips, swirling your tongue over his sensitive head. His body jerked beneath you, trembling as overstimulation began to set in. 

“Ah, d-darling,” he panted, his voice shaky, the usual radio-filtered crackle distorted by the raw edge of his cries. “A-ah, ah!” His cock twitched weakly in your mouth, his body entirely at your mercy. 

You didn’t relent, your tongue working over him with precision, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure you could draw from him. His head fell back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, as his hands fisted the sheets in a futile attempt to ground himself. His breath came in ragged gasps, his voice breaking as he moaned your name again and again. 

But you remained attuned to him, careful to read the signals of his body. Alastor, ever stubborn, would never admit when pleasure teetered on the edge of too much, and you wouldn’t let him push past his limits. For you, his pleasure was your greatest reward, the sight of him unravelling before you igniting a heat in your core that left you clenching and aching with need. 

Still, you slowed your ministrations, pulling back just enough to let him breathe, to bask in the blissful haze that softened his sharp edges. His trembling body told you everything his words wouldn’t—that he trusted you completely, in this and in everything else. 

The moment his thighs began to tremble, instinctively closing around your head, you knew it was time to stop. With a calculated precision, your lips tightened into a seal around his cock, sucking deeply one last time before pulling back. His length slipped free with a loud, wet pop, leaving him quivering and gasping beneath you. 

Alastor's abdomen fluttered with each shallow breath, his chest rising and falling erratically as he tried to gather himself. A thin sheen of sweat coated his pale skin, catching the soft light and accentuating the slight tremor that rippled through him. His crimson eyes, glazed and unfocused, stared blankly at the ceiling, his usual composure nowhere to be found. 

Your gaze softened as you admired the rare vulnerability etched into his features, but a spark of mischief flickered in your chest. Leaning forward, you dragged your tongue languidly along your middle and index fingers, wetting them thoroughly before trailing them downward. When you pressed the slick pads of your fingers against the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks, his entire body jolted as if struck by lightning. 

His sharp intake of breath was followed by a low, trembling moan as his crimson eyes flicked downward, meeting yours. That familiar grin of his began to reappear, albeit strained, but you matched it with one of your own. Slowly, deliberately, you worked your fingers inside, the tight, hot walls clenching around you as you sank deeper. 

“Ohhh,” he moaned, his voice pitching higher as his hips began an instinctive, grinding motion against your hand. Each stroke and press of your fingers sent shockwaves through his body, and you couldn’t help but relish the way he cried out your name, breathless and desperate. 

“Is this what you missed, Alastor?” you murmured, your voice dripping with sultry amusement. The heat pooling between your thighs was almost unbearable now, your soaked underwear clinging to your skin. You punctuated your question with feather-light kisses along the sensitive curve of his balls, earning another full-body shudder from him. 

“D-don’t be ridiculous,” he managed to huff out, though the quiver in his voice betrayed his bravado. His hips bucked against your hand, seeking more, needing you to go harder, deeper, faster. “You—hah—you’re the one who seems to need it more than I do!” 

His words faltered into a broken cry as you curled your fingers inside him, pressing directly against his prostate. The reaction was instant—his cock, already half-hard, twitched violently before stiffening completely, precum dripping steadily from the swollen tip. Thin, sticky strands pooled on his stomach, glistening in the dim light. 

“I-I c-can smell you,” he groaned, his voice cracking with static as the radio distortion flickered uncontrollably. “I can s-smell your arousal, d-darling.” 

His eyes fluttered as he struggled to focus on you, the effort clear in the way his brows furrowed, and his lips parted with ragged breaths. You smiled wickedly, never ceasing the relentless rhythm of your fingers as you leaned in close. 

“Is that your way of saying you want me to ride you, Alastor?” you teased, your tone saccharine sweet, as you slowly withdrew your fingers. 

The way his ears flattened against his head and his lips pressed together to smother the pitiful whine that escaped him was nothing short of endearing. You straightened up, locking to his gaze as your hands moved to peel away your clothing. 

One by one, the layers fell away, revealing more of your heated skin to him. Alastor’s crimson eyes darkened with unrestrained hunger, his slender fingers flying to his cock, stroking himself slowly as he devoured the sight of you. The moment your panties slid down your legs, his attention zeroed in on the dark, damp patch that clung to the fabric. 

The sight of how soaked they were made his breath hitch. His grip on his cock tightened, his strokes quickening ever so slightly as he watched you stand before him, completely bare, the evidence of your arousal dripping down your thighs. 

Picking up your damp underwear, you held it delicately between your fingers, bringing it close to Alastor’s face. His eyes, smouldering with unrestrained hunger, followed the movement intently. A sly grin curled your lips as you whispered, “Go on. I know you’ve been dying to taste me.” 

In the past, he would have resisted—an adamant refusal to entertain such a base desire. But now? Now, his restraint was a distant memory. He eagerly took the fabric from your hand, his sharp grin widening as he pressed it to his lips. His tongue darted out, licking and suckling on the soaked material, his moans vibrating softly into the delicate fabric. He savoured every drop, his eyes fluttering shut as if lost in your essence. 

While he indulged, you turned your attention to the drawer by the bed, fingers searching for a specific item. A soft laugh escaped you as you pulled out the toy you’d been looking for—one of his favourites. The memory of the day he wore it, the secret only the two of you shared as he moved through the hotel with it snug inside him, made heat rush to your cheeks. 

The anal plug, adorned with curvy ridges and capped with a glittering pink heart at its base, glinted in the low light. Alastor froze mid-lick, his gaze snapping to the toy. His tail, which had been lazily swaying, thumped excitedly against the bed. 

You teased him further, holding his gaze as you slowly lowered the plug to your wet core. You pressed the tip to your entrance, coating the ridges in your slick. Alastor’s breath hitched, and a groan slipped past his lips as he watched you pump the toy in and out of yourself, each movement deliberate, each moan of yours feeding his anticipation. 

By the time you pulled the toy free, glistening and dripping with your arousal, Alastor had already lifted his legs, spreading them wide to present himself. His sharp grin turned expectant, almost demanding, his crimson eyes glinting with challenge and desire. 

You chuckled at his eagerness, running your free hand along the curve of his thigh. “Patience, darling,” you murmured. He squirmed beneath you, his cock twitching against his stomach as you pressed the slick plug against his entrance. Slowly, you began to work it in, the ridges catching slightly against his tight walls before sliding deeper, inch by inch. 

Alastor’s breath came out in stuttering gasps, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as the plug seated itself fully to the base. His cock throbbed, a bead of precum trailing down to pool on his stomach. He looked utterly wrecked, his body trembling and his chest heaving as he adjusted to the sensation of fullness. 

But you weren’t done. Without giving him a moment to recover, you straddled his hips, gripping his throbbing length and guiding him to your entrance. In one fluid motion, you sank down onto him, taking him to the hilt. His reaction was instant—a sharp gasp, his hands flying to your hips as his back arched off the bed before collapsing again. 

The tight heat of you gripping him drove him wild. His cock twitched inside you, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through both your bodies. But your focus wasn’t on his body—it was on his expression. His usually sharp grin softened, his crimson eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. His body trembled beneath yours, the rare vulnerability in him stirring a possessive warmth in your chest. 

He hummed low in his throat, a sound of pure, unfiltered delight, as you leaned forward. Pinning his wrists beside his head, you met his gaze, your movements slow at first. Each roll of your hips elicited a delicious tremor from him, his breath climbing with every downward thrust. 

“Y-you’re i-insatiable, d-darling,” he managed, his voice trembling as your pace quickened. 

You smiled wickedly, increasing the rhythm, the sound of skin meeting skin mingling with his stuttering breaths and deep moans. His sharp cries soon gave way to something softer, more desperate, as his body began to tense beneath you. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his neck as his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Look at me, Alastor,” you commanded softly, and his gaze snapped back to yours. The raw, unguarded desire and faint embarrassment in his expression sent a thrill through you. His cries grew louder, his hands flexing against your grip as he reached his peak. 

With one final, broken moan, his body shuddered violently beneath yours, his cock twitching as he spilled into you. The hot flood of his release filled you, his seed coating your walls as he gasped for air. His body remained taut for a moment before he melted into the bed, utterly spent, his eyes glazed with lingering satisfaction. 

Catching your breath, your body hummed with unresolved need, but it didn’t matter. Watching Alastor surrender beneath you, unravelling with every calculated touch, was pleasure enough. 

His lips were parted, a thin line of saliva glistening at the corners as his chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. The edges of his crimson eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his expression—dazed, undone—was utterly intoxicating. His usual composed veneer had crumbled, leaving him bare in every sense. 

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you finally lifted yourself from his trembling form, feeling the warm trickle of his release sliding down your thighs. “We’re not done yet, Al,” you teased, your voice carrying a sing-song lilt. “We still have one more of your favourites, remember?” Reaching for the strap-on, you held it up—a big, crimson silicone cock gleaming in the dim light, its impressive weight resting heavy in your hands. 

You caught the way his body tensed, his tail twitching in anticipation, but there were no sharp remarks, no coy retorts. He was beyond that now, surrendering completely. With a sluggish roll, he shifted onto his stomach, his cheek pressing into the bed as his hips lifted, presenting himself to you. His red-and-white tail puffed out and flicked upward, revealing the sparkling jewel of the heart-shaped plug still nestled snugly within him. 

“Good boy,” you purred, and his tail wagged weakly in response. His fingers reached back, spreading himself open, stretching his cheeks taut in a silent plea. 

You smiled, strapping the harness to your hips, the familiar weight grounding you in this moment. Slowly, deliberately, you began easing the plug from his entrance. Each inch coaxed a muffled whimper from him as he buried his face in the mattress, his body trembling beneath your hands. The resistance gave way, and with a final tug, the jewelled plug slid free, leaving his entrance clenching and exposed. 

The sight of him, so open, so needy, sent a surge of heat pooling low in your core. You rested a hand on his hips, guiding the slicked synthetic cock to his waiting entrance. Without hesitation, you thrust forward in one fluid motion, burying yourself to the hilt. 

Alastor choked on a cry, his body jolting forward before he melted into the bed, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His claws raked over the blankets, shredding the fabric in a desperate bid for control. 

But there was none to be had—not here, not now. 

You set a relentless rhythm, your hips snapping forward with precision, filling him over and over. The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with his muffled cries and the breathless moans you couldn’t suppress. The way his body clenched around you, his walls tightening with every thrust, only spurred you on. 

“Ah—ah—darling,” he panted, his voice breaking into a mix of static and white noise as pleasure overwhelmed him. His body arched beneath you, his hips rolling back to meet your thrusts with desperation. 

“You like this, don’t you?” you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. “Being filled so completely… You’re so beautiful like this, Al.” 

His only response was a shattered moan, his body spasming violently as he came again, thick ropes of his release painting the ruined bed beneath him. But even as his trembling form sagged into the mattress, you didn’t stop. 

“Isn’t this fun, Alastor?” you panted, your grin wicked as you leaned over him, your pace unrelenting. “I could do this all night.” 

His claws curled into the shredded fabric, his body shaking with overstimulation as he gasped and whimpered beneath you. He was utterly wrecked, undone, every piece of him yours in this moment—and it was everything you had missed. 

Your hands slid to either side of his trembling frame, hovering over him as you moved with deliberate intensity. His voice had dissolved into a symphony of broken moans and guttural grunts, his ears pinned flat against his head in a rare display of vulnerability. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you purred, “Let me see your face, Al. Don’t rob me of my pleasure.” Your fingertips traced the back of his head, the touch tender yet insistent. 

He shivered at your words, slowly turning his head to meet your gaze. His lips hung open, strands of saliva pooling beneath his cheek. His crimson eyes, distant and unfocused, shimmered with tears that spilled in streaks down his flushed cheeks. And yet, despite his unravelling, the faint trace of a grin lingered—a testament to his unyielding spirit. 

“More?” you asked, voice laced with teasing affection. Alastor’s only reply was a low, ragged moan as his hips pressed back against you, silently pleading. A soft chuckle escaped you as your fingers danced down the curve of his spine, drawing a visible shudder from him. “You really are a masochist, aren’t you, Al?” you murmured, your words barely above a whisper. 

When his moans faltered into silence, his teeth clenching as he fought to muffle the smallest of whimpers, you knew he’d reached his limit. Carefully, you slowed your movements, easing out of him with a touch as gentle as a whisper. Both of you were coated in a thin sheen of sweat, your breath coming in soft pants as you sat back. 

Alastor lay trembling, his body spent and quivering in the aftermath. Every so often, his legs would twitch, jolting with the lingering aftershocks of overstimulation. His hand reached out, trembling and seeking, and you didn’t hesitate to meet it, intertwining your fingers with his. The silent gesture spoke volumes—his need for your warmth, your gentleness, your grounding presence. 

With care, you removed the strap-on, setting it aside before sliding into the bed beside him. Your body folded seamlessly into his, your hand cradling his as you pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles. His half-lidded eyes locked onto yours, filled with exhaustion and unspoken affection, unable to look away. 

Smiling softly, you lifted his hand, your lips brushing over each finger with reverence. One by one, you kissed his thumb, his index finger, trailing your touch over his palm. The gesture was unhurried, filled with tenderness, as you snuggled closer to him, your lips finding the curve of his shoulder. 

A warm chuckle rumbled low in his chest, his voice soft and worn. “Darling,” he rasped, his tone laden with affection as his tail gave a lazy thump against the bed. He sighed deeply, basking in the featherlight kisses that travelled up his neck and over his face. His cheeks, his forehead, his closed eyelids—all received your gentle attention before your lips finally found his. 

The kiss lingered, a soft press of emotion and intimacy. When you pulled back, his voice, though hoarse, carried a familiar teasing lilt. “You’ve been far too busy this month,” he murmured, his crimson eyes slowly opening to meet yours. 

Your heart swelled, warmed by the rare vulnerability in his gaze. You smoothed back a stray strand of hair from his face, your fingers brushing his skin with care. “I have, haven’t I?” you answered softly. Your lips curved in a tender smile as you leaned down to kiss him again, the touch light, barely there. “I missed you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice thick with sincerity. 

He chuckled again, though it was tired and weak. “And yet, you chastise me about your cookies,” he teased, his grin slipping back into place. 

“Ruining my cookies,” you corrected with a mock glare, your tone playful. 

“You love it when I spice up your – ah – cookies,” he countered, his voice carrying a faint echo of words he’d said long ago—a callback to the early days of trust and intimacy you’d built together. 

A soft giggle bubbled from your lips as you pressed your forehead against his, your eyes brimming with affection for the cunning, mischievous demon you adored. “You’re such a silly man,” you whispered, nuzzling your nose against his. 

His arms came around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was a comforting reminder of the unspoken bond you shared. In that quiet moment, you held each other close, the world beyond forgotten. Only the warmth of his body and the soft hum of his love remained. 

“And you, my darling, are my special girl,” he murmured, his voice a tender caress against the quiet of the room. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips warm and soft. Slowly, his breathing steadied, each exhale becoming longer, deeper, until it melted into the gentle rhythm of sleep. 

You stayed there, cradled in his embrace, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. A gentle smile tugged at your lips as your fingers traced small, absent-minded patterns along his side. The warmth of his words lingered in your heart, a balm to the chaos and distance of recent days. 

As you listened to the quiet thrum of his heartbeat, you made a silent promise to yourself. Next time, you’d find ways to give him the attention he deserved, to show him how much he meant to you—perhaps even preempt whatever mischievous “spicing up” he might dream up to draw your focus. 

For now, though, your heart felt full, brimming with love and contentment. Snuggling closer to him, you let yourself be enveloped in his warmth, your body fitting perfectly against his. The steady cadence of his heart matched your own, the two rhythms intertwining as if they were always meant to be. 

You closed your eyes, a peaceful smile lingering on your lips. Wrapped in his arms, you let sleep claim you, your dreams filled with the love you shared and the quiet promise of all the moments yet to come. 

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[jackoshadows]

I think we don't talk enough about how Jon Snow secretly had a sword made for Arya at Winterfell - without anyone knowing! And that this was something he was planning on for a while, with the intention to teach Arya some fundamental sword skills - without anyone knowing!!

It reminds me about how much Arya must have poured out her heart and soul to Jon Snow about EVERYTHING, considering how much Jon knows about her. The very best of confidantes who guarded their secrets with each other and are the most loyal of siblings.

It was to Jon Snow that Arya goes, after being bullied for her looks, worried that she too was a bastard and Jon who consoled her (ignoring his own pain at being one). It's Jon who praises her as pretty and clever and understands that deep curiosity and ambition in her.

It's Jon who understands that Arya is interested in something different and that this is also deserving of attention. The ONLY person in the whole of Winterfell - not her parents, her other siblings, her teacher. Only Jon Snow.

I can imagine Jon and Arya just hanging out in a quiet corner of the Godswood, under the weirwood, with Arya pouring out her frustrations and chatting about playing with the serving girls and Jon talking about his day practicing the sword. They know each other so well, that they are famous for finishing each other's thoughts. They share such a singular bond that he even got her sword name right!!

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north. - Jon, AGoT

Making Needle wouldn't have been easy considering it had to be done secretly. Clearly Jon thought that both his father and Catelyn wouldn't have been happy if they knew that the bastard was having swords made for their daughter.

"Give it to me." Reluctantly Arya surrendered her sword, wondering if she would ever hold it again. Her father turned it in the light, examining both sides of the blade. He tested the point with his thumb. "A bravo's blade," he said. "Yet it seems to me that I know this maker's mark. This is Mikken's work." Lord Eddard Stark sighed. "My nine-year-old daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it. The Hand of the King is expected to rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet it seems I cannot even rule my own household. How is it that you come to own a sword, Arya? Where did you get this?" - Arya, AGoT

Jon Snow took the time to research swords that Arya could hold and handle. He must have been up in Maester Luwin's turret looking through books for the design and asked questions of the Winterfell master-at-arms Rodrik Cassel about Braavosi swords.

She giggled at him. "It's so skinny." "So are you," Jon told her. "I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won't hack a man's head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you're fast enough." - Jon, AGoT

He'd had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo's blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life. - Jon, ADwD

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. - Jon, ADwD

After getting the idea of what kind of sword works for Arya's small hands, Jon then goes to Mikken, requesting that he make a small Bravo's blade. I feel certain that Mikken had no idea that he was secretly having a sword made for the Lord of Winterfell's daughter. I wonder what Mikken's thoughts were on Jon Snow wanting that specific blade made. He clearly did not think it important to mention to Ned. And no one knew - not Robb or Theon or even the Winterfell master-at-arms!

Given how sudden the whole deal was with Ned leaving for King's Landing, IMO, it's clear that Jon was planning on secret rendezvous with Arya where he could show her the basics of using a sword. Jon is certainly no Syrio Forel and Arya certainly learned more from an actual Bravo master fencer than from Jon Snow.

And yet just knowing that Jon had Needle secretly made and was planning on secret lessons for Arya because he knew just how desperate she was to learn something different, something unacceptable for Winterfell's daughter and that he did so at the great risk of displeasing a father he looked up to and the Lady Catelyn Stark who already wanted him gone.

He truly is Lyanna's son in every way that mattered.

[iblameashley]

Rekindle: Soulstring Symphony

Military | Male | Gay

2,400~words

Content: AU, time skips, soulmates, depression, longing, angst, bullet wound, mention of blood, bit of fluff, gay stuff, happy ending.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley | John 'Soap' MacTavish

!!!SFW!!!

Everyone has a special someone out there in the world. Everyone is connected in their own way, and for John 'Soap' MacTavish, that's through song. Every time they sing, they can hear each other... until one day the songs stop and Soap is left alone and heartbroken. Thrusting himself into a military career, he eventually pushes the idea of finding his one-and-only out of his mind; until a mission goes wrong and he hears his soulmate once more.

(Based on Tweet below GIF)

THE LONGING

It was difficult sometimes, to wander the world alone. To see all the soulmates around you find their perfect person. Johnny wondered if he would find his soulmate one day too.

The memory of the songs haunted him now, but he remembered the first time he had heard them, been blessed by them. He had been asleep in his bed at his family home when the melody slowly crept into his dreams. The voice was rich and smooth, with a deepness that pieced his heart.

But when he woke, he could only remember the outro of the song.

