#i might tinker with it a little bit more?? i think that the colours for light mode on desktop could stand to be toned down a bit

[nonbinary-androids]

I'm rlly happy with my new blog theme!! I managed to get a playlist working on there and everything, although lemme tell you. it was not without difficulty

[another-lost-mc]

a/n: inspired by this ask and the others that have flooded my inbox since. rofl. I might tinker with these a bit more. a nsfw version might be coming later, maybe? we'll see.

➤ shadow-walking with mc | the demons + solomon

1.9k words | gn!reader | sfw | descriptions of canon-typical violence

Shadow-walking requires the demon and human to have a pact. MC is a rare human that shares this ability with all the demon brothers.

Solomon shares this ability with Barbatos and Asmodeus but rarely uses it.

It's normally used as an offensive or defensive ability as needed.

The demon brothers re-purpose it as a way of still "being" with MC and spending time with them even when they can't physically.

The demon and their human master share a telepathic bond that lets them communicate through thoughts and emotions. This allows them to "speak" to each other.

Only one demon can share MC's shadow which means there's usually a queue of demons waiting for their chance to sneak in next.

None of the demon brothers believe they need a formal system to decide who gets to spend time shadow-walking with MC because that's just embarrassing to admit. It ends up being a first-come first-serve free-for-all unless they negotiate some sort of agreement in advance (which usually involves threats or bribes).

Belphegor spends the most time in MC's shadow—his subconscious is constantly trying to gain access even when he's asleep.

Only powerful demons can sense when MC is shadow-walking with another demon if their shadow form hasn't manifested yet. This would catch arrogant lesser-demons completely by surprise if they think MC is a lonely, vulnerable target.

When the demon's shadow form "awakens," MC's shadow changes to the shape of whichever demon is shadow-walking with them at that time. This usually happens when the demon senses something is wrong or MC is troubled; it gives them more access to MC's surroundings so they can detect danger more easily.

Shadow-walking's final form is a corporeal version of the shadow come to life. It manifests as a dark, muted visage of whichever demon is present. They are generally not capable of regular speech and rarely make noise or sounds at all.

The shadow forms are capable of offensive and defensive magical abilities, and some may even fight with conjured weapons. They all have increased agility/reflexes and enhanced strength.

Shadow forms are able to communicate telepathically with Little Ds that share their sin attribute. Little Ds can also be controlled as offensive minions in MC's defense.

The demon brothers have limited control over their shadow forms. The shadows function on instinct fueled by emotion and their natural desire to protect their precious human master at all costs.

MC can use direct commands or pact magic spells to temporarily block the demon brothers from entering their shadow. This prevents any unwanted interruptions if MC is doing someone something private, or if MC simply wants to be alone.

LUCIFER

Lucifer sometimes shadow-walks with MC as an alternative to stringing up his brothers when he's frustrated.

He also shadow-walks with MC when he's working in his study or relaxing with a glass of Demonus by the fireplace. Their link allows MC to hear whatever cursed record he's listening to without succumbing to any of the negative side effects.

Shadow Form manifestation: appears in a gust of wind behind a flurry of black feathers. He hovers off the ground behind MC. Even though the shadow forms are dark and generally void of colour, his eyes and gloves are still noticeably red.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: In addition to enhanced physical combat abilities, he is capable of telekinetic control of objects. His shadow form's wings can also block MC like a shield and the feathers can slice through most materials including demon flesh.

MAMMON

Sometimes he claims he does it when he's bored or it's "his turn to babysit MC" but really, he does it because he misses them.

If MC goes to the club or casino without him, he's usually lurking in their shadow instead. MC's luck is amplified when Mammon is in their shadow, but he can't replicate that same good luck in-person which frustrates him to no end.

Shadow Form manifestation: He spawns in a pool at MC's feet and then sprints past whatever is bothering MC. The threat turns around and sees Mammon's shadow, crouched low and grinning with his fangs on display before he pounces.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: Capable of flight and is the most agile of all his brothers in this form. He normally uses hand-to-hand combat to overwhelm whoever or whatever is threatening MC. He can summon a protective barrier around MC that reflects spells/physical blows back at the attacker.

LEVIATHAN

He gets very jealous of the others when he has to wait to shadow-walk with MC.

Sometimes he'll keep gaming when he shadow-walks, but most of the time he goes to his bathtub so he can focus all of his attention on MC instead. He's more confident communicating with MC this way. He's less awkward and more outgoing, especially when he can sense how happy MC is too.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow ripples like inky black water before he emerges. His silhouette almost looks like a naga until he steps forward and his tail uncoils itself from around his body.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: He uses shadow-infused water magic. He can summon a defensive water shield around MC to absorb any magical or physical blows. His tail is strong enough to wrap around and crush the body of most weaker demons. If the threats are too strong or if he's particularly angry, he can summon Lotan whose immense power is enhanced with shadow magic. (He's never had to do this because he knows it should be used as a last resort—the collateral damage would be catastrophic.)

SATAN

Shadow-walking is one of the easiest ways for him to calm down.

When they shadow-walk together, they talk about school or books or movies or their other shared interests—it's like walking for a casual stroll together, but with extra steps.

Shadow Form manifestation: He crawls out of the shadow, and his sharp claws leave visible marks on the ground. The wispy shape of his feathered boa and his tail curling around his body makes him look bestial and menacing.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His teeth and nails are longer and sharper. He attacks brutally with uncontained fury and his opponents are often left in bloody, mangled messes by the time he's ensured MC's safety. His shadow form is capable of distorted growling noises when angry or purring noises when content.

ASMODEUS

His motivations for shadow-walking are to spend quality time with MC but he's also extremely protective of them. He gets worried when he can't be there with MC directly.

He likes to shadow-walk with MC when he's having a spa night or when he's out shopping. He sends MC visual images of things he's doing or clothes he's trying on so he can get their feedback. He will purposefully block out any images of things he buys for MC so he can surprise them with gifts later.

Shadow Form manifestation: The first thing you notice before his shadow appears is a soft, condescending chuckle. It's distorted and deeper, like an old audio recording. A pair of shadowy hands curl over MC's shoulders—or around their waist—as he slowly wraps his arms around them from behind. He pulls MC against his chest and hooks his chin over their shoulder, eyes flaring and mouth widening in deadly amusement while he assesses the threat.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His wings are stronger and capable of flight easier in this form. He uses shadow-infused charm magic that tortures his enemies with pain and batters away at their mental defenses. Sometimes he prefers a personal touch and conjures a pair of poison-tipped daggers to eviscerate anything that dares to harm his MC.

BEELZEBUB

He feels bad that fights literally break out over access to MC's shadow so he tries not to be greedy for MC's sake. Belphie will usually give up some of his "shadow time" so Beel can have that time with MC too without feeling guilty about it.

He likes shadow-walking with MC when they're out shopping or doing other errands. He can boost MC's strength so that it's easier for them to carry things that might ordinarily be too heavy on their own.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow form is a blur that launches itself from the ground into the sky. His wings flutter rapidly against his back while he assesses the threat. When he goes in for the attack, he's like a comet plummeting to the ground.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: His wings are constantly buzzing and he can use shadow-infused wind magic to attack enemies or create protective barriers around MC. If he enters a rampage, he prefers to attack with his bare hands and teeth—his and Satan's shadow forms are the most gruesome to witness. (Satan doesn't usually eat his victims, though.)

BELPHEGOR

He would camp in MC's shadow forever if he could. Even when he's sleeping, his subconscious is still capable of communicating with MC but he uses raw emotion and abstract images rather than telepathic speech in that situation.

Shadow Form manifestation: His shadow grabs onto MC's clothes while he climbs up their body and pulls himself off the ground. He nuzzles into MC's neck or shoulder while he yawns and flicks his tail in annoyance.

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: He can attack threats personally if he needs to, but usually he's too lazy. He drapes himself over MC's shoulder and wraps his tail around them protectively while he summons the Dark Specter of Despair and lets that do the work for him.

DIAVOLO

He's inspired by the bonds MC shares with the demon brothers but he's also regretful that he doesn't have a pact with them too.

