#i can have my magical miasma smoke

[elliebell77]

rough germaphobic dust sketch inspired by this post. idk if i cooked here but i did have fun. concept art/ideas under the cut

[tansyuduri]

Merlin Loregasm Rewatch S1E3

Hi Everyone! Welcome to my rewatch of Merlin focusing on the lore. I am a giant nerd so pretty excited about this. THE MARK OF NIMUEH!

Gaius saying that people must not see this and they would panic is likley NOT just because this looks magical as hell. See we know from later episodes that while Gaius has mastered herb lore for many ailments and injuries and anatomy as well (This is also important as it also hints that Christianity has not spread and thus it being forbidden to cut up human bodies to learn how they work is not a thing.) He and thus likly Camalot in general still base medicine on the Humors System.

This system attributed most illness to an imbalance of the four bodily fluids or humors. (Worth looking up if you wanna know more) NOW since in the system everyone has a diferant balance of humors it could explain individual illnesses A LOT BETTER than many plagues (Why would everyone suddenly have the same imbalance of the Humors) This would usually lead to the idea that an individual's chance to get or die from the plage was due to preestablished susceptibility to the plague (explained later) Or the heavens being angry. WHY PLAUGE HAPPENS usually was attributed to Miasma (explained later in post) or the heavens being angry. AND YOU DON'T WANT PEOPLE THINKING THE HEAVENS ARE ANGRY.

Gaius is VERY ahead of his time in medicine by thinking that illness could be spread though air, food, or water later on. It hints that despite the humors system being in use medical understanding is more advanced in Camalot then it was most of the medieval ages. This is very possibly due to the fact that despite killing sorcerers (Or perhaps Gaius being an exception because he learned pre purge.)

Old pagan knowledge of herbs had not been crushed. AND what's more no one was going around murdering regular herbalists ETC suspecting they were evil magic users, Mostly because they had REAL magic users to hunt. Still the spread by water air or food we see mentioned later is WAY Ahead of its time.

Okay Gwen giving her father smoked pigeon as a seeminly every day meal perhaps continues my conept of Gwens father being a HIGHLY skilled blacksmith that serves the knights.

Meat was a rarity for the medieval commoner (We see this a lot in what Gaius and Merlin eat reguarly. Meat is a treat for them.) Pigeons were likely not eaten widely as anything but wild meat until the Norman period. Which means someone had to hunt and kill that bird. Which means this meat was bought or traded for. Which means Gwens family had the money for treats beyond the bare essentials (If we ignore history due to the show's anachronism we still have to compare this to Giaus and Merlin's usual food. (I know they talk about dresses later when he gets a really good job but we'll talk about that then. I'm also assuming this is everyday fare for them based on how they act.)

Okay its time to talk about how Gaius and Merlin talk about disease spreading through water or contact or food is HUGELY Advanced for its time. See from the forth centery BCE to the early 1800s CE Disease was a result of the humors, The anger of the Heavens, or Miasma (bad air emitting from rotten organic matter or other things.) This means that despite humorism being the main theory there is SOME understanding in the Merlin world that disease can be spread many ways. I really don't think they have germ theory though so I think they are just more advanced.

"He's got a grave Mental disease" AHHHH OKAY! So this means the Merlin world has a concept of Mental illness and that it's different from regular body illnesses. And this knowlage is common. Again this is HUGLY advanced for the time. So Humorism is the main theory! BUT They have concepts like infection, Mental illness, and an understanding disease can come from many places. All I can think is that this comes from having Magic in the world. And being able to actually study Anatomy. The people of the Merlin world understand the world better than most because they have more tools to study the world.

Okay so I love how Merlin plays fast and loose with magical creatures. (Especially because I can too writing my Merlin fics) I think the Afanc might be based PARTLY on the folklore Afanc but also had a bit of the Jewish Gollum in it with the born of clay thing. ANYHOW The Afanc is a creature from Welsh Mythology Its a lake monster that most closely resembles a crocadile, beaver, dwarf. It prayed on swimmers mostly or people who fell in water. There is a lot more but it is interesting that some Legends say King Arthur killed it!

Okay! So! see this candle!? This was a historical early method of keeping time. Each mark would be about an hour and as the candle burned down one would know the hours had passed! OPnce gunpower showed up they would sometimes put a bit in each hour as an alarm of sorts! I don't think this is a Gunpowder version!

So yeah this came from greek philosophy and was a thing for most of european history. The elements Water, Fire, Earth, and Air. were viewed as the building blocks of the world. Originaly air was viewed as Aether and filled the world in the absence of the other three. But in the Merlin world it is definitely Air as it's is later called wind. (Aether later came to represent heaven or the spirit as a 5th element)

These also related to Humorism discused before

Saying The Afanc born of earth and water can be killed with fire and air is one of two times the four elements get brought up in relation to magic in the series. (The other refers to a healing charm.)

Most other sorcerer created creatures we see can just be killed with fire and are not specifically corresponded to any element. This leads to the idea that this is kinda a rare thing. WHAT I do find interesting is that we KNOW the four elements correspond to certain types of healing in the Merlin universe (like I said other mention refers to a healing charm) And the Afanc is spreading magical disease. THAT might be why the elements are mentioned only here when it comes to magic-created creatures.

I find the wording here realy interesting because it talks about mirroring the spirit of life, not creating it. I'll have to contrast it with later talk about the spirit of life and death but this kinda implies even anciant sorcerers on their own can only MIRROR life not create it. Its not real life they make. Even Merlin's spell to create a butterfly at the end of the show means "to work, shape, bring into being or form" according to @catsconflictscopicsandchamomile My old English studying friend! (it is also used in OE translations of Genisis to mean make a life so it could mean Merlin is creating life and mirroring god, but if he could do that why not just bring Arthur back) SO it is likely this holds fast to the rule life cannot just be created!

HOLD ON. Is he just referring to Arthur's birth? It could just be Arthur's birth and his efforts through the purge, or has Nimueh pulled evil magic on Camelot post purge before?

[fruitviking]

Fic ending tag game

Rules: post the last sentence/s from your 10 most recently posted fics (less if you don't have 10 is also fine)!

1. Nothing Without My Boswell

He closed the door behind us, and there was peace.

2. The Hound of Baskerville

Either way, you’ll hear from me again in the next few days.

John.

3. Sherlock Holmes and the Musgrave Crown

In that perfectly ordinary, ordinarily perfect moment, far from magical crowns or secret riddles or anything else, I was content.

4. Up In Our Bedroom After The War

“I did.” The song pauses while Holmes shifts beneath him. “I felt it was all I could offer.”

“You didn’t have to offer anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Holmes, holding him tighter.

5. The Case of the Feline Incursion

Holmes looked up. “What is it?”

“Nothing, my dear fellow. I was only thinking that we may no longer be able to accurately call ourselves bachelors.”

6. Watson is a Time Lord

I spent the day out and about on various errands, knowing Holmes required seclusion and solitude in his hours of intense mental concentration, and returned that evening to a sitting room immersed in a thick miasma of tobacco smoke.

Thankfully, not being human, I can avoid having to breathe when absolutely necessary.

7. In Another Life

“I would hardly call this imprisonment!” I am laughing now, too. “But if that is so, how long is my sentence? How many years do I have left?”

Holmes leans down to murmur in my ear. “How many would you like, dear fellow?”

I turn my head so I can look him in the eye. “As many as we have, I think.”

8. Scenes from a Sussex Garden

Reverently, Watson folded back the veil of the beekeeping hat and leaned in for a soft kiss. Somewhere overhead a blackbird trilled. He clasped both Holmes’s hands in his, their fingers intertwined, their new wedding bands clinking together gently.

They were made of gold, but there were sparks.

9. Another Day

If all Holmes wants to do is sit quietly and listen to the bees at the windows and the cows in the distant fields, well. Watson is only too happy to oblige him.

It certainly beats running for their lives. This is a beautiful place to be.

10. Across the Watsonverse

“Right you are.” Watson nodded, all business once again, and began to follow me out of the tent. On the way we met with the extremely confused man who ran the shooting gallery game, but neither of us hung about very long to answer his questions. I expect he thought the machinery had exploded; it certainly appeared that way.

- - -

Tagging @blistering-typhoons, @amypihcs, @rudbeckiasunflower, @jeremys-come-to-bed-eyes, @teaspoonnebula, and whoever else wants to take part!

[cyberneticlagomorph]

A Goblin Market isn't for the faint of heart, especially not one this big.

Goblins of all shapes and sizes hawks their wares at the tops of their voices to be heard over the constant dull roar of conversations and objects clattering together; in addition to all of the sights and the smells to be had, both good and bad.

Thick and heady steam from the food vendors mixes with the dank animal musk of the livestock traders, the rank stench of leather tanning, and the sour bubbling of fermenting goods. It all swirls together with the perfumes and incense for sale until there is an absolutely snout obliterating miasma that settles over the market like a blanket.

Zeb gagged, clapping his hands over his nose and refusing to take a single step closer to the noisy, filthy menagerie of shops and stalls. His eyes were watering, stomach churning, suddenly dizzy with over stimulation he stumbled back to the entrance tunnel and half collapsed on the floor.

You rubbed his back gently as he took gulps of relatively clean air with all the ferocity of a drowning man fighting to keep his head above water.

"How... how are you not s-sick too?" He says, now lightheaded on top of being dizzy and everything else.

"Do you know how many diapers I've changed? How many number two's have destroyed my nose? How many buckets of animal crap I've had to scoop every day?" Your smile is wry. "You'll get used to it after awhile but here, this should help."

You hand him a wooden mask, grown not carved into the shape of a rabbit's face. It smells like summer days full of warm sun, cut grass, and chlorine choked pools.

"...what is it?" He shies away from the mask, eyes narrowed and suspicious. He can feel the raw magic curling off of it like smoke and he wants no part of it.

"It's a charm my mom made, it should help with the overstim some, it won't hurt you I promise." You rub your thumb over the mask's cheek where the wood has gone smooth and shiny from too much loving, there are tear tracks burnt into it, where acid tears ate away at the still living wood.

"...do I have to wear it?" Zeb takes the mask, gingerly as if afraid it would grow teeth and bite him.

"No, I just thought it might help." You stand up and dust yourself off. "If this place is too much I could just zap us home if you like, I don't wanna stress you out."

"N-no!" Zeb cries out, you flinch at his outburst and watch him flinch back in sympathy. His eyes sweep across the market with the same wonder and joy you've seen a million million times but will never tire of. "I... I'll wear it, we're here to get stuff for Egg and Null right? I wanna get them stuff too, so I can say I'm sorry."

He puts the mask on, and it fits like it was made for him, like a new skin almost. The effect is immediate, everything around him is suddenly sharper, brighter, clearer.

Muddled scents straighten out, becoming singular and defined.

Sounds do too, what was once an unruly chorus has become... not a song, but something similar, each voice rings out on its own in perfect clarity.

Zeb looks you in the eyes and for the first time he Sees what coils there in their depths, he does not flinch, but you can feel his sadness and concern.

"Whatcha standin' around for?" Tigger asks as he bounces up to the pair of you, his arms already full of assorted trinkets. "C'mon c'mon c'mon we're burning presh-ee-us daylight!" He grabs Zeb by the hand and tries to tug the boy to his feet.

"Ok ok!" Zeb giggles, actually giggles, as he stands up.

Tigger grins, bouncing and bounding in circles around you before picking any direction at all and racing off to do more shoppin'

"C'mon," You say, offering Zeb your hand again. "We better catch up before he buys something weird."

The boy still hesitates to touch you, but he holds on so tight like he's afraid you'll just disappear.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Cursed Heart, Part 3

Part 2

Whump Prompt 53

BTHB: Get It Over With

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: While pursuing a lead that might free him from his curse, Ciaran falls into a horrifying trap.

CW: blood, captivity, aftermath of poison, magic whump

The air in the alleyway is silty-thick with magic.

Ciaran stumbles against a brick wall, dizzy, ready to collapse. Even without the miasma surrounding him, his head swims and his breath comes shallow and raspy. Aftereffects of the assassin’s poison, along with the lingering nausea in his stomach. Nothing that he can’t handle.

But immortality doesn’t lessen the effects of torture. The assassin’s tests have made that excruciatingly clear.

A cold breeze sweeps through the alley, drying the beads of sweat on Ciaran’s forehead. He brushes a strand of damp hair out of his eyes and squints through the dark at the pock-marked ground and ramshackle walls rising on either side. One of these crumbling buildings has to be the right one. Where else would a practitioner of dark magic be hiding? He takes a deep breath, inhaling the murky scents of garbage and potion fumes. His stomach churns again. He takes a step forward, then another, one hand steadying himself against the grimy wall, his heart pounding.

There. A lighted window. A silhouette moving against the visible wall inside.

He knocks on the wooden door before he realizes what he’s doing.

“Enter,” grates a low voice from inside. Ciaran steps in, his head ducked to avoid hitting the door frame. Another wave of dizziness washes over him. The smell. Singed hair. Burnt flesh. Caustic smoke and unreal fire. The perfume of dark magic.

“You need something, I assume.” The magician’s chair creaks away from a desk covered in black feathers. He looks about as healthy as Ciaran feels, down to the dark circles under his eyes and colorless skin. “No one wanders down this alley without a purpose.”

Ciaran tries not to look around as he answers. “I need to get rid of a curse.”

The magician’s expression turns keen, and he nods. “You’ve come to the right place. Sit down.”

He gestures to a stained, rickety wooden chair, and Ciaran reluctantly obeys, his heart racing. Not much longer now until he’s free. Maybe the assassin will show a little mercy and kill him once and for all.

Jars and tools clink as the magician starts taking things down from the shelves. “What kind of curse?”

The words taste strange on Ciaran’s tongue. Since his last waking, he hasn’t told anyone his secret. “My heart. It never stops beating. I’m immortal.”

The magician pauses, facing the shelves, a vial of something blood-red clutched in his hand. His eyes flash as he turns to Ciaran. “And you don’t want to be immortal?’

“No.”

It happens before Ciaran can even think: thick black vines snaking around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the rickety—no, the iron chair.

“What are you—" His mouth snaps shut before he can finish.

“Don’t speak,” the magician orders. “You’ll distract me.”

Then get it over with, Ciaran wants to snap back—but his mouth is fixed tight and all that comes out is a muffled series of grunts.

The magician—he doesn’t even know the man’s name—shuffles around him, his left hand making small, complicated gestures while his right sprinkles black dust in the air. The sick feeling returns to Ciaran’s gut. Something isn’t right. The chair’s transformation—the fetters strapping him down—the magician’s dark, flashing eyes—

The blade of a dagger lances down Ciaran’s forearms in lightning-quick succession. Crimson trickles immediately from the wounds and turns to a white-hot—emptiness.

What’s happening to me…my blood…why is it flowing so fast—

The magician is muttering something to himself, words in a language Ciaran can’t understand. And his blood keeps flowing, spiraling through the air, pooling in a large vial the magician holds almost reverently in his hands.

His blood. The magician is draining him of his blood.

The room turns cold, and Ciaran shivers in his chair, unable to cry out or even speak. Unconsciousness lurks almost on top of him, clawing at the edges of his mind. Can he live without blood? Can his heart beat without it? His senses start to flicker in and out—the scent of blood, cold air, his laboring breath, the magician’s muttered spell—

A knife flicks out of nowhere and impales the magician’s hand. A shout of pain. The spell ceases. The flow of blood dwindles to a little trickle down the chair arms. Ciaran gasps for breath.

“Let him go. He belongs to me.”

The assassin’s voice.

“I said, release him!”

A second blade, this time in the magician’s shoulder. The man reels backward; the vial of blood smashes across the floor. Ciaran’s fetters vanish. He finds himself slumped in the rickety wooden chair, his forearms sticky with blood.

“I’m glad I found you,” the assassin remarks, helping Ciaran to his feet. “I made a few adjustments to the latest serum, and I need to test it tonight.”

@forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @simplygrimly @weirdghostboi666 @wolfeyedwitch @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @throwawaywhumper @leyswhumpdump @whumpinthepot @badthingshappenbingo

[alagaesia-headcanons]

A snippet from my draft of Clear Horizons! I think I might post a handful of these over the next week or two

...

Thorn waits above the city while Murtagh traverses the caves until he can drop out onto the roof of the old citadel and quickly make his way in. The place is abandoned and desolate, a result of the magical miasma generated by Galbatorix’s suicidal spell. But his wards protect him as he makes his way; the structural damage makes it challenging, but he manages. By some very uncharacteristic miracle, his quarters are largely unscathed. To his discomfort, it looks as though someone has rifled through things, but he can’t tell if much is missing. Murtagh collects a small assortment of little practicalities, extra clothes, pens, writing tools and as much paper as he can find, a large stack of sheet music he’d penned back before, and the violin stowed under the bed. He resolves to come back eventually and hunt down any other instruments he can find, bemoaning that he doesn’t have the means to steal a piano. He also shamelessly takes a very hefty sum of money, considering it the damages owed for the shit he went through.