Then one day, the songs stopped. He had wondered if maybe his soulmate had died suddenly; it had happened to other people, and it was a soul-crushing experience to know you'd spend the rest of your life alone. Disconnected. Halved.

...As the night surrenders to the dawn, and the stars begin to fade,

The echoes of our connection linger in the serenade.

A promise in each note, a vow in every line,

To find you in this lifetime, and forever call you mine...

Johnny had searched the library for old folks songs, and then eventually online, plugging the lyrics he remembered into search engines to come up empty. This was an original song, it seemed.

Johnny's journey began at home in Scotland. Guided by the knowledge that more than two thirds of all soulmates were born within a one thousand kilometre radius of each other.

That didn't stop people from moving away by any means, but it narrowed the search down to the Atlantic Ocean and the surrounding countries of the European Union. And he was pretty certain his soulmate wasn't in the ocean.

He travelled the misty highlands, the expansive coasts, and ancient castles seeking any clue that might lead him to his love. Town after town, and small villages were turned upside down in hopes of anything. But finding nothing that lead him closer to his soulmate, he moved on Ireland, then England; finding only a growing despair and loneliness in his heart.

Everywhere he travelled he found nothing but dead ends. There was nothing in Norway, except the picturesque scenery of the fjords. Denmark, while also another beautiful country to visit was just as barren of his soulmate as all the preceding locales. By the time he had reached the Netherlands, all he had was a dimming hope in his heart. In a quite place among the bulbs of the Keukenhof garden, Johnny took a seat under a tree and closed his eyes.

He took a deep breath and recalled the last bit of the song; not that it took much to remember, having been burned deep into his soul for so long.

In his deep voice, low as a whisper, he began to sing. To reach out to his soulmate in hopes of kindling a response.

Choking out the lyrics through the welling tears in his eyes, Johnny waited for a reply, anything to tell him that his soulmate was still out there somewhere. The maddening silence was the only answer he got in return.

...As the night surrenders to the dawn, and the stars begin to fade,

The echoes of our connection linger in the serenade.

A promise in each note, a vow in every line,

To find you in this lifetime, and forever call you mine...

“Please answer me, mo chridhe.” He whimpered.

Finding no peace or happiness among the trees and flowers of the garden, Johnny decided it was time to move on once more.

Without a reply to the song to guide him, Johnny felt lost. His heart was beginning to fracture on his way back home. Having used all of his savings, and not wanting go home to his family still alone, he was ready to enlist in the military and see where his life would take him. If he was destined to be alone now, the least he could do was feel like his life meant something. That he was doing something worthwhile. At least, that's how he sold it to himself.

But then something happened.

It was faint, almost like white noise in his head. It wasn't the song, not exactly... more like a longing that resonated deep from his soulmates heart. They were out there, close, but still far and beyond his reach. It was just an echo. A ghost.

“Mo chridhe...” He murmured into the window of the train car. “I'm here... you're not alone.”

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

It crushed him.

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ENLISTMENT & THE SAS

Prodigy is not a word tossed around so easily in the British military; but that's what Johnny was. Young, smart, motivated and able to out think and out manoeuvre his fellow soldiers.

This path left no room for distractions, let alone the notion of his soulmate still being out there and longing for him in return. Or so he lied to himself.

He was able to think outside the box and on the fly to complete tasks that most men thought were impossible. He couldn't deny that it went to his head. Johnny's mental health bore the weight of his relentless pursuit of perfection, to meet his astronomical and unreachable standards, and thrived on the positive feedback and praise from his superiors.

But added to the stress of his standards was the constant scrutiny from his fellow soldiers. While most of the enlisted men in the service became close comrades, it was something that was kept at an arms length for Johnny. No one wanted to be around the young, up-and-coming showoff – and smart ass – Scot.

Off-duty time was the only time where Johnny's focus wavered. With nothing to occupy his time, mind or hands, he was left to his thoughts; and those usually drifted to his loneliness. To dull the ache in his heart every night, Johnny would find a quiet and secluded spot on the base and would sing to himself and to his soulmate; who he prayed could still hear him.

“Mo chridhe... I wanna be the man who grows old with you.”

...When I'm lonely, well, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you

And when I'm dreaming, well, I know I'm gonna dream

I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you

When I go out (when I go out), well, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you

And when I come home (when I come home), yes, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you

I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you...

Another night of singing, another night of silence in return.

The turning point in Johnny's career was when he aimed at the SAS, the best of the best, the elite. What Johnny wasn't aware of at the time was that the SAS had their sights set on him as well. They recognized the potential in him and valued his abilities to think beyond the military norms.

The process to be selected for the SAS was, in a word, gruelling. Johnny pushed himself to the limits of his physical and mental endurance. Yet in the forge of the SAS training program, he was able hone his skills and discover a deeper understanding of his own resilience.

Though it nearly broke him – in a different way than his loneliness had – Johnny managed to pass the selection process and found his new sense of purpose. The long climb through the ranks of the military quickly shifted, and his career felt like something he could celebrate. Along with the accomplishment of being among the elites, Johnny finally began to find brothers in arms, friends.

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MEETING THE GHOST

The hum of the engines drown nearly all other sounds out, even the rumbling engine of the approaching truck. Ghost was waiting on his SAS forces to arrive, and was not disappointed when one particular Sergeant hopped off the truck and jogged over to him.

“Save ya' a seat, LT.” He playfully quipped, giving Ghost a punch to the shoulder before darting towards the ramp to the plane.

“Fuckin' Hell...” muttered in his gruff voice. He slowly moved forward, following Soap.

Outwardly, Ghost appeared annoyed by the Scotsman, but he couldn't help but be a little amused by the man.

He was also grateful for the mask, and his ability to hide the beginnings of a smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips.

Ghost joined the rest of the men on the plane and strapped himself in for takeoff. He was unaccustomed to working with such a large team, and it made him uneasy. There was a knot in his stomach as his eyes scanned the cargo area, falling on every soldier down the line.

And then there was Soap, sitting directly across from him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“So, LT, ye ever been tae Mexico?” He asked, attempting to break the ice.

Ghost locked his gaze onto Soap and sat there quietly. He considered replying, but somehow he knew that Soap wasn't the man to just inquire about the mission. It was the smile on his face and the glint in his eyes. So Ghost sat there quietly.

“It's an awfully long flight, LT. Gotta pass the time somehow, aye?” Soap continued. “Ye ever been tae Las Almas?”

Ghost conceded and gave a shake of his head. “No.”

Soap nodded in response.

“Guessin' ye never worked with the Mexican Forces, then?”

Ghost let out an inaudible sigh. “Nothing more than intelligence sharing. But I know they are an effective group.”

He didn't understand why he was still indulging this conversation, but there was something about the Sergeant that disarmed him; threw him off balance. Ghost would rather be waterboarded than admit that out loud, though.

“Aye, I've heard they're no strangers tae dealing with the like o' the cartels. Hope Alejandro dinnae think we're here tae step on any toes.”

Ghost shakes his head firmly. “Alejandro has a solid reputation.”

Soap shifted slightly in his seat, stretching a leg out towards Ghost.

“Ye ever wonder what ye'd do if ye found yerself on the other side of an ambush?” Soap asked, knowing it was still work-related but not mission-related.

Ghost actually pondered the question for a moment, oblivious to Soaps intention to get him to open up, he finally replied. “Stay low, prioritize targets, maintain communication and adapt as necessary.”

Soap grinned and gave another nod. “Tactical tae the bone, eh, LT?”

Ghost let out an agreeable grunt.

“Favourite childhood memory. Go.” Soap said, abruptly switching the topic.

Ghosts eyes were rather indifferent to the question, but there was a part of him that wanted to chuckle at the ridiculous question. Suppressing that urge, he cleared his throat before engaging Soap once more.

“This isn't a game, Soap.”

“Aye, It's not, but no harm en' askin' ye?” Soap retorted. He couldn't help himself, he felt a deep urge to lay on some charm with the big man that sat across from him.

He wasn't going to relent. Ghost knew it, and he could see the smirks and chuckles from those in earshot of this conversation.

“Training sessions in the rain.” Ghost deadpanned.

Soaps head jutted back and he raised a brow. “That's yer idea of fun?” he questioned.

Something stirred in Soap with that reply. A warmth. Ghost was definitely a closed off man, and one of few words, but it seems he still had a sense of humour about him. It intrigued Soap to no end. Ghost had no idea what he was getting himself into now that Soap had managed to worm his way under Ghost's armour.

“It's efficient.” Ghost added in his flat tone. In his own way, Ghost was enjoying this playful banter, it was something he hadn't allowed himself in years. Though he was concerned at how easily Soap managed to disarm him, even if he didn't outwardly show it.

“Might have tae get ye to show mae sometime.” Soap declared.

Ghost could only look away, focusing his gaze on a rather unremarkable sign bolted to a bulkhead of the plane. He hated and loved the feeling swelling inside him. A feeling he saw reflected in Soaps eyes.

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IN STITCHES

“The fuck ye trying tae do tae me, kill mae?” Soap whined as Ghosts hands worked to asses the wound on Soaps abdomen.

Ghost let out one of his usual, gruff grunts of amusement.

“Looks like you tried to do that all on your own, Johnny.” He replied, a sardonic smile playing on his lips under his mask.

“Ach... ye've not got the hands for this, Simon.” Soap continued to complain, his voice strained with discomfort.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Sergeant. I've had worse patients." Ghost retorted, his hands working with a practiced efficiency. "Maybe if you stopped trying to catch bullets with your abdomen, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Despite the blood over his hands and the rickety table under Soap, the wound really wasn't as severe as it seemed. The bullet had passed through the right side of Soaps abdomen, and no major blood vessels or organs were hit.

Soap winced, a low grumble escaping him. "Fuckin' bullets never were good for mae complexion, Ghost. Maybe if ye stopped picking missions with so much lead flying around, I wouldn't have tae be yer practice dummy."

“Stop whining and moving around.” Ghost fired back as he worked to clean the wound. He scanned his medical supplies, and sighed in relief that there was enough there to patch Soap up and get him back on his feet. “You're lucky the bullet went through you the way it did, otherwise I'd be carrying your dead ass back to exfil.”

“Aw, ye wouldn't leave mae behind? Even if I was a gonner?” Soap teased, though his usual grin was weak and unconvincing.

“Wouldn't do that.” Ghost divulged with an unusual amount of honesty, his eyes momentarily betraying a hint of genuine concern beneath the mask. "Besides, who else would I have to annoy with my impeccable charm?"

It took Soap by surprise and left him momentarily speechless. “Jus' patch mae up and get us tae Exfil.” He grumbled, resting his head on the table. “An' for the record, I'm the charmin' one on this team.” He smirked.

As he stared up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but reflect on how this mission had gone tits up. The room, dimly lit with flickering candlelight and a few flashlights, emphasized the gravity of their situation.

The mission was pretty straight forward; infiltrate a terrorist stronghold on a dense tropical forest on an island in the South China Sea. Ghost and Soap had approached the island via stealth insertion and had to navigate the vegetation and hills until they reached the compound perimeter undetected. The objective: confirm the presence of a high-ranking extremist leader.

The mission had actually started out well, the overcast skies and foggy waters provided more cover than initially predicted, and both men were able to navigate through the shadows to the compound.

The compound itself was old and run down, with barely any power. There were very few camera's, the electric fences didn't function and the guards were spread far and wide. It was almost too easy to breach the defences and slither their way inside.

But a few wrong steps - quite literally - and a slip of the tongue alerted one guard to their presence. One guard turned in ten, then thirty and suddenly they were overrun. Apparently the compound housed more terrorist forces than intel had lead them to believe. With a few quick and desperate shots and a lot of running, Ghost and Soap made their retreat, but not before Soap got shot.

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SONGS AND SOULMATES

With Soap begrudgingly resting on the creaky table, Ghost moved with his usual purpose through the small, dilapidated home. He meticulously secured all doors and windows as best he could, putting up wooden planks and chairs where he could, and using torn and foul-smelling blankets to cover the windows. There had been sounds in the distance, too indistinct to tell if it was wild animals or their pursuers, but he wasn't willing to take any chances.

Outside, Ghost stood guard under the small porch of the entryway. He scanned the darkness of the forest around them before taking a step off the crooked step and into the soft soil beneath his feet. The silence was eerie, even for him; though looking at him you'd never know it.

Ghost began to do perimeter walks, though never straying far from the small abode that Johnny lay in. It was a stroke of luck that either other them had found this abandoned hovel. If Ghost had to guess, this used to be some sort of drug smuggling port. The few buildings and dock were clearly hastily assembled, which also explained their current state of disrepair, though the one home they occupied was the only fully standing structure left.

Ghost couldn't help but also wonder; how was this place was missed during the intel gathering? Though it had been a miracle to exist and be abandoned when they needed it most, maybe it was best to not look too deeply into the matter.

Knowing they needed to get back on the road – so to speak – Ghost finished up his last lap of the area and headed back towards the home. He stepped up onto the old porch and slowly creaked the door open.

Ghost's gloved hand barely released the door handle when it hit him. A melody, soft and somehow distant, crept into his consciousness. A song, not from the dense jungle outside, but resonating within the confines of the small home and within his own head. The disparity between the reality of their situation and the euphoric notes dancing in his mind brought Ghost to a halt.

His heart, accustomed to its steady rhythm, even during combat, skipped a beat. The song washed over him like the waves of an incoming tide; soft, soothing and dangerous.

...When I'm lonely, well, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you

And when I'm dreaming, well, I know I'm gonna dream

I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you

When I go out (when I go out), well, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you

And when I come home (when I come home), yes, I know I'm gonna be

I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you

I'm gonna be the man who's coming home with you..

For the first time in a long time, Ghost was frozen, and there was a lump caught in his throat. He hadn't expected this, and certainly not now. He hadn't sung since he had become The Ghost, and his soulmate has stopped singing to him years ago. He had convinced himself they were beyond each others reach now, resigned to a fate of loneliness. But here it was now, in his head, threatening to drown him in emotions he has long since suppressed.

Managing to muster up the courage and strength to step inside and close the door behind him. He took a shallow breath with every step as he crept closer to the kitchen where Soap lay.

He peered through the crack in the door, still a fair distance away, and focused on Soaps lips as they softly mouthed the words to 'I'm gonna be'. His head spun with every passing line as it dawn on him that he had been serving alongside his soulmate for years now, completely unaware.

But it couldn't be true. It was impossible! They would have figured it out, certainly, right? They were soulmates, there should have been other signs!

And there were. There had been plenty, but both of them had been too lost to grief and despair and their careers to notice.

Despite the proof in front of him, Ghost needed to be certain. Maybe he was somehow hallucinating Soaps voice in his head. He had to know. He had to test.

Swallowing hard, Ghost parted his lips under his mask, and began to sing some of the song he had written when he was a teen, when he first became aware he had a soulmate out there in the world. It was low, nearly a whisper, to ensure Soap couldn't hear from from the other room.

...Through the trials and the battles, where our destinies entwine,

May this song guide you to me, a soulmate undefined...

As Ghost reached out with his song, Soaps eyes widened with surprise and recognition. It was the song from his youth. “Mo chridhe.” He choked to the ceiling above him.

A symphony of yearning, sung from the depths within,

An anthem for the restless hearts, a journey to begin.

In the tapestry of fate, where threads of time align,

This melody of hope declares a love that's divine...

And Ghost continued.

...Oh, whispers in the shadows, reach across the starlit sea,

A serenade for the one who shares this tune with me.

Through the trials and the battles, where our destinies entwine,

May this song guide you to me, a soulmate undefined.

Ghost paced the small space as his song came to an end, his masked features betraying the turmoil within. The weight of years spent in solitude, conditioned himself to guard his heart against the vulnerabilities of love, collided with the realization that Soap, his annoying Scotsman Sergeant, was closer than ever.

As the night surrenders to the dawn, and the stars begin to fade,

The echoes of our connection linger in the serenade.

A promise in each note, a vow in every line,

To find you in this lifetime, and forever call you mine...

Their shared history, and the undeniable proof of their soulmate bond, felt like both a lifeline and a precipice. Ghost's stoicism, a shield against the harsh realities of their world, buckled in the face of this revelation. The desire to retreat into the well-known comfort of silence was strong, fueled by the fear of exposing the fragile state of his own heart.

As Ghost contemplated the situation, his eyes fell once more to Soap, laying on the table. He had almost convinced himself to keep it a secret, until Soap began to sing again, this time he echoed the song Simon had written all those years ago. His heart swelled with affection for this idiot. His Sergeant. His soulmate.

For all his quirks and banter, Soap... Johnny had become an indelible part of Ghost's life. The possibility of losing him now, with their shared history and the bond rekindled, was a risk Ghost found himself unwilling to take.

The decision solidified in his mind, compelled not just by duty but by a deeper, unspoken respect... love that had weathered the test of time. Ghost couldn't deny that Soap deserved to know, deserved to understand the reason he stopped reaching out and searching.

Steeling himself, Ghost slowly walked across the room and pushed the door open to the kitchen, approaching Soap like a he would a mission objective. And then he stood before Soap who lay there and looked at him with teary eyes, and all of Ghosts resolve melted away. There wasn't going to be any “I'm your soulmate, Johnny.” or “I heard your singing in my head, I never knew it was you!” or any such directness.

Instead, Ghost cleared his throat and give Soaps wound one last glance.

“Time to go.” He commanded, already assisting Soap into a sitting position. “Gotta get to exfil before we're found, Johnny.”

As Soap stepped down to the floor, Ghost helped to steady him. “Easy there, Johnny.” He muttered, his voice low but filled with a touch of warmth.

Soap let out a grunt and a nod, and gave Ghost a few firm pats on the shoulder. “I'm fine, LT.”

As Soap found his footing, Ghost ensured all the candles they used were put out and their equipment packed up and ready to go. He could see the longing and pain creeping back into Soaps expression, and it broke his heart; something he assumed would have been impossible until this moment.

He gripped the nape of Soaps neck firmly and aimed him towards the front door. “We'll take it slow...” he began as they started to walk, “but we should reach exfil before the night surrenders to the dawn... Mo chridhe ”

Soap was caught off guard – to say the least – by the words that fell from Ghosts mouth, and felt his heart flutter. The tone in Ghosts voice carried the admission of their connection, and the immediate danger they were in felt far away.

“C'mon you muppet... gotta get you to safety, we've got a little to talk about, yeah?” Ghost understated. His fingers massaged gently at the back of Soaps neck as they continued to walk out of the house and into the forest. Soap was still grappling with the revelation that there was more to their bond, his footsteps heavy and his breath short as his mind worked to unravel what had just happened.

“Simon...” was all he was able to mutter.

“I know Johnny...” Ghosts voice went low and was filled with remorse. “I'm sorry, chridhe. I'll make it up to you.”

Soap wanted to cry, to burst into tears and turn and hug Ghost, but Ghost was right; they had to get to safety first, and then they could talk about it. “Yer pronunciation was shite, Mo luaidh.” Soap chuckled; grabbing at his sore abdomen as he shuffled through the foliage. “We'll work on that tae, aye?”

Ghost let out an approving grunt, giving Soap a playful push forward.

[queenshelby]

Our Little Secret (Part 61)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Age-Gap, Triggers, Smut

After the initial shock of the night, Mara had recovered quickly and, about ten days after the incident, you found yourself packing some bags to take Mara onto her first trip since you separated from Cillian.

You were going to visit him after all, in Liverpool, for an entire week while he was filming so that he could spend some time with Mara.

The idea was for you to stay in a separate unit with Mara, inside the apartment/hotel building rented out for the cast and crew and seeing that Cillian was an executive producer on the movie, he did not need approval for this.

"Nappies, check," you murmured under your breath as you walked through your house, making sure you had everything you needed for the trip. "Wipes, check," you muttered again, ticking off the items in your head.

"Toys, change of clothes... I think that's everything," you said to no one in particular before making your way back to Mara who was playing quietly on the floor while your best friend Emma roamed through your closet.

"How about this? Or that? Or maybe both?"  Emma suggested, holding up a silky black blouse and a pair of distressed jeans.

You couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. "Em, I am not going out to party while I am away. I am going there so that Mara can see her dad and spend some time with him," you said, shaking your head as you turned to face her.

Emma held up her hands in surrender, a sheepish look on her face. "Okay, okay. I got it. No partying. Just quality time with your baby daddy and Mara. Got it," she said, smiling brightly before pulling out some lingerie.