He's able to expel the demon brother in MC's shadow with his own power, but usually they know better than to try and intrude on MC's visits with Diavolo out of respect.

BARBATOS

He can shadow-walk with Solomon but rarely chooses to do so. However, he shadow-walks with Solomon if he knows the sorcerer and MC are together. (Sometimes he and Asmo fight over Solomon's shadow if another demon brother is in MC's.)

Shadow Form offensive and defensive abilities: he mostly ignores Solomon and lets the wizard take care of himself; he focuses on protecting MC instead. He can use time-altering shadow magic to freeze or slow enemies. He can also teleport MC directly to his physical body's location out of harm's way.

MEPHISTOPHELES

He doesn't have a pact with MC and he swears he will never have a pact with MC (and will never ever want one, ever). However, he still feels prickly when he senses MC is shadow-walking with one of the demon brothers. He doesn't insult MC as much, but he does insult Lucifer loudly and with even more colourful language than usual. Most of Lucifer's brothers think this is hilarious.

SOLOMON

Most of the corporeal shadow demons are surprisingly hostile towards Solomon for no apparent reason. He finds it odd that they always appear whenever he's trying to cook something for MC. The shadow forms that are more tolerable of him are Asmo, Barbatos, and to a lesser degree, Satan.

Solomon doesn't get many opportunities to shadow-walk with his pact demons so he finds it fascinating to watch, but none of them will tolerate his experiments. He's also jealous that he doesn't get to spend much time alone with MC because one of the demons is usually lurking within MC's shadow.

[tinydefector]

Kinktober Day 2

Frame Modification- Rodimus x Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Nsfw, smut, genital modification, strap ons?, human/ Cybertronian.

@tf-kinktober2024

Day 1

Day 3

______________

The human stares at Rodimus for a moment with a raised eyebrow looking at the boxes of equipment. "So what exactly is all of this?" They ask looking over the different components in them. Rodimus scratches his helm sheepishly. "Well, uh, you know my size can be, heh, problematic when it comes to interfacing with you. Don't want to accidentally hurt you due to the size" 

He offers a lopsided grin. "So Perceptor and I have been tinkering. These doodads should decrease my, um, girth and increase sensitivity without compromising structure or function, if his calculations hold up." 

Rodimus clutches a box hopefully. "I care for you and I know how much you like what we have going on but i want you to be able to have more" His field radiates shy affection. 

"Your... downgrading, for me?" They nearly whisper while looking over the three boxes. There were more than one spike mod in the boxes and it made them wonder just how long Rodimus had been planning this.

Rodimus rubs the back of his helm sheepishly. "Well, yeah. This is important to me too, you know?" He gestures to the boxes. "Perceptor and I have been working on different prototypes for a while now. Wanna make sure we get it just right, so they are interchangeable."

Chuckling softly, Rodimus adds, "We may have gone a little overboard with the sampling options." Taking his lover's hands in his gently, Rodimus meets their gaze. "I love you. Your happiness and safety with me means everything to me. If modifying myself helps ensure that, it's a small price." 

Squeezing softly, he smiles. "So what d'you say we try 'em out, see which fits and what you like?" He's hoping he hadn't scared them with this information, but he did truly love them and wanted to give them the best he could. 

It makes them laugh. "I'd love to. Do all of the pieces interchange?" They inquire while pulling one of the spike mods out looking it over. This one had bright pink lights up the underside but was a bit too large in their hands larger than their arm. Rodimus perks up at the sound of their laughter, fia warm smile falling onto his face. "Sure do!" he replies. "Perce made 'em with modularity in mind." 

Leaning in, he points out how the piece in their servos connects. "That one plugs into my panel port. Then the shaft and tip snap together for a secure fit, each piece will fit to the others to integrate." Rodimus smiles before continuing "Pink light show's a bit flashy for me though. what'd you think of the sleek navy or copper ones?" Ever keen to please, he holds them up for his loger to look at.   

In truth they never thought they would be sitting there with Rodimus looking at essentially Strap-ons. " I do like the top part of the silver one there, the rest of it is just a little too thick. Might work nicely with the shaft of the Orange one which I do like the lights on and it doesn't look as long as my forearm" they laugh while pointing over to the spike as Rodimus picks it up. The tip wasn't as wide as some of the others. "How do you pull them apart and put them together? Can you show me?"

Rodimus chuckles, field pulsing with affection as he examines the proposed frankenspike. "Good eye! I think you're right - silver tip and orange shaft could be a winner." He deftly twists the pieces apart to demonstrate. "The connector ports are threaded, see? Just twist counter-clockwise to separate, then clockwise to join another piece securely." 

Reassembling the hybrid mod, Rodimus presents it proudly. "Well? What do you think - looks like it'll hit all the right nodes but still leave your ports feeling snug?" They laugh at his wording of it but in truth they were enjoying every moment of this. 

"Never thought I'd be saying that this looks so pretty. Do they connect up with your bio-lights and pulse the same colour? And how exactly do you attach it to yourself?" As much as they were loving the fact that they and Rodimus would be able to be intimate they are so curious over how it all works.

Rodimus grins, field alight. "Never think I'd be so pleased by a compliment on my crotch accessory collection!" It makes them both burst into laughter wheezing. " but Yea, the light circuits sync right up with my biolights so it'll pulse and change colours"

Rodimus releases his interface panel which at the moment didn't have an attachment, he's rather swift with reattaching the chosen mod in its place. pressurises his lines, watching struts and panels adjust flawlessly around the new appendage. "Seamless integration. The connection anchors it securely while also transferring sensory feedback in real time." Rodimus smiles shyly. "Wanna touch it?." He teases revving his engine. 

"Ready for a test drive when you are, sweetspark. I'll go slow and you tell me what you think. Your feelings are my top priority here.” He excitedly remarks. "Can we keep the other pieces too, I think this would be something fun to try and test other pieces over time." Rodimus lights up at their question, excitement filling him. "A collection? I like the way you think!" 

"Now then, shall we?" He radiates eager anticipation, "I'm primed and ready to make you sing, sweetspark. Just give me the word." He slowly strokes the smaller mod as the sensation jolts through him. 

"Eager are we" they tease, It was strange seeing the new one when they were so used to Rodimus' original Spike but in truth it suited him well. "Sure thing hot shot. I want a show" they giggle sitting back eager to watch.

Carefully he braces himself before encircling the new modification digit rubbing across the tip. Slow, steady pumps elicit delightful shivers up his struts as sensory feedback loops. The lights along the spike light up in the deep orange colour and pulse with each stroke. 

A loud moan falls from his vocalizer. His engine purrs louder, Optics half-shuttering, Rodimus meets their gaze with a loving smirk. "Like what you see? gorgeous - just say the word and I'm yours all night."

They shake their heads in amusement. "I want to watch you work that spike Roddy, I like watching you come undone with your servo, dial up the sensitivity" they instruct. Eager to just watch the mech touch himself.

Rodimus chuckles. "As you wish." He begins stroking it much quicker, the sound of his joints popping and grinding join the mix of noises he makes.  "How's it feel?" Rodimus vented softly, digits exploring the synthetic spike's sensory net with increasing awe, he had never had one which felt like this and it was making his joints weak from how quickly it had over charged his system, hot air blasting through his fans.

 "Incredible... it feels so sensitive." Another moan slips from him sounding more like a whimpered whine of bliss. He gazed at his partner in a haze of affection. "Primus i cant wait to see how you feel clenched around my spike, bet you'll be so warm and soft. Might just be overloaded thinking about it."  

"You going to overload, thought you had better stamina roddy" They tease watching the way his plating shutters as he quickened his pace. Rodimus whimpers out while his voice goes rather static. "Hey, cut me some slack - this new array packs way more sensation than the old one. Gonna take some getting used to!" 

He overloads into his servo rather quickly. Their eyes focus on the fluid that runs down his servo, it wasn't the light pink one they were used to seeing come from him. “ Did you also change your fluids?” they hum moving closer to brush their hand against his spike. It makes Rodimus jolt as he loudly moans. “Frag!” he calls out platting, shuttering and overheating as he tries to come down from the overwhelming sensation. 