They don’t stay long. Murtagh returns to Thorn and spends a while cleaning his pilfered bounty of the magic contamination. He replaces the violin’s broken E string and tunes it, but the bizarre echoes rebounding through the caves make Thorn wrinkle his nose with a huff, so he waits until later to play. After that, they sit together at the edge of an opening and watch the city, as they did before. Murtagh gazes down at the new castle and thinks of Nasuada. He will come back and meet with her, he decides, but not now. They watch until nightfall, then leave before dawn the next morning.

They return to their routine after that. Murtagh constructs a little ramshackle building for storage more than anything. I thought you told your brother you were going to build a huge castle, Thorn mocks as he struggles with the construction.

“Oh fuck you, you know I’m too stupid to manage that.” Thorn snorts a plume of smoke.

In that and many other little ways, the wild, northern expanses become a sort of home. Murtagh’s constant wanderings through valleys and around mountains have started to leave faint trails along the routes he favors most. Snow doesn’t cling so long to the clearing where Thorn sleeps, where the heat of his body has warmed layers of the earth. They fit into this place without questioning their belonging or fearing rejection, for nature will always allow for anything determined to survive. Even so, the isolated peace of their surroundings does not always lend them peace of mind.

The cold shadow cast by the glow of dawn hidden away behind the mountain where they had slept the night reminds Murtagh of the same dark cast the overhang draped over Uru’baen’s citadel in all but late afternoon. Thorn shifts uncomfortably at the observation; he had slept very uneasily. This shade is much more welcoming and soothing than it was there, Murtagh says to him, hoping to assert more appreciation of the present than resentment of the past.

It doesn’t work. Anything is better than the way things were there, Thorn replies bitterly. That place was a prison, where even the earth itself pinned us in. You knew that to begin with; you had already lived so long trapped in the dark shadow of Uru’baen before you escaped in search of freedom. The dragon turns away to look at the backlit silhouette of the mountain. ...Freedom that I took from you.

Murtagh can’t restrain a tight sigh. Rearranging himself stiffly, he braces for the emotional toil awaiting them, an effort he might usually worry would cause offense, but this guilt has grown so cyclical that Thorn himself is preparing himself with even greater exasperation. It doesn’t stop the guilt from seeping up through their cracks anyway. Murtagh rubs his eyes. “You know I don’t feel that way, Thorn.”

...

[I'll update this post with a link here when the fic is published ❤]

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

What's the earliest inspiration for Abjid you can remember?

So the first art I have of Abjid is from 2018 which doesn't feel too long ago but also seems to be ancient.

which slowly evolved into what we see of abjid today

Conceptually, though, I actually have strong memories of how their story came to be.

My first thought, which I can vividly recall was during one of the times I was pacing in the dark in the basement of my parent's house talking to myself, was the idea of someone who was brought back to life but who's morals and religion was completely against that. I thought it would be interesting for a character to have died and been brought back, when that's not something they wanted and now they have to grapple with how to reconcile this with their beliefs and morals. So that was one major starting point.

The other major starting point was unrelated to that. In my first d&d-esque campaign I played ages ago online (it was very very very shortlived) I had you know, made my character got the character sheet done (the character themselves was actually visually an iteration of Vyrian) but I hadn't come up with any backstory. I was anxious, I wasn't quite sure what to do or what would be acceptable so I just. Didn't come up with one. Which was fine, but then one session the GM wanted to focus on my characters backstory and how they came to be. So in the middle of the session, I just, completely improved a story. One I think I illustrated at some point but was lost over the years, in any case, the on the spot story was more or less

(what I remember is) nothing. for the longest time nothing. and then, there was something. light. fire. smoke. glowing glyphs and candles, bodies littered around me, a city turned to rubble, my hands covered in blood. so I ran, I never stopped running.

(I thought I had the actual text somewhere but no dice. that approximation is the best i can do).

Now this was unrelated to the earlier thought of ressurection and at the moment was just a generic cop out of "idk i dont remember anything. i know something bad happened and so i ran away". But I ended up more or less merging those ideas to create Abjid's backstory.

I used to have like, the early docs of my stuff for Abjid but I probably put it in the recycling before google drive implemented the "anything in ur recycling will be permenently deleted after 30 days". So this is a snippet from oldest doc I have about Abjid's backstory

An unknown time after their burial, members of the Djinn Miasma robbed their grave and exhumed their body, taking it to one of their hideouts. There, they performed a ritual to summon The Shadow, giving Abjid’s body as a vessel- believing their celestial blood to aid in containing such a force. The ritual succeeded, and The Shadow used their body to release destruction and chaos to the city. In one night, the city of Laothaes was reduced to nothing more than a ghost town. Once satisfied with their work, but knowing their vessel would not last, they pulled Abjid’s soul from the Astral Plane, giving it back to their body- now imbued with some of The Shadow’s energy and necromantic magic.

Abjid awoke covered in blood and dirt, wearing their burial robes, surrounded by complete destruction of a large city. With no memories of before, of knowledge of what happened, they ran, fleeing far to the west and living alone in total isolation as they tried to understand what had happened. The unorthodox resurrection left a deep impact, not just of their memories- their body that had long been dead was weak and malnourished, dealing with the brain injury that came with their death. On their chest was now branded a black sigil of necromancy, bearing The Shadows’s mark. And interestingly, uncontrolled and raw magic now flowed in them.

So more or less that's all the early concept/inspiration for Abjid both visually and narratively!

[artnerd1123]

Paradice

Ch3: Pure

went insane and wrote like 99% of this in 2 days. anyway, enjoy beast’s true colors (good and bad :))) ) and my interp of battle mechanics!