"How about this then?"  Emma suggested, holding up a lacy bra and panty set. "I mean, it's still part of quality time with your baby daddy, right?" she winked at you playfully.

"Oh god, no! I am not going down that route again,  Em! Cill and I are in a good place right now I think, and I am not planning on rocking the boat just because I want to get laid," you said , turning your nose up at the lingerie.

Emma raised her eyebrows at you, completely taken aback by your response. "Alright then, okay. No funny business while you're away," she said, trying not to laugh while you quickly disappeared into the bathroom to pack your toiletries and escape the conversation.

Just as you were in the bathroom however, Emma grabbed the lingerie and shuffed it into the suitcase, right beneath one of your favorite jumpers, just in case you changed your mind.  "Okay, I think that's everything now. Thanks for helping me Emma," you called out, emerging from the bathroom and taking one more look through the room. Mara was still quietly playing on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the chaos around her.

"It's no problem, happy to help. Plus, it's not like I have anything else to do today. I am sick of my folks after moving back in with them. They have been a nightmare to deal with," Emma continued. Her words echoed off the walls of the bedroom, a testament to the pent-up frustration simmering beneath her surface.

"Are they still fighting?" you asked with some concern, seeing how her parents have had a troubled relationship with each other.

" I wish I could say no, but unfortunately, yes. The same old arguments about my dad not being present enough for them or about his drinking sometimes. It's like a broken record. I really wish something would change," Emma admitted, her voice tinged with sadness and frustration. 

"I know this might not be of much help long term, but you could stay here if you like, especially while I am away, and even after I come back, if you don't mind some sleepless nights of course,"  you offered, hoping that this might alleviate some of the stress that Emma was dealing with.

Emma's eyes lit up at the offer, but then they clouded with guilt. "I can't impose on you like that, Y/N. You have Mara to take care of now and having me stay here would only make things more complicated. I don't want to intrude," she said, biting her bottom lip nervously.

"You wouldn't be intruding at all," you assured her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I insist. It would be great to have some company, and you wouldn't have to deal with your parents' arguments all the time. Plus, I know how much you love Mara and me of course," you winked and Emma hesitated, looking conflicted for a moment before ultimately giving in to the idea. "Alright, I'll take you up on the offer," she said, finally relenting. "But I'll contribute in any way I can.

I'll help with the groceries, or cook dinner, or even babysit Mara so you can go out and have some time for yourself," Emma offered, a sincere expression on her face and, with that, you found yourself a temporary roommate. 

***

The following day, your new roommate even drove you and Mara to the airport

, This was the first time you were flying alone with Mara, even if it was only for a short trip. As the plane took off and you felt the familiar sensation of weightlessness, Mara gripped your hand tightly, a nervous grin on her face. You couldn't help but smile back, feeling a wave of protectiveness and love wash over you.

Cillian was waiting for you at the arrivals gate, a huge grin on his face when you emerged, bundled up against the cold Liverpool air.  He had managed to take half the day off, rescheduling some of his scenes to another day, which was something that wasn't easy to do. 

"Hey there, munchkin," he said, kneeling down to Mara's level and giving her a gentle hug. Mara giggled and wriggled, calling out 'dada', in her stroller, clearly thrilled to see her dad.

"Hey," you responded, feeling a little shy all of a sudden. You weren't sure why - you and Cillian had been on good terms now. But something about the way he was looking at you, with those intense blue eyes and that little crooked smile, made your heart skip a beat. Or maybe it was the haircut which, to you, looked fabulous on him. 

"Hey you," he responded, his voice soft and gentle, before giving you a hug as well. "Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it," he  smiled at you, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he guided you towards the carousel to pick up your luggage. The gesture was comforting and familiar, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you as you realized how much you had missed Cillian's presence in your life with all that chaos between you and him having been away filming. 

As you navigated through the bustling airport, you couldn't help but notice how many people were staring at Cillian. It wasn't surprising, of course - he was incredibly attractive, with his Tommy haircut and chiseled jawline. Plus, he was rather famous obviously, which made you feel a little more self-conscious than usual.

"So, where to first? The hotel or the park with Mara?" Cillian asked as you made your way towards the baggage claim, Mara babbling happily in her stroller.

"Why don't we head to the hotel first and then go from there? That way Mara can take a little nap," you suggested, giving him a grateful smile.

Cillian nodded in agreement, "That sounds like a good idea, although I don't think the unit will be ready until 3 o'clock," he mentioned before grabbing two of the bags and leading the way out of the airport and towards the taxi stand. 

"That's fine, she can have a snooze on your bed. We just need to watch her," you told him  as you settled into the taxi, buckling Mara in beside you.

"I suppose that will work," he said before giving Mara a kiss on her forehead.  In that moment, you felt a surge of profound emotion, a warm, fuzzy feeling of happiness and contentment mixed with a dash of anxiety and uncertainty. You didn't know how this reunion with Cillian would play out, but you hoped that you could put aside your differences and make the most of the time you had together, again, for Mara's sake.

After the taxi dropped you off at the hotel and apartment building, Cillian led the way to the reception desk, where he enquired about the unit for you and, much to his surprise, the receptionist had some bad news.

"Uhm, I am so sorry Mr Murphy, but I actually left a message for you an hour ago as it appears that we are overbooked due to the change in schedule on BBC's other studio show,"  she said apologetically.

"What do you mean you're overbooked? I booked this apartment last week and you confirmed the availability," Cillian replied, clearly annoyed at the news, but remaining polite. 

"I understand, and I apologize, but it appears that we had an internal mix-up and double-booked the apartment," she explained.

Cillian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "What are our options?"

"Well, we do have a few other apartments available at our other hotels, on Banks Street and Maitland Road, but it's about half an hour from here,"  the receptionist said, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of disappointing Cillian.

Cillian looked at you, annoyed but also resigned, but you immediately shook your head.

"No, that would mean less time for Mara with you. It's totally impractical," you told him, seeing how his filming schedule was going to be so busy and neither him nor Mara should be thrown out of their schedules in order to travel this distance every day.

"Can't you put an extra bed into his apartment? I am happy to sleep in the living room with Mara," you suggested to the receptionist, but Cillian shook his head.

"Well, let's check it out and see if we can come up with an idea, okay? It will be fine," you told Cillian, trying to reassure him with a soft smile and, sure enough, you came up with a solution after Cillian took you to his floor.

His apartment was small, but the couch was reasonably sized, so your idea was an obvious one. 

"Well, Mara can sleep in a cot in the living room with me and I will sleep on the couch. Easy," you told Cillian, trying to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal.

Cillian's jaw clenched for a moment and his eyes narrowed, "You're not sleeping on the couch, Y/N. I can."

You shook your head, "No, you're filming until late every night, you need your sleep. Despite, I don't mind. I have nowhere else to be during the day so I can catch up on any sleep I might be missing out on, and it will be a great week for Mara, seeing you every day," you smiled at him, but he shook his head again.

"No, how about we put a cot on the bedroom, and you sleep in the bed instead. I will take the couch. I insist,"  Cillian said, leaving no room for argument.

You sighed, knowing that it was futile to argue with him. Cillian could be incredibly stubborn when he wanted to be, and this was one of those times. "Okay, fine. We'll put a cot in the bedroom then," you confirmed, and he quickly made the call to reception. 

Tags:

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[vespersposts]

An Evening with the Midorimas

Shintaro Midorima is the most tender of fathers, but...

what happens when his son gets a crush? 💚

Shintaro Midorima had noticed something, but he didn't really care. Or at least, that's what he wanted to believe. Perhaps he had been influenced by your constant chatter about how cute your son Shinji and Mirai looked together. So, he too had begun to see things less objectively. A cognitive bias: the herd effect, a well-known phenomenon in psychology.

"Yes, it must be so," he told himself. "It can't be otherwise."

After all, Shintaro hung on your every word: he would never admit it, but he could have sworn he'd seen a donkey fly just to make you happy. This was one of those moments when you were so sweet and charming, lost in your romantic musings, that he would have agreed with you just to enjoy a few more moments of that delightful heartbeat that only you could give him.

Driving home after a friendly match with his old friends from the "Generation of Miracles," Shintaro glanced at his son in the rearview mirror: he had really grown up in a flash.

Stopped at a traffic light, he lingered a few seconds longer in contemplation of his face, those delicate and harmonious features he had inherited from you.

"What is it, Dad?" Shinji suddenly asked, looking up from his phone, his green eyes darting with curiosity.

"Always glued to that phone, huh?" the man gently chided, receiving a grimace and a cheeky response in return.

"Mirai is telling me that her father thinks you're a bit out of shape," Shinji exclaimed, aware he was playing with fire.

Shintaro smiled, rising to the challenge. "Tell Mirai her father Daiki should just be grateful he found a saint like his wife to put up with him. I don't think there's a more irritating man on the face of the earth!"

His response made both your son and you, seated beside him, laugh.

"Mirai's father is really a strange guy," Shinji agreed, "but don't you dare say that to her, or she'll jump at your throat!"

Shintaro couldn't ignore your smug look, proof that he remained the only skeptic about the reciprocal feelings between the two teenagers. As the traffic light turned green and the car resumed its journey home, Shintaro found himself reflecting on how much his family had grown and changed over time, and he sighed because he didn't know if he was ready for this new chapter in your story.

He opened the front door and let his son pass, who seemed eager to lock himself in his room to read comics and chat with his sweetheart. "Night, folks!" he heard his voice quickly bid farewell. "To think that when Shinji was little, he refused to sleep until he had told me every detail of his day," Shintaro sighed nostalgically.

"He's just growing up, but nothing will make him forget the affection of that wonderful man who is his father," you smile, caressing your husband's handsome face and looking at him with love.

Shintaro felt your gentle touch on him and in an instant took you in his arms, slowly caressing your hair and your neck. "You really are the most incredible being that exists... Every problem disappears with you," he commented, surrendering to that kiss he had desired all along.

Outside, the cicadas sing their evening melody, while a light breeze rustles the leaves of the large maple tree in the garden. The Midorima house, an elegant two-story villa in Tokyo's residential district, is wrapped in a pleasant calm. The soft lights in the living room create an intimate and welcoming atmosphere. The couch is comfortable, the jasmine tea you prepare for him every evening perfumes the room and breaks the comfortable silence of your kisses. It is in this serene and familiar environment that you begin your conversation, with voices blending sweetly into the relaxed atmosphere of the house.

"Admit it, you saw them today, didn't you? Mirai and Shinji... they seem made for each other."

Shintaro makes a face, crossing his arms over his chest. "Let's not exaggerate. They're just kids playing together."

"It's not just about playing," you retort, shaking your head in amusement. "Did you see how Shinji lit up when Mirai took his hand during the game? And that smile..."

"Smiling is a normal reaction between friends," Shintaro replies, rolling his eyes.

In an affectionate but pointed tone, you continue: "Shintaro, you know they're a couple in the making. It's written all over them. And sooner or later you'll have to accept it."

Shintaro snorts, almost annoyed by the idea, then finally admits, joking: "Honestly... if it were to happen, do you know what worries me the most?"

"What?" you ask, intrigued, raising an eyebrow.

Shintaro pauses dramatically and, with a serious but ironic look, exclaims: "Being forced to spend the holidays with Daiki as *my* relative!"

You burst out laughing, almost choking on your amusement. "Really, this is your biggest fear , my love? Of all possible scenarios... Daiki as an in-law?"

"Imagine it," Shintaro continues, simulating an exasperated tone. "Family reunions would become hell. Him telling his usual basketball stories loudly, while I try in vain to avoid discussions about who's the best three-point shooter."

You laugh even harder, wiping a tear from your eyes. "Oh, Shintaro, I didn't think it scared you so much! You should be grateful, at least Mirai is an adorable girl."

"Mirai is wonderful, I admit it," Shintaro concedes, shaking his head with a strained smile. "But if there's one thing I can't stand, it's Daiki bragging every time he wins at basketball. And this would happen every Christmas, Easter, and birthday! I might not survive."

Shinji, attracted by your laughter, peeks through the living room door. His green hair, inherited from Shintaro, is ruffled as if he had just gotten out of bed. He's wearing an oversized t-shirt with the high school basketball team logo and shorts. His curious expression lights up his face, still marked by sleep.

"What's so funny?" he asks, stifling a yawn as he looks at you with sleepy but interested eyes.

You and Shintaro exchange a knowing look, then Shintaro turns to his son with a serious expression but with a twinkle in his eyes: "We were just discussing your future, son. Always remember: if you ever get married, make sure your father-in-law isn't an ex-basketball player with an ego bigger than his talent."

Shinji stares at you perplexed, while you burst out laughing again. "Dad, are you talking about Uncle Daiki?" the boy asks, beginning to understand.

"Oh no," Shintaro groans theatrically, "he's already started calling him 'uncle'. We're doomed."

Your crystalline laughter fills the room, bouncing off the walls and blending with the sound of cicadas filtering through the window. Shinji, infected by the cheerfulness, joins in the family hilarity, though not fully understanding the situation. And so, between jokes and laughter, your family concludes the evening. The atmosphere is charged with affection and complicity, while outside the night envelops Tokyo in a silent embrace. Shintaro, despite himself, begins to accept the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, the future might hold some unexpected surprises... and a rather annoying brother-in-law.

[kindasleepywriter]

Before You Leave Me - Rhys x Fem!Reader

Link to my masterlist

Chapter summary: After centuries spent by your side, Rhysand withdraws from you.

Warnings: Angst (no happy ending here folks), implied sexual content. Not edited, didn't have the time!

Note: Lyrics from this song, because Alex Warren has held my spotify hostage for too many days and it was an itch i needed to get out.

I'm scared you really mean it, that you're never comin' back

You should have seen it coming, really, you should have. You’d been fighting in a war you hadn’t even known, so focused on surviving Amarantha’s wrath under the mountain. Rhys’ wife and partner was prime meat for that bloodthirsty woman, and you’d let it distract you from what should have been clear from the start.

The comments started off innocent, his intense stare on the human girl shrugged off as concern for someone who couldn’t fight back. That was the Rhys you knew, always looking out for the defenseless. You’d praised his attempts at saving her.

The words of reassurance you’d once said now felt bitter on your tongue when you looked into your husband’s eyes and saw him searching, searching for someone you simply couldn’t be.

See your bag right by the stairs, I guess you already packed.

It wasn’t subtle, and you weren’t convinced that it was an accident. Drawers progressively emptier, nightstand completely clear of all signs of life, most appreciated bathroom products vanishing.  Not like he was here, anyway.

You sobbed the day the small painting on the dresser disappeared.

It was a painting of your wedding ceremony.

Know I can't change your mind, but how could you just leave like that?

A mating bond... Words that so often left Rhys’ tongue, spat like curdled milk. Nothing could break your love, he had said, he had promised, he had sworn before the stars themselves.

How horribly had you misunderstood, the design of the stars depicting a very different picture now.

Centuries of ups and downs, of hard moments, of saving each other from death itself, of soft touches given under silken sheets, moments with your family... You had seen it all together. Was it all so easy to dismiss?

Just give me one more night, hold me like you're still mine

Your evening had held a certain finality, every kiss dripping poison down your throat and every moan a cry for his love. You held him tight through every blinding wave, not letting go. Brought his forehead to yours, looked at the face of the man you had loved your entire life. He knew you so well, he knew every inch of your body because you were his.

Oh, love me for right now, before you leave me

You pretended not to hear the name whispered against your neck as he surrendered to his own pleasure.

Betcha didn't expect a fic from me today, huh? I like to keep y'all on your toes. Yes, its a songfic, I am the victim of my spotify playlists and I can't suffer alone

I am working on a Cassian oneshot, a Nesta one as well as the next chapter of BoP, keep an ear open for that!

Also, despite my writing history, i do not hate Rhys. He's just an easy target and I'm a vulture looking for the weakest link.

Banner created by the amazing @saradika!

[takaraphoenix]

Thirteen Truths (and a Lie)

Tags: m/m/m, polyamory, True Mates, post Nogitsune, Emissary Stiles, Spark Stiles, Pack Mom Stiles, Alpha Peter, magic, truth spell (in a way), hurt/comfort, Fae/Seelies, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Allison Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, m/f, f/f

Main Pairing: Chris/Peter/Stiles

Side Pairings: Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia, Scott/Allison, Malia/Kira

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Peter Hale, Chris Argent, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Cora Hale, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura

@writersmonth Prompts: petal + theater

Summary: Seelies have invaded Beacon Hills and the pack goes to negotiate the terms of their surrender. The Seelie Queen agrees to leave, in exchange for a game. Stiles, as the pack's Emissary, is the one who gets to play. If he tells thirteen hard truths, in front of his pack, the Seelies will leave.

This Story on FFNet | This Story on AO3

Thirteen Truths (and a Lie)

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

Stiles yawned and folded his arms on the kitchen isle, resting his cheek on his folded arms and getting more comfortable. The others were droning on about something but Stiles couldn't find the energy to concentrate. He'd spent the past twenty hours on a research binge, he was sleepy.

"You should pay attention, Stiles," Derek frowned at him, looking somewhat concerned.

"Seelie Court etiquette, dos and don'ts with fae folk," Stiles mumbled, waving a dismissive hand. "I spent the past day studying up on it, I don't need the Alpha lecture – even though I'm sure Peter is doing a wonderful job explaining it to you guys. Go, Peter."

He gave the Alpha a playful thumbs-up and Peter rolled his eyes at him, though the man couldn't fight the small, bemused smile. He stood together with Chris in front of the kitchen isle. The rest of the pack was gathered in a circle around them, more or less. Erica was sitting on Boyd's lap on the couch, with Isaac sitting next to them, talking to Erica. Jackson and Lydia were sharing the love-seat, Lydia on his lap and a heavy book on the armrest next to them as she scanned through it while carding her fingers through her mate's hair, soothing Jackson (which was always a good thing to do during a pack meeting to keep him and Scott from going for each other's throats). Scott, Allison, Kira and Malia were sharing the other couch and oh god why was Stiles in a pack with so many happy couples, that was just disgusting. Kira was braiding Malia's hair. Why were they so cute.

Stiles' eyes found Derek, Cora and Isaac on instinct, seeking the companionship from the other singles in their paired-up pack. Cora offered him a grin and an exasperated eye-roll motioning at Scott and Allison while making gagging motions, which only made Stiles snicker.

Peter cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows at Stiles in a pointed manner. "As I was saying, we have to decide how we approach the Seelie Court."

Stiles just offered his Alpha a tired, shit-eating grin. Man, he'd never thought Peter would grow into being a good Alpha. But being brought back from dead had really helped the man. And he loved this pack so fiercely, with the fierceness of a man who had already lost one pack. So when the Alpha Pack had invaded their territory and when the Darach had poisoned Cora, forcing Derek to give up his Alpha Spark to heal his sister, Peter had gone ahead and killed one of those 'spare Alphas running around' (Peter's words. That man was horrible. Why was Stiles so deeply in love with him), making him the new Alpha of the Hale Pack. They'd rebuilt, together. Well, until the next big bad hit them. Stiles' breath hitched at the reminder of the Nogitsune and even without meaning to, he started pressing his thumbs against the pads of his fingers, counting them.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice grew softer as he watched the movement.

Startled, Stiles sat up when he noticed the whole room had fallen silent, everyone staring at him. Everyone watching his finger-counting. Damn it. He hated worrying them. He forced a smile.

"I'm fine, just didn't sleep," Stiles shrugged.

Which wasn't even a lie. Neither of that was. He was fine – his new normal, his new definition of fine, because he would never be 'fine' again, he knew that, it had settled deeply in his bones. He was as fine as he would ever be. Stretching long and cracking his back, he decided to focus on the pack-meeting after all. Better than to let his mind drift to dark places. It tended to do that, especially when he was on too little sleep, which he evidently was today.

"There isn't really much to consider," Lydia picked the previous conversation up again. "When negotiating with the fae, it's important to have one vocal point, particularly to avoid missteps. The chances of someone in this pack speaking out of terms and insulting the fae, or worse even, accepting something from the fae that will be taken as a bargain, is too high."

"Why—y is everyone looking at me?" Scott frowned. "Jackson insults more people than me."

"That's true," Jackson shrugged. "But you would just accept shit from them, McCall."

"Don't fight," Stiles growled annoyed, pinning both betas with a look. "Focus."