“mmmm, yea.. wanted something a little more body safe for you” he admits,it earns him a kiss from them. 

_________________

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[nocandnc]

I wonder that in the wedding of Kafka and Mina, what would Okonogi and Hoshina do? Also who would try to catch the bouquet during the wedding reception? (I believe that would be Hoshina=))) And what was other's feeling after seeing that? Thank you for your time^^

Hi there~

It's funny you bring this up as I have a wedding-related OkoHoshi ficlette idea I've been tinkering with lately, though I don't know if I'll go ahead with it...

Anyways, KafMina wedding!!

They do strike me as the type to go with a modern western-style wedding, bouquet tossing and all! White is very much Mina's colour and she'd look gorgeous in a full bridal gown (Kafka is mildly scared to find a pistol strapped to her thigh later into the night, which she claims - somewhat unconvincingly, might he add - is a precaution against kaiju other than her new husband.)

Regarding Okonogi and Hoshina... I think they might be left out of the wedding party to be honest. Instead, Reno and Kikoru take up the position of Best Man and Maid of Honor respectively (+ Bakko as ring bearer). Not because Kafka and Mina wouldn't want them to take part, but if the Captain is busy celebrating her wedding day then the Vice Captain needs to be at the ready to take care of any urgent kaiju matters on her behalf, right? It just makes practical sense. As for Okonogi, well... she'd just feel too awkward being part of a fancy ceremony like that, even if the eyes weren't necessarily on her.

But Hoshina and Okonogi still attend as guests of course!

While Hoshina isn't a part of the wedding party proper, Kafka and Mina still pull him up on stage to give a speech early into the reception festivities. Okonogi makes no speeches but claps as others say their piece, eyes misty from joy and laughter.

The heartfelt anecdotes and silly jokes wrap up, after which there is cake and music and drinks of all kinds.

When it comes time to throw the bouquet, several ladies gather near the front in hopes of improving their chances of getting married catching the beautiful flower arrangement - but it turns out Mina's throwing arm is just as impressive as her firing one and she overshoots the crowd by a large margin.

It flies across the venue in a long arc, petals scattering along the unexpected trajectory.

Soshiro barely registers the object entering his peripheral but snatches it from the air flawlessly all the same - as expected, it takes the Vice Captain to catch the Captain's throws. He laughs a little at the bouquet that's now securely in hand, followed by further laughter as the attending women groan and cry out in disappointment.

"How could you, sir!"

"That's supposed to be for us girls!!"

"I caught it fair an' square!" He shoots back, waving the bouquet at them like a baton. "How about you try puttin' in a little more work for it next time!?"

It's all in good fun though, for the women laugh too and quickly return to drinking and dancing and the eating of cake.

Somewhat prior to this, a reticent Okonogi was dragged onto the dance floor by Akari and the rest for several fast-paced songs. Though she'd admit to having a bit of fun, that one bit was still more than enough for her. The Operations Leader sticks to lingering near the drink bar after this, quietly taking photos now and then - even snapping a shot of their Vice Captain catching Mina's bouquet when the cameraman wasn't ready - but otherwise content to watch the cheerful chaos from a distance.

A wallflower like her had no aspirations of catching flowers.

...Which is why Okonogi Konomi is all the more startled when the much-sought-after bouquet is suddenly shoved into her hands.

"Huh?"

"Hold these for me, would you dear?" Vice Captain Hoshina asks before she's even fully registered his presence.

"What??"

Amused by Konomi's bewildered state, Soshiro flashes his sharp canines at her along with his phone - a familiar Kaiju warning blinking violently across the narrow screen.

"Duty calls!"

[hexgravity]

Brainstorming Fragile Life mechanics. Gonna go on a rant about these ideas.

So the concept is the tamagotchis are linked to the players lives. Players have to keep them healthy in order to keep their current life. Players have daily quests to fulfill to keep their tamagotchis healthy, failure to do so drops them down a colour.

I also am tinkering with the idea of a sabotage boogey mechanic where maybe once a week a boogey is selected, if the boogey successfully stops the completion of another player's mandatory quest they gain a life going up a colour. Failure to sabotage gives them a harder task the next day which basically just increases their odds of dropping a life. (might make it a more common occurrence but don't wanna make it too unfair)

I've also been thinking of who may team with who. Pearl and Gem. Lizzie, Grian and Jimmy. Scott, Tango and Scar. Cleo and Impulse.

Players without a team really are Etho, Martyn and Joel.

I wanna play around with Watchers and Listeners stuff. Maaaybe Speakers? I'd wanna play around with the idea that none of them really have the players interests at heart, like where Watchers its obvious cause of the games, Listeners its subtle like swaying the players to purposefully mess with the games. Like the players are just pawns in the little war behind the scenes. If I do Speakers they'd be somewhere in the middle, they'd be openly honest about the fact they aren't there to help you for your own benefit but still lend a hand from time to time for their own personal gains.

I think like in Martyn lore, Watchers eat negative emotions. I would lean towards the Listeners liking every emotion and not wanting to limit it but still wanting to control it when they're in the mood for something more specific. Speakers would probably be like, I wouldn't say positive emotions, but more chaotic. Stuff like the joy and excitement players get from pulling off a trap or something, a malicious joy if that makes any sense.

I don't really have their goals in mind yet, Watchers is easy cause I'll just lean towards Martyn lore and that meaning technically their goals are currently being achieved successfully but now the other parties want in on it in their own way.

There'd be one player to each being. So if there's only Watchers and Listeners that's gonna be Grian and Martyn. I've also decided that these specific type of players lean a bit towards the side of the beings they're assigned to for one reason or another. Example being maybe Grian siding with Watchers cause despite not agreeing with them he may find their games to be a safer option than what the others have planned.

That's about all I got right now.

[the-nocturnal-writer]

Dev Log 5

By goodness, it’s been a while since I could just sit down and post about any progression. Life is still keeping me busy thanks to personal matters. However, I’ve been chipping away and doing stuff when I can. I’ve been more or less creating stuff here and there that I can post, though most of the free time I managed to get went into writing and completing tasks. 

Finally have some time to get a dev log written out, I’m hoping to update everybody on what I’ve been up to and have planned since my radio silence (and here’s to hoping the next dev log isn’t forever away…)

One of the bigger changes I’ve planned is turning Evenfall Grove into a Choicescript game rather then Twine. This decision was made to help shorten the time a bit, I don’t get as often as hoped to do what I like, so using Choicescript was a good workaround due to it being a little more simple to use. 

I still hope to make a game with Twine, maybe in the future when i have more financial stability and time to just still and put my full heart into it, but until then, I can say that making Evenfall Grove using Choicescript won’t change anything story or choice wise. I do need to figure out how to work the whole “you can die or get injured when exploring at night” thing, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out…

Next on my list of things to update everyone about is a few changes to my profile, I wanted to make it easier to access information and stuff, as well as easier to read. I might need to tinker with the colouring, but so far I think it’s better. Which leads to me saying that RO profiles have been taken down for the moment. 

I’ve been writing A LOT whenever I could. A lot of rewrites since the ending became more and more clear as I wrote, and a bunch of short stories about the characters. Thanks to this, my brain is forcing me to do another redesign to make them all feel… Well, more them. 

Constantin is the first (and only one even close to done) and has gotten a lot of love, I brought back some stuff from both his older design drafts and made him feel and look more like a man who has been beaten down by life over and over. Exactly what I’m going for.

Another change is the title banner! I still have a few more things to mess with, but for now it less of a priority over writing. I love it more though and the font is real pretty!

Aside from more redesigns, I mentioned character short stories, I might edit and post them if the need calls for it, but it did really help develop each of their backgrounds and helps decide how I want them to be and act, especially around MC! 

It has made me need to rewrite a lot and pace out how MC will first meet each of the characters (as well as how romancing them will go about), in the end it’s helped me decide how I want the ending to go and how I want each character to end up by the end. It’s not just MC going on a journey of power and character development. Each romance option has their own unique way of growing throughout the story.