Muffled roars. Hollow wooden thumps. A deep purr of laughter petering off in the distance. The lights weren’t as blinding, but they still shone in burning beams toward the ground. Beast could still feel her heart slamming into her ribs as she took a deep breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenched her fists and grimaced. Gods. If every encounter here was gonna be on a stage like that, she needed to find a way to deal. She would deal. Even if it took her a second to recover. This wasn’t gonna happen forever. She wouldn’t let it. As she continued to breathe, her fur slowly laid back flat. Her lashing tail stilled, and her snarl waned back into a scowl. ‘Good. That’s better. Now open your eyes.’ Beast blinked the world back into focus. Gaze sharp and ears twitching every which way, she was determined not to be caught off guard again. The space before her looked a lot like the long maroon halls she’d stalked through, but larger- and much better lit. The floor wasn’t wood boards, rather a large raised platform. Not quite the stage she’d stepped off of, though certainly steady and flat enough to get about the same use. But… there weren’t any stage crew skittering about. Not even in the shadows. The lack of hustle and bustle had the fur along her spine prickling again. This felt like some sort of trap- but- what sort of trap would she have walked into? She stood still for a moment. Just listening. The telltale click of cameras rolling reached her ears a moment later. Or, at least, it was the same weird background clicking she’d heard when the interview took place. She figured it had to be the cameras. She squinted at the shadows, trying to cut through the gloom and swirling pockets of pink fog. Cameras needed people to run them… ‘so where’s the staff?’ she murmured mentally. As if on cue, a faint jingle of bells floated down from above. Beast’s head jerked up instantly- how the hell did someone get above her?!- but the low stage lights left the upper reaches of the set too dark to make out. She felt a snarl twitching at her lips, and let it spread across her face. The bells above her gave a stilted chuckle. “Oh boy, you’re an impatient one, huh?” a voice snickered merrily. “So sorry to delay the inevitable!” That voice- it sent her ears twitching, brow furrowing in confusion. Hadn’t she heard them in the other room…? That- was that the announcer? “Let’s get things rolling, shall we?” the announcer chirped. With a loud pop and crackle, the pink smoke on the opposite side of the stage exploded outwards. Beast instantly dropped into a fighting crouch, claws raised and fangs bared. It rolled over her in a hissing wave. She tried not to choke on the rouge miasma, swiping blindly at the roiling cloud of- of- what even was this stuff?! It made her skin tingle like the wards back in her forest- the ones keeping her out of town. Was it magic? When it finally cleared, she realized it had to be. Directly across the stage from her was a large oak chest, gold trim and a large keyhole making it look like something straight out of a pirate’s tale. She eyed it warily, tail still swishing about her feet. The bells jingled again, back and forth in time with a soft ‘tsk tsk.’ “Our first time seeing magic, eh?” the announcer hummed. “This is gonna be a fun round, I can already tell!” Beast glared up at the voice- or, tried to, anyway. “Shut up if you’re not gonna be helpful,” she snarled.   Another round of merry ringing rained down on her. “Alright, alright- don’t get your fur all mussed!” the announcer snickered. Jingling moved from right above her to about centerstage, one bell still jangling as if a tapping foot were attached to it. “We’re starting easy. Y’see that chest over there?” Beast jumped a little as one of the spotlights swayed over to illuminate the chest. She gave a short nod in reply. “Why don’tcha head on over?” the announcer hummed. “It’s got something special just for you- no tricks, I promise!” The statement didn’t exactly fill Beast with much confidence. But, well. What else did she have to do in this smoky room? Slowly, she stalked up the steps onto the stage, eyes squinting some in the spotlights. When nothing instantly jumped her, she took her chance to dart over to the chest. Her claws scrabbled a bit at the polished gold trim as she stuck her fingers between the chest’s lid and bottom. She managed to shove it open with one good heave and grunt. Inside was a drawstring pouch and a… … actually, what was that? Lying at the bottom of the chest was an object about the shape and size of an index card, though about as thick as a finger. It was red, with a lighter strip of crimson around its edges. A small cube shaped divot sat in the center of the card, white writing framing it neatly at the top and bottom. What in the world was she meant to do with… this thing? “Wow, wouldja look at that!” the announcer’s jovial voice sang, “you’ve found your first weapon card! Why not take a second to get familiar with it, eh? And make sure to grab your card pouch too- you’ll wanna keep your hands free here~” Hm. Well, ‘card’ was still confusing, but she liked the sound of ‘weapon.’ Beast reached down cautiously, claws brushing once against the object before she could bring herself to pick it up. The text across the top proudly proclaimed the card to be a “furnace.” Under the divot, the text read “4 fire damage plus one burn- reusable.” If she squinted, she could see the number eight carved smoothly at the bottom of the divot. She frowned in confusion. What the hell did any of that mean? “Is this some sort of weird joke?” she growled, tossing a glare over her shoulder at the jingling bells. “I thought this was a battle arena, not a poker den.” “Patience, my fuzzy dice friend! We’re about to get to that part!” the announcer said pleasantly. With another pop and crack, pink smoke billowed down on the opposite side of the stage. “There’s an opponent for ya!” the announcer crowed, “Chaaaaarge!” Beast felt her muscles tense as a shadow of something started moving about in the rouge depths. Finally, finally, she’d get to do what she came for. She snatched the card pouch from the chest and tied it to her belt, shoving the ‘furnace’ inside. She had a fight to get to. “Don’t mind if I do,” she grinned, shifting her feet to pounce. With a loud roar, she rushed forward into the fog, claws outstretched and gray smoke already billowing from her open maw. For a moment, all she could see was pink. The stage was still below her feet- or, at least, it felt like it was- but the air was eerily empty and open around her. A wall of pink greeted her every time she turned her head- even blinking didn’t make it go away. But it only lasted for a moment. With a swell of canned cheering and a thrumming ‘whump’ of music bumping against speakers, everything came back into focus. Beast found herself standing in one corner of the stage, cameras moved closer and spotlights pinning her right in their view. She glowered at the clacking reels, ears flattening to try and block some of the noise- gods it was so loud- as she turned her attention to the figure across from her. A short white rabbit in worn blue overalls, a yellow t-shirt, brown steel toed boots, and a blue and yellow baseball cap stood defiantly before her, a large orange card clutched tightly in his paws. Just behind him, a small screen proclaimed him to be “the Gardener,” with twelve health points.   … wait. What? A gardener? Beast lowered her claws, shifting out of her fighting crouch. Confusion and disbelief spilled across her face. “You’re really expecting me to fight… that?” she sputtered, glancing about. Only a small amused jingle answered her. “Watch yer mouth, missy,” the gardener huffed, eyes narrowing. “Or I’ll have ya buried along with my carrots!” Snorting, she turned back to face him. He’d dropped into some little stance, feet planted and card pointed at her in what she assumed was supposed to be a threat. What the hell kind of joke was this place? “Yeah, sure, little guy,” she rolled her eyes, “you tell yourself that.” She went to take a step forward, inhaling deeply in preparation to just roast the rabbit alive, when that annoying jingle of bells interrupted her again. “Whoa there, friend! We’ve got a couple standards around here,” the announcer piped up, “the first of which is using our cards when we fight, alright? Why don’t you give it a try?” Beast blinked in utter bafflement. “Use- cards- what?!” she exclaimed. “You’re not making any sense!” “Ok, ok, I’ll just spell it out like kindergarten, then, sheesh,” the announcer said. Beast could practically hear them rolling their eyes as their bells jingled back over above her. With two small puffs of pink smoke, a dice and her furnace card appeared in the air before her. She took a step back instantly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. How’d her furnace get out of her pouch? Plus, the dice was the same pink as the smoky magic- almost as if it had formed from it- and the dots along its faces were a shade of maroon she’d seen mirrored in the Lady’s suit. “See that dice?” the announcer continued, “you’re gonna use that to activate your cards. Goes right in the little dip in the center. Why don’t you stick it in your furnace, hm?” “I… ooookay then,” Beast frowned. ‘This might as well be happening.’ Carefully, she plucked the dice out of the air, holding it gingerly between her claws. When she looked to see what it had rolled, she was surprised to see a five on every side. ‘These dice are either fucked up, magic, or both,’ she thought ruefully. In any case, she dropped it into the divot on her furnace card. The dice vanished instantly, a series of clicks sounding off as the number in the divot counted down from an eight to a three. “You’ve got a countdown on your equipment, so you can’t quite use it yet,” the announcer explained. “But you’re all set for next time, as long as Her favor’s yours!” There it was again- Her favor. The phrase made her lip curl. “Now you gotta end your turn- just touch the arrow to your right.” “The arrow to my…?” Beast trailed off as she turned her head, met with a floating pink arrow. She really ought to stop questioning things, at this point. She just shook her head. “Yeah, ok, why not.” She gave the arrow a rough slap, and it disappeared into smoke. “Good, good! Now it’s our friend the Gardener’s turn!” the announcer chirped. Beast rolled her eyes as she turned to face the little rabbit, arms crossed. “Oh, yippee, I’m in trouble,” she drawled. The rabbit just scowled at her. With a wave of his paw, two pink dice swirled into existence beside him. A three and a six. A spark of worry appeared in Beast’s eyes as the Gardener smirked. The quiet giggling above her fanned it into a small flame. “Ok, so, Lesson One on dealing with a fight- some equipment will inflict status effects when used,” the announcer beamed. “See that card he’s got? It’s a shovel- a piece of earth equipment that inflicts weakening. Gardener, mind showing her how it works?” “With pleasure,” the Gardener sneered. He reached up and snatched one of his dice- the six- and slotted it expertly into his card. Crackling and sparking, the card exploded into pink smoke, quickly forming into an oversized shovel. The gardener catches it as it falls from the air, adopting a poised and defiant stance. Hm. Something about this was telling her she might have messed up. She didn’t have much longer to dwell on the “might,” as the Gardener lunged forward and absolutely slammed her atop the head with his shovel. She let out a thunderous yowl, stumbling back and tripping over her own feet. She could feel the hit still zinging through her, shock and pain radiating through her whole body. Her hands scrabbled at her head, a grimace squeezing her eyes shut against it all. “What the- gods- fuck, that hurt-” she groaned. “Yyyyowch, that’ll leave a mark!” the announcer cackled. She whipped her head around to shoot a snarl in their voice’s direction. The action made her flinch. Gods, and the lights made her skull ache even more after that hit. “Shut the hell up,” she spat, struggling to her feet. Something still felt off as she steadied herself. She couldn’t shake it even as she fixed her eyes on the Gardener, who’s shovel had vanished as he reached for his own pink arrow. The problem became apparent as her furnace card reappeared before her. “I- hey, what happened to my card?!” Instead of the “4 fire damage” it displayed before, it now read “2 fire damage.” That wasn’t fair! “You’ve been ‘weakened,’ my friend!” the announcer tsked, bells jingling as if they shook their head. “Haven’t you been listening?” “I- yeah, but- ghhh,” Beast growled in defeat. Hot embarrassment and rage flushed her skin blue, and she was once again glad her fur covered it. “Well, don’t despair quite yet!” the announcer chuckled, “you’ve got another trick up your sleeve! As ‘the Beast,’ you’ve got a special ability!” Beast flinched as smoke swirled about her again, clearing to reveal a large gray card. Its white title labeled it a “Retreat,” the divot containing a number twenty, and the text below proclaiming that it “allows you to leave and retry a battle” and “restores HP to what it was before fight initiated.” She glanced it over with a small frown. Retreat? The last thing she wanted to do was run away. But… it didn’t say she was running away. Just… getting the opportunity to try again. As she finished processing this new information, the smoke returned, bringing two dice with it this time. She grabbed them quickly, cupping them close to her chest. Two sixes. Not enough to get the countdown to zero, but… hm. “Might wanna play this round safe!” the announcer called. “Failing the tutorial isn’t a good look, after all.” “Shut up,” she snapped. And yet, she still slotted both her dice into her new “retreat” card. Rapid clicking made her head throb dully as the number lowered from twenty to eight. Alright. If she got two dice again next turn, maybe she could make this. She gave the pink arrow a quick tap, letting the magic sweep back over to the gardener. This time, their dice were less kind, coming up as a one and a two. He scowled and huffed in annoyance, but slotted the two into his orange card, his “shovel” more of a rusty trowel this time. Beast tried to sidestep as he swung, but she couldn’t quite manage, still reeling from the weakening during her turn. She felt the shovel connect with her arm- ‘gods, that smarts-’ but the radiating ache of weakness didn’t accompany the hit. Good. The Gardener gave his arrow a rough poke as he settled back into his place. That brought the turn back around to Beast. This time, she didn’t quite wait for the dice to finish rolling- the rouge smog leaked from between her fingers as she scooped them out of the air. Holding them up, relief shone on her like the sun. A four and a five. Just enough to get her countdown complete. And then some. Would she get a one back for that? Would it matter? Shaking her head, she snagged her retreat card from where it floated, quickly shoving one dice after another into the divot. The clicking of the countdown hitting zero was like hearing a stream on a dry day. A sigh of pure thankfulness mingled with a swoosh of all consuming pink smoke. When the pink cleared, Beast found herself standing where she had before she’d charged into battle. A cloud of rouge still curled about the opposite side of the stage. A silhouette still stalked around within. Though she could now make out the Gardener’s distinctive ears- ‘enemy didn’t change, thats good-’ and she was safe. She took a moment to revel in the lack of a splitting headache and twitchy muscles. So this is how the retreat worked… noted. “Good call,” the announcer’s voice floated down, her ears flicking away from their gloating tone. “Wonder who suggested that one~” “You never know when to be quiet, do you?” Beast snorted. “Nope! It’s not in my job description!” the announcer said cheerily. Beast just rolled her eyes. “Wanna give that fight another shot?” “That was the plan,” Beast replied. “Just- one second, ok hotshot?” ‘I need to breathe,’ her mind whispered. ‘Shush,’ another part of her hissed, ‘we’ve got things to focus on.’ She shook her head to silence them both. Taking a deep breath, Beast focused on the air as it left her lungs. ‘Alright, let’s try this one again. Gardener hits hard, so I just need to hit harder and faster,’ she told herself. ‘Easy enough.’ She cracked a small wry grin. ‘Ah, now don’t say that too loud until you’ve beat em…’ “Alright Mx. Anchorman,” Beast finally spoke up, “time to get this show on the road.” “That’s just what we love to hear!” the announcer replied, giving a… frankly half strained chuckle. “Get on back in there, my friend!” For the second time, Beast lowered her head and charged into the pink smoke. Only now, her icy eyes glinted with steel. For the second time, pink swallowed her entire field of view. Only now, she welcomed it as it pulled her in. For the second time, the smog cleared, revealing the grumpy Gardener, clicking cameras, and thumping noise of music and crowd rolled into one wall of sound. Only now, this battle would be hers. She’d make sure of it.   The clack of rolling dice cut through the hum of battle music like a whip. Beast had them in her hand before they even stopped rolling. Flicking her wrist, she turned them up to face her- a two and a six. She purred smugly. Oh, now that was perfect. Seems she’d caught the Lady’s eye after all. “I hope you brought ice, little bunny, cuz you’re about to burn,” she grinned. Snagging her furnace, she dropped both her dice into it. With a hot blast of air and a loud metal shriek, the small red card morphed into some sort of fiery contraption. It fell into her hands with a clang. The thing was box shaped- like a classic furnace, but on its side- complete with a roaring coal fire, slitted side door, and a jointed pipe that rose out of one end like a gun’s muzzle. There was a strap towards the front, so she could slip a hand in to keep it steady, and a handle near the back, to help aim it. There was also some sort of weird tube on the back- it almost reminded her of a straw. And with no trigger to speak of, Beast instantly knew what it was for. With a viciously giddy roar, she threw her head back, her next breath deep and gathering slate colored smoke. When her lungs were fit to burst, she snapped forward, jamming the weapon’s tube between her teeth and exhaling hard. What happened next was a sight to behold. Fire erupted like a geyser from the furnace’s muzzle, enveloping the Gardener in scorching heat. The rabbit gave a distressed cry, stumbling back with smoke rising off of his singed fur. Behind him, his health points flashed down from twelve to eight. Beast couldn’t have been more pleased. As the furnace shifted back into a simple card, she laughed, teeth flashing like daggers in the stage lights. “Now thats what I’m talkin about,” she purred. She set her hands on her hips with a smirk, flicking her tail up to tap the arrow. She jutted her chin towards the Gardener. “Your move, little bunny~” The Gardener glowered at her from his spot on the field, reaching up to catch his dice as they fell. He dropped one with a hiss, fire wreathing the small cube. Ooh, that was new. “Aha, and there’s our first burn!” the announcer hummed, “another status effect- a burn leaves one of the opponent’s dice unusable, unless they’re willing to take 2 points of damage! What’s the verdict, dear Gardener?” Flames danced in Beast’s eyes as she watched the rabbit think, torn between a safe three and a burning four. In the end, he decided to brave the heat. He yelped as he took the burning dice, tossing it into his shovel as fast as he could. His health dipped lower- down to six, now- as his shovel once again popped into being. Beast set her feet as he hopped at her, braced for a hit she knew she could take. The shovel thumped hard against her chest, making her wheeze, but not fall. She noted with glee that the telltale throb of weakening didn’t accompany this hit. ‘My way, my way,’ she thought savagely, ‘this fight is going my way.’ The Gardener’s paw had barely left his arrow when Beast lunged for her dice again. They clattered against her paws, faces showing up as a six and a five. They went into the furnace without a second thought, the weapon just brushing her palms before she had her teeth on it again, shooting flames out to roast the Gardener. The rabbit’s yelp had her grinning savagely. Only two points of health left. Her furnace shrunk back in on itself again, and she swiped absentmindedly at the arrow to her right. The gardener took a second to gasp, coughing up bits of ash and gray smoke. His dice clattered beside him, faces showing a flaming three and a mercifully cool five. As expected, he scrabbled at the five, slotting it into his shovel and taking its oversized handle in both paws. Beast braced herself again, taking the heavy hit to her side with a defiant snarl. Though she hissed in pain at her likely-at-least-bruised ribs, she knew she’d won as her dice rolled to a stop. A pair of fours. Perfect. The gardener didn’t even have time to flinch before his health dove to zero. With a thunderous round of cheering applause, the world went pink once more. Instead of cowering from the noise, Beast basked in it. Now this. This, she could get used to. The pink cleared a moment later, Beast waving it away from her eyes with a cough. Her ribs still ached fiercely. But at least she’d gotten out that time. Purring to herself, she glanced around to see if anything had changed. She was surprised to see a similar screen to the one the Gardener had floating behind her, displaying “The Beast” and her current health. She supposed it made sense, though- how else would she know when to play it safe? Her health read fifteen out of twenty four. Not quite half, but… well. The rabbit really did give her a good couple of smacks. Hm. She might want to find a way to fix that. She turned her attention elsewhere. Scattered on the stage now were two apples, both glowing slightly with the same rogue hue she was quickly becoming familiar with. Beyond them was the chest, once again closed and glimmering invitingly. Beast was about to take a step when a telltale jingle caught her ear. “Well, wasn’t that a blast!” the announcer cackled, bells ringing in cacophony with what she assumed was the sound of them clapping. Ah, gods. She’d nearly forgotten them. “Good battle all around! But y’know what’s even better after a fight?” “Silence?” Beast drawled. The announcer just laughed. “No, silly! A snack!” The jingling moved from above Beast’s head toward the apples. “Why don’t you try em? They refill your health n get rid of all your aches n pains in just a couple bites!” The idea of full health did make Beast feel a little better… as did the concept of no more aching in her ribs. “... alright. These better not be rotten,” she huffed. The announcer merely gave a strained giggle at that, bells jingling off to towards the chest. Beast just shook her head. Whatever. An apple’s an apple. She’d take what she could get. Striding over, she bent down to grab one of them. The action made her wince, though she tried not to- damn ribs. ‘Don’t show any pain,’ some bit of her hissed. She was inclined to agree. Pain meant weakness. And she was not weak. She shoved the apple in her mouth before her mind could move further, teeth slicing through the fruit’s flesh with a satisfying crunch. It only took her a few bites to finish it. As she licked the juice off her fingers, she felt the ache in her chest and side start to lessen. It wasn’t all the way better, but it was definitely a relief. The fact that it was this instant had her grabbing quickly for the other apple. That one went down the hatch much quicker, and sure enough, once she finished it, all her pain faded away. She found herself purring softly in pleasure- a sound she was sure to quash the second she noticed- ‘can’t have anyone getting a recording of that either. I’m not soft.’ “Feelin better?” the announcer hummed. Beast just grunted in reply. “Fair enough! Got another chest waitin for ya when you’re ready!” They didn’t have to tell her twice. Beast headed over to the chest, heaving it open and snatching up the contents without a second thought. In her hand was a card. It was twice as tall as her furnace card, and gold, with a pale yellow trim. Its top label said it was a “gold axe,” and the bottom text explained that it did “[dice amount] physical damage, max dice 4,” and “if even, returns a dice with 3 or lower value.” Huh. So, it could only take up to a number four, and it was another card that did four damage, just… without the effect… but she could get a dice back. Sounded handy enough. She decisively slipped it into her pouch. “Nice, another weapon! Think you’ve got the gist of it?” the announcer hummed. “Yeah, I’m good!” Beast called back. “Well, great! That oughta help you with your next fight!” the announcer chirped. “Speaking of which…” The crackling whoosh of pink smoke drew Beast’s gaze to the opposite side of the stage. Gods, they were just running her back and forth, weren’t they? Sure enough, a cloud lay waiting, some dark form growling and jumping about inside. “Go gettem, Beast!” the announcer crowed. Beast let out a small growl, narrowing her eyes at her new prey. Whatever this was, she’d give it some due space. The Gardener had taught her well. With a loud roar, she charged into the smoke, letting it engulf her once more. Pink, swirling, a beat of silence- and there was the music and the lights and the cameras and the everything again. Beast managed to take it with just a small flinch, standing tall to face her new oppone- “Oh. My Gods???” Beast stared wide eyed at the little brown creature before her. Wiggling and barking, with a red bandanna about his neck, and a snout as pointed as his ears, was a puppy. Beast felt a muffled squeak rise in her throat, and she clamped it down. ‘What did I just say about not being soft, damnit,’ she thought, ‘keep up your guard.’ But… still. That was a child. His health screen even confirmed it, dubbing him “The Wolf Puppy,” with a strength against poison. A child. Her dice clattered to a stop beside her, snapping her out of her thoughts. They hovered expectantly at her side, showing a one and a three. Well… neither of those would really help with her furnace- not that she necessarily wanted to scorch the puppy, ‘I mean, gods, he’s so cute-’ But she didn’t really want to chop the guy in half either. With a heavy sigh, she slotted her three into the furnace, ‘might as well get that down to a five,’ and loaded her one into her new golden axe. The card fizzled and hissed, shifting into a… well, quite frankly, it looked like a toy. Considering she’d placed a one in it, she wasn’t surprised. “Sorry little guy,” she whispered, stepping forward and tapping him gently on the head. His health went from twelve to eleven, the puppy giving a small ‘yip’ in surprise. As she drew back, he tried to bite at her axe- it turned to pink mist in his jaws, whisking away as she tapped her arrow. The puppy whined indignantly. “Hey! Hey you! Can I play with that stick?” the Wolf Puppy barked. Beast’s breath caught in her throat, just barely managing to strangle another squeak. Oh gods, he was adorable. “Not- not yet, bud,” she tried lamely, giving an awkward smile. “Hmmmph!” the Puppy pouted, sticking his tongue out at her. “Well, if I beat you, can I have the stick then???” ‘Oh my gods he thinks he can beat me.’ Beast tried not to laugh, giving him a look that thawed her icy eyes into a robin’s egg blue. “Sure, kid,” she chuckled, “you can give it a shot.” “Yaaaaay!!!” the Puppy squealed, running in little circles. There was a soft cough and jingle above him, and the Puppy abruptly stopped in place. “Oh! Right! I gotta do my turn!!!” Settling into a very serious sit, the puppy waited for his dice. They came a second later, rolling along an invisible shelf before him. A one, four, and a three. He gingerly picked them all up with his teeth, dropping them into a large red card labeled “woof woof woof.” It must’ve been a countdown, because Beast could hear the telltale ‘clik clik clik’ of a card getting ready to activate. But instead of turning into a weapon, it exploded into a red powder, which sprayed all over the Puppy. He howled in excitement, doing a little play bow as he beamed. “Your turn your turn!!!” he bubbled, his wagging tail hitting his arrow for him. Beast paused, warily squinting at her cards and dice as they swung into view. It didn’t seem like anything had changed on her end. But- still, what just happened? She peeked past to his little screen, a label of “FURY” in bright red below his health points. Hm. Ok. Well, she’d deal with that when it came to it. For now, she looked to her dice- a four and a two- and dropped them into her cards. Her furnace was at one now, and her axe dropped ready into her hand. It was a bit more sturdy this time, but- oh gods, wait, why was another dice rolling??? Distantly, she recalled that her gold axe gave her back a dice on an even… ah. Well. It had landed squarely on a three. She eyed her furnace for a moment- should she just- get this over with?- but the puppy barked, and she couldn’t bring herself to stick the dice in the slot. She just sighed and walked over to the puppy, giving him another gentle bonk on the head. He yipped at her again, nipping at her fingers. Gods he was cute. She tapped her arrow hesitantly- would they let her end her turn with dice unused? The answer appeared to be yes as her cards and remaining dice were whisked away. “My turn my turn!!!” the Puppy beamed. He yipped and hopped about as his dice rolled, tail wagging so fast it was a blur. They slowed to a stop- a six, two, and three- and he instantly took the six in his mouth. He tossed his head back, and the dice went flying up up up- and down down down- right into his second card, another large one, though gold with pale yellow edges. The title said it was a “wolf puppy bite.” Which is exactly what the little guy did. Beast yelped in surprise as the Puppy sunk his teeth into her leg not once, but twice, his fangs covered in yellow and red dust from his cards. She gasped as he pulled back, barking triumphantly. “You- you little-” The music and cheering seemed to pause with bated breath, waiting for the other foot to drop. “You little charmer!” Beast cooed. Her smile this time was genuine, tip of her tail wagging excitedly. Though her leg throbbed every time she moved, she still leaned forward to pat the Puppy. She laughed as he rubbed against her hand. “You got me! You got me so good!!! Good job, buddy!!!” she continued to bubble. She loved this kid. She loved this kid. Hesitantly, the crowd and music resumed, a chorus of ‘aww’s and ‘oh, so she is soft, eh?’ with jingles barely audible under it all. The sound made her fur rise indignantly. “Oh, can it, wouldja?!” she snapped. The puppy paused, letting out a tiny whine and shrinking away. “Oh- not you, buddy,” she quickly soothed, giving him another pat, “you’re a good boy.” “I’m a good boy!!!” he echoed proudly, his eagerness instantly rebounding. She flashed him another warm smile before stepping back. Alright. Well. Now that she knew the kid could dish out the damage, she had a feeling he could take a hit or two. ‘Whatcha got for me this time, Luck?’ she wondered, looking to her dice. Three, four, four. ‘That’ll work.’ She scooped them all up in one hand, dropping the three into her furnace first, and catching it as it fell back into her hand. She gave a long heave, letting her fire wash over the battlefield before her- the puppy seemed to dance in the flames. As the furnace collapsed back into a card, she slotted her two fours into it- hadn’t she seen something about this card being reusable? Sure enough, it popped back into weapon form, and she doused the floor in flames again. When she finally tapped the arrow, the Puppy’s health read three. He stood across from her with puffy, ash filled fur, all spiked up and looking quite shocked. “Wow!!! I didn’t know you could do that!!!” he gasped, stars in his eyes. Beast couldn’t help but laugh. She loved this kid SO much. The Puppy giggled as he pawed at his dice, waiting for them to quit rolling so he could take his turn. A pair of twos and a five. ‘That was decent,’ Beast thought, ‘he should be able to put one of those in his bite card and the rest into setting up his countdow- oh.’ Her thoughts trailed off as the puppy happily dumped all his dice into Woof Woof Woof. The red dust settled over him again, but… he didn’t… he didn’t have any dice left to hit her with? But- he could’ve used one??? ‘Oh my gods this kid is an idiot. I love him.’ With a bark and wagging tail, he hit his arrow, swinging the turn back around to her own. She caught her dice as they fell- a three and a one- and promptly stuck the three in her golden axe. It fell into her hand with a crackle, and she smiled sadly at the little pup. “Sorry buddy- no hard feelings, ok?” she said gently. “‘Course not!” he yipped, “I’ll see ya around!!!” “Alright bud,” she sighed, lifting the axe over her head. She dropped it without a second thought. The crowd cheered as the puppy flopped over. Once again, pink smoke overtook her vision, and once again, she was deposited back on the stage. Though this time, there was a strange beeping sound behind her. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder. The screen with her title and health points was lit up along the edges, yellow and white lights flashing like the arches in the halls. Instead of reading its usual twenty four, though, it had gone up a couple points- twenty eight- and refilled completely. The blinking bold words that said “LEVEL UP!” under her health probably had something to do with that. “Ooh, what do we have here?” the announcer gasped dramatically. Beast gave the direction of their jingling a withering glare, but it just made them jingle some more. “Looks like you leveled up! Good for you! That means you get more health, and it heals you all the way! Isn’t that nice?” “Well, yeah. Nobody’s gonna say more health is bad,” Beast grumbled, rolling her eyes. But she was pleased with the development. Her leg didn’t feel chomped, after all, and when she looked, there wasn’t even a mark to show the Puppy had touched her. It made her sort of sad- it would’ve been neat to show the fearsome little dude he’d left a scar- not to mention she could say she’d been attacked by a wolf- but, ah well. She had other things to tend to. Glancing about, the stage held two chests this time. One was all the way on the opposite side again, and the other halfway between the first and herself. Hm, more goodies. How many would she be allowed to carry? As if on cue, the announcer jingled on over to the center of the stage. “Don’t worry about spacing out your equipment for now- you won’t get over the number you can handle on this floor,” they explained. “You’ve got up to six slots for battle. Just- just go grab your new toys. C’mon, I know you wanna!” “Geez, with how eager you are, you make it sound like you’re the one who’s gonna fight,” she snorted. At that, the announcer just… started giggling. They didn’t stop as she reached the first chest- hm, a “bump,” small green card that would increase the value of one dice she put in it- and only giggled louder as she approached the second. She was starting to get nervous as she leaned over the chest’s side, reaching for her last piece of equipment. It was a large purple card labeled “liquorice”- but she didn’t get the chance to read the rest. Her head snapped up as the telltale jingling trailed off towards the opposite side of the stage, the announcer’s laughter practically booming off all the walls. “What the hell is your problem?!” she roared, whipping around to face- With a cackle that rivaled thunder, and a bell-ringing cacophony loud enough to drown out an avalanche, a cannonball of orange and red hurtled down from the darkness above. The spotlights cradled it delicately as it unfurled into a graceful, lanky form, landing perfectly on one foot. Yellow gloves, dark leggings and a red-and-orange puffy sleeved fool’s shirt bounced gently as they settled into their jaunty little pose. A red bow framed their neck, and their belled orange shoes curved up in a signature fool’s style. Tanned skin and bobbed blonde hair was all wrapped up in a belled orange-and red fool’s hat. Arms spread wide and grin even wider, what could only be the announcer stood before her. And there was no pink smoke to herald this battle. The music and cheers had started as soon as the announcer- no, the Jester, their screen corrected her- had landed.   Oh. Oh no.