Both Chris and Peter regarded him with heavy eyes and Stiles avoided them both, instead turning his attention to the coffee maker to get something to keep him awake. He hated the way they'd look at him whenever he accidentally Pack Mom-ed a little too obviously. It made something anxious twist in his gut, making him wonder if they knew. It was probably wrong of him to 'secretly' be Pack Mom, without actually clearing that with the Alpha and the Alpha Mate, but… But then there were enough things kept between them so he didn't feel overly guilty for it. With a near vindictive energy did he pour himself a coffee before returning to the counter.

"I'll talk to the Seelie Queen," Stiles declared simply.

"Excuse you," Peter huffed out a near amused laugh. "Who's the Alpha."

Peter flashed those pretty, pretty red eyes at him. It was cute how Peter thought that'd get him Stiles' submission. Instead, Stiles simply rolled his own eyes and emptied the cup of coffee in one go, causing Isaac to make gagging sounds and Boyd to make a concerned noise.

"Who's the Emissary of this pack," Stiles countered, raising both eyebrows at Peter. "That's literally in my job description. I represent the pack in diplomatic missions and speak on the pack's behalf. Don't think it can get more diplomatic than a visit at the Seelie Court. Besides, with all due respect oh great Alpha, you tend to get… violent… when your pack is threatened."

"So," Peter narrowed his eyes at Stiles, demanding more.

"There's no way we won't get threatened there," Stiles blinked at him amused. "Seelies play games and they threaten with honey-sweetened words. The last thing we need is for you to take a threat a bit too personal and threaten them back, because we'd be in their realm. They'd not only have the home advantage, we'd be stuck in a whole different realm, Peter. You're good with words, you got a sharp tongue, but so do I. I know how to deal with this. I spent all of yesterday preparing for it."

"He's not wrong, dad," Malia offered with a shrug. "Stiles has a sharper tongue than you."

"From my own daughter," Peter muttered beneath his breath.

"He is the best pick, from a standpoint of his role in the pack," Lydia added. "I would have tossed my own hat in the ring, or even Kira's – kitsune are trickster spirits, so there might be a certain sense of kinship that the Seelies might feel toward her – but as Emissary, Stiles is best suited."

Kira ducked her head. "I would really rather not do a job that requires me to speak sharp and precise. I am more prone to word-vomit and I don't see that going over well."

Malia interlaced her fingers with Kira's and pulled her close enough to kiss. "I like your word-vomits, they're cute. But yeah maybe not vomit all over the Seelie Court."

"Are you sure, Stiles?" Derek frowned at him again.

"You are so way over-protective, dude," Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Don't call me 'dude'," Derek growled annoyed. "And I'm serious."

"So am I," Stiles raised both eyebrows at the former Alpha. "I mean, shit, I'm already best suited from an introductory perspective. It's rude not to answer when asked something and they will ask for our names first. Names hold power. If you give a fae folk your name, they have control over you, but if you just don't answer, you insult them. I'm the only one who can truthfully answer without giving my actual name, because I don't go by my actual name."

"Huh," Erica blinked a couple of times. "Didn't even consider that."

A broad, shit-eating grin spread over Stiles lips. "I was made for this one. Besides! No mortal danger! I mean, you know, not from attacks. Mortal danger from linguistic missteps, but I'm eloquent enough to fight that battle. This one? This one's for me."

His grin turned a little more wicked and Peter flashed his eyes red for a moment in a way that Stiles couldn't quite explain. But what he said was true. Ever since the Seelie Court had moved into Beacon Hills a few days ago, and people started disappearing, Stiles had mentally prepared himself for this. He was uniquely suited to take care of this problem.

"We're all going," Chris declared in a very final Alpha Mate voice. "We won't let you walk into a foreign magical realm on your own, Stiles. But nobody aside from Stiles will speak with the fae or make contact with them. You will not be provoked and you will not provoke. Am I clear?"

The betas all ducked their heads and nodded to varying degrees. Stiles' grin turned a little more soft at the trust from his Alphas, even as it made his heart feel uncomfortably heavy.

/break\

The fourteen of them walked deep into the preserve together the next day. No unnecessary accessories – jackets, scarves, jewelry – nothing that could be snatched or bargained. Nobody was to wander off and, as Chris had declared yesterday, nobody was to speak to the Seelies aside from Stiles. His heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. Peter rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You can do this," Peter whispered in a warm voice. "I know that."

The confidence only made Stiles' heart beat even faster. He nodded sharply as he lead the pack toward the pond deep in the woods. Oh, he really hoped this was going to work. It'd be so much easier with magic, but—He shook his head sharply, he couldn't think about that right now.

"This is a powerful portal," Stiles motioned at the mushrooms growing around the pond. "Water is a bridge between realms already but this pond was turned into a fairy circle too. Do not get lost. I'll go in first, we will all hold hands, there will be no complaints."

His hand slipped into Peter's, who in turn took Chris', Chris holding Allison's, Allison holding Scott's, behind Scott came Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Derek, Cora, Malia, Kira, Lydia, Jackson. One by one, they stepped through the bond, falling through the sky and landing in a true fairy tale kingdom. Everything was a purple blue haze, beautiful. Glowing fireflies in blue and pink flying all around them, butterflies larger than normal circled them. Flowers and tall trees everywhere.

"This is stunning," Kira whispered in awe.

"Do not, under any circumstances, touch anything," Stiles reminded her in a steely voice. "Regardless of how beautiful and harmless it looks. Everything here is deadly."

The kitsune nodded sharply, holding a little tighter onto Malia and Lydia. No one had let go yet. Good. Safer that way, at least until they'd reach the Seelie Court. Stiles' eyes were hard as he regarded them all, counting his pack-members just to make sure they were all there.

"How do we find the Seelie Court?" Scott asked, looking around. "This seems… big…"

"He has a point," Jackson conceded. "I can't see a real path anywhere either."

Stiles smirked at the betas, before tilting his head back and calling out loudly. "In the name of the Nemeton of Beacon Hills, I evoke the Spark's right of an audience with the Seelie Queen."

"What," Peter's eyes were wide in surprise.

It made Stiles laugh and turn toward the stunned pack. "I told you, I am uniquely suited for this job. The Nemeton is what invited the fae folk. As its chosen guardian, I have the right of an audience and can not be harmed until I am before the queen."

"Aren't you full of surprises, little Spark," Peter's eyes danced with something that Stiles couldn't name, before he frowned. "Though I do not appreciate the half-truths. You could have told us."

"Eh, where's the fun in that," Stiles laughed and turned back again.

His laughter died when two Seelie Knights approached them, wearing armor of hardened leafs and bark, adored with gold and gemstones. Their long hair was braided and decorated with poison ivy. They were easily the most beautiful creatures Stiles had ever seen, though he couldn't tell if they were men, women or neither. He just knew he was enchanted. His grip tightened.

"Do not let go until we're at the court," Stiles instructed the pack sharply.

"Spark," one of the knights greeted him, both of them bowing deep. "Our queen is delighted to receive you. If you would follow us, alone, we will bring you."

Stiles returned the bow and spoke while still bent down. "I thank your queen for her hospitality, however, where I go, my pack goes. As she surely can understand, for she would not receive me without her trusted knights present either."

The Seelie Knights exchanged a look, but in the end, they gave a reluctant nod and led the way. They walked through the forest and it felt as though the trees were bending their way, forming arcs for them to walk beneath. It was truly stunning. Until they reached the Seelie Court. Like a naturally occurring amphitheater, in a strange way. The stones and Earth seemed like they had formed the rounded shape all on their own, it was beautiful. The trees above them bore pink flowers, their petals raining down on everything ever so softly. Stiles could imagine being here forever.

At the center of the amphitheater stood a tree stump, the bark rising higher in the back, making it look like a throne. On the throne sat the most breathtaking woman Stiles had ever seen, her dress practically see-through in soft green, with flowers growing around it. Her hair was snow-white, her skin pale and adored with silver freckles like stars. Her eyes sharp and unnaturally green.

Stiles let go of Peter's hand to go down on one knee, bowing to her. The Alpha caught on and followed his example, and so did the rest of the pack after a moment. The knights walked to stand on either side of their queen, who made a delighted noise.

"I am Queen Faerynna of the Seelie Court and I am overjoyed to welcome a Spark in my realm."

"You are too kind, your highness. Your hospitality flatters me," Stiles remained kneeling.

"Rise, and tell me who you are," the queen instructed him.

"I am Stiles, Spark of Beacon Hills and Emissary of our local pack," Stiles said, motioning behind himself. "This is my pack and we thank you for your time."

He could hear one of them – Scott? Isaac? – gasp loudly now that everyone stood again. Stiles didn't turn away from the queen, but he still checked from the corner of his eyes. Ah. Humans, the missing people they were looking for. Dancing with bleeding feed, crying without noise.

"Do you like them?" Queen Faerynna asked excitedly. "They are new! They entertain me!"

Stiles instinctively reached out behind himself to grab Scott's wrist without having to look. He always knew where his betas were, Pack Mom instincts were great. Holding tight, he stopped Scott and jerked him back, giving a light shove and hoping the rest of the pack would catch on and help him keep a lid on this. He loved Scott dearly, but the guy's mortals often got the better of him. He wanted to help the people right now, but they couldn't. It'd incite the queen's wrath.

"They seem like… dull entertainment to me," Stiles offered after a moment. "Not worthy of a queen as beautiful and powerful as yourself, your highness."

The queen looked pleased and intrigued by this, leaning back in her throne. "What do you want."

"Their freedom, and ideally that you leave our territory," Stiles offered bluntly.

"And what do you offer in return?" Queen Faerynna's eyes sparkled eagerly.

"What is it you would want, in return for this," Stiles asked instead of offering anything.

"Mh…" Queen Faerynna's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "You want to take my entertainment away and you claim it isn't worthy of a queen like me, so… If you can entertain me better than they, I will grant your request. They can go and I will bind my realm to another place."

Stiles took a moment to consider. "What… kind of entertainment would you wish for, my queen? I assure you, I am not a graceful dancer, I doubt I would be able to entertain you with dance."

She laughed lightly and shook her head. "Play a game with me and if you play, I let them go."

Adjusting his stance, Stiles tilted his head. "Neither me nor my pack will die or be harmed in this game? And you will let us go too, when the game ends?"

"No physical harm will come to either of you."

"No harm at all will come to them," Stiles argued sharply.

The queen looked even more delighted at that. "No harm at all will come to your pack, if you play."

"And you will keep your end of the bargain regardless of how the game ends?" Stiles asked warily. "Not just in case I win, but also in case I lose."

"Oh, you will lose," Queen Faerynna pursed her lips amused. "But yes. As long as you play, start to finish, I will let you, your companions and the drool little dancers leave my realm."

"We have a deal," Stiles declared, followed by gasps from his pack.

No bargains with the fae. Well, no ill-advised bargains with the fae. He was content with these terms they had set and he knew they would not get rid of the Seelie Court without giving something. He whirled around when there were outcries from his pack. Vines shot from the ground, curling around them from the ankles up to the necks, keeping them all individually rooted to the spot. Blood-red roses sprouted on the vines as they tied the pack up.

"You promised no harm-" Stiles growled dangerously.

"They are not harmed," the queen stated matter-of-factly. "And as long as you play, they will not be harmed. See the thorns as… incentive for you to play along, young Spark."

A vicious snarl formed on his face as he saw the fearful look on Lydia's face, the concern on Chris', the panic on Isaac's. He whirled around, facing the queen again. So he wouldn't have to look at his pack, not feel guilty about the situation he'd gotten them into.

"I'm going to play your game," Stiles muttered, displeased. "Tell me the rules."

"It's simple," Faerynna smiled at him lightly. "I will ask you thirteen questions, one for each member of your pack, and with every hard truth you will reveal to me, to this court, and to your pack, I will release one of your pack-mates. You can, of course, end the game any time by refusing to answer me, but then I will keep every remaining pack-member I still have."

Her eyes were sharp and so were her teeth as she smiled even broader. He froze at the spot, his heartbeat skyrocketing as his eyes widened and his palms started sweating.

"What," Stiles forced the word out. "H… How is that entertaining for you."

He had genuinely considered chess or something along those lines. A game of wits and wisdom, worthy or a millennia old fae. Not this. The queen laughed, her smile growing more vicious.

"You have a sharp, silver tongue, young Spark," the queen pointed out. "You have mastered the art of lying to werewolves. That fascinates me and I think it would be greatly entertaining to see you stripped of your armor and forced to tell your truths."

"Stiles, listen to me," Lydia spoke gently. "It's going to be okay. Whatever you say, none of us will hold it against you. We know you're doing this to save us."

"What do you mean?" Scott sounded confused.

"Sometimes, we tell lies because truths hurt, even those close to us," Peter's voice was filled with bitterness. "Whatever the queen wants to pull out of Stiles, she does so to hurt him."

"Which means that these are things he chose not to tell us," Chris continued. "And that's his right. Everyone has a right to their secrets. So what Lydia means is that we will not hold those secrets against him, whatever they are, even if they hurt us."

"Especially if they hurt us," Peter corrected his mate. "Because it's most likely that that's why Stiles decided to keep them secrets, to not hurt us."

Stiles quirked his lips into a bitter smile at that. Wouldn't Peter know about secrets, mh. Still, the reassurance from his pack somewhat eased the queasy feeling in his stomach. He took a breath at the soft, understanding 'oh' from Scott. Okay. He could do that. Telling the truth.

"Bit rusty, but sure, let's give it a try," Stiles muttered beneath his breath before straightening to his full height, holding his head high too, not cowering before her. "I'm ready for your game."

There was a pause in everyone as the game was about to start. The pack, Stiles, the queen, even the knights. No, everything. Stiles noted the way the falling petals were suspended in the air for a moment. The binding magic of a fae contract was kicking in. And then everything came back to life.

"How can there be a Spark, in a territory where the local Nemeton has been cut down?"

Stiles tilted his head, furrowing his brows. That wasn't what he had expected. He turned to look back at his pack, all thirteen of them wrapped up in vines, thorns digging into their clothes. Blood-red roses adoring the vines. Some of them – Malia, Jackson, Derek and Scott – struggling more, like they could break free if they only tried hard enough. Others like Lydia, Kira, Peter and Chris knew better, stood relaxed, knowing that the vines would only tighten if they struggled.

"You can't ask questions that we don't know the answers to. That's cheating," Chris declared.

The hunter stared at the queen with steely, cold eyes, making Stiles shudder. The glare seemed nearly protective and Stiles felt warmth fill his belly at that thought. He knew it wasn't, but still.

"That's what makes it a hard truth," Queen Faerynna smiled bemused. "Because he knows the answer. He knows the answer but hasn't even told his pack. Delightful."

"Because it's mine," Stiles growled, keeping his head high.

"Not anymore," Queen Faerynna looked gleeful. "Unless you are fine with leaving this court without your friends… I wouldn't mind keeping them for my entertainment."

She curled her fingers together and the vines tightened around the pack. Stiles glared frustrated.

"The Nemeton only plants the Spark. But there have always been three parties. The Nemeton, the Spark, the pack," Stiles answered, raising his head, trying to look down on the queen. "The Hales just stopped looking for a Spark. I'm fairly sure there's always been a Spark, but the Spark has been forgotten by the pack. They thought there couldn't be one without the Nemeton. But the Nemeton still planted the Spark. It takes the pack to ignite a Spark. I only got access to my magic after I joined the Hale Pack, the first time I used my magic was to protect my pack, at the rave."

He could hear the confused noises, saw the looks his pack exchanged at that. Could see the questions in their eyes. His stomach felt like it was filling with lead, even as the roses around Isaac turned from their blood-red color into a pure white and the vines let go, leaving Isaac confused, stumbling forward and instinctively closer to Stiles. Stiles' own instincts told him to put himself between his pup and the threat. The queen. So he pushed in front of Isaac.

"And why is that a secret?" Queen Faerynna asked. "Why not tell your pack?"

The delightful grin on her lips told him that she already knew. His pulse was picking up, he balled fists at the sides of his body, feeling tense and nervous. He didn't like where this game was going.

"Stiles," Peter growled. "Answer her question."

And not just because the pack was in danger. But because the Alpha was angry. He could hear it in Peter's growl. The master manipulator and hoarder of information hated not knowing. This was knowledge regarding his pack that had been deliberately kept from him by his Emissary.

"Because you already lost enough," Stiles forced out, turning to look at Peter, Derek and Cora. "You were already blaming yourself for the loss of your family. You didn't need to know that your family could have lived if the pack had kept looking for Sparks, if instead of the unreliable, weak druid, Talia would have had a Spark as her Emissary. I didn't want you to feel like there was something else you could have done to prevent what happened, not when the past is… in the past."

He pressed his lips together and looked away from the Hales. There was no changing the past and yet this was a fact. If the Hale Pack hadn't stopped looking for Sparks, had kept looking for them, they would have had Sparks as Emissaries for the past seventy years. Whoever had been the Spark before Stiles, they would have been at Talia's side, they could have protected the pack.

"Stiles…" Peter's voice softened. "That wasn't your burden to carry."

"It was," Stiles straightened his posture again, bracing himself for what would come after this. "I am your Emissary. Protecting this pack is my job. Even from emotional pain, Peter."

He chanced a glance at the Hales, seeing pain and pity in their eyes, even as the roses around Cora turned lily white and the vines fell off of her. She came to join Isaac in standing behind Stiles. He took a step forward, away from them. He didn't want comfort or support, because it would just make him more aware of the audience he had. If he had to give eleven more truths, he needed to compartmentalize. Lock away his own feelings in regard to this and focus on the task.

"Your job, mh," a bemused smile played on the queen's face. "What is your job in this pack?"

"I'm the Emissary of the pack," Stiles replied with narrowed eyes.

"Half-truth," Queen Faerynna chimed, shaking her head in disapproval. "Don't make me hurt them. You know exactly what I am talking about. What's your job in this pack, that you're hiding?"

"I'm…" Stiles' voice shook a little and he swallowed hard. "Pack Mom."

Noises of confusion came from behind him, startled gasps. He tried tuning them out, because he knew he wasn't done answering. She required elaborate answers. Painful answers.

"I've been Pack Mom since I joined this pack, back when Derek was still the Alpha," Stiles continued, focusing only on the queen. "I take care of my pack. I used my magic for the first time so I could protect my pups. I protected them from the kanima, at the rave. Put myself between them and the threat. Would do it again every day. Am doing it right now."

He squared up just a little, glaring at the queen and drawing emphasis to the fact that he did stand between her and Isaac and Cora. The two betas made curious noises at that. The queen laughed. Someone else was freed and moments later, he felt Derek's hand on his shoulder. He turned, just a little, looking at the former Alpha, seeing the wondrous look in Derek's eyes.

"I protected Boyd and Erica in the basement. I made them return to the pack. I blackmailed Jackson's parents into not leaving for London. I keep this pack together. It doesn't matter who's the Alpha, I'm Pack Mom and they are my betas first."

For a split second, his eyes flitted back to Peter, but he couldn't make out what the look on the Alpha's face meant. He hoped it wasn't anger. Swallowing hard, Stiles returned his attention to the queen, with Derek standing strong at his side, helping him shield Isaac and Cora. A small smile found its way onto Stiles' lips. The two of them had become friends, close friends, over all the times they'd saved each other's lives. Derek may not have been a good Alpha, but he was a good man and a good friend. He was much happier now, as a beta again, Stiles could see that.

"You keep protecting your pack, I'm sure you've given a lot for them," Queen Faerynna mused. "What else have you given, for that pack of yours? What is the most you have given for them?"

His whole body tensed as a flood of memories flashed before his inner eye, memories of every single time he had gotten hurt, tortured, abducted, tormented, and unable to stop it, he could feel himself starting to count his fingers. His thumbs pressed against his other fingers one by one, forcefully, and lastly pressing against his palm. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers on each hand. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. Because it started to feel like a nightmare, like he was being tortured on purpose. He counted his fingers again. Derek, Cora and Isaac stepped up to him, careful.

"Stiles," Derek spoke softly, watching the movement of his fingers.

One, two, three, four five. He balled his hands into fists, albeit shaking. He knew what Derek was thinking, what they all were thinking, was acutely aware of the way they'd watched the movement. They knew what this was, what he was doing, why he was doing it. Which was why his actual answer was only going to surprise them even more. Because the Nogitsune wasn't something he had given, not really. It was something that had been forced onto him. That was different.