While I’m mentioning characters, MC’s Familiar has been narrowed down to four animals; Squirrel, Owl, Badger or Fox. Feel free to make more suggestions, my only tip is smaller forest dwelling animals, since familiars size and shape are based on the power of their witch and the environment they're in! MC isn’t the powerhouse they are capable of becoming quite yet.

That is all for now, not as much as I hoped to update everyone with, but I like to try and get a word out when I can so no one is left wondering if this interactive fiction is no longer being made. Still fully intend to make Evenfall, it’s just at a busy snails pace.

Thank you all again for sticking around and having such patience with me, you’re all lovely and I couldn’t ask for better readers! (I need to get to answering asks, I apologise so much for the delay and I'll do my best to dedicate some point next week to answering them!)

Have a good day/evening, witches!

-Red

[bookdragonwrites]

ooo perhaps this bit from "all seems lost"?:

"His eyes open to a place he doesn’t know, a man he doesn’t recognise. The man’s clothes are dirty, blood-stained, and torn beyond repair. His eyes are purple. When the man opens his mouth in apparent surprise, there are fangs. A vampire. He fears vampires. He must fight. Damn it, where are his knives? He must flee, then, but his limbs won’t cooperate.

‘When you say, “I’ll live”, that usually means, “I came very fucking close to not living”, so don’t give me any of your drivel about how you’re fine, really.’

Noé carrying him. Vanitas fails to be annoyed about this being necessary.

‘Instead, Noé nearly died. I don’t recall you doing anything to prevent that.’

The air smells sweet. There’s a wildflower by the roadside. It’s the same colour as Noé’s eyes. How painfully sentimental of him to notice that.

‘I’m Noé. We’re friends. I won’t hurt you, I swear it.’

Noé asleep in their hotel room in Paris, his sheets kicked into disarray, drool leaking onto his pillow. An idiot even when he’s unconscious. The Vanitas of the past looks on fondly, thinking that if he isn’t careful, he might just —"

I’m sorry it took me so long to write out my thoughts, but let’s get this show on the road, dear anon.

[note for everyone else: this is from All Seems Lost, a short companion piece to And They Lived (ATL hereafter)]

I wrote All Seems Lost in something of a hurry, because I had the idea for it not long before I was set to publish the chapter of ATL to which it is a companion. As a result, I had to tinker with it a bit after I posted it, and I’m still not super-duper happy with the whole thing. Nevertheless, I do actually quite like the extract you sent me.

I find Vanitas’s point of view quite difficult to write. He’s an angry, sharp, purposely contradictory man, and it’s so hard to get a read on what’s going on with him in canon. Who knows what he’s thinking, or what he means, or how he feels about anything or anyone? It’s hard to get him to engage with emotions!

One thing that’s clear to me, though, is that he does care. He cares a lot. Especially where Noé is concerned. And that’s where I tried to put the focus in the sequence of memory snippets this extract is from. Originally, I wrote them all in chronological order, but that seemed rather flat, because they covered so many different moments in a rather disconnected way. So I wondered where the focus should be, then. If not chronologically, how should I order them? What’s important to Vanitas as he’s reliving these moments? What’s his subconscious trying to tell him? What’s he been suppressing, all this time? And the answer became kind of obvious: he’s dwelling on Noé, and all the ways just about everything in his life has started to revolve around, of all people, an Archiviste.

He’s resisting it with all he has, and yet, in the back of his mind, he’s thinking about Noé constantly. And in this fic, he’s so tired, so lost, so close to giving up on everything, that those thoughts manage to break through his defences. Given that context, what’s the story these memories are trying to tell him? I put the memories that have little or nothing to do with Noé at the beginning – to lull Vanitas into a false sense of security, perhaps – and then I moved onto the memories that have Noé in them, but they aren’t strictly about him. From there, the fragments grow more and more emotionally charged, until they end with a partial scene from months ago. That’s where we were going all along, it turned out: look, Vanitas, you’ve cared for him for so long, why do you keep pretending you don’t? Turns out Vanitas can’t handle that question yet, so he finally manages to put his barricades back up. Still, a seed of wondering has been planted.

Now let’s take a look at some bits in detail.

His eyes open to a place he doesn’t know, a man he doesn’t recognise. […]A vampire. He fears vampires. He must fight. Damn it, where are his knives? He must flee, then, but his limbs won’t cooperate.

This, I think, is fairly straightforward (if you’ve read ATL, that is). He’s waking up after yet another fit, and he’s extremely disoriented. This is the only time in the ATL-verse that we get Vanitas’s perspective on what it’s like when that happens, and that’s why I thought it’d be interesting to include here. It’s a moment of complete terror, and Vanitas pretty much always falls back on aggression when he’s afraid. It’s also the first memory in the sequence that has Noé as the main focus, but it’s more detached than the ones that come after. Noé is the bad guy here, an enemy, a stranger. I thought that would be an interesting perspective to include.

‘When you say, “I’ll live”, that usually means, “I came very fucking close to not living”, so don’t give me any of your drivel about how you’re fine, really.’

Next, we get Vanitas scolding Noé for acting like his injuries don’t matter. He knows who Noé is, but he’s angry with him. It’s coming from a place of caring about Noé’s well-being, of course, but Noé is still a little bit the bad guy, at least from Vanitas’s perspective. Also, it’s kind of a thesis statement for ATL as a whole: these idiots just do not care enough about their own well-being, because they’re too busy protecting each other.

‘Instead, Noé nearly died. I don’t recall you doing anything to prevent that.’

More scolding, this time in defence of Noé. Vanitas being protective of Noé warms my heart, so it had to be included.

The air smells sweet. There’s a wildflower by the roadside. It’s the same colour as Noé’s eyes. How painfully sentimental of him to notice that.

Vanitas has a soft side? Say it ain’t so! Seriously, though, the flower by the road is the image that stuck with me the most from this fic. Noé is something of a wildflower himself: artless, hardy, happy to grow wherever he can get the basic necessities, always ready to cheer up a weary traveller with his simple beauty, yet easily trampled by a careless foot. There is also the contrast between the innocent, cheerful flower and the horrors they both went through that day. I thought would be quite interesting to highlight that, because he did in fact take the time to notice that the world isn’t completely awful, and usually that’s Noé’s job.

Noé asleep in their hotel room in Paris, his sheets kicked into disarray, drool leaking onto his pillow. An idiot even when he’s unconscious. The Vanitas of the past looks on fondly, thinking that if he isn’t careful, he might just —

I mean. Yeah. Vanitas, my honey, my sweetie pie, my darling, you have been in love with this man for months and months, and living in denial is not going to work forever. And I could not resist shoving it in his face, because I am very mean. Also, there’s just something about Vanitas’s fond exasperation that gives me the warm fuzzies.

—

As I was writing this commentary, I noticed an irony I hadn’t even intended: normally, it’s Noé, as an Archiviste, who’s closely associated with memories. In this fic, though, it’s Vanitas who’s dragged down into memories (his own, but still), looking on and powerless to change anything. I’m not quite sure what that means, thematically, but I think there’s something there to consider.

———

Thank you very much for the ask, anon! I hope this was a satisfying deep-dive!

[catboyaesthetic]

Ironsworn

The following story has been created with the use of the Solo RPG "Ironsworn." I'm still learning the system and it's equal parts unwieldy and intuitive. It's nonetheless a very rewarding system and a great way of digging into my own creativity. I would highly recommend it if you have the time to get to grips with it.

I've tinkered with it a little bit to fit a character from my own personal worldbuilding project into it, and as such, it's not as representative of the game as it might have been had I generated a character specifically inside the world. The reason for this was the fact that I thought it was cool to integrate my world with this one.