[bunathebunny]

where books go

Two housemates and a missing book.

For Maribat Platonic November Day 24 - Book

@maribat-platonic-november

Gotham has always been one of the kind. The mere miasma alone would discourage anyone of the thought of immigrate there permanently.

And yet, somehow, it is quite a promising land for the supernatural.

Marinette theorizes that magic is somehow both chaos and order and Gotham is just the unfortunate place where both exist. And seeing as she is not a wizard but a seer who cares not for magic, that theory of hers can turn out to be a hundred percent right or completely wrong.

Either way is fine with her because she came here to learn. And what she wants to learn is the delicious art course that Gotham University offers, rather than the inner working of magic.

What Marinette did not foresee, regardless of her gift in clairvoyance, is having a dragon as a housemate. More specifically, a dragon who hoards books and have a passionate love for literature.

“I’m surprised you aren’t a Lit major,” she comments, searching for her Advanced Math book that slips somewhere, “Honestly, I’d have pegged you to have been one of them.”

“You’re weird,” Jason grumbles, snorting out a little bit of smoke and Marinette is so glad that she disabled the fire extinguish system in their room after that one time he snorted out a tiny fire ball and activated it. None of them have been so happy with the soaked books and clothes.

Nothing a few spells cannot fix but it is rather inconvenient. Three out of ten not recommended.

“Well yeah but hey, you’re my friend so what does it says about you?”

Jason makes a growling sound and curls up on his bed like an oversized cat. You know, if cats have scales rather than fur. And yes, he is a dragon, with four legs and wings.

Marinette checks. Jason even tells her because apparently, he is tired of being mistaken for any other types.

“I have a brother who is a drake. Like, four legs and no wing. That’s a drake,” he had hissed, “I have wings. I’m a full-fledged dragon.”

It is a sore spot. And well, Marinette can understand. Heck, she would stab someone for mistaking her for a witch. She is a seer and what she does is looking at the future and maybe slipping a hint or two for some cash if someone offers enough. Magic generally does not vibe with her with the shits she got into with it.

But yes, back to the problem at hand. Ok, where is her book? God, living with a dragon who hoards book means it is virtually impossible for someone to sneak in and take it. Not that she suspects anyone would but hey, this is Gotham. And she has her own experiences with breaking and entering.

But if no one takes it, then where is her book?

Wait a minute…

“You!” she whirls on the lazing dragon and stabs an accusing finger in his direction, “Did you take my book for your hoard?”

Jason makes a hissing noise, the tip of his tail flickering like that of a cat. He stretches lazily like he has time to spare.

Well, he does seeing as it is his day off. Marinette, however, does not because her class starts in the afternoon and it is like, near noon.

“I hoard books. I don’t steal books!” he cries, “Honestly, why must you accuse me of such a horrible crime?!”

Marinette rolls her eyes at this familiar start. This happens like every other week with Jason accidently placing one of her books into his hoard and just, forgets about it until she is looking for it.

“No, you didn’t steal. You just displaced my books in your hoard. Like every other time it happened in the past.”

“What if it wasn’t me?” Jason challenges, tail thrashing around like that of an agitated cat.

“Then I will take over the housework next week.”

“The cooking is non-negotiable,” Jason tilts his head up, daring her to disagree with him.

He has always been fond of cooking and Marinette really does not discourage it. It is certainly better to live with a housemate who knows how to cook rather that one who does not.

“Sure, whatever floats your boat. Heck, I’d be even happier if you take over kitchen duty forever.”

(The book is found in Jason’s hoard and Marinette raises an eyebrow at a fuming Jason.

“I’m a seer, Jason. I can see this coming miles away.”

“That’s so cheating!” Jason roars, smoke rising from his snout, “You knew you’d win.”

“I said I could see it. I never said I foresaw it,” she rolls her eyes at a growling dragon, “Please, it’s just elementary detective shits that you love so much.”

“Now you’re mistaking me for Drake,” he grumbles, “No one ever calls me a detective.”

Marinette rolls her eyes again. God, living with Jason too long and one day her eyes would never be the same again. Too much eye-rolling is never good.

“Yes, yes, keep lying to yourself, Jay. We both knows you are a detective.”)

[splendidlyimperfect]

critical hit - chapter 4 [make a wisdom saving throw]

When Sting tells Natsu that one of his friends from school is going to be joining their weekly Dungeons & Dragons game, Natsu isn’t impressed - their table is already full. But while Natsu and Gray’s in-game characters clash completely, Natsu finds that real-life Gray might not be that bad after all.

Chapter Summary: The final session of D&D is upon them, and surprising sacrifices must be made. .

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairings: Natsu/Gray, Sting/Rogue

Tags: Modern AU, Dungeons & Dragons, Role-Playing Games, Awkward Flirting, ADHD Natsu, Geek Gray

-----

The rest of the week flew by in a blur of flirty texts, silly Snapchats, and a sushi date on Tuesday evening. Now it was Sunday, and Natsu and Gray were standing in the entrance to the basement, holding hands while Sting raised an eyebrow at them.

“Finally!” He grinned. “Glad my subterfuge worked.”

“Shut all the way up,” Natsu grumbled, waving his notebook in Sting’s direction. “You’re an asshole.”

Sting picked up a Skittle from the bowl in front of him and tossed it at Natsu’s forehead. “I’m an asshole that got you a date,” he insisted. “I believe what you meant to say is ‘thank you.’”  

Natsu rolled his eyes before turning to Gray and kissing him on the cheek. “Ignore him,” he said quietly, smiling at the pink flush that crept across Gray’s face. “He’s always a dick.”

“I know,” Gray said, laughing at Sting’s mock outrage behind Natsu’s back. “But he’s also right.”

“See?” Sting kicked Natsu’s ankle as he let go of Gray’s hand and settled down at his spot at the table.

“And how long did it take you to decide to ask Rogue out?” Natsu asked, setting his dice bag on the table and raising an eyebrow at Sting. “Six months? Seven?”

“Over a year,” Rogue interjected from his spot at the end of the table. “Technically we knew each other for almost three years before he said anything.”

“Look,” Sting started indignantly, but was saved from having to explain himself by the arrival of Erza. Everyone immediately sat up in their chairs, organizing their character sheets and pulling out dice as she dropped her books on the table.

“Are we ready?” she asked as she settled down in her chair. The excited look on her face made Natsu grin, and he could see the feeling was mutual when he looked around the table. “Everyone remember what happened last time?”

“We freed the prisoners,” Gray said, tapping his pencil against the sheets of paper where he kept his notes. “But the summoning spell went off anyway, and we were—”

o.o.o.o.o.o

“—too late.”

The demon’s horns breached the portal, tearing through the reddish miasma as a foul black smoke filled the air. The stench of brimstone and burned flesh followed it and Gray coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve.

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing Sting’s arm and nodding toward the wall. Natsu and Rogue were back by the door, herding the last of the prisoners to the stairs. Natsu turned around and made eye contact with Gray across the roof. His expression was grim, and he was pressing his hand over his side where a reddish stain was spreading through his robes.

“We can’t let this thing get out,” Sting insisted, pulling his arm out of Gray’s grip. “If it makes it through the summoning circle, we’re fucked.” He gestured to the lines of blood that had been painted along the rooftop. The sight of that – and the pile of corpses that were lying next to the tree – made Gray’s stomach churn.

“I can’t do much else,” he said, flexing his fingers as he dug deep for his magic. The well of power that usually surged through him was barely there. “I don’t have any offensive spells left.”

Sting looked back to Rogue and Natsu, then hefted his greatsword and turned back to the monster. “We have to do something. I’ll keep it busy; you take care of those three. If you can take them out, it should weaken this bastard enough to kill it.” He gestured to the three cultists standing by the portal before saying a quiet prayer under his breath and charging toward the demon.

Gray couldn’t help but stare in awe as he watched Sting’s charge. Brilliant white light burst from his blade as he swung it at the beast, gouging through its tough hide and causing it to howl in pain. The magic made Sting look holy and ethereal. Rogue appeared next to him – the dark to Sting’s light – keeping the creature distracted while Sting swung at it again.

“Hey.” Gray turned to see Natsu standing beside him, still holding his side and breathing heavily. “We’ve got those guys, hey?”

“You’re bleeding,” Gray said, reaching out to grab Natsu’s wrists. Natsu shook his head and pushed Gray’s hand away.

“I’ll be fine. We don’t have much time.” He nodded at the group of cultists, who were starting to move toward them. “I’ve only got a fireball left,” he admitted. “That won’t take all of them out. You?”

Gray shook his head. “I can portal us out of here and that’s about it.” He looked down at the bag on his hip, quickly trying to think of anything that could get them out of this mess. The only thing he could find was the dagger at his hip, and he didn’t have much faith that it would get him very far.

“Wait a minute,” Natsu said. “I have an idea.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

“What would happen,” Natsu asked slowly, staring at his spell list, “if we cast a fireball inside a cube of force?”

Erza raised her eyebrow at him from behind her screen but didn’t answer.

“I hate that look,” Sting said. “It either means this is gonna be great, or we’re absolutely fucked.”

“I’ve got a plan,” Natsu insisted.  

Rogue scoffed as he took a sip of his iced coffee. “If it’s anything like your last plan, we’re gonna TPK right here.”

“We’re not all gonna die,” Natsu insisted. He pointed to an item in his character’s inventory – the Cube of Force. Gray wasn’t sure where he’d picked it up, but he’d only seen it a few times before. Pressing a button on one side of the magic cube summoned an impenetrable forcefield around the user, keeping them safe from all magic spells coming from outside. Or, Gray supposed, trapping them with a spell inside.

“It’s fifteen feet on each side,” Natsu said. “We just gotta trap all three of them in there and toss a fireball inside before they activate it.”

“Why would they do that?” Sting countered. “You’re just gonna throw the cube to them and say ‘hey, press this magic button, it’ll be fine?’”

Natsu hummed, then looked up at Gray. “Do you have the ‘suggestion’ spell?” he asked. “You could try to compel them to do it.”

Gray nodded. “That won’t work if we try to get them to hurt themselves, though.”

“They don’t know it would hurt them. You’d just be suggesting that they push the button on this very fancy cube that’s being thrown at them. It could be a jack-in-the-box for all they know.”

“We’d have to be within thirty feet for that,” Gray said. “If it doesn’t work, we’re kinda fucked.”

“We’re fucked anyway if we do nothing,” Natsu countered. “Do you—”

o.o.o.o.o.o

“—trust me?” Natsu’s expression was sincere as he gazed into Gray’s eyes.

Gray nodded slowly, digging into his reagent pouch and pulling out the necessary ingredients for the spell. He crushed them in his right hand, taking a quick peek at Rogue and Sting over Natsu’s shoulder. Sting looked exhausted and battered, wiping blood out of his eyes that dripped from a deep cut on his forehead. Baphomet’s hide was stained red and covered in deep gouges, and the demon roared as Gray watched Rogue clamber up onto its back and stab both daggers into its neck.

“Ready?” Natsu’s voice pulled Gray’s attention back, and he looked down to see Natsu holding out a bloodstained hand. Gray took it, squeezing it tightly before turning back toward the cultists.

“Ready,” he said quietly.

“Catch!” Natsu shouted, tossing the cube at the cultists as they charged forward. The leader stumbled to a halt as he caught it out of instinct, staring down at the strange object with his brow furrowed.

“Suadeant,” Gray whispered under his breath as he took a step closer, still gripping Natsu’s hand tightly. Sweat dripped down his forehead and the back of his neck, and his heart pounded as he stared down the cultists. “Praecepta mea.”

The cultist looked up at him, eyes wide, and Gray’s chest flared with hope for a second. Then the man’s lip curled up in a wicked grin, and he shook his head.

“You think you can fool me with your cheap tricks?” the man shouted, tossing the cube to the ground with a snort of disdain. “I am Ezrael, he who summoned the Prince of Beasts, the Horned King. I will not be deceived by the likes of you.”

“Fuck.” Natsu’s palm trembled against Gray’s. “Shit, fucking, fuck.”

“I can get us out of here,” Gray said, taking a step back and holding out a trembling hand. The air sparked and glimmered as a dimensional portal began to form. “We can’t do anything else – just fireball them and hope for the best.”

“It’s not gonna be enough,” Natsu said, tugging at Gray’s grip on his hand and looking across the battlefield. Rogue was on his back in the dirt now, still conscious but breathing heavily, with his arm at an unnatural angle. Sting stood against the door that the prisoners had escaped through, sword shaking in his hands as he fought against pain and exhaustion. “Sting’s gonna die unless we kill them.”

Gray looked on helplessly as Baphomet took a step toward Sting and hefted its enormous glaive in one hand, then brought it down in a powerful arc. Sting parried the blow, dropping to one knee as he fought against the might of the enormous beast. Baphomet knocked the sword from Sting’s hands, sending it clattering across the roof as it wrapped its claws around Sting’s neck and lifted him into the air.

“I’m sorry.” Natsu squeezed Gray’s hand and let go, giving him a regretful look.

“For…” Gray trailed off, one hand still casting the dimensional portal, the other trying to take Natsu’s again. Natsu shook his head, then surprised Gray by leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“For this,” Natsu said softly as he pulled back and gave Gray a sad look. Then he shoved Gray as hard as he could, knocking him back through the portal.

o.o.o.o.o.o

“What the hell?” Gray stared at Natsu, who was looking at his dice with an uncharacteristically solemn expression on his face. “Can I make a Strength check to counter that?”

Erza nodded and Gray rolled, cursing when his dice landed on an 11 and Natsu rolled an 18.

“What are you doing?” he asked Natsu. Sting and Rogue were also staring at him with twin looks of surprise.

“Saving you,” Natsu said. He kicked gently at Gray’s ankle under the table. “The plan didn’t work, so either we all die, or one of us does.” He looked up at Sting. “If I take the cultists out you can kill it, right?”

“I do only have… sixteen hit points left,” Sting admitted. “If I can get one good hit in, I might be able to banish it. I have to do fifty points of damage in a turn, but if it drops me and I can get my sword…”

“Well,” Natsu said, pulling out a pile of six-sided dice to roll the fireball’s damage. “Hopefully this works.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

“Natsu!” Gray’s shout was cut off, and he had no time to react as the magic ported him away, carrying him safely across the rooftop until he was crouched next to Rogue. He watched with horror as Natsu turned and ran toward the cultists. “Natsu, no!”

Natsu ignored him, dodging the first cultist and dropping to his knees to pick up the cube. He turned and gave Gray one more soft smile before pressing the button.