"I died," Stiles replied after another beat. "I gave my life for this pack. In the Argents' basement-"

He could see Chris and Allison flinch and Boyd and Erica still at his words and he ignored it, instead barreling on to get it over with. "I died in that basement. Because the level of electricity needed to keep wolves from shifting is too much for a human heart to endure. When I tried freeing Boyd and Erica, I got electrocuted. My Spark didn't allow me to stay dead, it restarted my heart."

"Stiles-" Chris' voice broke, sounded so wrecked, it made Stiles' heart ache.

"I died for this pack," Stiles repeated with emphasis, turning away from his pack again to instead look the queen dead in the eyes, his own gaze cold and serious. "And I'll do it again, as often as I have to, as long as I can keep them safe. I'll do anything to keep my pack safe."

And it wasn't just additional information, it was a thinly veiled threat. If she hurt them, he was going to kill her. As simple as that. Queen Faerynna laughed delighted, clapping her hands.

"I will be generous, young Spark. You gave me two hard truths, what you have given and what you are willing to give, so I will in return give you two of your pack-mates."

The vines fell off both Boyd and Erica and without hesitation did the mated pair rush to him and hug him from behind, from either side. He couldn't help but flinch. He'd never wanted them to know. His heart was hammering in his chest and his eyes burned with unshed tears. They let him go reluctantly, after a moment, when they noticed him shaking. Knowing that he couldn't afford to break down here, knowing that he needed the distance. He was eternally grateful to them when they stepped back to fall in line with Cora and Isaac, allowing him to gather himself.

"What are you most ashamed of, most afraid they will learn?"

There was something predatory to the queen's gaze at that, unnaturally long teeth showing in her smile. Stiles wrapped his arms around his torso, too aware of the way Derek, Cora, Isaac, Boyd and Erica were huddling around him, how the rest of the pack stood behind them, still tied up, still in danger, yet all of them watching him. He hunched in on himself, shoulders drawn close. The vines around the other pack-members tightened until there were some pained noises coming from Kira and Lydia. Stiles ground his teeth together, glaring viciously at her.

"I killed Allison," Stiles spat the words out, closing his eyes tightly.

"What are you talking about, she's right here!" Scott sounded desperate, worried. "And you didn't do anything, it was the demon, it wasn't you!"

"But it was me," Stiles growled, voice dripping with self-loathing. "I remember everything it did. It made me watch. I felt the resistance of her flesh when we drove the sword into her and I watched her die in my arms, I listened as she took her last breath. I was too late. By the time I could wrestle some control back from it, she was dead. Lydia didn't scream in warning because someone might die, she screamed because Allison did die that day because I killed her."

He made a wretched sound but managed to not throw up at the court. Yay, him.

"Stiles, I'm alive," Allison pointed out, gently. "M… Maybe it was just messing with you-"

"Go on, young Spark, and I'll let two go again," the queen offered generously.

"I gave up my Spark to bring you back," Stiles whispered, tilting his head down, feeling so small. "I poured all of my magic into you, into bringing you back, I clawed at your soul to drag it back into your body. That's why I haven't used my magic since the possession. I know you all think I'm just afraid of it because the Nogitsune was dark magic, but it's because I don't have magic anymore. I gave it up to bring Allison back. I don't know if it will ever recover, or if it's gone for good."

Shocked and pained gasps and when the five already freed tried to comfort him, he shied away from their touch. He'd never wanted to admit this, he never wanted to tell them that he was useless now, that he no longer had his magic, had no right to be Emissary of the pack anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears running down his cheeks but choking on his sob.

"Stiles…" Allison's voice was so soft as her and Scott walked up to him. "Thank you."

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, and Scott was right next to her, his arms around them both and suddenly, Stiles couldn't fight the sob anymore, clinging onto her.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles chanted until his voice broke. "I killed you."

"You brought me back to life," Allison corrected, gently caressing his hair. "You gave up your magic to bring me back to life, Stiles. I don't know how to thank you for that."

The queen waited patiently until his tears died and he gathered himself enough to face her again. He motioned for Scott and Allison to join the others, still wanting to keep them safe, needing to protect his pack. They reluctantly obeyed, after soft additional tugging from the other betas.

"Continue," Stiles ordered, voice rough. "Let's get this over with. I want to go home."

"You told me what you gave up for the pack, what you are willing to give up for it. What have you lost for this pack?" Queen Faerynna asked, tilting her head. "Not given, but what was taken."

Clarification, so he couldn't say his magic. He frowned annoyed. And then he paused when he noticed that he was counting his fingers again. Oh. Right, remembering the Nogitsune did that to him. Many things did that to him. He had too many triggers to keep track of at this point.

"My sanity. My mind," Stiles furrowed his brows, looking down at his hands. "The Nogitsune took my ability to tell reality from nightmare. Every single time something… not normal… happens, I have to count my fingers to make sure I'm awake. And in our lives, every day is a day that something abnormal happens and every time, I have a moment of panic that I'm not awake, not really here, that it's not real, that I'm still stuck in my mind, and I don't think that will ever stop."

This one felt good, in a weird way. Like a tight grip on his heart was easing off and he could breath just a little easier. Scott slipped a hand into his from one side, giving it a tight squeeze and looking at him with those big puppy-dog eyes, sad but supportive. Derek took his other hand. Allison, Cora, Isaac, Boyd and Erica were still standing in a half-circle behind him. Protective. Supportive. There.

The roses around Jackson turned white and the former kanima was free to first check on Lydia and… and then join the others in their protective little half-circle around Stiles. His heartbeat picked up and he raised his chin high to regard the queen coldly. Bring it on, his gaze said.

"What is the thing you are most afraid of?"

Mh. Stiles felt himself strangely detached as he considered this question. Near clinical.

"The Nogitsune made me think I was dying," Stiles whispered. "Dying of the same illness that took my mom. And that… That's my biggest fear. Every day I wake up and I am terrified that today's the day, today I'll start showing actual symptoms. That I'll fully lose my mind, forget all the knowledge I've gathered, forget the people I love, forget myself. That I'll die slowly and alone, even if everyone who loves me is around me, because I won't recognize them."

He blinked repeatedly, blinking away tears as he remembered his mother's vacant gaze. Scott gave his hand a squeeze but didn't speak, knew it wouldn't change anything. Nothing could. The vines let go of Kira and she stumbled up to the rest of the pack, finding her place among them.

The queen tapped her fingers against her chin, smiling. "Who do you love the most?"

"My dad," Stiles answered without missing a beat, this being a truth he didn't mind to part with. "He's the only one I have left. Ever since mom died, since her family turned their backs on us, he's all I have left. I love him more than my own life."

The queen pursed her lips and tilted her head. "That was not the love I was talking about, but it was such a sweet and genuine answer that I will accept it. And it is on me for not being specific."

The flowers around Malia turned from red to white. Ten down, three more to go. This one had been easy. Deceptively easy. Stiles felt himself tense in anticipation for what came next.

"Who are you in love with?" Queen Faerynna rephrased her last question. "Romantic love, dear."

Stiles' eyes widened and he squared his jaw, clenching a hand over his mouth, trying to physically keep himself from answering. No. Not this. Everything but this. She couldn't take this from him.

"Stiles," Lydia spoke softly, reaching out as far as the bindings allowed. "It's okay."

"Yeah," Jackson heaved a sigh. "Not like we all don't know it. You know I'm okay with it, you love Lydia, everybody knows. It's okay."

The rest of the pack made reassuring noises too. Like they knew him. Like they knew what was in his heart. They really thought he was still hung up on Lydia? After all this time?

"I'm not in love with Lydia," Stiles spat out. "I've never been in love with Lydia, it was just easier to be in love with a perfect girl who would never look at me twice than to confront that I'm gay."

He gasped at that, he'd never said it out loud, not even to Scott. His best friend made a confused noise, so did the majority of pack. Like being gay wasn't a big deal. Straight people really didn't get it. Even with the most supportive allies surrounding him, that didn't change the fear.

"Danny is gay, so is my dad, Peter and Malia are bi, Kira is a lesbian," Allison pointed out gently. "I just mean, none of us would have judged you."

"I've told myself that I'm in love with Lydia since first grade, since before I knew what gay even was, that boys liking boys was even a thing that could happen," Stiles snarled, his fists shaking next to him. "Good for everyone who had the emotional space and capability to come to terms with it before high school, I didn't. And when I was ready to come out, when I told my dad that I'm gay he told me not dressed like that, my own father couldn't believe that I could be gay because of the way I dress, so I shoved that back down where it's been for years and left it there. Because living a lie that nobody questions is easier than living a truth that people might reject."

Queen Faerynna regarded him with soft, warm eyes and that made it worse. "I'll accept it. It wasn't an answer to the question I asked, but it was a hard truth, so I will accept it."

The flowers on Lydia turned white, releasing her. She stumbled into Jackson's arms. Stiles marginally relaxed. Two more. He could do this. He felt raw and naked and vulnerable but he had endured eleven truths, he could tell two more and then they could get out of here.

"Now, let me rephrase again, then. One last time. If you do not answer me truthfully this time, I will keep you all here for eternity, young Spark. Who do you desire the most?"

"My mates," Stiles choked out, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. "I want my mates. I know they don't want me, I know that, I learned to accept that, but that doesn't stop me from wanting them. I want them so badly, it physically hurts."

Stiles kept his eyes on the queen, ignoring the surprised gasps from his pack, ignoring Peter and Chris. He could see them in the corner of his eyes, he wished he couldn't. He didn't want them to know this, not them. He'd worked so hard to ignore this. Chris was released and went to hug Allison. He tried to reach out to Stiles but Stiles violently flinched away from his touch.

The queen didn't give Chris a chance to speak. "Why do you think your mates don't want you?"

"Because he has known for two years and never said anything and they've sealed their mate-bond a year ago and never said anything and how could they," Stiles spat the words out, shaking a little. "I killed him, I killed Peter. And I killed Chris' daughter. How could they want me. Half the time, I don't even understand why they let me be part of the pack, much less the Emissary, so that's already more than I deserve. How could they want me, I don't want myself."

His breathing was labored and he knew the look in his eyes was haunted. He pulled away from the pack, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to protect himself. Peter was free, they were all free, and Stiles felt like he was breaking into a million pieces, with all his well-guarded secrets laid bare before them all. He gasped out a sob, trying to gather himself.

"There," Stiles snarled. "I played your game. Now keep your promise."

"Of course, young Spark," Queen Faerynna smiled and it looked nearly merciful. "You played well, so I will reward you. Your Spark is not gone, you simply lost connection to it. Let me help you reignite it, as a thank you for a very entertaining evening."

She lifted her hand, and there was a sudden warmth in his chest. He gasped out as power flooded him, his eyes widened and he knew, in that moment, that they were flashing turquoise, as they hadn't in too many months. The next second, he found himself in the middle of the pond. Dripping wet, with his entire pack, and the previously dancing humans, sitting in the water.

"Stiles-" Peter spoke, his voice sounding unsure.

"No," Stiles shook his head violently and climbed out of the pond. "No. No, I can't. I can't… I… I… I can't have this conversation now, I can't, I need to… be alone, right now."

"I'll drive you home, Stiles," Derek offered in an unusually soft voice.

Stiles turned to glare at the former Alpha. But he knew he was shaking, full body shakes, and was about a second away from a full panic attack. He was also overwhelmed by this new, even stronger connection to his Spark, he felt like his nerves were on fire. After taking a shaky breath, Stiles nodded, giving up. Maybe he could use someone driving him home right now.

He let Derek lead the way back to their cars, where he took Stiles' keys from him and started the Jeep. Stiles slipped into the passenger seat, pulling his legs up, feeling small and exhausted. He rested his head against the window, tears running down his face.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do," Derek requested, voice low.

"G… Give me the weekend," Stiles pleaded. "I can't see them, I can't talk to them, I just… I just need time, please, I need… I didn't want to say any of this, these were my truths and she took them, forced them away from me and I can't deal with whatever Peter and Chris want, I can't."

"Of course," Derek rumbled softly, reassuring.

Stiles sagged a little in relief at the promise. He felt too raw. He needed time to stitch himself together again before he could face anyone, much less Peter and Chris.

/break\

Chris wanted to reach out for Stiles, wanted to comfort him, to hold him. Before he had a chance to did his own daughter step in the way. The look on Allison's face was hard and Chris was shocked to have it aimed at himself. The betas lined up behind her. Putting themselves between Chris, Peter and Stiles. Protecting Stiles from the Alphas. Chris startled as he realized that with a pang.

Derek led Stiles away to the cars, leaving the rest of the pack behind. Peter next to Chris ground his teeth together, keeping from snarling at their betas. Chris reached out, taking his mate's hand.

"Scott, Erica, Jackson, Malia, I want you three to take the injured people to the hospital," Lydia instructed in a stern no-nonsense voice. "I want you to also go and get rid of your aggression because I will not have this escalate into a physical fight. Boyd, I want you to take Kira, Isaac and Cora home. Me and Allison will go with our Alphas and have a conversation with them."

"Why do you think you get to command my pack," Peter asked sharply.

Lydia's eyes were steely. "Because you hurt Stiles. And right now, I'm the only thing between you and the sharp teeth and claws of your own betas, because – and you should know that – we love Stiles. Even if we may not have known that he was Pack Mom, the bond was still there."

Isaac whined at that, leaning into Erica and Boyd for a moment. Of course. The three first betas of the Hale Pack had the strongest bond to Stiles, aside from Scott. The strongest Pack Mom bond. Stiles had just admitted it, that he had become Pack Mom for them. Chris swallowed hard. He turned to look at Peter, who looked guilty and heartbroken.

"Fine," Peter forced out. "Do as she said."

The pack split up, Chris and Peter getting into Peter's car, together with Allison and Lydia. The drive back to the Hale House was tense and quiet, the two girls in the back seething.

"I love you, dad," Allison started as soon as they entered the house. "But you have some serious explaining to do, because I've never felt more protective of Stiles than right now, after he just told me that he brought me back from the dead."

She was shaking, Chris noted. Because she'd died. His daughter had been dead. Chris started shaking too. He reached out for her, wrapping his arms around her. Thankfully, she let him. A sob tore from her throat as he started crying. Mourning her own death.

"There is… a lot that Stiles has done for this pack, without any of us knowing," Lydia's voice was a sad whisper, her eyes on the ground. "And some where we didn't know the depth of his sacrifice. So yes, you two do have some explaining to do and don't you dare growl at me and deny me, Peter Hale. Stiles just bared his soul to us, you owe at least that much in return."

Chris didn't let go of Allison, burying his face in her hair. He'd already lost his entire family, he only had her. The thought that he had lost her, that she would be dead if Stiles hadn't given up his magic for her. His grip on her tightened even more, desperate.

"He's been through so much," Chris admitted after a long moment. "When Peter and I got together, when I learned that we had a third mate in our bond, when I realized he's seventeen, he's… he's your age, Allison, I was… mortified of that. My mate is the same age as my daughter, I needed some time to digest that, I wanted for us to wait until he's at least eighteen."

Lydia heaved a deep sigh, but her eyes were on Peter, cold. "You don't have morals."

Peter barked out a laugh at that. "You're right. His age doesn't bother me. I would have claimed him on the spot, if I could have. But then I inconveniently died. And when I came back, well… There was always something, something dangerous to take care of."

"You found the time to court my dad," Allison pointed out.

There was a pause and a vulnerability to Peter. "He did kill me. I didn't think… I thought he deserved better. I worked very hard to become… better. Worthy of him. And by the time I thought I was a good enough Alpha, he was… possessed… He's still struggling with it. He needed the support of his pack, not the burden of this. You know him, you know he would have tried to put on an even braver face, not to worry us, would have forced himself to be stronger for us."

Both Allison and Lydia fell quiet at that. They knew he was right. They'd just been witness to the proof of it. Stiles kept all his pain safely tucked away, forcing himself to be strong for others. Peter and Chris had thought they did the right thing, didn't burden him with this.

"We need to go and talk to him, we need to explain this," Chris declared.

"You will not."

The four of them turned toward the door as Derek walked in, a dark expression on his face. Peter growled at his nephew, flashing his eyes red. But Derek flashed his eyes right back at the Alpha, growling, baring his fangs. Ready to fight. That was exactly what Lydia had wanted to avoid, any of the more volatile wolves to try and challenge the Alpha on Stiles' behalf.

"You will not keep me from my mate," Peter snarled.

"You kept yourself from your mate," Derek growled back. "You should have told him. You really thought Stiles wouldn't figure it out on his own? Stiles?"

Peter backed off at that, looking tormented. "I just… We'll explain it to him, we'll make up for it."

"But not right now," Derek raised his chin. "I asked him, if there is anything I can do to help him, and he asked me for time. He doesn't want to see anyone right now, much less you two. He earned the right to deal with what just happened, what's just been taken from him. You two didn't tell him for two years, you'll be able to wait three more days to talk to him. He asked for the weekend."

Lydia snorted and shook her head. "He didn't even ask for a full week."

"You know him," Derek huffed. "He's going to spend the weekend compartmentalizing and shoving his feelings back down where he usually keeps them locked up. And then he'll continue pretending that he's fine. I think he mostly asked for the weekend in hopes that we will do the same."

"Probably," Lydia conceded with a frown. "We will have to talk to the betas about this. We all should talk about this, together, so we can deal with our feelings on the matter on our own and don't put that on him too."

"Tomorrow," Allison nodded. "We'll have a pack-meeting tomorrow and talk this through."

Chris' eyes were on Peter and it was a testimony to how guilty Peter must be feeling that he let the three of them just decide this. Not that it was a bad decision. Chris reached out for his mate.

/break\

Peter was frustrated and annoyed. The pack had pretty much given him and Chris a verbal lashing for two days. Both Saturday and Sunday, they kept telling them off for not telling Stiles and picking apart their stupid reasons. They weren't wrong. Peter knew that himself.

He regretted not claiming the boy when he had first met him, but he'd been too feral. What little rational brain he had had been afraid that he would hurt his mate, so he kept Stiles at a distance. And then Stiles had helped kill him and Peter needed to earn the boy's trust first. And then, well…

"You ready for this, love?" Chris asked, holding Peter's hand.

It was Monday evening. They knew the sheriff was out. They also knew Stiles would be home. Allison, Cora and Isaac had told them Stiles had been at school. And that the betas had all wrapped him up in a puppy pile for the entire lunch break, apparently.

"Are you two going to stand there all night, or are you coming in? Door's open."

Both Chris and Peter startled and looked up at Stiles, who was leaning out of his bedroom window and regarding them with a near detached look, bordering bored. Peter hated that. He hated that Stiles felt the need to put up walls with them now. They'd been past that for so long.

Peter gave Chris' hand a tight squeeze before the both of them stepped into the Stilinski home and made their way upstairs to Stiles' bedroom. The boy was sitting on his window-sill, hands in his pockets, a guarded expression on his face as he regarded them.

"I didn't mean to say any of that," Stiles started before they had a chance to even say hello. "I didn't want you to know that I knew. We've had a great thing going of ignoring the mate-bonds. Let's just… pretend Friday night didn't happen and that I didn't say any of that."

"No, Stiles," Chris shook his head with a grave look on his face. "You didn't want us to know and… and we didn't want you to know, for… various reasons. But now that it's all on the table, we really need to talk about it. Don't sneer at me like that, brat."

Stiles ground his teeth together and raised his chin, much like he had done when facing the Seelie Queen. It made Peter's heart clench. He didn't want Stiles to look at them the same way he looked at the villain of the week. He'd worked so damn hard for over a year to prove he wasn't a villain.

"The last thing you said," Peter spoke softly. "The last 'truth' you shared, it may have been what you perceived as the truth, but… it's not the truth. That's a lie that you told yourself, twisted by… I don't know what would make you think so low of yourself, to be honest…"

"Don't act stupid, Peter, it doesn't suit you," Stiles offered him a cold, calculating glare. "I was possessed by a demon and killed countless people, killed an ally, killed Allison, I… Fuck, half the time I can't even look in the mirror because all I see is the Nogitsune."

He wrapped his arms around himself and stared down at his shoes. Looking so much more small and fragile than Peter was comfortable seeing him. His little Spark should be a spitfire of snark and sarcasm, loud and in everyone's face. Not withdrawn.