The Journey Begins

All has been set in motion. A week ago I was informed of my new post in a place called “the Ironlands” by the Volcaptain. The talk was short as they often are, but this felt almost cold and distant, where usually the curtness feels professional. To convey in as few words as possible is considered a virtue, but this involves Lena, and to hear the mission that involves her be spoken of so curtly rubs me wrong. It is how we always do things, but to know it’s about her feels different. The main post is to aid the Ironlands, of course. There’s been reports of something called “black iron” being mined there, and the higher-ups believed it’s a synonym for the Elder Mineral. I am to investigate these reports and otherwise present as good of an image of Sunspire as I can. I still find the position odd. To be diplomatic emissary, expeditionary force, assassin, courtier, foreign army and sword-for-hire all in the same person makes me feel as if I am to be a superhuman extension of the Merchant-Kings. But I’m just a man. I bleed. I laugh. I weep. I think tonight I’ll go on that trip down the Halls of Joy I’ve always promised myself. It might be the last time I can distract myself the fullest.

Aboard the Fortune’s Call

As I sail aboard the Fortune’s Call, the air is crisp and full of shouting. Wherever I turn, there is command. Authority, it seems, is infectious, especially aboard a ship this size. It feels like a floating fortress with how many cannons rest on either side, which seem unnecessarily high. The place called the aftcastle is true to its name with how vast the structure is. Decorated with vivid colour and intricate carvings in the shape of lionheads, suns and other ornate ornamentation, it seems every bit a wooden manor. We’re only short a green field to truly complete the picture. While I’m hardly considered to be an authority on taste, I find the whole picture rather gaudy. The man who captains this vessel is equally as colourful in his attire, his manner and his general demeanor. For all his flaws in taste, I do enjoy the man. If there is one benefit to being a Spiresworn, it’s the ability to outrank most everyone in the city. Subsequently, I am considered to be on not just equal, but higher ranked company to the captain. Though I do surrender to his authority on this vessel. Despite my experience, I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to run a ship, let alone run it well. Captain Perrenen has that well in hand, and I believe we have an understanding that I do not muddy his command by inserting myself and he subsequently does not ask questions he ought not to. Thus we spend our time together pleasantly and dedicated to conversation. He is an exceptional rhetorician and his mind is sharp as the saber he carries. On more than one occasion he has managed to stump me, wielding his arguments as deftly as I hope he wields that sword.

 

It didn’t take long for us to reach our first waypoint of the journey, a port called Heragon, I couldn’t make out a word of the language, but the people were pleasant and helpful. I got to try several delicacies which I believe Captain Perrenen later paid for – being more accustomed with the way things worked. I should have known, of course, that that was a swindle rather than a kindness, but the good captain had the decency to only laugh at me in private. I believe he is the only person whom I have ever enjoyed calling me a fool.

 

(Undertake a journey 4+3 vs. 9 and 3 – Weak Hit.)

We set sail again before long. In what I understand to be a stroke of good luck, the winds have favoured us thus far. I spend my nights with Captain Perrenen, discussing this and that, and somehow never quite running out of things to talk about. Despite myself, I find myself drawn to him, and whether it’s been weeks or months, the attraction only grows stronger. He doesn’t flatter me the way that I’m used to, no shallow compliments, no deference to rank. He talks to me like a person. He asks me about my ways of thinking, my interests. He treats me like a human being, not the arm of the Merchant-Kings.

I find I look forward to the evening discussions we have. To have him to myself for a while where I do not see Captain Perrenen, but only Hann. I say ‘only’ but he is only a captain. As a man, he is so much more. He loves the sound of the ship as it hits the waves, urian tea drawn from barab roots for exactly 5 minutes, something which makes the drink exceedingly bitter and which provides something of a comic contrast to his otherwise sweet disposition. He loves the sunrise, singing, and the sea. All sailors do, in their own way. Lately I find my arguments do not have their old sharpness as I focus on the wrinkles around his eyes from what is still a very short life spent laughing often and loudly. The sound of his voice as he calls my name and tries to draw me out of my musings. The way he looks at me with might be a knowing smile. I don’t know. The weeks soar by, the winds favour us, and we spend our evenings together. For a time, the world is small and peaceful.

 

(Undertake a journey: 5+3 vs 5 and 2 – Strong Hit.)

The seas are good to us. We make such good progress that somewhere, I feel a pang of regret that it will be over soon. The routine over the past few months has become so ingrained that I would almost feel like I’d be throwing part of me away when I have to step off this ship. It’s something I remind myself of often, especially as Hann and I sit and talk. We’ve gone far beyond battling wits the last few weeks. Perhaps it’s just me, but there is a weight to the conversations we have now, a tension. The way he laughs is different, but no less attractive and I’ve noticed that he looks at me differently. It’s only then that I realize I don’t know what goes on in that head of his, and I would desperately like to know. Sometimes he hides his mouth behind his hand as he listens to me, and I find myself hoping he’s smiling. I find myself feeling as if I were a prey in the eyes of the hawk. I feel he sees me in a way that I find thrilling. I also find myself skirting around certain topics or words because I am afraid they would not sit well with him, despite him never giving any indication of displeasure. In fact, he seems to be somewhat diminished every time I draw away from what might be something risqué. I think he’s hoping for the same thing I am. But what is it exactly that I’m hoping for? Outside of this room we are the same as always. He is Captain Perennen and I am Fyodor, a high-paying nobody for all intents and purposes, which allows me all the privileges wealth can afford aboard his ship – so long as it does not interfere with its functioning. But despite how small this ship is, I feel worlds apart from him. My mind churns and a need that will not be reasoned with rises with every evening he sits and looks at me like he wants the same thing. Or am I just seeing what I want to see? Am I so caught up in my own experience I forget the rest of the world? It wouldn’t be the first time. Lena often said I was prone to egotism, and despite my best efforts to rectify this, I can still get caught up in the whirlwind. There are so many things to dislike about him. As I try to remind myself of them to still the hunger, I find they’ve all disappeared. It would be cruel, I think to myself, to simply consume such a beautiful a man. To use him for my selfish purposes and discard him once we arrive. Soon we will be oceans apart again. Time will be kind to the memory but not the feeling. I would miss him. Worse yet, I fear that I would miss him more than he would miss me. I could write, but would I? I know myself, or at least I try to, and I have historically always been a evasive lover. Quick to action, slow to attach. It comes with the work, I think. I try not to think on it further.

 

(Undertake a journey 5+3 vs 5 and 1 – Strong Hit.)

My heart sinks as the news reaches us that our destination lies on the horizon. I didn’t think I still had it in me to dread. I glance to Hann as he stands on the balcony of his aftcastle, in every way the picture of the noble captain as he gazes towards the horizon. For the fifth time today, I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he feels the same grief I do. I’m not sure why. Perhaps the adage that misery loves company is truer than I ever thought it to be. I remind myself that all I feel, I feel alone. I do not know what goes on in his head, and for all intents and purposes, his acceptance of my presence has been a calculated indulgence. But even as I remind myself, I find I do not want to believe it. I would rather believe the delusion – if indeed it is – and pine for a man in so many ways my better. You do not get many comforts in this line of work. Spiresworn are meant to be the bastions of the Merchant-Kings around the Known World. But even if each of us are built up to be castles of our own accord, we all rule alone. How thicker the walls and how vast the defenses, the lonelier it is.

Hann catches me staring. I do not have the decency to look away. Rather I take the opportunity to carve him into my memory. If it is not to be, I would like to remember him. To put this finely-honed mind to work remembering a man who was kind to a stranger, a father to his crew and the envy of the sun with the warmth and light he brought to the lives of those around him. I am pulled from my reverie by the sound of his voice, carrying a tone he’s never used with me before.

“Mister Koningszoon, if you’d care to join me in my quarters, I have something I’d like to discuss.” He dismisses his inner circle of officers, then turns and enters his quarters. He speaks to me as if I were a crewmen, with courteous authority – and the implicit expectation he is to be heeded. Something in me bristles at it, yet the largest part is awash with crackling anticipation. I keep my composure, my strides measured, and knock courteously on Hann’s door – The Captain’s door, I remind myself – to announce my arrival. I enter by his command, and the moment the door shuts behind me, Hann’s lips are on mine and his hands are grasping my face and the world melts away in the wake of his affection and the flush of warmth that rushes through me. I taste how hungry he really is, how desperate. How badly he wants to grasp me but even in this desperate heat of the moment, he remains soft and kind and considerate and I want to let him take all he wants as reward for his kindness. Whether he means to pull my hair or strip me or debase me in ways that tumble over each other in my head is irrelevant. For a moment I am his and he is mine and we are only Hann and Fyodor in a floating wooden fortress and barely hours until we are cruelly separated once again. As we continue to kiss and grab at each other, almost as if to confirm that the other is truly real and this is really happening, I let him lead me wherever he wants. We don’t need to speak. We know what we want. We’ve known for weeks – months – what it is we’ve wanted and only now have we found the courage to act.