“No,” Gray whispered. The walls of force sprang into life, trapping Natsu in the cube with the cultists. All three of them were still for a moment, staring at Natsu in disbelief, and then the bright light in his hand expanded into an enormous ball of flame.

The explosion was eerily silent, muffled by the magical forcefield. It filled the cube in brilliant shades of orange and red, engulfing everyone inside in Natsu’s raw power. An enormous wave of magic exploded across the rooftop, washing over Gray and Rogue on its way to Baphomet.

“No,” Gray whispered again as the cube began to dissipate. The flames slowly died out, leaving behind three charred corpses and a pile of smoldering robes.

“Sting!” Rogue’s panicked shout snapped Gray out of his haze of grief, and he turned to see Baphomet stumble forward and release its grip on Sting’s throat. Sting fell to the ground on all fours, gasping and choking for air. His sword lay on the ground, just out of reach.

Gray stumbled to his feet, keeping an eye on Baphomet, who was still dazed from the death of its summoners. He darted toward Sting, grabbing the hilt of the sword and dragging it across the ground.

“Get up,” he said, grabbing Sting’s shoulder and pushing him to his knees. Sting coughed, then sucked in several deep breaths before nodding and reaching out for his blade.

“I’ve got this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Get behind me.”  

Gray nodded, still dazed, and scrambled back against the door as Sting hefted the sword in both hands and murmured a few quiet words. The length of the blade burst into brilliant white flames that flickered as Sting took a deep breath and charged.

Gray watched with a deep sense of relief as the blade sunk directly into Baphomet’s chest. The demon howled in pain, swinging wildly at Sting, who dodged the blows and drove the blade deeper.

“Protero!” Sting shouted as another wave of holy magic radiated from him, spiraling out from the sword and creeping across Baphomet’s skin. It quickly engulfed the demon, growing brighter and brighter until—

o.o.o.o.o.o

“The holy magic and your deadly blow are enough to rip through the magic holding Baphomet to this plane.” Erza looked around the table, giving each of them a significant look. “As the tether that binds the demon dissolves and it disappears, a heavy silence settles across the rooftop. The shouts and screams of battle are gone, and all you can hear is the wind blowing through the branches of the horrible, flesh-like tree.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sting swore, dropping his head into his hands and exhaling. “That was intense. I was sure we were all gonna d—” He caught himself, looking over at Natsu, who was staring at his dice with an uncomfortable expression on his face. The spot on his character sheet to track his health read ‘Hit Points – 0/93.”

“You’re not dead yet,” Rogue said quickly. “Sting can—”

Sting shook his head. “I’m out of healing spells,” he said regretfully. “I used my last slot on that banishment. And we’re all out of healing potions.”

“Yeah, and this is my last death saving throw,” Natsu said. He glared at his dice. “I failed the first two, so if this one fucks up…” He looked up at Gray. “I’m dead for good.”

o.o.o.o.o.o

Gray groaned, pushing himself to his feet and trying not to focus on the aches that crept across his body. He still felt dizzy but managed to lock his gaze on the motionless pile of robes on the other side of the rooftop.

“You’re bleeding.” Sting’s voice was muffled, and Gray blinked at him, still trying to clear his head. “You should sit down.” When Sting’s hand landed on Gray’s shoulder, he pushed it off, shaking his head and taking another uncertain step forward.

“I gotta…” He trailed off, looking back over at Natsu’s body. “I…”

Sting’s expression twisted into guilt as he followed Gray’s gaze. “Shit,” he whispered. He looked down at Rogue, who had managed to shuffle himself against the wall of the building. Rogue nodded, gesturing for them to go to Natsu. “C’mon,” Sting said, grabbing Gray’s arm and wrapping it around his shoulders.

Each step across the rooftop ached. When they finally reached the charred circle where the fireball had gone off, Gray dropped to his knees. Sting helped him to roll Natsu onto his back and Gray brushed pieces of singed hair out of his face. His forehead and cheek were badly burned, and his arms were blistered, and Gray stared helplessly at his chest, willing it to move.

“You idiot,” Gray managed through the tears that were starting to form. His throat was thick with smoke and emotion. “You stupid fucking… we could have figured out something else.” He ran his fingers down Natsu’s arm and took his hand, squeezing it gently.

“He saved us,” Sting said gently. He was crying too, tears making tracks through the dirt and blood on his face. His hands trembled as he pressed them to Natsu’s chest, but his magic only flickered dimly. “I can’t heal him. I’m sorry.”

 o.o.o.o.o.o

 “Here goes nothing.” Natsu picked up his twenty-sided die – bright red, flecked with gold – and shifted it between his fingers a few times before tossing it into the center of the table.

The room was eerily silent as the dice rolled. Gray’s chest was tight with the emotions of the roleplay – despite it not being real, the thought of Natsu sacrificing himself for everyone made him desperately sad.

“C’monnnn,” Natsu whispered under his breath. The dice spun once more, then landed next to Gray’s coffee cup – on a 20.

 o.o.o.o.o.o

 “It’s not your fault,” Gray reassured Sting, who slumped down onto his knees as well. “It was his cho—”

Natsu’s hand twitched in his.

Gray looked down, eyes widening as Natsu’s fingers trembled, then weakly wrapped around his own. Natsu’s chest rose with a shallow, shuddering breath, and relief and joy flooded through Gray as his eyes slowly fluttered open.

“Did…” Natsu’s voice was raspy as his gaze tracked from Sting to Gray. “Did it… work?”

“Yes,” Gray squeezed his hand tightly. “Yes, you stupid fucking idiot. Don’t you dare ever do anything like that again, you absolute moron.” The angry words were tempered by a wet laugh of relief. Gray ran a thin layer of ice across the burns on Natsu’s face and arms and he sighed in relief. “Can you move? We should get out of here.”

“Ugh.” Natsu took another shallow breath and tried to push himself up on his elbow. When he wobbled unsteadily, Gray put an arm around his shoulders and helped him up.

“I’m gonna go get Rogue,” Sting said. “I’m glad you’re alive. Thank you.” He squeezed Natsu’s shoulder, giving him a grateful look before heading back over to the other side of the roof.

Gray pulled Natsu as close as possible, being careful to avoid his wounds. “You’re an idiot,” he said again. “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought I was too,” Natsu admitted. He sighed and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Gray’s shoulder. “I’m glad I’m not, though.”

“Me too,” Gray whispered before nudging Natsu’s chin up and kissing him.

Natsu made a soft, happy sound, returning the kiss and gripping Gray’s robes as tightly as he could. “Gray—”

“Shut up.” Gray shook his head and kissed Natsu again. “You’re not dead and neither am I so just shut the hell up and kiss me.”

 o.o.o.o.o.o

 “Gaaaaaaaaaay,” Sting whispered, laughing as Natsu punched him in the shoulder. He was still looking at Gray with pink cheeks and the widest smile Gray had ever seen.

“You all make your way slowly down the stairs,” Erza interrupted, “supporting each other as you limp back out into the forest. The dark clouds begin to part as the sun breaks through, filling you with hope and warmth. Despite your wounds and your exhaustion, you are content, knowing that your quest was fulfilled, and you saved the world from a hellish nightmare.” She closed her notebook with a flourish. “And that’s the end of that campaign!”

“That was awesome,” Sting said. “I can’t believe we all survived.”

“Barely,” Rogue added. “Pretty sure my arm was about to fall off.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t get blown up,” Natsu said indignantly.

“I believe that was your choice,” Rogue said, laughing. “And you got a kiss out of it.”

“Worth it,” Natsu agreed.

The rest of the evening was spent laughing at each other and retelling the best parts of their adventures, and by the time everyone was ready to leave, it was almost one in the morning.

“Hey.” Natsu caught Gray’s hand as he started to head upstairs after the other three. “Do…” He hesitated, looking at the floor. “Do you wanna stay? I mean, I can drive you home if you want, of course, I just thought—”

“Yes.” Gray waited until Sting, Rogue, and Erza were up the stairs before pulling Natsu close and kissing him. He ran a hand through Natsu’s hair, brushing his messy bangs out of his face and bumping their noses together. “But this time we get to sleep in your bed instead of the couch.”

Natsu laughed, kissing Gray’s cheek and nudging him upstairs. “Deal,” he said.

Once everyone was gone, it didn’t take long to get ready for bed. Gray yawned as he shifted over, letting Natsu curl up next to him with his head resting on Gray’s shoulder. He made a soft sound as Natsu slipped a hand under his shirt, tracing gentle circles on his hip.

“I’m glad Sting invited me to play with you guys,” Gray said quietly, tipping Natsu’s chin up to kiss him again. Natsu sighed contentedly and cuddled closer as he ran his tongue along Gray’s lower lip.

“Me too,” he murmured between kisses. “And I can’t wait for the next adventure.”

[yellowmagicalgirl]

Once and Maybe Future Chapter 14: Incognito Patrol

When Nimue sees a girl with far too many hairclips and radiating dark magic, it's up to her and Douxie to save Arcadia.

Heyyy, yes I know it's been over six months since I last updated and this fic is now very much not canon compliant. At least this chapter is half the length of all the previous chapters combined.

Originally this was going to be a single chapter covering the events of both "Night Patroll"/"Terra Incognita II" as well as "So I'm Dating a Sorceress" and "The Exorcism of Claire Nuñez", but due to the length I decided to only have it cover the events of "Night Patroll"/"Terra Incognita II" in this chapter; another chapter is going to finally get around to the Clairegana-and-Douxie confrontation and not just the aftermath.

AO3

FFN

It was a normal day at the Zimue records store.

Which was to say, it was absolutely boring, but there were enough customers around that Nimue couldn’t practice magic… or even really do homework for her independent study courses, considering that her manager was here today.

The door opened and closed with a blast of warm late May air.

Nimue shivered and grabbed the counter as the flashback overtook her.

Nimue-the-first did not leave her lake often. She was busy enough with her forge, and she didn’t care much for most people, especially not in crowds. She frowned as she saw wagon tracks on the road; she was getting close to a village or at least a farm. She preferred for her adopted son and his family to visit her rather than the other way around. They may be royalty, but she was a sorceress and far older. They could show her some respect.

Instead, she’d be paying her last respects to her son and her daughter-in-law.

There was a war outside her lake, and there was dark magic fueling it beyond what the Gumm-Gumms could normally use. It had been a long time since she had last seen Uther’s stepdaughter or her green-eyed gaze, but Nimue-the-first knew that Morgana had corrupted herself and was fueling the war. That, or the war was fueling Morgana; Nimue-the-first could feel it in her bones.

Nimue’s bones ached as she was released from the flashback to her first lifetime. She glanced around, trying to figure out just what had caused the flashback this time. However, there was nothing new in Zimue, nothing that would’ve set her off, and definitely not anything that would’ve caused her to flash back that far. Nimue inhaled deeply, trying to see if maybe Douxie was cooking something up next door, potion or otherwise. That had set her off once. She had been tempted to tell him then and there the truth about why she had magical powers, but she had stopped herself. Wizards were normal. Relatively rare compared to most of humanity, but normal.

Reincarnation, as far as she knew, was not. Heck, every legend about King Arthur returning was propaganda, so it wasn’t like he’d reincarnate, much less anyone else from her first lifetime.

It was kind of lonely, walking around with so many memories of bygone eras, but it had been Nimue’s life since she was twelve. Besides, the magic was more than enough to make up for it.

Then again, Douxie would never practice dark magic, and even if he wanted to surely Archie would stop him. She squeezed her eyes as she manned the register. She felt worse with every customer, though it was possible that she just was getting a headache and mistaking it for dark magic. Dehydration, maybe, as ironic as it was.

A girl stepped to the front of the line, holding the new Papa Skull album. She had a white streak running through her dark hair, with multiple colored hairclips and a matching Papa Skull shirt. She looked a little sick, a little sleep deprived, a little younger than Nimue.

Nimue gulped as the girl placed the album on the counter. The girl smiled shyly before coughing into her elbow, loud and shaking.

Magic radiated off the girl as Nimue rung up the album. It was old, and it was dark.

Perhaps being the only one with magic and memories from bygone eras would have been for the best, as lonely as it was.

The girl walked out, taking most of the dark magic with her. There were some traces of it lying in the air like a miasma.

Nimue quickly swiped her hand over her pocket to make sure her phone was there. She’d ask her manager to let her take a break, text Douxie, and the two of them would go after the girl with the dark magic. Hopefully she was just some kid with latent talent who found a dark magical spell on the internet.

“I’m taking my lunch break,” her manager told her right before she could open her mouth. “Make sure we don’t get robbed.”

Nimue made sure her back was turned to her manager before she grimaced and hoped that she had enough hay fever that it was distorting the amount of dark magic she was sensing.

“Nimue, calm down and talk a little more slowly,” he said. They were both on break, her from her day job and him from band practice with Ash Dispersal pattern. Specifically, Hank and Raoul were off to grab burgers for their lunch.

Nimue took a deep breath. “Look, this girl came into Zimue and there was something bad about her. Like, I could feel the dark magic coming off her in waves.”

Douxie decided not to ask her just how she knew it was dark magic, though he did wonder. For someone who had had no training outside of spell books on the internet and his father’s attempted tutelage of the two of them, she progressed remarkably fast. Douxie hoped that Nimue wouldn’t be able to sense years-old dark magic. “Okay, do you want me to fake being sick and go after her?”

“Uh… she left the shop an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Douxie was secretly glad. Nimue’s reaction to dark magic users scared him.

“Because my manager already doesn’t like me and this was the soonest I could go on break… it could be hay fever, but I made sure to take my allergy meds and I don’t think it is.”

“Okay, okay, well, what does this girl look like?”

“Uh… brown or black hair with a white streak, green, wait, no, brown eyes…” That certainly didn’t narrow down the field that well, but it did help affirm the fact that there was something about the girl Nimue had seen that had her spooked. “Oh, yeah, she was wearing a Papa Skull shirt, and hairclips? Uh, like, two, no, three, no, there might’ve been more… it’d be easier if I could show you.”

“Nimue, we both know that the extent of your drawing abilities are runes and stick figures.”

“No, not a drawing, there’s surveillance video in the store, and she came straight up to the register.”

“Isn’t that illegal? Somehow? We don’t need the law coming in and messing things up somehow.”

“I mean, technically the improvements on your pipes might also be illegal since you didn’t tell your landlord about them and they’re also giving you extra water.”

Douxie grimaced; he still wasn’t entirely sure if one day he’d have to deal with the magically enhanced water turning what was supposed to be his dinner into a potion of some sort.

Zimue closed at 7 PM every day, so at 9:30 PM Nimue snuck out of her house to break in. Her parents thought that she was sleeping after having prepared for finals she’d be taking. She wore a beanie and long sleeves to cover up her dyed hair and magically induced tattoo.

“Douxie, I thought I told you to do something that would make you less recognizable,” she said. He was wearing what he wore every day, except he didn’t roll up his sleeves.

He dramatically placed his hood over his head, and then awkwardly tucked his dyed bangs behind his ears. “Why’d you want the water bottle?” he asked, pulling one out of his pocket.

“For this,” Nimue said, sighing wistfully. She preferred shopping for clothes in the women’s section, but she missed having space in her pockets. She took the water bottle, uncapped it, and then upended it. As she handed the water bottle back to him, she made a swirling motion with her other hand.

Another good reason for wearing long sleeves: her tattoo was probably glowing right now.

A thick fog surrounded the two of them and the storefront.

“Oh. Cool,” Douxie said.

“Wish it could’ve been a smoke bomb instead of a steam bomb, but this is good enough, I guess,” Nimue said. “Besides, we don’t want to set off a smoke alarm.”

Douxie knelt next to the door, pulling out a pair of straightened paperclips. He inserted them into the lock, wiggling them around. His expression grew frustrated, and he closed his eyes. When he stood up once more, he held the lock with one of his hoodie sleeves.

“I thought you could pick locks,” Nimue said. “Well, without magic, anyways.”

“Last time I picked a lock I was in foster care, and before that…” Douxie stared off into the distance, a morose look on his face.

“Before that?”

Douxie blinked and put on an obviously fake smile. “Eh, tragic backstory stuff.”

“That joke stopped being funny halfway through ninth grade.” Nimue pushed past her friend and opened the door. Fog filtered in, covering the cameras. “Okay, so we keep the security footage over this way.”

Douxie closed the door behind him. “You know, I don’t even know if the magic shop has security cameras.”

“Good thing mystery dark magical girl came here, then.” Nimue pulled up the footage. “And good thing my boss showed me how to go through this in case we ever get shoplifted from or anything. Not that we probably will, ever. At least, if we do it’s probably gonna be on my day off. And, there!”

Douxie looked over her shoulder at the slightly grainy video, taking a photo of the girl. “She goes to our school. I saw her outside Mrs. Barros’s office last year. I think she’s a year younger than us?”

Nimue groaned, standing up and beginning to erase the evidence that she and Douxie had broken in. “If she’s a year younger than us, then she might be a member of that stupid pilot program where freshmen could graduate in a year and a half.”

“I can ask the guys; they might know since they still go to actual school.”

“Make sure you get a name; it might make it easier to go after her.”

“Hey, Nimue?” Douxie asked. She threw a glance over her shoulder as she locked up the store.