"We thought you should focus on healing," Chris offered in a reluctant voice. "You pulled away so much and we were scared that if we told you, you would only withdraw even more. You had so much to deal with, we didn't want to be something else you had to deal with."

"And before that?" Stiles raised his eyes to glare at the hunter, then at Peter. "And before that?"

"We're old enough to be your fathers," Chris sighed, rubbing his face. "You are literally in the same class as both of our daughters. When Peter told me, when Peter and I got together, I… How could you want us? You had a choice, the same way I did, because we're human, and I thought that you should have the chance at a normal life, normal teenage high school romance, instead of being stuck with two middle-aged, fucked up soulmates who were both scrambling to get their shit together."

"You… I didn't tell you when I came back from the dead, because I thought I had to become someone worthy of you first. You did kill me," Peter pointed out, causing Stiles to flinch. "I don't hold that against you, but I thought that you did. I thought you would resent me if I told you that oh yeah the guy who turned your best friend into a werewolf and mauled your first love is your soulmate, lucky you! You're not the only one who has doubts, Stiles. I'm sorry we hurt you, I truly am, but we didn't tell you out of the same reasons that you never told us. Because clearly you knew too, you knew about our bond but you never brought it up either – because you thought that we didn't want you. You're a clever boy, I need you to consider that maybe we had the same fears."

Stiles stared at them, with a fragile hope in his eyes. "I didn't… I felt it. Ever since I first connected with my Spark, got my magic, I've been able to feel the mate-bonds. And I didn't… I didn't think you would want to be stuck with an obnoxious brat like me, and then, well, then the Nogitsune happened. Are you… I need you to tell me, promise me, that you're not just saying this now, out of pity, because you're forced to confront this. I can't have hope and see it crushed."

"We had every intention of telling you, once you turned eighteen," Chris promised, his eyes a silent plea on top of his words. "We wanted you to have a… well, what constitutes a normal high school experience in this town, and then we wanted to tell you. When you're a legal adult, which would have also eased some of my worries, Stiles. But we always planned on telling you, we never meant to keep the bond from you. It's not something we are ashamed of or don't want. You are not something we are ashamed of or don't want."

Something in Stiles' posture eased and he started shaking just a little. Peter and Chris were at his side in two quick strides, Peter to his left and Chris to his right. They held their boy close, held him while he cried. He clung onto them both, sobbing into their chests.

"I never blamed you for what happened to Allison," Chris whispered, brushing a kiss against Stiles' head. "And neither does she. Neither do any of us. We all know it was the demon, it was using you. It wasn't you. You were a victim of it too, Stiles."

Stiles held onto them even tighter, shaking with tears. Peter nuzzled his neck.

"Our pack loves you so much, Stiles," Peter chuckled. "They all, individually, and as a group, threatened us. They were fully ready for a mutiny on your behalf. What you said at the court, that regardless of who the Alpha is, these are your betas? That was the truth. I can't believe you've been Pack Mom of my pack and I didn't even notice because I was too busy being smitten with you."

"Smitten," Stiles echoed, sniffling a little. "Nobody says smitten, you're so cheesy, Peter."

"He's also smitten with you though. Me? I am being much more mature and normal about it."

"Oh please," Peter gave him a pointed glare over Stiles' head. "You completely lost it the last time he used a gun against that rogue omega. You fully lost it because that was 'so hot, Peter, so hot'."

Stiles blinked up at them with those big doe eyes of his before he started laughing softly. He leaned into them more comfortably and placed shy kisses on both their lips, making them relax too. And in that moment, Peter thought that maybe they could be okay, together. Heal, together.

~*~ The End ~*~

[bronzeandsage]

DWC 2024 - Day 3 - Morose/Strength

Fire and smoke were becoming all he knew as the tunnel vision continued to set in, so the idea of something coming out of the flames was both a surprise and terrifying concept. As far as the orc had been aware, he was all that was left to die on the sinking ship. Maybe luck was a lady tonight?

A tall figure passed through fire with ease, his robes not even singed in the least from the flames. As he drew closer the tunnel began to focus more on the person, especially as the shoulders widened and the face narrowed with a clean white beard.

Not a lady.

Skin of dark purple and ears far to large for the normal human's also stood out with soft glowing golden eyes. An elf. Not at all what he had hoped or expected. The thought of sighing in frustration could only be that as the sucking stab wound in his abdomen continued to bleed. Belly wounds truly were the worst.

Blinking once, the figure was 10 feet. Blinking twice, now what he assumed was five. Blinking again, but a few inches from him as he leaned down to regard him with a surprisingly calm and welcoming face. To further his lack of surprise, the voice carried the same gentle cadence expected of their face. But from the set of his jaw and intensity of his gaze there would be no lack of strength.

"Ishnu-alah, Sevlaz."

@daily-writing-challenge

The vulpera leaned over the counter of his cart to his most frequent customer, what he figured a welcoming smile reminded Sev too much of mischief yet to come. Stereotypes weren't applauded but couldn't be ignored.

"Biggrin," Sev replied finally as he eased himself onto a low stool to sit more eye level with Erik who raised his oversized hands in mock forgiveness.

"Sorry?" The fox replied with that same half open mouth that was supposed to be a smile.

The orc would adjust himself a bit on the stool as he answer. "It was Biggrin, that's what they used to call me."

"Oh well, that makes some kind of ironic sense as far as I've known you, the idea of you being happy seems kind of farfetched," came the chipper if not blunt reply as the vulpera busied himself with dicing some vegetables.

"As if you could tell, Erik."

Erik'red gave a guffaw of a laugh as he swept up the onion and tossed it into a bowl before grabbing another to chop. "I got a nose for these kind of things."

"You got a nose for sure."

The knife in the cook's hand tapped his cutting board as he let his toothy grin shut just as much as his eyes narrowed at Sev. "This how we're gonna be today? Cause if it is, you can just mosey on back the way you came."

Sev raised his hands in surrender to placate the shorter creature. "Alright alright, I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"No, I am not," Sev replied quickly before resting his hands on the wood counter. "But I am the customer, and as they say I'm right."

"No, the customer is always an asshole, which we both know you are," Erik returned to his chopping with a heavy clops of his knife. Despite the antagonistic nature of the conversation, the vulpera's tone never jumped or followed the direction of the banter. People would joke about the optimistic views and attitude of the fox-folk, but in world of demons and giant swords the world could use a bit of optimism.

The thief would snort before reaching up to scratch at his whiskers and eye the steaming work behind Erik. "What's good today?"

"Well," Erik stopped chopping to look up in thought as he listed off his menu today. "Got eggs, an omelet, and a mystery dish."

"Mystery dish?"

"Coming right up!" Erik replied cheerfully as he turned to start into his makeshift kitchen and stove top.

"Wait! What I didn't order that!"

"Yes, you just did."

"It was question."

Erik would tilt his head slightly as he stared at the orc. "No that was a choice, so now you get it."

"But I don't even know what it is!"

The vulpera rolled his eyes and spoke over his shoulder as he went back to his cooking. "That's why it's a mystery. Some times, Sev. Some times."

The orc thief glowered before rubbing at his face as he did his best to guess what was coming and decided it best not to. His thick hand would reach into belt to pull out a faded blue wallet, unfolding it to reveal a cushioned clay pipe. Stem and bowl screwed gently together before digging into a side flap for some of the dried silverleaf he had been smoking since he came to that wretched swamp. He'd pinched some from a couple of footman that had been left into the muck after the Blackrocks had wasted them. An ugly mess with a supremely wonderful result.

"What you got to drink Erik?" Sev called over the flames and sizzle of what he assumed was meat, the stench of fish overpowering much else. The pipe put between his teeth before peeling a bit of wood from the counter to use as light from a hanging lantern, the silver smoke flowing up around his mangled green face as he watched the vulpera's back.

"Uh, I got water, the grog, and some troll sweat," Erik called over his shoulder again as he grabbed a couple of skewers and began to slide on the meat before tossing it back on the flames.

"Troll sweat?"

"It's not actual troll sweat," Erik replied as he wipes his oversized hands on his apron. "Least I'm pretty sure it's not."

The red eyes narrowed in a concern and confusion at the lack of assurance he felt from the fox's reply. "Give me the grog."

"You got it," came the quick reply as he reached under the counter for his pony keg. A click and heavy rush of liquid from below before the clay cup nestled gently on the top. "There ya go, the 'bobs' will be ready in a jiffy."

Sevlaz tried not to show his contempt of the phrase 'jiffy' before hanging his pipe a moment for a full pull of the warm amber drink, feeling the clay scrape his upper teeth and clicking his tongue a moment. "Not bad this time."

"I try only my best," Erik wiped his hands again in to his apron before eyeballing the frying supposed meat behind him, tail switching back and forth as he watched the fires lick it. "How ya want it?"

"How do you serve it?"

"Hot."

Sev sighed and took another long drink.

[xx-projectsekai-au-concepts-xx]

May I ask for an IchiRui au please? Thx!

-Milky

Of course you may!

Fair warning that this idea ended up being really tragic and sad, which (while not unheard of) isn't typically the direction I like to go, and definitely isn't everyone's cup of tea, so if you'd rather have a happier au, please just ask and I will make you another one.

With that said, Content Warning for multiple mentions of character death.

(Also, this is another long one folks, so buckle up)

Once upon a time, there was a prince, named Rui Kamishiro.

This prince was a lonely one. He tended to spend most of his time in his personal study, messing around with magic and teaching himself the art of alchemy. This didn't earn him the greatest reputation across his or any other kingdoms, as most people were either scared of magic or didn't truly care for it as he did. There were few who could look past this and see the kind, caring prince that he was, but he treasured those close friends very deeply.

One such friend was his personal knight, Ichika Hoshino. She had started off as just another member of the kingdom's royal guard, one that Rui took a particular liking to. Ichika would stop by his study, and she would spend hours listening to him rambling about his work. And when she was later assigned to watch over Rui personally, the two only grew even closer.

No one was allowed to know the full extent of their connection, aside from a few close confidants, but that was alright. The late evenings gazing at the stars twinkling in the sky as Ichika told him all about the different constellations, or the nights spent snuggled under the prince's covers as she listened to Rui's heartbeat, or the early mornings they would hold each other close as they watched the sunrise before surrendering to their duties- that was more than enough for the two.

But one day, war broke out between them and another kingdom. The conflict was brutal, and Ichika had to be sent into the heat of battle to protect their people. She had left him with a soft kiss, and a promise that she would return to her prince as soon as she could. And he smiled, squeezing her gently as he told her he'd wait as long as it took.

The war came to an end, and Ichika Hoshino returned home in a coffin.

To say the prince was devastated would be an understatement. Ichika had been sweet and kind, hard working and diligent, intelligent as she was beautiful- and most importantly, she had been his Star.

Rui didn't know what to do anymore. Not a day went by that he didn't miss her, that the image of her pale face didn't haunt him, that he didn't wonder how he could possibly live without her.

But, maybe there was hope for their happy ending after all.

For as long as Rui could remember, he'd wanted to learn to control time. To be able to see and change the past or the future. Few believed him to be capable of such a feat- Ichika had been one of them.

With a sense of determination he had never felt before, he worked day and night to figure out the secrets to time travel. If he could do that- if he could go back in time, if he could make different choices- then maybe, just maybe, he could save his Star from her cruel, undeserved fate.

Finally, he had cracked it. He had crafted a device- a magical hourglass, which he could use just once to travel through space and time.

In the back of his mind, a voice screamed at him about the potential ramifications of such a thing. He had no clue how this would affect the world as he knew it, and the consequences for this could be dire.

But he didn't listen to that voice. All that mattered to him now was saving Ichika.

The first time he went back felt like a dream. Or waking up from a horrible nightmare. That's what he'd played it off as when he woke up long before the war, clinging to his beloved knight and sobbing hysterically as she held him comfortingly.

This time, when the war arrived once again, Rui tried to convince Ichika to stay behind. He told her that there were more than enough knights already fighting in the war, and he begged her not to go out there. Still, despite his desperate pleas, all she did was smile sadly at him and kiss him before she left, promising once again that she would be sure to return.

Of course, he knew that she wouldn't. And she didn't. He'd failed her.

So he tried again. He made the hourglass again, and he went back in time.

When he started training alongside the knights, hoping he could join the war effort and save her directly, all he'd achieved was watching her be impaled right before his eyes.

When he finally managed to make peace with the other kingdom, stopping the war before it could even start, it wasn't long before she was killed on a different mission instead.

When he grabbed her hand and begged her to run away together, to find someplace they could love each other freely, they had barely made it past the gates before she'd been shot down.

He had tried again. And again. And again. And again.

Nothing ever worked.

He went back again. He tried to rack his brain for any ideas, anything he hadn't tried before.

Nothing. He was all out of options by now.

When the war once again reared it's ugly head, and Ichika once again wished him farewell, he broke down.

He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't keep losing her again and again. He couldn't keep failing her.

He begged again, desperately and pathetically, for her not to go. That he couldn't live with himself if she died out there.

Unexpectedly, she gave in this time. Somehow, the two were able to convince his parents that she was needed at the castle, to keep him safe.

Rui had never felt such relief in his life. This might work. Ichika might be okay now. This may have all been worth it.

Of course, things could never be that simple. Enemy knights found their way to the castle, intending to take out the royal family and end the war.

Of course, Ichika planned to protect her prince with her life. It was her job, and Rui was the most important thing in her life. If she had to die to insure his survival, then so be it.

But when the enemies came to take him, Rui gave himself up with open arms. So long as their leaders promised to stop the fighting once and for all, they could do with him as they pleased.

Ichika was shocked and horrified at this, knowing what they had in store for him. She tried to stop him, to convince him not to do this.

Still, despite her desperate pleas, all he did was smile sadly at her and kiss her, whispering against her lips that everything would be okay. That she would be okay.

Rui Kamishiro was executed shortly after this, and the war came to an end.

The knight was beyond devastated. Rui had been one of the kindest, most amazing people she had ever met- how was it fair for him to be murdered like this? How could anyone believe he deserved that? And how on earth was she supposed to go on now without him?

Some time after his execution, Ichika had been tidying up his old study when she made a curious discovery.

Tucked away, in the back of his desk drawer, were a collection of notes. Notes on time travel, and how to build a hourglass- one that would allow one to travel to the past.

Ichika had no idea when he created these, or why he had hidden it from her, but she didn't care. If these notes were true, if this worked, then maybe she could use them herself. She could save her prince from his unjust fate.

It took months for her to figure out how to put it together. Once she did, she hesitated only a moment before she went back.

Ichika was going to save her prince from death, or she was going to die trying.

[lyriquette]

Vytal Festival 2024 Prompts Week! Day 2: History/Fairy Tales!

@remnants-of-rwby-events - Also, thank you for the wonderful event and the prompts. I get to write again. Aha. Happy Vytal Festival!

-----

Title: Chronicling: 

A post-Grimm tale told in journal form.

—

Year 0 Day 22 A.G. ::

22 days ago, we put an end to a fairy tale that connected the distant past to our current present. Salem was defeated, and the Grimm were vanquished. 

Only later did we realize that this was the start of a chaotic new world.

—

Year 0 Day 23 A.G. ::

Perhaps the only merit of the Grimm was that it prevented a lot of the infighting that we’re experiencing now. Everyone saw the Grimm as a common enemy, and whenever there was a War like the Great War, both sides would deal with the Grimm before going back to killing each other. The looming threat of the Grimm prevented Wars from going completely overboard, because what’s the point of winning when the Grimm would overrun you anyway?

One could argue that Salem contributed most to the unification of mankind because that’s what it took to survive.

Salem issued her ultimatum when we finally came back to Vale, which was essentially Surrender and Submit OR Confront and Die. And humanity chose the latter, believing we could finish this fight.

Vacuo, Mistral, and whatever remained of Mantle and Vale amassed an army of Huntsman to attack the Land of Darkness.

Note that Atlas is missing from that group and that becomes important later. 

I’m still not sure why Salem chose to do things like that. The smarter thing would’ve been just to attack all the major cities and hold us at Grimm-point.

Perhaps she was getting bored of her immortal fight.

Or maybe she just wanted to do what the Gods did to her and her army a long time ago - wipe everyone out in one go - in a twisted role reversal. Eh. Who knows what goes through an immortal omnicidal maniac's head? And it's not like I can ask her anymore.

In any case, the major cities were almost all emptied out of Huntsman to fight this battle. Only the bare minimum remained to maintain the city’s defense, most of them Huntsman-in-Training.

People made the mistake thinking that Mantle and Atlas, being both from Solitas, were of one body and mind - and while many from Mantle were willing to see the end of this eternal fight - the big-wigs of Atlas held their strongest back, claiming they were needed to protect them from the Vacuoian rabble. Most people just treated this as rich people just being unreasonable and selfish - and that these folk could be handled after the war ended.

---

Year 0 Day 25 A.G. ::

Just getting the army to the continent was brutal. Grimm covered both the sea and the skies, and we took enormous casualties before even making landfall. And when we finally did, it was like introducing flesh to a meat grinder. Looking at the final casualties, over 40% of Huntsman died that day, and a whole many were left crippled or missing. All hoping to see the day where the fighting ends.

Ruby’s still in a coma after doing whatever she did. Weiss lost an eye and complained “why couldn’t it have been the scarred one.” I ended up being the unhanded to Yang’s unarmed. 

Hmm. I just realized that Huntsman have a very terrible coping mechanism for debilitating injuries.

When we came to the Grimm continent, we believed we held the winning hand. We were confident that our army was proof that Humanity was United and that the Gods would answer our call. Therefore when we finally reached Evernight Castle, we used the power of the Relics to summon the Gods on Salem's doorstep. 

And to our shock, the God of Light found humanity not United and therefore Unworthy. He didn’t bother giving an explanation to a species about to become extinct in the next few seconds. As we saw the same light show that was about to make humanity extinct for a second time - except now in the God of Light’s hands - we despaired.  

That’s when Ruby, wielding all four Relics, did… Something. It’s hard to describe. It was like being in part of her Semblance, including the extreme nausea part, and then also not. The world exploded into red and white - a field of scattering petals instead of the desolate land we were at. And when everyone came to their senses, all of the Grimm around us were gone. Ruby was gone too. So was the God of Light.

The God of Darkness had a perturbed expression on his face, only to be surprised when Ruby reappeared from a gale of petals a couple seconds later and without his brother. Meanwhile, everyone ignored the half-dead Salem and focused on the other building-sized deity in this scenario.

Waiting for his decree. 

Wondering if we needed to somehow procure another miracle to protect Humanity.  

Now whereas the God of Light was willing to make humanity go extinct just to honor the letter of the agreement, the God of Darkness, who was now the only god around, was more flexible on the interpretation of the conditions.

Humanity was United as far as He could see, and He would honor the spirit of the promise. There’s a certain irony here that the God who had made humans nearly extinct a long time ago was also the one who gave its stay of execution, not that anyone who hasn't heard Jinn's revelation could appreciate it. 

Salem, who was already half-disintegrated by just being in the proximity of Ruby’s Something, was unmade by the God of Darkness - disappearing into dust. It was a rather unfitting end for the immortal woman who had made our life hell - and if this were a book, I'd say the writer would've done Salem dirty. Unfortunately for her, this was real life, and I could only wish this happened sooner.

The only things that remained here were the Grimm Pools and the Castle and a small number of Grimm confined permanently to the Land of Darkness. 

Year 0 Day 29 A.G.

After the God of Darkness left, some people stayed behind to turn Evernight into a livable city. Before the army set off for home, I saw someone chiseling out a statue in the God of Darkness’s image and a whole bunch of purple-robed clad followers praying. 

Guess the God of Darkness finally got the worshipers He finally wanted. As for the God of Light, he still hasn’t reappeared, but the God of Darkness has reassured us that he is not in the position to do much of anything. More importantly to us though, Ruby will wake up eventually. 

The end of our fairy tale.

The army eventually separated and went back to their respective continents, eager to see the friends and family they left behind. 

But when the Vacuoian and Mantle Huntsman reached Vacuo’s borders, they were met instead with a united Atlasian army instead. 

That was the start of the Atlas-Vacuo war.