The brief bout of pleasure and the eternity of joy we spend together after is too short. The beginning of the end comes by way of a simple crewman, relaying a message of our arrival. I try not to weep. Hann holds me, kisses my head and assures me that this won’t be the last time we’ll see each other. He promises to write me. I thank him, knowing I won’t. Knowing he truly is too good of a man for the likes of me.

Damula

As I travel in a vessel vastly underwhelming after months on the Fortune’s Call, I am informed by my ferrywoman the place we’re heading toward is called Damula. A strange name, that even seems to sound wrong out of my ferrywoman’s mouth. Still, the sound of it seems to somehow fit the accent she has. The word itself is thick with history. I find it hard to concentrate as I look back towards the dot on the horizon that has been all the world for the past few months, captained by what had been my home until today. I ask the Ferrywoman what Damula means.

(6+3 Wits vs. 8 and 9 = Weak Hit.)

The ferrywoman thinks on it for a moment, seeming unsure herself. She then tells me it was a word from “those who came before.” Who or what they were or where they come from remains a mystery, and I think I have already overstayed my ferrywoman’s patience with my questions. My own patience is running thin also, and so I overlook the landscape that is steadily drawing closer.

Despite the withered landscape, it has a beautiful quality to it. It seems as if time has passed this place by. The trees that might have once grown here have been cut down and usurped into the buildings of Damula, and it seems they have neglected to plant new ones. Yet somehow, it has enhanced the landscape, not made it worse. I dread to think on the ecosystem, however. What do they burn to keep warm? Do they keep warm? This wind chills me to the soul and the gray skies that always threaten rain make the season difficult to distinguish.

I’ve already paid the ferrywoman whom I have neglected to ask her name. She didn’t seem the talkative type to begin with, but now that we’ve begun I feel compelled to do so. She tells me her name is Makari. When I ask for her last name, she looks at me like I’ve asked her what colour the water is. It seems these are in short supply. In hopes of not drawing attention to myself – something I have already radically failed at – I tell her my name is Fyodor. She finds the name strange, yet tells me it has a certain melodic quality to it. An observation I find ill-fitting of a ferrywoman, yet nonetheless flattering and indicative of an interest and mind I did not think to find within this ferrywoman. Which itself is a sentiment I find myself somewhat embarrassed of. In hopes of distracting myself from it, I put on my best smile and ask her if she enjoys music. She nods as she adjusts the sails and seems to think on it for a moment. Weighing some unknown thought, she shakes her head and simply looks out across the water once more, the conversation and her interest slipping through my fingers. Despite myself, I find myself all the more eager to pursue her attention. I weigh the likelihood of my chances of her interest and find myself humbled by her stoic interest in the journey. I find myself somewhat forlorn, the rejection like a knife between my ribs. But we are strangers, ultimately. And she is a competent sailor. I find myself thinking on what it would be like to be the sole focus of that magnificent attention. For a moment, I am warm.

I part from Makari with a curt goodbye. Vainly I wonder if she will miss me. I will certain miss her. The sight of her arms bending the ship to her will, the way she gazed across the waves and seemed to be able to take stock of a person with but a glance. There is a hardness and an honesty to her. I look back at her, and to my surprise I find her looking back at me as well. I can’t quite tell, but it almost seems like she smiles for a moment. Then she’s gone again, likely never to be seen and I am, as always, alone.

Naturally, I look for the closest thing resembling a tavern.

(3+3 Wits vs. 6 and 10 = Weak Hit.)

When I approach a stranger in hopes of information, I am met with one of the coldest glares I’ve seen to date. I greet the woman and she leers at me as if to let me out of her sight means I’d rob her blind. “Good day to you and yours, friend,” I begin, and despite her obvious suspicion, she seems to relax a little. “To you as well,” she replies, looking me over with a gaze I’d much prefer held more interest than the current weighing it did. Her arms are broad, her brown hair is short and her eyes are a dark green one could get lost in, as I find myself doing before I catch myself and continue. “Would you happen to know if there is a watering hole nearby?” She looks at me like Makari did, as if I’d just ask what the colour of water is. “No,” she replies curtly. I can feel her judge me to be a fool and in the process of be forgotten. While I would usually prefer it that way, I find myself compelled to correct the notion. “Ah, perhaps I was too broad in my description. I meant to ask for a place where one might find a drink.”

The woman looks up and the realization as to my earlier meaning seems to dawn on her. “Ahh, you mean like Kendi’s Rest? Sure there is.” Her brief moment of helpfulness is swiftly interrupted by her earlier measurement of me. “Typically only locals visit Kendi’s Rest. We don’t get many visitors here.” There is suspicion in her gaze and in her voice.

(Secure an advantage, 2+3 vs 8 and 7 = Miss.)

Something compels to engage with the adage that honesty is the best policy. “Well, it’s true enough that I am a stranger to these parts, and it’s not without reason I’ve come to this place.” I barely catch myself from insulting this place, the words “shithole” and “pit” presenting themselves long before “place” ever does. “I’ve come looking for someone, and while I’m relatively certain there’s no trail of her here, I figured I have to start asking questions somewhere.”

The stranger regards me with even more suspicion, and gradually rises up from her work. She seems to loosen herself up somewhat, and I can take a guess as to what. However, the need for it seems unwarranted, and I am more than a little confused as towards the display of naked preparation for hostilities. I raise my hands defensively, more than able to read the room. “Listen, I mean no harm to you or anyone here, nor do I want to imply that you’re the ones responsible. I simply want to know where my friend is.”

“Something tells me I don’t like you. A stranger come from who knows where asking questions about who knows who. I don’t know who your friend is, and I don’t know why you’ve come looking for her, but I think you oughta leave to somewhere better for your health.” The woman growls, having drawn herself up to her full height. She is lean from hard work, broad with muscle. I don’t think she takes well to being threatened. But I don’t have time for this, harangued by the second person I run into in this shithole of a village, searching for a drink, heartbroken and months away from civilization. The mask of the aloof fool drops and I take a step forward to loom over her. Something twitches to life in my chest and my eyes sear with the knowledge of countless battles. The sight of lives I have taken made adds weight to my gaze. I level it upon her and let the vast shadow of my sins cast over her. I am the monster once again. “I think this place suits me just fine.” I speak with a tone as sharp as a knife’s edge. “I also think we should go about our respective business,” I continue, adding with as much venom as I can muster “for your health.”

(Compel, 2+4 Iron vs 3 and 4. – Strong Hit)

She withers underneath my gaze, shrinking away from me. I see the shame in her face from buckling. She tries to catch herself but she knows the game is up. For a moment, she seems a girl in pants far too large for her. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she replies in a voice that has lost all of its confidence. I let the monster slip off of me and once more, I am the pleasant, forgettable everyman. As she turns around to return to her work, I feel a sting of regret. Perhaps I should have tried to talk to her differently. But how? I don’t know what these people are like. I barely got here and already I’ve almost gotten myself into a fight.

 

I head towards the gathering place of this town, Kendi’s Rest. As I step inside, the heads of six patrons turn to look at me. They seem to collectively realise that I am not a resident of the town, and as such, they stare. It seems I have my work cut out for me not to stand out. Despite the earlier failure, I put on my best smile and greet the scowling faces which refuse to stop staring at me. “Greetings, all!” I begin, my voice thunderous from experience commanding troops, in hopes of easing their hostility. From my earlier encounter I think to myself that they might appreciate bluntness. “I suppose I’ll not dally or taint your day further with endless pleasantry and get straight to the point. Has anyone here happened to have heard of a woman called “Lena?””