“Yeah?”

“What are you going to do to her, once we find her?”

“I don’t know exactly, but she’s got dark magic. She’s dangerous, and we’re the only non-dark wizards in Arcadia. We need to stop her.”

Douxie gave her the same sort of faraway, morose look that he did whenever he accidentally shared a detail about his childhood before foster care. Without a word, he turned away and walked to his apartment.

Nimue let the enchanted fog roll away and began to walk home. She tried not to think about Douxie’s question too much. Anyone who used dark magic had to be evil since they’d know better than to use it. They deserved what was coming to them.

“Hey, does this girl still go to our school?” Douxie asked, holding his phone out to the other members of Ash Dispersal Pattern.

“What, do you wanna ask her, wait, no, sorry, forgot you were gay,” Raoul said. Honestly, Douxie was still a little surprised that he had even had to come out to Raoul and the other guys last October. After all, Douxie trying out for Ash Dispersal Pattern had been him trying to confess his crush to Hank back in freshman year. Not that it mattered, anymore, since all the other guys in the band were straight and Douxie had moved on from his crush six months after the band had formed. “Uh, I don’t know?”

“Nimue saw her at the record store, fiddling with a ring, and she dropped it. Nimue found it after she’d left, and she wanted to try to find a way to give it back to the girl. I remembered seeing her outside of Mrs. Barros’s office last year, but I’ve got no idea about if she’s in the year-and-a-half program.”

Hank walked over and squinted at the photo. “She doesn’t go to our school; she transferred to mole high. She’s friends with my ex; the girl’s name’s Claire. Do you want me to go over?”

“Dude, Mary isn’t gonna get back together with you,” Dominic said.

“No, well, I have no idea about Hank’s ex. But no, I’ll go over,” Douxie said.

“Hand out the Battle of the Bands flyers when you get there, will ya?” Douxie took the stack of papers from Dominic. Good, now he actually had a reason to go there.

Multiple female students of Arcadia Oaks High swarmed Douxie, but not as many of them grabbed the flyers he was passing out. None of them were Claire, either. One of them mentioned the nickname that Nimue hated. Personally, Douxie wasn’t sure why it was such a problem; Hank had gone through a phase where he’d called everyone by their first initial, but there were two guys with a name starting with the letter “d” in the band and Dominic was significantly shorter than Douxie. Therefore, “Big D” and “Little D”.

A girl pushed through the crowd and tripped, dropping her books. Douxie knelt next to her helping her grab her books, and then he felt the waves of dark magic coming off of her. Something about them felt familiar, but how? Douxie placed a smile on his face.

“C-Bomb, is it? Consider me blown away, because you are nuclear.” If she knew that he was a wizard, then she would understand that this was a sign of respect. A sign that he recognized her power, but also a sign that he recognized the danger she radiated.

She smiled back but said nothing. Hmm. Maybe Nimue’s theory of Claire being an inexperienced wizard who accidentally cast a dark magic spell was possible, but that powerful without knowing how to sense for magic? That was strange. Perhaps she was goading him?

A boy in blue walked up to them, slinging his arm around Claire’s shoulder. “So, what brings you to our humble school?”

The boy placed a hand on Douxie’s chest, pushing Douxie away as Claire began to cough. That was nice of him. Something about the boy felt oddly familiar, and not just because Douxie remembered seeing him at Benoit’s multiple times. No, Douxie almost felt caught in a feedback loop, like he had sent his own magic outwards and then it got sent back at him. Almost. The magic that got sent back felt purer, less tainted. Innocent, and not yet marred by necromancy.

“The Battle of the Bands is coming up,” Douxie said as he handed a flyer to Claire. “Ash Dispersal Pattern – that’s my band – will be crushing this.” And maybe the hand motion Douxie made was a little too threatening, but there was something odd and Douxie felt like he had to do something to show a little of his strength. Not too much, but enough to make himself seem like he wasn’t a victim. “But, we’re encouraging others to give it a shot.”

Claire coughed again after congratulating Douxie on Ash Dispersal Pattern’s headline performance for Papa Skull last fall. Douxie couldn’t help but wonder if it were a regular cold, or if perhaps the illness were magical in nature. If so, maybe he, Nimue, and his father could find –

No. Douxie would have to help her on his own. Nimue and his father thought that dark magic users were evil and dangerous. They would probably advocate for letting Claire die if the illness caused by her own meddling in dark magic, or perhaps the two of them would grant “mercy” to Claire by killing her. They would probably do the same for Douxie if they ever found out the truth.

Two girls rushed over to Claire, exclaiming that they should be a cover band. Neither of them seemed to have anything magical going on, but Douxie was pretty sure one of them was Hank’s ex.

“I don’t know,” the boy said, pushing Douxie away once more. “We’re pretty busy with our after-school activities.”

Hmm. Were Claire and the boy perhaps trying to learn magic together, much like Douxie and Nimue were?

Claire took the flyer back from the boy and agreed with the girls about starting a band. Douxie glanced to his hands and quickly put them in his pockets. They were empty, and they were trembling. But why? Claire seemed powerful, but not necessarily threatening.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Fair Lady Claire,” Douxie said before walking away. Yes. Perfect. That was exactly the right amount of respect to show to a fellow wizard whose diplomatic position towards you was still unknown but was clearly dangerous due to her clearly dark but hidden power. It was good to know that, after a millennium and a half for everyone else and eight years for himself, his diplomatic training as a prince had finally paid off. If only his parents, Merlin, or Uncle Kay could have been alive and in the right mind to see him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. This whole morning was stupid. Nimue had been so stupid as to tempt fate. She glanced up from the tile she was trying to kill with her eyes when the door opened and closed, and her best friend walked into Zimue Records.

“Everything okay?” Douxie asked.

“We got fucking robbed,” Nimue said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen to me! If this was going to happen, why not on my day off?”

“Well, at least you have security cameras. Was anyone hurt?”

“No, though the shoplifters played dumb like they didn’t know what shoplifting was. Ugh. At least some cop got there so no permanent damage was caused and I didn’t even need security cameras. How’d flyers go?”

“Fine, I found Claire.”

“Okay, and?”

“And what?”

“And what have you done about her? Fireballs? Potions turned Molotov cocktails?”

“What? No! I’m not blowing up our rival school, and neither are you! No, I just got a feel for her, and I treated her with the proper amount of respect.”

“Proper?”

“Yes. Given that she’s powerful, I called her by the term Lady,” Douxie said as Nimue smacked her forehead. “What? There’s no need for her to immediately want to kill us for disrespect!”

“Douxie, this is why people think you’re straight.” She wrinkled her nose. “Please tell me you’re just being cheeky when you call me Lady Nimue and not trying to curry favor.”

“I’m being respectful to you because you’re my friend… but also sometimes it bugs you.”

Nimue rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what are we going to do about Claire? You have any ideas about how to fight a dark wizard?”

The door opened and closed, but no human walked in. “You two won’t be.”

“You told him?” Nimue said.

“No, but he should have,” Archie said. “You two are louder than you think.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Douxie mumbled.

Archie raised an eyebrow at Douxie. “Between raising you,” he said before turning to Nimue, “and teaching you my fur has gotten plenty grayer without the two of you taking needless risks like tracking down a dark wizard.”

“But she could be hurting people! And we’re the only ones in Arcadia who could save the day! If we pull off some sort of sneak attack – “

“You won’t be,” Archie said. “If the two of you are to be fighting another wizard, which you won’t be, I expect you to fight with honor.”

“She’s a dark wizard. She’s evil.”

“Or she’s young and hasn’t had the training that you have. She might not know the difference between regular magic and dark magic. After all, did you know the difference when your powers first awoke?”

Nimue’s breath caught in her throat. Of course, she did; she knew so many things instinctually from her past lives.

“Or Claire’s desperate,” Douxie mumbled, breaking Nimue from her thoughts. Archie turned to him.

“That’s not an excuse to use dark magic, and it’s especially not an excuse I want to hear coming from your mouth – either of your mouths,” Archie said. “If this girl turns out to be a danger to others, or to be using dark magic while being fully aware of the consequences, then fine. I will guide the two of you in planning an attack. But I do not want either of you getting near this dark wizard without me. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Archie,” the two of them said in unison.

“Good. Now, how is studying for finals going?”

[catracorner962]

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of These)

My first Catradora fic! There are plenty more to come but I thought I’d start with my personal favorite troupe of sleepy cuddles both falling asleep and waking up. Plus Catra sings.

“...and that is why we should be bringing supplies to Selinias while we rebuild the sea gate!” Adora cried, exasperated. She wracked her fingers over her scalp, the tight hair pulled back into a pony-tail. She grunted, yanking out the elastic and redoing her simple hairdo for the tenth time this evening. She turned back to the crowded table, full of papers and scrolls and diagrams of her own making.

“Constructing new supply routes into Selinias around the broken sea gate will take much longer then just building a single service road while the rest of the gate is repaired!”

Catra let out a sigh, shaking her head. From her spot on their balcony she could hear Adora thinking aloud but she’d be laying if she said she hadn’t tuned it out. Instead she stared out at the courtyard of the Bright Moon gardens. The sky turning slowly from pink and yellow to a pastel purple and blue night. Catra smiled a little, watching each star slowly coming out, twinkling against the sky. The stars had returned to Etheria.

Adora brought the stars back, she thought pleasantly. Her grin widened. Catra had never seen the stars in the Horde. Neither of them had. Whatever stars might have existed were covered by the choking miasma of soot and smoke endlessly pumped up from the forges and the exhaust of the machines from the bot factories. Catra hadn’t appreciated the stars on Horde Prime’s ship either. She’d been too distracted by….

The feline girl put a hand to the back of her neck. Just to be sure the chip wasn’t there. It wasn’t. Here, now, after the battle, after returning magic to Etheria and settling here in the castle Catra could sit quietly, admiring the scenery.

It’s...peaceful, she thought wistfully.

Her tail flicked back and forth. The late summer air was heavy...not unlike the sky before a storm.

This is peaceful, Catra thought again.

“Am I right?!” Adora’s strained voice made the feline girl’s ears flick in acknowledgement. “We can ship materials from the Fright Zone to…”

“Adora,” Catra cut her off, standing from her previously crouched perch. “Adora you need to relax.”

Adora blinked, as though she were speaking a different language.

“I...I can’t do that!” She chewed nervously on the end of her pen, turning back to her desk. “We have a meeting with the princess alliance tomorrow, Mermista expects me to have a plan!” Catra easily swiped the pen from Adora’s grasp.

“You’ve been planning all day, it’s late.”

Catra took her hand, letting her thumb caress Adora’s knuckles for a moment before pulling her up and leading her toward their large bed. Adora muttered something, but didn’t resist; allowing Catra to sit her down on the side of the bed.

“I just need…” Adora went to stand, only to be met by firm hands pressing her shoulders forcing her to sit back down.  “I need to help the people of Selinias!” She tried again, this time more forceful.  Catra’s heterochromatic eyes narrowed,

“You can’t help anyone if you're exhausted,” she challenged. Without waiting for a reply Catra crossed the broad expanse of their shared room, over to the velvet floor to ceiling curtains. She adjusted them until it was just enough to let silver moonlight spill into the room. Coating everything in a glowing cool light.

“Adora? Seriously?!”

Adora was once again hunched over her desk, her simple satin nightgown reflecting in the ever quaint moonlight. How could Catra possibly stay mad? She smiled herself at the simple scene.

Is that what you want? Glimmer desperately shrieked

We both know this was never what you wanted, Double Trouble Taunted.

Everything I want…. She’d convinced herself

They’d all been wrong, she’d been the most wrong of all.

This, right here, Adora with her, in their room, this was what she wanted.

Adora, always steadfast and diligent, always giving her all to everyone. Catra slinked up behind her, winding her arm around the other girl’s taunt waist.

“I have a mission for you,” she whispered into Adora’s ear, her breath tickling the loose strands of blonde hair. “It’s called operation go to sleep.” The blonde turned in her grip and made a noise of disgruntled defeat. She gave in, allowed Catra to once again lead her to their bed. This time Catra leapt in, resting her back and head against the plush pillows. Despite the instinct within her to close up, to constrict her body and lash her tail and hiss and claw, Catra opened her arms. The response instantly seeped away as Adora’s comforting form snuggled into her lap resting her head against her shoulder. Catra’s tail naturally curled around Adora’s calf. They sat there, breathing in the early evening air. The omnipresent trickling waterfall and hum of the bugs outside, the feline girl could still feel the rigidity of Adora’s body.

“I need to be strategizing,” Adora whispered into the crook of Catra’s neck. She shifted uncomfortably trying to rise once more.

“Shhhh,” Catra whispered, reaching one of her hands up to cradle the side of Adora’s face, pressing her head back down against her shoulder.

“I have to,”

“You don’t have to do anything Adora. Not now, not tonight.” She crooned into the top of her golden head. “Whatever you are thinking about can wait. Take it from a professional lazy person.”

Adora giggled as Catra reached up,  slowly pulling her hair tie loose. Bright hair like the sun spilled down around her shoulders. Catra’s chest inflated with warmth at the sight, the scent. She loved Adora’s hair, especially like this. Free and falling and as wild as she was. As unruly.

“There are plans to work on,” Adora pressed quietly but she made no move to get up.  “The people of Selinias need me.”

I need you

She continued to rhythmically run her hands through Adora’s hair, holding her close.

“What did Mara say?”

“....You’re worth more than what you can give to other people,” Adora whispered like an invocation.

“Exactly,” Catra planted another kiss on her head. The room grew darker as they sat silently. Listening to the fountain and the beat of the other’s hearts. Catra closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of Adora’s scent. She smelled of paper and sweat and ink. She smelled of home.

Slowly the feline girl purred in contentment, her voice sluggishly moved from purring to humming to singing. Catra loved sing, though she almost forgot just how much. When they were in the Horde she would sing in secret. In the locker room alone, or the nights when Adora had nightmares and she’d scale down to the bottom bunk to crawl in next to her and whisper sing until her friend had fallen asleep. But it was only a matter of time before Shadow Weaver took that from her too. The sorceress found her singing during her chores and had summoned her into the Black Garnet chamber. When she came out, she never sang again. Not until now. Catra let her voice melodically drift up and down, the same lullaby she’d made up for Adora when they were young. She remembered every word.

Adora nuzzled closer, her breaths whispering across Catra’s throat, her arms winding around her waist ever tighter. The feline girl continued to sing, low and husky voice ebbing and flowing with the breeze until eventually the song ended, lost to the serenity of the dark.

“I missed your voice,” Adora whispered, barely audible. Catra didn’t need to look at the girl’s face to know she was crying.  

Any tart rebukes died on her tongue as Adora rotated in her snug hold, more inward to her chest and kissed her there.

“I love you,”  Adora murmured sleepily.

Catra’s heart nearly melted. She mustered a shaky breath, tightening her grip on the girl's waist.

The last time Adora said those three words, they’d been at the Heart of Etheria, surrounded by deathly powerful magic, teetering on the precipice of well...Catra didn’t like to think about it.

“I love you too,” the feline girl crooned, caressing Adora’s face. “Now sleep.” The tranquility of the night lulling them into a gentle sleep. Catra held Adora close to her, she promised she’d stay with her at the Heart too and shed stay here as well, forever in this moment, as long as Adora would have her.

---

Golden sunlight woke Catra the next morning. She blinked open her eyes, a small gasp escaping her. Adora was somehow, impossibly still asleep. It was always Adora who was the early riser. They had slid down into the bed during the night. Adora now laying fully on top of her, not that she minded. Catra rubbed the girl’s back in rhythmic circles between her shoulders. She didn’t bother to conceal the happy purr coming from deep in her chest. The full light illuminated Adora in a heavenly glow.

This is what she deserves. Rest, peace, sleep.

Catra could’ve watched Adora sleep for hours. Lost in the meditation of each full rise and fall of her sides. Finally the princess of power stirred awake, brilliant blue eyes squinting in the light.

“Morning princess,” Catra murmured, leaning down to kiss Adora’s cheek.

“Mm...morning,’ Adora grinned. She inched herself up, her face inches from Catra. The feline girl couldn’t help it, she took the blonde’s face in her hands and kissed her lips. Adora laughed into the kiss, returning it with equal tenderness.

“I’ll get us breakfast,” she started.

“No! Let me,” Catra was up before the girl could protest. She slid out of their room, flitting down the hall.

Catra returned a few minutes later, a fully prepared speech of “no Adora it’s still early go back to bed,” ready to go. To her shock however, the blonde girl was still where she’d left her, dozing lightly in bed.

“Here you go,” she offered Adora a mug of something that Glimmer called coffee. Adora pulled herself up, reluctant but grasped for the beverage and took a sip. Catra sat down beside her and grinned as Adora leaned her head on her shoulder.

“You’re being nice,” she said, almost suspicious. Catra took a sip of her own coffee and slid her other arm around the girl’s waist.

“If it’s your job to be She-Ra,” she pieced together aloud. “Then it’s my job to take care of Adora.”

The blonde girl frowned in confusion,

“...but I am She-Ra.”