[asnowfern]

Til Forever Falls Apart - Chapter One

Summary: The great kingdom of Ye was not always held captive by Hybern and their three suns. Up until over a year ago, the kingdom still teemed with life but the invaders came with their unholy deal with the heavens and entrapped their lives in an endless cycle of heat waves and forest fires. Faced with the ultimatum to either fight or perish with the world, Feyre agreed to be a spy within the Moonstone Palace. There were just two people she had to look out for: Raven, her ally and spy that she was to assist in the rebellion efforts, and Prince Rhysand, the cruel prince that betrayed their country.

Read on AO3

A/N: Hi, Happy Lunar New Year!🍊🍊🧧 It's me again with yet another ancient Chinese legend inspired fic! I had originally intended to post this on day one of the new year but the festivities got away with me. There are fourteen days to the celebration so it still counts right?😂 Although I will be drawing quite a few inspirations from East Asian customs and culture, this fic is set in a fantasy world of my own imagination with a little twist to the original Chang E and Houyi legend. I am honestly so excited to share this fic with the world so I really hope you enjoy! This is also my first longer-ish Feysand fic so please be kind😅 A huge thanks to my lovely betas, @reverie-tales and @witch-and-her-witcher for all the kind words and encouragement! I couldn't have done this without you! Love you both so dearly!💕💕💕

Chapter One: The Mission

It felt like the world was on fire.

Feyre squinted at the oppressing heat raining down on them from the multiple suns above, her vision blurred from the way the fiery air itself seems to shake and sway. She halted in her path to readjust the scarf covering her face from her eyes down, the parasole slipped slightly in the pinched space of her underarm. Gulping down humid air, she put one foot in front of the other to move forward. 

It didn’t used to be like this.

The great kingdom of Ye was not always held captive by Hybern and their three suns. Up until over a year ago, the kingdom teemed with life. The air used to be crisp and cool, the forest green and vibrant, the waters glitter and shimmer. Children could run around and play barefooted while the everyday folk could tend to live crops to sustain themselves.

Then the invaders came with their unholy deal with the heavens and entrapped their lives in an endless cycle of heat waves and forest fires. No matter how fearless and fierce their armies were, they stood no chance fighting in this new climate. They didn’t even last a month before the ruling family surrendered. 

Just the thought of it left a bitter taste in Feyre’s mouth.

How they, the rulers and supposed protectors of Ye, could simply hand over their people’s fates to the enemies’ hands and retreat back into their insulated palace within the mountain, abandoning the rest of them to suffer in this new heat. 

Over time, the water began to dry up, taking most of the marine life with them. Rivers that used to run so deep were swallowed by the raging skies until the water levels barely came up to Feyre’s hips. Crops browned and died in a crisp, its remains crumbled into nothingness. 

Feyre’s shoes crunched under the dried dirt underneath her soles, pulling her back to the pathway where she was trekking. 

They wouldn’t survive another summer.

She lifted her chin just enough to glance at the brown mossy mountains in the distance. She stopped herself from looking up any further, knowing that to do so would be to risk blindness. Her jaw clenched and she tilted her head back horizontal. She kept moving forward until the mountain housing Hewn City and the infamous Moonstone Palace came into view. 

She stopped some distance away to observe the entrance. The doors, etched deep into the mountain were massive, towering over her three times over. Steel detailing snaked from the hinges and over the surface of the maroon painted wood. Grand, majestic, foreboding.

A warning to those who dare.

***

“A spy in the palace?” 

“A second spy in the palace,” Jurian, the leader of their rebellion, corrected. ”We already have an insider who will be laying the crucial steps to turn this rebellion into a revolution in the next couple of weeks. He will need covert assistance.”

Her brows pinched. “I haven’t heard about anything going down in the next couple of weeks.” 

“That’s good. If you did, I would be very worried.” He said wryly, the corners of his lips edged upwards in a smile that felt more obligatory than anything else. He continued grimly, “This is not an order, Feyre. I know the risks you will take - for you and your sisters. It is your choice.” He slid an envelope across the table over to her, the scratching of surfaces resounding in the heavy silence that fell over the both of them. 

She considered for a moment, focusing blue grey eyes on the sprawling map of the Ye kingdom laid on the table. The map was littered sporadically with flags, each marking where the suns and the Hybern army decimated life. 

She knew then. Nothing would matter because it was only a matter of time before they were all dead.

“I’ll do it on one condition.” She agreed solemnly, lowering a hand to pick up the envelope of clandestine instructions from the table top, levelling her gaze on the commander. “My sisters cannot know.” 

Deep brown eyes flashed for a moment but Jurian gave a curt nod. “They will only know what you tell them. I promise you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I should be the one to thank you.” He ran a hand up and down his jaw, his face turned weary. The expression was gone when his hand parted from his chin. He said briskly, “Everything you need to know is in the missive. Read it then burn it.”

Feyre nodded, slipping the envelope into the lapels of her robes. With a retreating bow, she rotated on her heels and exited the room. 

“Come back alive and with all your fingers intact, Feyre.” 

And the door closed with a resounding click. 

***

Sweat beaded down the sides of Feyre’s face as she pounded on the large doors with the iron knockers.

What she was doing was considered treason at the highest level, made ever more so dangerous by her proximity to the high ranking officials who resided in Hewn City and the palace. 

She would be bled out for every piece of information she had and publicly executed, with Elain and Nesta right next to her. 

A panel slid open to reveal slit eyes. The guard asked gruffly, “State your business in Hewn City.” 

“H-hi,” She didn’t have to fake the nervousness in her voice. “I’m a new servant at the Moonstone palace? I am supposed to report to Ms. Sar for duty.” 

The slits narrowed impossibly into mere lines. “The help is supposed to report through the back entrance meant for servants.”

Well, fuck. The missive had clearly stated the main entrance. What the hell was this spy playing at? 

Feyre amplified the fear and panic in her voice. “Oh no! I am so sorry!” Blue grey eyes wide and round as they stared pleadingly. “I must have misread it. I promise, I didn’t-” 

A large groan cuts off her stream of warbled words. “Show me your recruitment letter.” 

She made a show of searching her robes before finally slipping the small note through the crack in the door. 

Her breathing was shallow, in time with her pounding heart, as she waited for the note to be accepted. Surely, the spy didn’t screw her up before she even got through the doors? 

Thankfully, iron hinges groaned loudly as the heavy doors swung open and Feyre was promptly dismissed with a slam of the note into her worn palms. She shuffled through the gaps with a sigh of relief, entering the darkness which laid beyond the city boundaries.

The grumpy gatekeeper curled his lips in disdain as he waited with another burly guard on the other end of the entrance. He gestured to the guard, “He will bring you into the palace. Try not to cause any more unnecessary trouble.” 

Feyre turned to face the open streets that wound out of the main gate. Unlike the dusty roads of Velaris, the streets here were immaculate. Rows of shops lined the pathway, paper lanterns hung at the entrances, lighting up the space in a pale orange hue.

Despite the rows of shops, the streets were unnervingly empty, save for some formally dressed nobles who walked obnoxiously slowly with their noses permanently tilted in the air. 

At the end of the aisle stood a lifesize statue of an elegant goddess that she didn’t recognised, one belonging to the multitude of old gods that the Hybern conquerors brought with them. With intricate detailing carved into her stone dress, She looked down on the city in elegant benevolence, all-seeing and giving. Was this goddess one of them, Feyre thought bitterly. Did the old gods gifted Hybern the extra suns that doomed them all? 

“Hurry up and don’t stare!” The guard ordered, his tone low and impatient, tearing her out of her stream of angry consciousness.  

Feyre joined her hands in a low bow, her arms still held horizontal within her sleeves as they started walking. The path to the Moonstone Palace was a maze, requiring numerous turns of seemingly identical streets. With every turn, she used the hidden brush to mark the route on her covered arms. She just hoped it would still be legible by the time she finally retreated to her quarters. 

After fifteen minutes of walking, they finally rounded to a dingy looking small door at the back - entrance to the palace befitting their low statuses. Her guard barely gave her another look before handing her off to another lady. 

She asked sternly the moment the door closed. “Can you read?” Cutting Feyre off before she could reply, “Obviously not, since you evidently can’t follow basic instructions. You are not to cause a scene like that again.” 

With her head held high, she brought Feyre into the narrow depths of the palace. She introduced herself, “I am Sar, you will be reporting to me from today on. There is just one basic rule to surviving this place. Do not draw attention to yourself. When you receive orders, follow them. When you’re not needed, you will blend into the walls and not exist. If you draw the wrong attention, I will not be able to help you. Do I make myself clear?”

In other words, she had broken the one rule they live by. Great.

She dipped her head in a sign of deference, “Yes, mad-”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” A low purr sliced through the heaviness in the air. 

Feyre raised her eyes to locate the source of the voice, unable to stop the slight tremors in her knees when she did. Her mind whirled at an impossible speed, suddenly overwhelmed by the conflicting thoughts. 

Beautiful. Rage. Bewitching. Traitor. Mesmerising. Hatred. Beautiful.

Beautiful beautiful beautiful. 

This man was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. 

And the biggest traitor she had ever known.  

“Prince Rhysand!” Sar greeted demurely from next to her. Her knees sank into a low dignified bow while her hands forcibly but subtly tugged Feyre down with her. They pulled on trembling joints to crash into the stone floors, shooting bolts of pain up her legs. 

Feyre forced her eyes back down to the cool hard surface of the ground, hot blood rushing in her ears. 

Prince Rhysand.

The man allied himself with the foreign invaders, killed his family and retreated into the cool conclaves of his palace. Feyre and her fellow rebels might be labelled as enemies of the crown but there was no doubt to her that the greatest enemy of the people was the man who stood before her. 

Silks of the deepest shade of purple, so dark it almost seemed black, gilded across the smooth floors and stopped right in front of her. Cool but rough fingers held her chin and tilted it up to meet his face.

He was even more beautiful up close. His face was cut with sharp and sensual lines, a strong nose, thick perfectly shaped lips and perhaps most damningly, bright blue eyes so vibrant that they appeared almost violet. She could get lost in them forever. 

Then they dimmed, akin to a gate shuttering the light away. Perfect lips pressed into a thin line before asking, “Is this your new helper, Sar?”

Despite the one new rule she ought to live by, Feyre forced her face to sharpen and glared back. Foreign feminine fingers tightened their grip, digging into her flesh. But just for a second, she thought she caught an amused amethyst glint.

“Yes, my prince.” The palace maid replied hurriedly. “She just arrived and would be assigned to serving Lady Amarantha.” 

His fingers left her chin, letting them drop horizontal. Her skin tingled, immediately missing their presence. “No.” 

“My prince?”

He sneered down at Feyre, lips curling in disdain, “Send her to the wardrobe department or the kitchens. I don’t want to see her here again.” 

The blood leached from her face as Sar looked visibly panicked. She protested, “My prince, this request came from Lady Amarantha!”

He cuts her off with a glare cold enough to cool the scorching heat of Velaris. “Say that again.”  

The lady-in-waiting visibly swallowed, her eyes shifting downwards, “My prince-“ 

He interrupted once more, venom laced his tone, “As you said, your prince. Does my word weigh less than that of Lady Amarantha?” 

Her pupils shifted wildly at the ground, desperation emanating from her in waves. “O-of course not. But you have to understand, sir. Lady Amarantha requires six attending ladies at all times and if she finds out about this…” She raised her head, those dark brown eyes widening to circles at the royal. 

Rhysand looked thunderous despite his calm demeanour. He asked icily, “I have to understand?” 

Sar prostrated herself, slamming her forehead to the ground with a sickening thud. She cried pleadingly, “No, no! I misspoke. I am so sorry, my prince, it will not happen again. Please forgive me!”

Feyre’s insides turned to lead as she watched the woman, so proud and haughty just minutes ago, turned into a pitiful teary mess on the verge of a breakdown. She couldn’t let this go any further. 

In one smooth motion, she doubled over, her forehead gingerly touched the back of her palms on the ground. “Please, Your Highness. Today is but my first day, this humble servant will go anywhere the prince assigns me.” 

She held her breath as she waited for that despicable low purr that lit her insides. 

The young royal decided after an agonising beat, “Fine, we are done here.”

They breathed again, raising their heads, “Thank you, my prince.” 

“But, Sar?” He turned a cruel eye on her, the edges of his mouth lifted in a smirk of twisted amusement. “You will personally inform Lady Amarantha of the news, am I clear?”

Every fibre of the maid trembled as she gave a low curtsy, “Of course, my prince.” 

A rustle of silks and they were once more alone in the hallway. Feyre’s fist clenched by her side as the woman next to her silently sobbed. 

He truly was a monster.

***

The ground beneath her was cool and soft. They tickled her feet as wind playfully whipped around her face in the lightest caress. 

Feyre kept her eyes closed, her arms stretched out in the air and she spun, giggling. She danced with teasing rivulets of rain, the feeling of wet grass beneath bare feet, the smell of petrichor soaking the air. 

She spun round and round, elation filling her entire body. 

Her hands were then forced down, pinned down by unnatural forces. Her world warped and Feyre snapped her eyes open. 

She awoke to endless depths of the abyss staring back at her. With her next exhale, she twisted her arms and body away from her assailant, her legs swung up to strike him with a sloppy kick to the chest. 

Feyre scrambled to her feet as the guy staggered backwards. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes darting wildly to take in her opponent. 

Dressed in cottons of the endless night, the man was masked in a demonic face as dark as the rest of his clothed form. He recovered swiftly as his mask continued to bare its fangs at Feyre, his feet shifting into a stable and relaxed stance, hands raised to the level of his shoulders. 

She rolled her shoulders, lifting her own arms to mirror his. “Please, let us not circle around each other needlessly.” 

She swore she could feel his amusement radiating through the clothed and paper cover before he struck, his movements sharp and swift like a hawk. Feyre blocked out of trained reflex, her arms snaked around his arms to twist them, locking his shoulders into a rigid hold. 

His head snapped to her for a brief moment, phantom eyes widening in surprise. She rotated her wrist just slightly, half an inch before his shoulder would pop out of its joint. 

The inch was never completed. Instead, Feyre was flipped over him and her back slammed hard into the ground, knocking her breath out of her in one swoosh. 

The assailant’s body covered hers and pinned her down with haunting painted eyes. Feyre seethed and spat in his face. She twisted her limbs to flip their position but every action was met with an infuriating counter, his hard body pressed firmly against hers.

“Jurian said you were good.” He mused, relaxing his hold. 

The words floated through the narrow space between them, slow and sluggish, reaching her brain just a little too late. Her body, on the other hand, registered the lack of force pushing down her body and reacted instantly, landing a solid kick between his legs. 

Feyre winced as he rolled off her to lie on his back, cursing harshly. 

“Raven?” She called out hesitantly, speaking the code name, a secret even amongst secrets, for the first time. 

Raven raised an open palm at her, his breath still coming out in pants. An awkward wait later, he stood up shakily. 

“Some kick.” 

She shrugged, stating simply, “You attacked me.” 

Unexpectedly, he chuckled, low and enticing. “That I did,” he acknowledged, chucking the robes that slung on a chair towards her, “but that was just part one of your test. Get dressed.”

Feyre went still and silent, her chest heated uncomfortably when she remembered her state of undress. Nothing but her underthings - a pair of comfortable breezy pants and a top where the front was barely supported by thin straps and virtually nothing in the back. 

The spy turned to a corner of the room, chuckling once more. It warmed her, a lingering heat that remained even as she donned similarly dark cotton robes. She shook off the sensation as she asked, “So what’s part two of my test?”

He opened the door, the smirk evident in his voice. “Cover up that pretty face and keep up. Quietly.”

He didn’t see the scowl on her face, choosing instead to dissolve into the shadows the instant the doors shut close. She followed, guided only by the barest hint of light steps and shadowy hints of a human silhouette. 

They melted into the cover of night as Raven led her through numerous turns in the deep tunnels of the palace. No guards spotted them, her leader always quick to spot them and avoid attention. 

They stopped after what felt like a jaunt around the entire mountain. He spun around, their bodies a bare inch from the other. Heat radiated from him, laced with a slight delicious hint of salt and citrus. Feyre stiffened and resisted the urge to lean in for more.

“Part three,” the demonic mask instructed, “Count to ten and then find your way back.” 

Feyre smiled beneath the black cloth covering her face, “Think you can lose me in ten seconds?”  

He crooned just before he slid into the dark, “Catch me then.” 

Explanatory notes: If you're curious how ancient Chinese female undergarments (the one Feyre was wearing) looks like, here's a reference!

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday the Scottish folk singer/songwriter Brian McNeill born on April 6th 1950 in Falkirk.

Brian was a founder member of the Battlefield Band, one of our finest Folk Groups. He also joined several other top Scottish Folk musicians including Dick Gaughan in Clan Alba.

Brian is a multi instrumentalist – chiefly fiddle, bouzouki, mandocello, guitars and concertina – and the importance of his songwriting has long been recognised with such songs as The Yew Tree, The Lads O' The Fair, The Snows of France and Holland, Strong Women Rule Us All With Their Tears, Any Mick'll Do and No Gods and Precious Few Heroes. Many of his songs have been performed and recorded by artists worldwide. He has been described as ‘Scotland’s most meaningful contemporary songwriter’.

​Brian’s audio visual shows, The Back O' The North Wind, about Scottish emigration to America, and the sequel, The Baltic Tae Byzantium, exploring the influence of the Scots in Europe, have won wide critical acclaim. His long connection with America's Lone Star State led to him being created an honorary Texan by the then Governor George W Bush. For six years Brian was Head of Scottish Music at the RSAMD, now the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland.

Brian is increasingly in demand for his production skills and his album credits include Davey Arthur, The Paul McKenna Band, Lorne MacDougall, Rua Macmillan, Eric Bogle and John Munro, Matt Tighe and Tad Sargent, The John Wright Band, Drones and Bellows and Missouri a cappella quartet The Wee Heavies.

As well as his musical talent Brian has also turned his hand to writing, he pens short stories, crime and mystery fiction involving his hero, busker Alex Fraser and his heroine, private sleuth Sammy Knox.

Brian is currently on the road with the The Feast of Fiddles 30th anniversary tour.

A song Brian wrote is one of my favourite modern folk songs

No Gods And Precious Few Heroes

I was listening to the news the other day Heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say He was proud to be Scottish, by the way With the glories of our past to remember "Here's tae us, wha's like us", listen to the cry No surrender to the truth and here's the reason why The power and the glory's just another bloody lie They use to keep us all in line

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So farewell to the heather and the glen They cleared us off once and they'd do it all again For they still prefer sheep to thinking men Ah, but men who think like sheep are even better There's nothing much to choose between the old vain and the new They still don't give a damn for the likes of me and you Just mind you pay your rent to the factor when it's due And mind your bloody manners when you pay

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

And tell me will we never hear the end Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again? Though he ran like a rabbit down the glen Leavin better folk than him to be butchered Or are you sittin in your Council house, dreamin o'er your clan? Waiting for the Jacobites to come and free the land? Try going down the broo with your claymore in your hand And count all the Princes in the queue

For there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And it's time now to sweep the future clear Of the lies of a past that we know was never real

So don't talk to me of Scotland the Brave For if we don't fight soon there'll be nothing left to save Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave While you wait for the Tartan Messiah? He'll lead us to the Promised Land with laughter in his eye We'll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by Free heavy beer! Pie suppers in the sky Will we never have the sense to learn?

That there's no gods and there's precious few heroes But there's plenty on the dole in the land o' the leal And I'm damned sure that there's plenty live in fear Of the day we stand together with our shoulders at the wheel Aye, there's no Gods

[growthgoddess]

Mountain Mother

In the small village in rural Haiti, the people lived a simple life. They farmed the land, fished in the nearby river, and worshipped at the local shrine.

Life was hard, but they were simple folk who were content and happy.

The villagers practiced animism and venerate the Lwa of the land for their graces. One such woman who was particularly in the favor of the Lwa was the young mambo named Tamara.

She was a beautiful girl who just reached adulthood. Many suitors have come for her hand in marriage, but she remained devoted to her duties that she has not had time for a relationship.

Tamara loved the village deeply, and her fellow villagers admired the young woman. She is very favorable to the eyes of the Lwa as well. Her selfless prayers were often graced with bountiful answers.

One day, however, dark clouds gathered on the horizon. The villagers identified it as Agau the Violent Lwa being very displeased with them, and a devastating storm was coming.

The village has weathered many storms before, but this one was different. The wind was picking up, and the sky was churning with an ominous shade of gray.