( Compel 5+3 Heart vs 7 and 3. – Strong Hit! )

There is some grumbling and murmuring, but finally one person speaks up. “Aye!” He says with a voice that would make the rocks envious with how rough it is, “I’ve heard of a Lena!” I look at him, realizing he’s the first man I’ve seen on this island and quickly make my way over, smiling still but reading his face to see if he’s lying.

( Gather information, 2+3 Wits vs. 9 and 2. – Weak Hit. )

For all I can see, the man is perfectly sincere. I sit down beside him and try to keep my smile as natural and relaxed as I am. Within, my heart is pounding away at my chest. Surely it can’t be this easy? The third person I talk to, and I’ve got a lead?

“A fine woman she was! I remember the way she used to scold me for slacking on my duties.” The man lets out a chuckle, a sound like rocks scraping against one another, and I realise the man is quite up there in years already. The fire from the torches occasionally darken the grooves within the man’s face, worn by time. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “It’s a shame she passed away. But that’s the way of things.”

My heart sinks and in my shock, I forget to wear the mask of emotion. “She’s dead?” I ask the man. He looks at me like the other two have before him, like I asked what the colour of water is. “Well, yeah, man! Do you expect us to live forever? She was quite up there in years already.”

Again, my shock overtakes me, this time with a frown. “Wait, what do you mean she was up there in years already?” Now it’s the man’s turn to scowl. “Like I said, man! Are you slow? She was old! Quite old, in fact. Ancient by anyone’s reckoning! We used to joke she might outlive us all! Bahaha!’

Despite the sound of his laughter akin to an avalanche filling the drinking hovel, I feel a warm sense of relief fill my stomach. A feeling quickly replaced by frustration. While I’m happy to hear she’s not dead, I’m back to nothing after thinking I found myself a lead. I put on the smile once more and thank the man, saying that I don’t think we’re looking for the same person.

“Oh? Well, good luck to you, then. Oh, and uh… spare a kindness for an old man?” He asks with a mischievous grin, holding up his empty tankard. I ponder for a moment, before I pull out my pockets and show that I don’t even have a cog to my name. “Hah! Maybe I should offer you a kindness, eh?” The man laughs, and where I briefly expect him to offer some kind of alms, he merely gives me more laughter. Then he realizes I’m still there and gestures with his tankard for me to leave. “Go on, off you fuck.” He says, without losing any of his pleasant demeanor, and with a mixture of shock and admiration, I do just that.

I head towards what passes for a bar and hail the person behind it – a woman, who seem to be more ubiquitous than men so far. She heads over and gives me a curt nod. Before she can ask me for my order, I tell her I don’t have anything to pay with. She sets her hands on the bar, leans forward, curls up her upper lip in contempt and asks: “Then what are you doing here, stranger?” I tell her I’m looking for information on a woman named Lena. “Never heard of her,” she replies, and makes to leave.

“Then what news is there? Surely there must be something keeping you busy around these parts?” I quickly ask before she turns around fully. She seems to be anything but eager to talk to me.

( Compel, 3+3 Heart vs 1 and 7 – Weak Hit. )

I put on my best smile and decide to engage in a bit of flattery. “Surely this place is where all the important people gather. And a woman like you seems like she knows the value of information.” I tell her. It seems to evoke little other than the raise of an eyebrow, but at the very least, she seems curious. “I do,” she replies curtly, “well enough to know that I don’t simply give it out for free. Especially not to every passing stranger that enters my tavern.”

I put two and two together. “You must be Kendi then,” I ask, to which she performs a mock curtsy with nonetheless perfect form. She must have practiced that quite a bit. “The very same. Now, you know who I am and seem to be the observant sort. But I’m not in the business of wondering, I’m in the business of knowing.” She throws her drying cloth over her shoulder and sets her hands on her hips before jerking her head up expectantly and looking me over. “What’s your name?” She asks, expecting to be answered. I oblige. “Fyodor,” I swallow the urge to say my last name, I’ve stood out enough already and the custom of last names seems to be unfortunately absent. “Well, Fyodor,” Kendi begins, “I could tell you what occupies this beautiful town of ours, but I’d like to ask you a few things first.”

At her mercy, I throw up my hands before opening them before her. “Whatever you’d like to know,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes for a moment and she wastes no time. “Where are you from, Fyodor?” “Sunspire,” I answer truthfully. Kendi shrugs, “Never heard of it. Though that does makes you an outlander.” She notes. I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?” “No,” she answers, continuing on. “What are you doing in Damula?” Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Like I said, I’m looking for a woman called Lena.” Kendi’s interest is visibly piqued. “What is she to you?” A flood of images and feelings wash over me, but no words come until heartbeats later. “Someone I could not stand to lose.” I answer, surprised by my own obfuscation. Kendi shakes her head, looking me in the eye while I briefly drown in remembering. “No no, you don’t get off that easy. What is she to you? Family? Friend? A loved one?” “All that and more,” I reply without missing a beat. The mask of pleasantness is gone. I look at her with all the desperation that I hold within and it seems to strike a chord with her. Kendi’s expression softens somewhat, and the questions cease. For a heartbeat I think I spy a glimmer of respect in her gaze before she carries on cleaning. After a while, she begins to speak unprompted. She seems a little tense as she does so, and much to my surprise after her earlier demeanor, she drops her volume.

“News around here is always slow. But lately people around here can’t seem to stop worrying about the dead.” “The dead?” I ask incredulously before I can help myself, and Kendi gives me a scathing look that tells me I spoke too loudly. “Yes, Fyodor. The dead.” Her eyes grow distant as she tries to focus on cleaning this one particular tankard rather intensely. “Everybody wants to be the one that solves the problem, as that would ensure you spend the rest of your life living luxuriously wherever you go.” I tap a finger on the sad excuse for a bar as I think. “Why?” I wonder aloud, and Kendi looks at me like everyone before her has; like I asked what the colour of water is. It seems to be becoming something of a tradition. “Because,” Kendi begins with a tone that makes it clear it is the most obvious thing in the world, “the Dead have been restless for years now and no one knows why. They’ve been assaulting this town every night for weeks.” She looks at me for a long while in silence before realizing. “You don’t know, do you? They don’t just walk again, they are organized. They are coming, Fyodor. Every night, they come.”

Despite my proximity to the hearth which crackles comfortingly beside me, a chill goes through me. Yet another peril to add to the list amidst hostile but strangely helpful Ironlanders, now the Innumerable seem to have reached even here. I nod my head upwards towards Kendi, “Have you heard of the Innumerable?” I ask. Kendi raises an eyebrow, but shakes her head. “Why, who are they?” I ponder for a moment whether to tell her, but decide for it seeing how free she has been with her information. “The Innumerable,” I begin after leaning in conspiratorially, “are known as the Heirs of the Ashes and are effectively the nation of the dead.” Kendi lets out a skeptical puff of air and I beckon her back over. “No, no, I’m serious. Wherever there are bodies in the ground, they claim dominion.” “So they’d consider this place theirs as well?” Kendi asks. I throw up my hands as if to indicate it’s out of my hands, and nod. Kendi lets out a sharp laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. What, so the dead have a nation, with a king and everything? And cities?” She seems genuinely curious before a grin slowly spread across her lips that suits her particularly well. “Come off it, you’re pulling my leg.” I scowl and shake my head. Kendi’s grin drops. “I told you, I’m serious. I don’t know how they’re organized exactly, I do know that—” I catch myself before I reach into information which is privy only to a handful of people even within Sunspire. Kendi looks at me expectantly, raising her eyebrows as if to indicate “go on.” Then, after realizing I was not going to continue, lets out a ‘tch’ and shakes her head. “Anyway, that’s what’s occupying people at the moment. Staying alive.”

I continue to tap my finger on the bar as I mull over the information. Technically all the dead are part of the Innumerable. But it may very well be that this… outbreak? That it might have nothing to do with them. The unfortunate part of having to deal with a nation of the dead is that not everything can be seen as a formal action by a nation as living agents would undertake them. The application of magicae to purposes of reanimation does not necessarily make that corpse part of the Innumerable. Yet by virtue of being dead, it is. I hope we have rhetoricians or diplomats better suited to distinguishing between formal actions of the Innumerable and deciding what is the actions of a brainless bag of bones.