Catra turned to her, smiling radiently taking in the girl’s whole face. Those blue eyes that had held so much adoration and contempt, anger and resentment. Those eyes so full of love and loyalty. She stared at Adora, her best friend, the love of her life. She leaned forward touching her forehead to Adora’s and smiled.

“I’m not in love with She-Ra. I’m in love with Adora.”

The blonde girl’s face broke into one of the sappiest smiles Catra had ever seen, though she wasn’t about to make fun given the line she’d just pulled. Adora set her coffee down and put her arms around Catra for a silent hug.

“Glimmer will want to prep for the meeting,” she finally sighed. Cara smirked, taking Adora’s chin in her hand and tilting it upward, leaning in close until their lips brushed.

“And what do you want Adora?”

“I want to lay here in bed with you all day and listen to you sing and never leave.”

Catra grinned, kissing her fully and deeply, slowly pressing her down into the soft sheets once more.

“Then let’s do that,” she whispered, and began to sing.

[5lazarus]

My Dragon Age Fanfiction Masterlist

In chronological order, from Arlathan to post-Trespasser.

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore’s wonderful promptlist.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It’s not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan’s Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens’ companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders’ first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what’s more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke’s debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There’s no resolution to an argument when they’re both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den’s 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts.

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Catabasis Kirkwall’s in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, “he wants to give wisdom, not orders,” and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers–and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel’s Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel’s Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara’s sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel’s Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars’ harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn’t think her Keeper’s calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry’s leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called “Herald of Andraste” and see Mythal’s vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter–one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

[supposed2bfunny]

Yoo it’s me & you got me thinking. So 2D,spoiled only child,not real thoughtful(prob didn’t realize his mum did his laundry til he moved out and his laundry wasn’t magically clean anymore) & Murdoc leaves little candies and things in his pockets/around the house for him. Phase 5, Murdoc’s in jail. Suddenly there’s no candy around for him all the time. He’s confused about this until Noodle is like “who do you think did all that stuff for you?” What do you think that realization is like for him?

Uhhhh this may have expanded beyond anything I had in mind when you sent this ask hours ago, nips. Short ficlet under the cut!

It’s the second or third day after Ace moves in and the band moves forward with the new album that 2D finds the last vestige of Murdoc lurking on his things like a smelly miasma. He pulls on a worn sports jacket, a gift from FILA from 2013 or 2014, slips his hands into the pockets, and finds something heavy and metallic lurking in the right-side pocket.

Pulling it out, he beholds a silver ring bearing a skull, the sort of thing Marilyn Manson would have pulled off well in the 90s, that gothic bulkiness in which Murdoc has always aspired to look cool in and has never quite succeeded.

After a moment’s inspection, 2D does the logical thing: he hurls the ring down the staircase of the Spirit House, grinning with satisfaction at the sound of it bouncing off the wooden floors below and rolling away to be forgotten amongst debris and clutter and apathy.

“Tosser,” he mutters to himself.

The weeks wear on. Recording goes well, the band gets on just fine, and 2D does not think about Murdoc. 

However, he does suffer a few completely unrelated hang-ups that put the faintest damper on his otherwise now-near-perfect and tosser-free existence.

Primarily in the loss of surprise candy.

He wonders for the first time where all the sweets have gone.

And this leads him down the rabbit hole of wondering where they came from for the first time. For as long as he can remember, 2D has always been pleasantly surprised by hard candies, lemon sherbets, blue-raspberry lollies, Jelly Babies, even the rare Cadbury Creme Egg in the pockets of his jackets, or in his jeans, sometimes tucked into his beanies or even shoved into his pillowcases. Sort of like a tooth fairy has graced him at random times, leaving behind his preferred snacks. Good omens, if ever there was such a thing. 

It’s always reminded him of the way his mum used to leave Flake bars on his pillow after doing her weekly shopping, even when his dad went through his health kicks and tried to ban sweets from the house. 

He doesn’t exactly notice the loss until he’s standing in line at the market one day, purchasing several boxes of his preferred frozen chana masala dinners, when he impulsively grabs a few chocolate bars on his way to check out.

It’s only then that it occurs to him he hasn’t found any mystery goodies lying around for him in several weeks. Where had they come from in the first place, he muses. Noodle? Maybe Russel?

It doesn’t seem likely that Russel was giving them out, since he prefers to cook whole meals himself to serve the band. That leaves Noodle. And why wouldn’t she be sharing candy with him these days? Are they having a row?

As he makes his way home, he ponders what he could have done wrong to upset Noodle. She’d seemed perfectly fine the other day when they went out for bubble tea. She’d even laughed when he’d sucked the boba through the thick straw by sticking it between the gap between his front teeth. Things had seen positively chilly between them!

Being the brave, no-nonsense man that he is, and the de facto leader of the band now that the tosser is locked up for lord-knew-what, he figures he ought to confront her about it straightaway.

So he gives it a couple of days, in case she needs to blow off steam or cool down. Then a few more days, figuring she can approach him first to apologize, he should really be the bigger man. Then he gives it yet a few more days, just to be sure they are in fact having a row. Because rehearsals seem normal. Noodle’s spirits seem as high as ever, her Instagram posts emoji-saturated, her smiles genuine, her laughter nonstop as she develops a close bond with Ace and the two become inseparable. 

Finally, he bumps into her one night: they’re nothing reaching for their preferred coconutmilk ice cream sometime past two in the morning.

“Great minds think alike,” she smiles. “I’ll grab the bowls.”

“Hey, Noods,” he says, leaning back against the counter casually and popping the carton open. “Can I ask you something?”

“What’s up, Dee?”

“Are you...aw, it’s gonna sound so silly! You ready to laugh? You’re not cross with me, are you?”

She hands him a bowl and spoon and gets scooping. “Cross with you? Not at all--” he nearly drops his bowl in relief--”why do you ask?”

“Nah, forget it. What’s Ace say? Fuggeddaboutit?”

She pulls a face. “That was a really shitty accent.”

“Aint that the point?”

“I guess,” she concedes. “Anyway, I want to know why you thought I was cross with you: just tell me!”

“Well...I guess I kind of miss the candy you always shared with me.”

Noodle pops her spoon into her mouth, sits on the kitchen table and crosses one leg over the other. “Huh? What candy?”

“I mean, you’re the sweet tooth queen, Noods! You always have candies on you, and you used to share ‘em with me. And I guess I miss it a little bit.”

“When did I last share candy with you?” she asks. “It’s been like, a million years since I placed one of those bulk orders of the good stuff from Japan that I like.”

“No, no, not any Japanese candy. I just mean like, Jelly Babies and stuff. You used to leave ‘em in my coat pockets, or sitting out on my keyboards to surprise me. Like, rewind a month or so ago, you’d do it all the time.”

“No I wouldn’t,” she answers, looking thoroughly perplexed. 

“But...” he frowns down at his ice cream. It’s too cold still, hasn’t begun to get all good and melty the way he likes it. Just a lump of chill and ice. “Then who did?”

“You mean the little presents Murdoc always used to leave out for you? 2D, that was all Murdoc.”

There’s a pause as 2D continues to leer down at his bowl, almost forgetting that he’s not alone in the room. He remembers the skull ring he’d found and thrown. He remembers the candies sitting on the bench by his piano in the basement, the comic books rolled up and jammed into the case of his acoustic guitar, the comic books he has no memory of purchasing though they feature his favorite heroes. He remembers the fidget cube he’d found one day in his sock drawer, and the Cadbury Creme Eggs next to his condoms by the bedside.

“Hey,” Noodle’s voice draws him back out. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Everything’s fine, luv.”

She arches a brow at him; she knows he only calls her that when he's unfocused. “It’s okay to miss him, you know,” she says gently. “Sometimes I do too. He was pretty indulgent towards you, when he wanted to be. Can’t blame you for missing that.”

“Yeah right,” he forces a chuckle. “Think we’re all doing better with that sod out of the band for a bit. I’m having a nice time stretching my legs, so to speak. Really, I’m much happier these days, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

“Okay,” she responds, and she sounds patronizing, but maybe it’s just his imagination. “I’m gonna go finish the movie I started,” she hops off the counter, leaving him to his thoughts. “G’night.”

“’Kay, night!” He sits down at the table properly, intending to finish his dessert. But while it melts, he figures he has time for a smoke. He pats his pants pockets, realizes he doesn’t have any cigarettes on him. Murdoc always had ciggies with him, no matter where he was, no matter what level of dress or undress he was in. These days, 2D often finds himself with smokes but no lighter, or playing with a lighter but lacking in smokes.

Not in the mood to get up to find some, he instead sits there, fiddles with his spoon. It seems wrong to qualify Murdoc’s behavior as kindness, given that the word is so contradictory to his entire persona. Murdoc is not kind. Never has been. Murdoc is a tosser, a criminal, an impulsive crackhead with a tendency to make decisions that hurt those around him.

A selfish prick...whose arbitrary actions have unwittingly brought him joy for months, years, shit, he can’t remember when he first started noticing these little treats and presents left out for him, like a corvid collecting bottle caps for a preferred human companion. 

He hates Murdoc then, not for his cruelty and nasty behavior, but for his capacity to defy his own constructed persona. 

Sometime deep into these thoughts, he realizes that his ice cream has melted beyond the point of being softened and melty: it’s just a puddle of coconutmilk soup with a caramel swirl. It’s also lukewarm. It’s also approaching four in the morning.

Joints cracking as he stands, 2D brings his bowl to the sink, then approaches the bottom of the staircase. He pulls up the flashlight on his cellphone, casts it around the foyer and the living room, peaks under unpacked boxes of records and ottomans collecting dust and many, many, many pairs of shoes.

He doesn’t find that ring he’d thrown. Eventually, he gives up looking and heads to bed.

For the first time since he’d received a phone call from the local police station, he dreams of Murdoc, wakes up with crusty eyes and tight lungs and stares at the ceiling for a long time. He feels less like the leader of the band then, and more like a wayward child. A runaway. A vagabond. Directionless.

Eventually, he reaches out an arm, fumbles blindly till he finds the notebook he’s been writing lyrics in. With a sigh, he hoists himself up into a sitting position, rolls his shoulders; a joint cracks somewhere in his neck.

His pen scratches dryly a bit against the blank page at first, reluctant to share its ink with him. The hiss of nub against paper, friction. Then, the ink floods out, all at once. 

[copias-thrall]

This is Halloween (Halloween)

Mary expands Suey's world by taking her to a crazy art party.

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8; 9)

It’s one of the stretches where you actually haven’t seen Mary in a few days. He’d apparently been by your apartment—dishes were done and he took out your trash—but you’d spent that day hunkered down at a coffee shop so you could have sandwiches with a friend who got a job downtown. And while Mary can be lyrical when he wants to be, his texts are usually brief and full of letters that only make sense to him in his shorthand … so you’re not ever going to get any missives from the front lines from him.

Which is fine: you’re super-busy and full of your own hobbies. Like napping. And complaining. Occasionally you’ll round that out with chip-eating. You’ve never been particularly creative—which makes Mary wince at you every now and then (you love art, you’re just not … adept, and sometimes it seems unfair that he can write music AND lyrics AND doodle great sketches)—but you are a voracious reader. You’d been shocked to find out that not only had Mary read Austen, but he also had a love of Persuasion—a novel you yourself found superior to Pride & Prejudice. He’d been similarly chuffed when he’d realized you liked Chuck Palahniuk for more than just Fight Club. 

Which is all to say that when Mary’s not around, you like to combine your hobbies—a little chip eating while you read, only to fall asleep with the book on your face. 

Tonight is no exception.

It’s nearly Halloween (it’s tomorrow actually, and you’re only slightly bummed that Mary has to work), so in honor of the holiday you’re working your way through an anthology of Lovecraft. Unexpectedly, there's a knock at your door. You check your phone, but there are no texts.

Hmm.

There’s another knock, so you set down the book and sprint to your bedroom to take up what Mary has dubbed your “Masher Hammer.” You make it back to your apartment door just in time for a third series of knocks. When you look out the peephole, however, it’s clear that whoever’s on the other side is blocking the viewer.

Gripping your hammer tight—ready for swing mode—you unlatch your door and open it.

You’re met with the sight of a Jack O’Lantern. 

No—

Not a Jack O’Lantern … some guy with a carved pumpkin on his head.

“Ta-d—Jesus Christ, Suey … put Masher down,” says a muffled voice.

“Mary?”

Mary lifts the pumpkin—a real pumpkin, not a plastic basket from the dollar store—a little off his head enough for you to make out his face. You lower your swinging arm.

“Why is there a pumpkin on your head? What are you doing here?” 

He spreads his arms out and does jazz hands. “Mischief Night!” 

When you just stand there squinting at him, he finally takes the pumpkin fully off his head. His hair is squashed, and he’s only wearing some light makeup around his eyes and on his lips.

“So, you gonna let me in, or … should I duck?”

“Oh, right,” you say as you step back.

As Mary suanters in, you can see his eyes sweep to the couch where you’ve made a nest of blankets and pillows—your book lying face down, and the open bag chips positioned at an optimal angle on the coffee table.

“That looks nice.” He sidles up to you to squeeze your tits through your hoodie. “Almost makes me want to call it a night and get cozy in those blankets … I could crush those chips and lick them off you before I eat you out.”

His hand slides down to your crotch.

You’re trying to take him seriously, but he’s holding a pumpkin under his arm. You snap at his face.

“Mary—focus. What the hell?”

He gives you a put out look, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip—but it’s soon replaced with a wicked grin.

“Mischief Night! Do you wanna go to a weird-ass art party?”

“An art party?” you ask dubiously.

“No, not what you’re thinking.”

He sets down the carved pumpkin on your table and walks to your fridge, rummaging around before pulling out the pisswater beer he keeps around.

“Think of it as a teen-movie house party—but on steroids and no one there got laid in high school. With, you know: art.”

“That’s … very specific.”

He walks back over to you, cradling the beer in one hand, and puts the other on your shoulder.

“We are under no obligation to participate in the orgy.”

You don’t think he’s joking.

He gives you a once over. “It’s also a—hmm—masquerade, so we gotta get you outfitted.”

Your mind darts.

“I only have those stupid headband cat ears my friend got me as a joke.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You’re gonna go as me.”

It had been a fun little party of two as you’d put on a YouTube Halloween playlist from your phone. Mary’d given you a dramatic mohawk with his precious airplane glue, then fished around in the pink makeup bag with hearts (that you’d put his stash in as a joke and he’d kept) to give you his iconic look—blood and all.

There was no way you were going to fit in his skinny jeans, but you’d been able to pair one of his well-worn tees (that you hadn’t already stolen) with your favorite denim skirt. Mary had taken off one of his studded belts to wrap around you—it’d needed a couple of safety pins to act as extensions, but Mary had assured you that that just made the style more authentic. Upon Mary’s request, you’d put on your ripped fishnets, and you had your own worn Docs to complete the look.

“Do I get to be a sex-crazed jerk all night?” you’d asked as you’d admired yourself in the corroded full-length you had propped up by the bathroom.

“You say that as if that’s something new and different for you—fuck ow,” said Mary as you’d tapped his balls.

“So where is this place?” you ask as Mary and you head to the train. 

It’s in the old factory district, which means it’s a ways away, but still subway accessible.

“It’s actually in a converted co-op. I think they started out as squatters—unclear—but now it’s above board as a residence and shit. I used to know a guy who lived there for a while—they had sectioned off areas with screens—and he had a corner so he slept in a hammock. Most of the space is for their art, though. What a fucking life to live.”

You look at him, incredulous. “Mare. You live in a 2 bedroom with 4 other dudes.”

He scoffs at you. “We also have a couch. It’s a whole ‘nother level.”

You just hum at him.

When you finally get there—after a few mis-turns in this silent neighborhood full of abandoned brick factories—you’re surprised (despite Mary’s description) to see that the place is lit. There’s a guy standing at the entrance to the parking lot (that slopes dangerously toward the river) checking attendees; it becomes clear that not only is he checking for 21+, but for alcohol and toilet paper. Those without either have to “donate” $10.

“Oh—” says Mary right before it’s about to be your turn. “I’m not Mary tonight.”

“What should I call, then? The ‘Great Pumpkin’?”

“Just not Mary,” he hisses as you shore up to the “bouncer.”

The guy is not in any kind of costume—just grey sweats and a sports team hat. He’s sitting on a bar stool, and he has a little flashlight he’s using to check IDs.

“Hey, guys!” he says cheerily. “Welcome to Magical Mischief Mystery at the Factory. IDs? Ah! TP and suds? Cool, cool.”

He checks your IDs, then looks at you, then your IDs … then at Mary’s pumpkin face, then at you.

“OH MY GOD,” he starts chortling and slips off the stool to grab Mary’s arm. “Mary, you old bastard—I haven’t seen you since Dusty left to get hitched.”

You take a deep breath and—in your best screamo voice—you say, “I’m fucking Mary Goore,” (not a lie) “and he’s ‘Late for Dinner’.”

The pumpkin head turns to you. You can feel Mary’s unamused gaze.

The bouncer starts wheezing so hard that you’re afraid he might expire from laughing.

“Fuck, fuck,” gasps the dude. He shakes his head, eyes watery from mirth, and waves the two of you through.

“I hate you,” says Mary.