Tamara convened to Agau to spare her village, but this time was different for no matter what songs she played or how many sacrifices she made, her pleas fell into deaf ears.

The villagers started to panic. They knew that this storm could be dangerous, and they had to prepare. They gathered their supplies and huddled together in the local Catholic church, and wished for safety.

But Tamara was worried, for she knew that Agau's wrath was not limited to storm, rain, and wind - it also brings about a possible landslide that could wipe her entire village from existence.

She resorted to begging for Brise the Gentle Giant and Ayida the Mother for aid. She asked the villagers to give her a spotted chicken, which they gladly surrendered to her. She climbed the steppes of the mountain as the rain began to pour. She enters the hidden hounfour temple atop the hill and sacrificed the chicken and offered it to the Brise.

Then, at the periphery of Tamara's vision, she saw a great owl observing her from one of the beams in the temple, tilting its head but not breaking its view. Then without warning, the owl dove down and grabbed the chicken's corpse and flew directly to her. Tamara braced herself, only to find that the owl had disappeared.

Tamara began to worry as desperation flooded her mind. She prayed with all her might, asking for supernatural aid protect her village.

Suddenly, she felt a strange sensation in her body. She felt elated and dropped her instruments. Suddenly, her clothes grew tight against her body.

She took a deep breath and noticed that she was taller. Her chest expanded after every breath but did not return to normal after exhaling. Her toes toes clenched as her bare feet stretched bigger. She was transforming into a giant!

Tamara knew that Brise had granted her wish for strength to protect her village against Agau's wrath and she is becoming an avatar of the Lwa. She continued growing until she was as tall the hounfour temple's ceiling. She could no longer resist it and tore her clothes ripped apart with her bare hands.

She stepped forward and bent over to allow Brise's gift to wash over her, doubling her growth speed until she tore the entire temple down with her size. She had become a giantess.

Tamara marched back down to the village, her size steadily increasing with every step she made.

Meanwhile the villagers in the church started to panic when the earth shook beneath their feet. But this was no normal earthquake, it was as if the heart had a heartbeat, pulsing every few seconds, as if it were...

Footsteps!

Suddenly, the loud, booming, female voice of Tamara was heard outside and when they opened the doors and windows, there she was in all her majesty.

Tamara's supple skin washed with rain, streams of water flowed along every inch of her curves. With her arms akimbo, she proudly granted the village the hope of survival now that they had her as their protector.

They have never seen anything like it. But they knew that they were safe with Tamara by their side. They cheered her on and praised the Lwa.

Then, the storm hit and the wind howled. Tamara knew this was her time to fight Agau and calm the god. Tamara stood against the wind, the village behind her. She stood firm, her giant arms outstretched to shield the villagers from the worst of the storm.

Then the mountain crumbled before her, and the landslide came. Tamara braced her massive body for the worst and used her immense strength to stop it in its tracks. The flow was unstoppable, but so was she. With her muscles screaming in pain, she used all her strength to redirect the flow of the mud and debris away from the village.

As the storm subsided, knelt down in pain. The landslide carried several rocks that bruised and battered her body. Her valiant effort came with the cost. The villagers gathered around her, thanking her for saving their lives. They couldn't believe what they had just witnessed, but they knew that it was a miracle

Tamara, however, could not revel with them. Her body ached all over, she could feel her insides mangled from the force she endured. Her vision was darkening. She knew she had limited time left and she could collapse her massive body at any moment.

To the villagers' confusion, the giantess lurched her way to the hillside, accidentally breaking through a house on the way. And then she collapsed on the hills.

The last thing Tamara heard was the gasp and pleas of her beloved village before she allowed herself to be taken by the Lwa.

Decades have passed, and Tamara's avatar body was slowly covered by earth and greenery. Her lifeless body slowly began to change into a veritable mountain range that loomed of the village like a giant protector. But the villagers never forgot her sacrifice and their children respected the mountain like a mother.

The village thrived under the protection of Tamara. Storms came and went, but her body scattered the winds. Invaders tried to attack it, but her massive size exhausted them and they gave up.

The villagers built their homes around the base of Tamara's mountain, using her curvaceous slopes to grow their crops and raise their families.

As time went on, the legend of Tamara grew. Children were told stories of the giant woman who gave up her life to protect her village. They would climb the slopes of the mountain and leave offerings at its base, thanking Tamara for her sacrifice.

[ruibaozha]

The Dragon Boat Festival; and Nezha the Dragon Tamer

There are many topics I have yet to discuss here, but as the Dragon Boat Festival draws near I want to talk about how even with a celebration as widely spread as the Dragon Boat Festival - this too could not escape Nezha's indomitable influence. No matter how you celebrate, near or far, I hope you can enjoy this post.

Warnings before Reading: Suicide by drowning in relation to an origin myth is discussed.

To begin, I would like to describe the Dragon Boat Festival's signifigance in the Chinese conciousness and where it came from for those otherwise unaware or encountering it for the first time in this post. As these points are repeated numerous times in various places, I feel comfortable forgoing the usual providing of as many citations as possible. I am happy to present citations regarding the festival itself upon request.

The origins of this festival are commonly attributed to the death of Qu Yuan, a poet and member of the Chu Emperor's Court during the Warring States period. Qu Yuan had been exiled on suspicion of deceit and betrayal through suggesting an alliance with the state of Qi to better defend against the ever growing threat that the Qin state was becoming. His prediction would prove correct, the Qin captured the Chu Emperor and the state of Chu was fully surrendered. Hearing this news, and despite his exile, Qu Yuan would drown himself in the Miluo River of Hunan Province in 278BCE (1).

Qu Yuan's choice to drown would go on to inspire the origin of the much beloved zongzi, common food fare during the festival. Depending on who you ask, upon learning of his suicide, the nearby villagers would throw rice into the water to either prevent the fish from eating his body or to feed his now disembodied water spirit. Despite these attempts it was noted that 'dragons' would always interfere, the culprits likely being massive whiskered catfish in the river. With this frustration it is said Qu Yuan would go on to tell the villagers to wrap the rice into the now iconic bamboo leaves they are steamed in, making it impossible for the 'dragons' in the river to consume it.

But why dragons, you may ask? Within various pieces of Chinese folklore and popular mythos it is confirmed consistently that dragons' element is water. Controllers of the rain, rivers and seas, creators of the four great rivers in China following disagreements with the Jade Emperor himself when he trapped four dragons under mountains for bringing water to the villages during a disastrous drought.

What's the deal with the long dragon boats then? Though they are exclusively designed for races in mondern days and were only sailed in honor of Qu Yuan starting around the 5th or 6th Century AD, they historically were more aligned with farming purposes. In the Lunar Calendar the month of May typically lands during the Summer Solstice period - a crucial time period in growing rice where the seeds need to be transplanted. Across southern China the farmers would ask the dragons to watch over their crops and help prevent droughts (2). In honor of the dragons these farmers would carve the bow of their boats into a dragon's face, the action of rowing symbolic of replanting the rice crop. Even the tetrahedral shape of zongzi can be explained here, said to be in the image of a cow's horn, a most auspicious symbol for good crop yields.

Though it has been argued that dragon boat racing originated as a military exercise (3) within the province of Hubei, both explanations have come together under the umbrella of honoring Qu Yuan (4). It is always important to remember the non-linear nature of many myths and folk tales, changing and adapting with the people who cherish and retell them.

At this point you surely must be asking how Nezha factors into any of this, but I assure you, he is celebrated during this time as well.

Even if the only tale of Nezha you are familiar with is his conflict with Ao Bing and subsequently Ao Guang, it is important here to establish his reputation as someone that subjugates dragons. Even within the pages of The Grand Compendium of the Three Religion's Deities this was a point not to miss (5). His reputation as a dragon tamer would even inspire eighteenth-century belt makers to dedicate a temple to him near Beijng's Black-Dragon Pool (6).

This reputation would only be enforced during the Yuan-era of Beijing, called Dadu at the time. A fourteenth-century legend would state that the capital was modeled after Nezha's likeness, the eleven gates corresponding to his three heads, six arms, and two legs; his reputation giving reason for posturing him as the capital city's guardian (7). This story was so widespread that in Yuan-era literature the city of Dadu was also referred to as Nazha Cheng (Nezha City) (8). However Dadu was extremely susceptible to droughts and periods of flooding at the time, both things attributed to the Dragon King.

It is Nezha's duty as the city's celestial guardian that attributes one of his birthday to coincide with the Dragon Raising Its Head - a period of time when Dadu's citizens would pray and beg the Dragon King for good weather (9) and historically an important date that welcomes both spring time and a very long farming season.

This is a much lesser known connection that is shared between Nezha and agriculturally significant events, but it would not surprise me if one day Nezha himself sat on the bow of one of these dragon boats cheering for the rowers to go faster.

Bibliography:

(1) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 58; Singapore Federation of Chinese Clan Associations, Chinese Customs and Festivals in Singapore = Hua ren li su jie ri shou ce (Singapore: Singapore Federation of Chinese Clan Associations, 1989), 55.

(2) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 55; Tan Huey Peng, Fun with Chinese Festivals (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1991), 58. (Call no. JRSING 394.26951 TAN)

(3) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 58, 60.

(4) Within northern China it is actually not Qu Yuan who was initially honored but someone completely different, a man wronged by his lord who fled into the woods only for this same lord to set the woods ablaze killing him. A very similar story hails from Fujian province of a man named Wu Zixu who was also wronged by his lord in a story far too long to be kept in a citation. However his body was thrown into a river upon his death, his anger powerful enough to create raging tides. He is worshipped as a river god and connected to the Dragon Boat Festival in this way. Even the pervasive filial piety makes it's appearance in the form of the Han Dynasty story of Cao E who searched up and down the river bank for her drowned father's body. She had wanted to provide a proper funeral but eventually threw herself into the river on the fifth day, only to be revived and presenting her father's body in her arms - the Gods smiling upon her filial action and granting a blessing. Qu Yuan however is remembered best for his love of his country and ultimately his self-sacrifice.

(5) At five days old Nezha overpowers the dragon-lords and even kills their king - implicating his father Li Jing and serving the basis of their feud.

(6) Li Qiao, Zhongguo hangye shen chongbai, (Beijing: Zhongguo Huaqiao, 1990), 199-200.

(7) This is a fairly fantastical retelling of how the architect Liu Bowen developed the idea to give Dadu eleven gates and isn't rooted in the reality of the process. Dates, names, and places are severely inconsistent but it is itself indicative of Nezha's influence.

(8) Xiao Dengfu, "Nezha suyuan", 20-23.

(9) Hok-Lam Chan, Legends of the Building of Old Peking, 72–73.

[kurlyfrasier]

5) Bleeding Heart: A Chronologue (part 2/2)

Pairing: Mand'alor!Din Djarin x Reader

Synopsis: Din left you and Grogu at Fett's Palace and regrets it.

Word Count: 1300-ish

Warnings: Um, improper use of Mando'a, I'm sure. And blood. Um, Darksaber stuff? Near death experience.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Mandalorian/Star Wars anything. I find all Mando’a translations and pronunciations at mandoa.org.

A/N: Been a long time coming, folks! Honestly, I'm a little surprised I finished this part lol BUT IT IS FINALLY HERE! Sorry it took so freaking long....This thing was a total nightmare for the longest time, let me tell you. I feel so accomplished now that this piece is OVER. Anyway, ENJOY! (:

Also, this takes place during Beskar Kisses & Grime, if you need to recap lol

Day Four:

Din woke up in a dark, unfamiliar room with a start, gasping for breath.

“Ah,” dim light filtered through the room. “You’re awake, Mand’alor.”

Din whirled out of the cot, cape tangling through his legs, blaster pointed at the man who entered.

The man held his hands up in surrender, lantern in hand casting shadows in the small space. A small smile on his wrinkled face. “Please, we mean you no harm.”

Slowly, Din holstered his blaster, his cape untangling with the movement. “I’m looking for someone. A bounty.” His voice was rough, throat dry.

“We get many travelers through our small village,” said the man. “Describe your bounty and I will ask around. If anyone has seen them, we would be more than happy to tell you.”

The words made Din wary, wondering what price he would need to pay for the information. “Why.”

“You are our Mand’alor,” the man stated, matter-of-fact.

With a sigh, Din sat down on the cot, utterly exhausted even though it seemed he got some sleep. It groaned under his weight. “You wear no armor.”

“We have been hiding,” he said, giving nothing away, gaze never leaving the visor before him.

“I see,” Din did not see, but his brain had felt muddled and confused for at least a day now. He figured it was the curse of his Kar’ta. The room was spinning, spinning, spinning. His gloved hands gripped the edge of the cot with strength he didn’t feel.

“Mand’alor?”

“Please- uh-” Din shook his head as though that would clear it and groaned, eyes screwed shut. He had no idea what he was going to say, so he went with the next thing on his mind. “Why- back to?” His body swayed. “Mandalore.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rest?” The man’s concern reached Din’s ears, but just barely over the ringing that now suddenly plagued him.

“Can’t,” he shook his head petulantly and landed hard on his side, eyes opening to find the older man hovering above him. The cot was hardly softer than the ground itself. “Ner Kar’ta.”

“Go back,” the familiar voice cracked, heartbroken and weary.

“Your heart?”

“Go back,” it wailed.

“The bounty,” Din mumbled, moving to sit back up, but the man’s hands held him in place. “I have to get back to her.”

“Go back,” it seethed. “You call yourself Mand’alor and yet you leave your heart.”

A weak cackle made its way out of his vocoder. Finally, the darksaber speaks its mind. “Says the one who gave me no choice.”

“You make no sense, Mand’alor,” the words sounded far away, blowing past him in a strong breeze, getting farther and farther away.

Day Unknown

Din awoke in a fog, the taste of iron filling his mouth. Blood splattered the inside of the helmet before he was able to rip it off, blinding his sight. Silently, not knowing where he was, he slowly sat up and removed his helmet. The air was cool and damp, a cold sweat made his flight suit cling to his body in an uncomfortable way.

Spitting more blood on the ground, he took in his surroundings. A small lantern sat on a small wooden table by the door. The walls, he noticed, were made of stick and mud. Above was straw, which explained absolutely nothing.

Where was he?

What was he doing here?

“You’re awake!” An over-excited voice said, scurrying past before Din could see who they were. “I’ll go get grandpapa.”

Din stood to follow, hand reaching out to the wall as the room spun. Slowly, he grabbed his bag laying on the ground and his bloodied helmet. Finally, he stepped forward, ignoring the ache in his chest as he settled the beskar on his head. Ignoring the murmur of the Darksaber in his mind when he fell to his knees, coughing, sputtering blood until he couldn’t see anything but red. The bag dropped from his feeble grip, one hand moving to clutch the center of his chest while the other fumbled for the mechanism to remove his helmet. Around him, footfalls were heard, thumping, pounding, surrounding him. Someone spoke. A shout. Cries.

Darkness enveloped him.

“If you’re going to be this stupid, Din Djarin, chosen Mand’alor,” the voice spat, disappointment ringing through the many voices. “Then it is time we take over.”

“Take,” Din heaved, chest heavy, as though the Razor Crest sat on it. Every breath tasting, smelling, of copper. Vaguely, he wondered if this was the end for him. “Over?”

“Elek,” it’s voice became stronger, more firm, turning into a physical thing he couldn’t see. As though it had moved from inside of his mind to a person standing right next to him. It’s next words were clipped, “We chose you as our true heir. The one who will bring peace to Mandalore. The one who will always do right by his people. The one we gave the most precious thing to,” the voice paused, waiting. When Din didn’t- couldn’t- respond, it continued, voice reverberating reverence, “Gar Kar’ta.”

“Kar-”

“But we see you do not deserve her-”

“I kno-”

“We see you are not keen to stay in her presence-”

“I do-” Din panted, voice sounding strangled. In a panic, he attempted to explain. To tell the past Mand’alors that you were the only thing he could think of, only thing he needed to survive. He needed them to know that you were everything to him, that all he wanted to do was keep you safe. That it had agreed with him before, that taking you on hunts was unsafe. That anything could happen. There were too many variables, remember? When had a fight ever gone his way? Doesn’t the Darksaber remember that? “Not safe-”

“Yet you must live,” the once-ghostly voices stated over him as though he hadn’t said a word. As though he was nothing but a speck of sand on Tatooine. As if every breath didn’t feel like his last. “We will get you back to her.”

“But-”

“Do not worry, Mand’alor,” the voice turned gentle, understanding. “You are still worthy of your crown. Of us,” the Darksaber sounded sad with it’s next words. “More worthy than most who were chosen before you.”

Silence reigned, high-pitched and screaming. 

Shutting his eyes tight against the surrounding darkness, Din focused on breathing. Honing in on counting; one… two… three… four… five, as he breathed in and out. For minutes, hours, days, he breathed as the metallic scent that could only be blood, filled his lungs. Still, he kept breathing. It was the only thing he could do. The only thing he was capable of. The only thing that kept his mind occupied from the pressure, the burning, the squeezing, in his chest.

The Last Day

The ramp of the Crest screeched open. Blinding light from the double suns forced Din to squint through his visor. Confused, he moved forward, stepping down the ramp as it landed on the sands of Tatooine at Fett’s Palace. Behind him was the hum of floating frozen carbonite following him. Ahead of him, you stood waiting, eyes filled with worry.

He didn’t understand how he was still alive.

He didn’t understand how he got back to the same planet your presence graced.

He didn’t- couldn’t remember anything past the forever darkness. A black so dark he thought for sure he wouldn’t survive. A familiar voice echoed deep in his mind. His head hurt just thinking about it. So he didn’t. Instead, he strode toward you with purposeful strides, using strength he didn’t feel.

“Mesh’la,” he whispered, voice raspy, as he gently laid his helmeted head on yours.

“Gar Kar’ta cuyir morut’yc,” a barely there voice whispered in the depths of his mind.

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

Tags: @againstacecilia @djarinslove @bxmxtx @takeyour-pants-off

THANKS FOR READING!

[jurakan]

How did Davy Crockett die? I am now intrigued

We don't know! That's the thing!!

[What the eff. My inbox said I have ten new messages, but there are only two in here? Whatever, I’m still happy to answer requests.]

Okay. So. I’ve mentioned that there’s A Whole Thing about Davy Crockett’s death, and we’re going to talk about it. Today You Learned about the whole debate on how Davy Crockett died.

Davy! Davy Crockett!

You probably know the gist. Early American folk hero, statesman, King of the Wild Frontier and all of that. He didn’t get along with President Andrew Jackson, and opposed the Indian Removal Act. He lost an election in 1835, prompting him to bail on Tennessee, with the famous quote, “You can all go to Hell, I’m going to Texas.” He got wrapped up in the Texas Revolution, and died at the Battle of Alamo in 1836, in which he fought against General Santa Anna’s Mexican soldiers.

Here’s where it gets tricky: we know the day he died, we know where he died, but it’s the manner of death where there’s confusion. Crockett wasn’t in the Alamo church itself–he was right outside. There’s a statue marking the spot. The problem is that there are two main versions of the story. One says that his body was found dead, and around him were over a dozen dead enemy soldiers, meaning he went down taking as many enemies with him as he could. The other says that, surrounded by enemies, Crockett surrendered, and then was executed by Santa Anna’s troops.

See the issue? No? Okay, well then, how about this: in case you haven’t noticed, Americans take their heroes very seriously, and the Alamo is one of the biggest parts of the story of Texas. The idea that one of the most famous American heroes, a living legend, did not go down fighting to the last breath is an insult to every single American or Texan. 

In an ideal world, we’d look at first-hand accounts and see what they say. Except… we have, and they’re contradictory, too! A former enslaved man named Ben, working for Santa Anna, said that Crockett’s corpse was surrounded by dead enemy soldiers. However, a Mexican officer who served there, José Enrique de la Peña, wrote in his memoir that Crockett wasn’t killed in combat, but in captivity.

The lady who translated that memoir into English, by the way, was harassed by letters and phone calls from angry Crockett fanboys. There was also a movement to prove that the original text was a forgery, but as far as we can tell, the manuscript and the materials used to write it are consistent with what we know of the time period.

We don’t know what happened! We have two different eyewitness accounts that both tell two contradictory stories as to how the man died. And people have strong feelings about it. If you go to the Alamo, they’ll tell you about both but chances are they’ll also tell you which one they think is more likely. 

And I think this whole thing is nuts.