“I didn’t call you ‘Mary’, though,” you quip as you slip your arm through his.

“Why do I have to carry all the shit? Here. Pull your fucking weight.”

Mary hands you the toilet paper roll he heisted from your bathroom.

“Are we going to TP something?” you ask as you take the roll from him.

“Heh. No, it’s purely functional. This many people? It’s so the bathrooms don’t run out.”

The two of you enter with another mass of people, traveling through the miasma of secondhand smoke from the smokers. You cough, but Mary inhales deep, sighing. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you gape as you look around.

You and Mary stand on an open floor—which is what 5 or so floors look out onto all the way up. The place is crowded, but not jam packed. There’s a makeshift kitchen area where a dude in a bare chest and suspenders is accepting the toilet paper and libations. Above him is a white sheet that’s stretched out, on which an Art Film is being projected. The film has no sound because in the far corner there’s a DJ spinning, and a group of people are “dancing” to his jams. Mary was right: it’s like some kind of frat party for the artsy set. Because of the theme, most everyone is in a mask of some sort, and people—or groups of people—are making out in corners in various states of undress. 

Mary grabs two beers, then leads you to a staircase—there’s a freight elevator by it, but it’s got cheesy Halloween “do not enter” tape blocking it.

“The first year too many people loaded into it, and it dropped 3 floors before the emergency brakes kicked in,” says Mary as he notices where you’re looking.

In a loft on the second floor you and Mary watch a woman—nude and covered in white paint—become the canvas to her girlfriend’s landscape painting.

In what’s clearly a shared bedroom, you and Mary peruse some really great paintings and sketches from what must be a number of the co-op residents.

“You should have told me to bring cash,” you say.

“We can always come back. I know a guy.”

You imagine Mary’s probably winking at you.

On the third floor there’s an inexplicable open-air kitchen attached to a bathroom. In it there’s a dude doling out beer from a keg.

“What’s this,” Mary asks him.

“It’s my homemade IPA, dude! Pumpkin for the season!”

He hands Mary a business card.

“We have a small space in the boonies, but we’re trying to get a brewery up and running in the city. Red tape though, man.”

“I fucking hear that.” Mary takes a sip. “Good shit, dude.”

The guy high-fives Mary.

“One for your girl?”

Mary hands you the solo cup, and you take a sip. You were expecting something grassy and hoppy—but the pumpkin actually balances it out nicely without it itself being cloyingly sweet. When you nod, Mary just lets you have his and indicates to the brewer to pump another cup.

The two of you enter what you think might usually be a studio space, but instead there’s a burlesque performance going on. There are some people making out, but Mary and you watch, rapt, praising the skill of the performers to each other.

The fourth floor has the least amount of people. Someone is doing a reading in one corner, and across the way there’s some sort of performance art going on. A woman stands in a white shift and gauze. Every time a dude who looks like a Nazgul rings a bell, she contorts herself to a different pose with a dancer’s ease.

You roll your eyes, but Mary begs your patience—watching solemnly as she continues.

“What is it?” you ask when the set is clearly over.

“Did you not feel it?”

“Uh …”

Even through the pumpkin you can feel his eyes on you.

“She’s a dancing monkey. Bound and constrained, only ever allowed to perform at the whim of her faceless master.”

“Mary …”

“No—don’t scoff. That was meant for you. It’s an allegory for the patriarchy, and I for one found it quite moving.”

You guess you can see it now that Mary’s pointed it out to you. He takes off the pumpkin, and you hold it while he goes over to talk to the woman. You shift uncomfortably as they engage, and she grabs his hands, shaking them profusely. Mary suddenly points over at you, and the woman waves and motions you over.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she squeals. She turns back to Mary. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—she looks just like you.”

“I liked your patriarchal allegory,” you say.

Mary twists his mouth at you, but the woman just presses her hands to her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m testing it out here as a protest piece. A bunch of us are going to travel to different cities and perform outside of big corporations.” She grabs Mary’s wrist. “Your boyfriend is wonderful. His song about—”

“—my band’s song—”

“—the nature of performative gender roles is one of my favs.”

You have no idea which song she’s talking about, but Mary looks pleased. So you’re pleased. You wrap your arm around his waist.

“He is pretty great.”

She lifts her veil to chug the glass of water Nazgul hands her.

“It was so nice to meet you person to person, Mary. I’m going to find the ladies before my next performance.”

“Love your work, Lizzy. I’ll put you on the list for our shows. Show up anytime!”

She bows and shuffles backwards as Mary leads you away.

“You have no idea what song she’s talking about do you?”

“I—” you sputter. “Uh. Dead Things?”

Mary looks at you indulgently.

“I’ll let you think about it.”

It turns out that the 5th floor is off limits to party goers, so Mary—back in his Jack O’Lantern—and you wander down to ground level to acquire more beer and to join the crowd of dancers. At some point the two of you take a break to pee, then hydrate as you add your own dialogue to the film on loop above you.

Back on the dance floor, there’s some skanking, some goth writhing, and some line dancing as the DJ spins his own set and sprinkles in some crowd requests. At this point in the night, most of the attendees have already made passes through the upper floors and are now all on the dance floor. Mary does some goth stomping (his pumpkin abandoned and now being passed around), and you do a silly skank until you slip on a slick spot and fall on your ass. After that, Mary pulls you close and grinds against you, his thigh between yours, both of you buzzed from multiple trips to the bar.

“Do you wanna find a corner?” he whispers into your ear.

In any other situation you’d probably say no … but—for all the crowd is packed—this is clearly a private party, one whose hosts don’t frown upon a little bit of lechery. You guess he wasn’t kidding about the orgy, after all.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

It takes a little investigation, but Mary and you find a room that seems to have been either designated or usurped as the makeout room. There’s a writhing mass in one corner, and the bed is covered in rolling bodies. There’re some breathy invitations—and a hand or two lightly caresses your calf as you walk by—but no one insists on participation further than that. 

Mary yanks a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the floor. He pulls you down so that you’re both on your knees, his mouth capturing yours and his hands alighting everywhere. A hand of his sneaks down your skirt, and yours slithers down his jeans—the roving fingers of you each more a prelude than anything, stoking you both up to what’s next.

“Can I fuck you?” huffs Mary.

“Kinda drunk,” you say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—just not gonna be very useful,” you giggle.

Because you wore the fishnets you’re not wearing underwear, so all Mary has to do is rip a hole in the crotch area—they’re not even good fishnets, so it’s not like there’s a liner to contend with. He grunts at your wetness.

“You sure?”

“Fuck me, Mary.”

He fumbles with his dick, finally managing to sink it into you. It’s a very awkward fuck—you’re lolling all about the place, and Mary isn’t being particularly steady.

At one point a light turns on only for a Sorry! to squeal out as it turns off again.

You try to swallow your laugh, but your jiggling belly can’t hide your reaction, and soon Mary is laughing too.

“Fuck … shut up … fuck,” he giggles. “I’m trying to get off here.”

You’re just catapulted into further fits, and before long Mary’s soft cock is slipping out of you as he joins you in snickering.

“Crap. I might be too drunk for this too.”

The two of you lay like that for a bit, a feedback loop of laughter, until your belly muscles ache.

“Fuck. Take me home, Suey.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say. 

After some readjusting, you both stumble out of the room. The crowd has thinned, but that’s not to say the dance party isn’t still going strong.

“We should get a cab,” you say.

“Cash?” Mary asks as you guys shuffle out of the building.

“App,” you say as you hold up your phone to poke at your cab app. “My card s’on file.”

“Fancy.”

“S’for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Like staying too late at a factory party.”

There’s a comedy of errors when the cab can’t find you and cancels, and you have to rebook—only to have the same cab automatically cancel your order again. Mary calls the number for dispatch, and they direct you out to a main street. The cab that picks you up is the same cab that voided your reservation twice, and he yells at you for giving him the wrong address.

You let Mary argue with him (content to doze on his shoulder)—the conclusion seeming to be that while you put in the correct address, the app didn’t like it and spit out a close, but different, pickup address.

By the end of the trip, however, the cabbie and Mary seem to be old friends. He lingers even after the driver validates your card, talking with the guy about where he’s from, until you tug on his arm.

“Sleepy,” you grumble into him.

The cab driver laughs.

“We are beholden to our women, yes?”

“Happily,” says Mary as he wraps an arm around you.

“Have a good night,” says the cabbie, and Mary just raps on the car, waving as it pulls away.

 “What a cool dude,” he says as the two of you shuffle toward your building.

“Mhm,” you mumble.

“Jesus, you’re useless when you’re drunk.”

There’s a lot of fumbling and stumbling, but you both finally make it into your apartment. Somehow Mary gets you into the shower, which you don’t even realize until it turns on, and you shriek when the cold water smacks you in the face before it has the chance to warm up.

“Why am I still in my clothes?!” you whine.

Mary pokes his head in.

“You fucking serious? You almost bit off my fingers when I tried to undress you!”

“I’m more than just sex!” you yell.

“Just fucking wash your face.”

“Kay.”

You fall asleep sitting in the shower, waking only when the water turns cold. It seems to have had a sobering effect, because you definitely feel more clear headed than when you entered—it’s not as funny to be slightly sober and peeling off your cold, wet clothes. Usually you give your teeth the full experience, but tonight (this morning?), you just give them a quick brush.

For all he seemed soberer of you two, Mary doesn’t seem to have fared much better. He managed to get his shirt off, but he’s lying on your bedroom floor—curled in a ball—still in his unbuckled jeans. It would be amusing—and maybe after sleep it will be—if you weren’t so wrecked. It’s a struggle tugging off his jeans, and he semi-wakes halfway through and starts to shiver.

“Wha—?”

He looks at you blearily.

“Help me get your pants off, Mare bear.”

He blinks down at his legs, then sort of squirms his legs to help you wiggle him out of the black denim. Luckily—disorientated as he is—he’s able to assist you in getting him into your bed; he conks out again the minute you trundle him under the covers. The night outside is lightening, and you know there’s no way you can work tomorrow. Today.

Whatever.

You shuffle into your living room and start up your laptop, blinking rapidly as it boots up. When it finally loads, you send off a missive to your supervisor about potential food poisoning you’ve contracted, but how you’ll check your email later this afternoon. You preemptively down some ibuprofen and sneak some of Mary’s Pedialyte.

Mary seems dead to the world when you climb into your bed, but he’s rolling over and wrapped around you as soon as you’re settled, huffing into your neck.

“Took the morning off,” you mumble.

He hums.

You’re in a good doze when he speaks, jarring you back awake.

“Had fun?”

“Yeah, Mare. Now, shh.”

He mumbles something into your neck, but it’s too incoherent and you’re too knackered to decipher it. You just relax into his koala embrace and let sleep take you.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[tamalesnsuch]

WIP Wed

Cleaning out my desktop. Here’s another snippet from another WIP that turned out ok, I think.

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

POV: Varric Tethras

Varric: Baseless Accusation

Scratches from a quill and smoke from his pipe wafted into the air in a thick miasma of frustration. Bits of parchment and letters spilled from the bookshelves like scattered thoughts and in the middle was a great stone table littered with half-finished scraps of his latest novel. Seated at the head was the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild Prince, hacking away at his writer’s block with nothing but a quill and his stubbornness. A thump on the balcony distracted him from his thoughts. It sounded like a sack of potatoes being tossed in a heap. Or, Varric mused, it could be a person. Though, not Cole. He was always silent. This had to be her. He looked up at an owlish pair of eyes that stared straight into him. Bless the elves, really, but their eyes were something unsavory; especially in the dark. Varric felt a wry smile quirk his lip, and he crossed his arms and waited.

He heard scuffling and a few grunts of effort followed by a sweet, “Hello, Varric.” He dug around in a drawer for his extra pipe and a bit of tobacco. His smile spread as he saw her copper tuft of curls in disarray.

“Eggs. Lovely to see you, as always. So, what can I do for… “ his voice halted as he took in her blood-soaked shirt. Her left eye was slightly bruised and swollen, but she still wore an amiable smile and sauntered into his room like she owned it. Well, she did, but she didn’t care about things like that. Still, Varric was very fond of his little home-invading Herald.

He let out a low whistle and handed her the pipe. He got up, shuffled around his armoire in the corner and pulled out a fresh tunic and grabbed two sets of glasses of a nearby table. She plucked a dusty bottle from the top shelf and slumped into a chair.

She amused Varric. She was just like Hawke. They both reminded him of a stray cat adopted by the neighborhood. They belonged to no one, and everyone at once. She had that “Hero” quality about her. Though, just like the Champion, there was something feral and dark lurking under a veneer of humor and softness. Enemies saw that side well, and they carefully hid it in public. Varric set the glasses down and tossed the fresh tunic at her. She caught it mid-air and flashed a grateful smile at him before she poured for them both.

“I know.” She cleared her throat and pitched it as low and gravelly as she could, “don’t bleed on my good chair, Eggs.” She beamed at him, and he had to admit that her impression of him was improving. She let out a small huff and pouted at him. “But it’s so comfortable, Varric.” She gave him her puppy eyes, even though she knew that shit doesn’t work on him. A chuckle rumbled in his chest before he answered her.

“Yeah, tell that to Ruffles the next time I put a request in.” He rolled his eyes at her and turned around with a flourish. He heard a shuffling and a little grunt of effort before a defeated “alright, I’m presentable,” came from her side of the table.

“So, that was not your blood, I take it?” He hedged and took a sip of brandy. He peered over the glass at her. She always said more in her face than with her words.

She shrugged and mumbled something about a wyvern being a gusher. Varric was not convinced. She was too cavalier about the damn thing. He handed her a light for her pipe and waited. She’d crack eventually.

Dhea nodded to the pile of paper leaning dangerously on the table. “Is that the one about Vivienne?” Her eyes lit up, forcing harrumph from Varric.

“Yeah, such as it is. At this rate it’ll be kindling –“

“Or privy paper.” She tacked on. They both chuckled, raised their glass and drained it. She poured another for them. Varric grabbed his deck of cards from under a pile of unopened letters.

There was a thud outside his door, followed by Sparkler’s baritone bravado.

“Darling Dhea, my sweet little crumpet of destruction, I know you’re in there. You can’t hide from me!”

She smiled sheepishly at Varric and shrunk in her chair. He sighed and went to grab another glass.

“I brought the cask! You got the door opened yet?” Tiny’s voice boomed from the stairwell. Varric huffed out a laugh and grabbed his largest tankard. Lavellan went to open the door.

She flashed a crooked smile at Dorian and welcomed him inside with a dramatic flourish. He flicked a little spark at her and entered. Bull rushed through the door and threw her into the air. He kissed her on the cheek and placed her back on wobbly feet. “Hey boss!” He boomed, and went over to slap Dorian’s ass. Dorian just sighed dramatically and collapsed into a chair next to Lavellan. Varric smiled at the little invasion. He wasn’t getting any writing done, anyway. And getting Eggs to crack was quite enjoyable. She couldn’t resist all three interrogations, surely.

Dorian clicked his tongue at her and grabbed the drink out of her hand. “You’re not the first person to escape through a window at my behest, you know. But you are the cutest.” Dorian smiled wryly at her before taking a sip. “I do think Solas would agree.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, laughing as she turned crimson.

“I’ve no idea what you are on about. And we all had to flee. Cabot’s aim with that hatchet is too good, and it’s not the first time we stole a cask from the cellar.” She grabbed her drink back and winked at Dorian.

“Ah! It’s dulled. It won’t even break the skin!” Bull roared as he tapped the cask. “Well, I can’t speak for Tevinter over there.” Bull poured a glass for Varric and set it on the table. Varric sighed as he noticed the gore crusted onto Bull’s trousers. Ah, well. It’ll add some personality to his furniture.

“You can, and you do. Quite often, I might add.” Dorian tucked a curl behind Dhea’s ear and resumed waggling his eyebrows.

“Stop that before they fall off. And again, I don’t know why you have this idea that Solas and I are anything more than friends, but we aren’t and you can ask him. He’ll tell you the same.” Lavellan leveled a glare at him. Varric shook his head and chuckled. It was the same face she used in wicked grace, and she was terrible at it.

“Oh, kaffas, he isn’t nearly as fun. And he’d give me that look. Maker knows I only suffer through that after my hand slips while returning a book to him.” Dorian sipped Lavellan’s drink sheepishly. She bellowed out a laugh.

“You throw them at him, and everyone knows it.” She said.

“I won’t comment on that egregious claim. Now hold still.” He hovered an index finger over her bruised eye. It flashed a blue light as the healing magic knitted the skin together. She blinked at him and pecked him on the cheek in thanks.

“You and Chuckles, huh? Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.” Varric sat down in his chair and resumed smoking. Lavellan picked up her pipe and did her best nonchalant impression. Bull peered at her with his one eye that saw too much. He grinned salaciously.

“No, but you want a bit of that Elven Glory.” Bull guffawed at her reaction and grabbed the cards from Varric’s pile. He started dealing.

“Don’t get all flustered, Boss. We’re only looking out for you.” Bull winked at her and ruffled her hair.

She let out a plume of smoke and shrunk in her chair like some disgruntled baby dragon of denial. She grabbed her cards. “Baseless accusation.” She said and hid behind her hand. Laughter erupted at the table and they started their game.