Still, the problem remains. The dead are assaulting the Damula every night. Are they driven by instinct or do they have some kind of leadership guiding them? These questions are redundant. What matters is that I promised to help this place where I could to the Merchant-Kings. And these people need help.

“Alright,” I say aloud, nodding. “

( Swear an Iron Vow, 4+3 Heart vs 8 and 10. )

I look at Kendri, who looks back at me with a certain suspicion. My voice is clear and grave as I speak “I promise to help safeguard Damula from the onslaught of the Dead in the name of the Merchant-Kings. This I vow.”

“With what?” Kendri asks drily, made all the more chafing in the wake of my grave declaration. She looks me over once again and grins. “Last I saw, you didn’t have any weapons or armour. You don’t have a scrap to your name, and for all I know, you’re a bumpkin blowhard. What are you gonna do? Talk the dead to death? Oh wait.”

Some of the patrons chuckle at her joke, and I find myself somewhat embarrassed. But she’s right. As capable as I am, I’d do much more damage with a weapon than without. Before I can properly fulfill my vow, I should fix that. I thank Kendri for the information and the company, and she replies she feels the same with a surprising amount of warmth. Before I can do anything of note I should find the tools with which to deal with this harsh lands. Whether axe or sword or mace, I need something more to defend myself than just wit and wiles. I step out of the warmth of the tavern and back into the cold gray of Damula.

[firstdivisiongirl]

—Hey, hey, hey Princess of Alabasta!

Hope you’re doing alright today,

I was wonderin’ if you do take requests from men too, about the male match up?.. Or if are they still open… I was just wondering who I actually could match, with my personality and odd things I do.

You don’t have to do it, I just thought that there might be a chance for me to know if there’s someone from OP men who would adore what I do xD.

So yeah… Imma get into the small description,

— Outside Looks:

I’m a little bit over 165cm (short, short ass) tall, a bit thick on thighs, dark blonde hair, with a short undercut. I wear golden (not real LOL) glasses with adjustment of light blue line on top of them. I wear usually thick, golden earrings — three on each ear, so I could basically call it piercings now.

— Pronounce:

He/Him.

— Fav. Colours:

E v e r y C o l o u r. But mostly blue and red, along with white and green.

— Personality & Things I like:

I usually am sarcastic much, but not that hard to bite back harshly. I often do have my emotions on leash but sometimes they snap, in worst time. I can do slightly lame jokes, basically I can count on my fingers on one hand of who I really made laugh.

Anyways, I am really into mechanics and I am repairing an old car I found in the wild (literally a still alive car in the middle of a meadow, checked the registration— the person who had it is now… ehem, on the other side of world). I often like to draw, write books/drabbles/HCs/etc, read mangas/ watch anime, and much more other things like skateboarding and snowboarding. I also do like cooking, enjoying the taste of my NON-BURNT meal is the most satisfying thing ever.

I often listen to music, mostly rock, a bit of pop and casual jazz in late evenings.

I also am a total cat lover, but also like dogs.

Thank you so much for reading my message, it took me a good half an hour to write something about me XD

Hi there! I am doing very well! You don’t have to call me by my title, just Vivi works. I’d love to do a match up for you. I hope you like it and let’s see the results!

You got…

Eustass Captain Kid!!!!

Before you judge this murderous bean, hear me out.

He loves mechanics and tinkering with anything. So he’s help you repair your car. A car tinkering date is a definite.

Rock music? Look at the boy! Him and his crew aren’t listening to the Jonas brothers, but I can see them like smooth jazz. Don’t ask me why.

You two are both emotional, but I think it would work for some reason. I feel like he’d love your lame jokes

He’s big and strong so anything you are afraid of, he’ll protect you.

He’d love all your gifts and cuddles. He may look and act scary but he’s a softy for you!

[bisognamorire]

Dear A.,

Happy Saturday!

I feel a bit stupid and pathetic to leave these messages here for you, because for all I know you might not even look at my blog. At least thats what I remember you telling me in a letter. I still hope that they might reach you somehow, somewhen. I had to think of how you agreed to me as we drove to Grasmere, ‘it was so horrible when we didn’t speak last year’. Why did it happen again?

Why, why, why.

Last week, after getting your message and realising I didn’t have the option to send my ‘goodbye’ message to you and wondering why you avoided using the word ‘love’ in regards to me and instead used ‘care’, I became so unwell that I needed desperately to be around people and keep myself from the need to harm myself.

I visited Sharon every day a few hours in the evening or afternoon. At some point she told me that her boyfriend was complaining about me visiting them and that I was annoying him by just seeming ‘down’ and that shes scared he might break up with her because I need so much support. I felt awful. Like I am unwanted wherever I turn to and that I cause harm everywhere. I told Sh. that I wouldn’t visit anymore out of fear that i might endanger her relationship but also out of feeling unwelcome. Seemingly unhappy with that arrangement too, Sh. started berating me for an hour. I want to give you a selection of things she concluded about me:

1. it is my own fault that I don’t have any friends because of ‘how’ i am

2. i don’t even want/ try to be not-depressed

3. the 10 years I’ve been to therapy in total were completely useless because in her opinion I have not progressed an inch

4. I am not making any effort to live ‘independently’ ((despite me literally doing that))

I asked her at least three times to leave my flat while she was ranting to me, but she refused and kept hurting me with those words. My brain switched into dissociation mode then.

People always speak of how we need to destigmatize the mentally ill etc. yet when I show symptoms of being depressed, all my relatives and friends are blowing in the wind. Seems like its more an ideal they’d like to uphold and not a reality that they want to actually bear. people always reveal themselves with their actions.

This week I tried to meet with the few friends I have. Some of those meetings helped me distract myself for a while with mindless chatter and others wounded me more, for example, with Fatma, who treated me harshly and basically kicked me out of her home. I think she didn’t do it out of bad intent. She is just very stressed because of always being at work. I wonder why so many people don't realise that their jobs are killing their joy in life and make them so irritated that they treat everyone around them like shit and why they don’t take action against it. But still, I’ve had enough of people kicking me out of their lives and homes.

Apart from all these things (as you can see, the people around me are little comfort to me) I bought a few tools and paints to create my Yamato (One Piece) cosplay. So, now, when I am not at work, I play my video game ‘Lies of P’ (I’m at that boss fight against Fuoco) or to tinker on the cosplay or take naps. It is good to occupy my mind by trying to figure out how to create things for the cosplay. I don’t get into repetitive thoughts about you and everything when I am doing that.

The other day I formed Yamato’s horns out of Foam Clay.

Yesterday I spray painted them with a layer of liquid plastic and then coloured them with Acrylics.

Since Yamato is a demon, he was shackled but he broke free at some point. I also made his shackles out of EVA foam and I will hopefully paint them today after work.

I miss you horribly and I wish I could cry and weep about your decision to not be in my life anymore or have any part of me in yours. But due to dissociation, I can’t cry these days. I just feel like this empty black hole that threatens to even swallow up itself if I don’t keep my mind preoccupied.

I just sit and stare at the ceiling. I go over your last message to me over and over in my mind and get into panic attacks when I try to think of what you’re doing, how you’re doing because I realise we’ve never not spoken in such a long time and I don’t know anything about you anymore. Most of the time this takes up so much energy of me, that in the end I just rot in bed.

I wish I could know how you’re doing and what's going on in your life, too. Before you asked me not to, I would check your blog but there wasn’t really much that would give anything away and since I also misunderstood the meaning of that greek song (did I really?) I wonder what else I might misunderstand, even if there is any hint. When I don’t see anything I get very disappointed and feel very hurt, so I try not to check it anymore but I feel desperate to. I sometimes wonder how you don't have the same urge to reach out to me and know how I am etc. and it hurts too.

I want to say ‘don’t be a stranger’, and I try not to be one to you by writing these and I wish you’d also not be one to me.

Your Sabo, who loves you.

[bowiebond]

You adhd/ autism post fascinated me could you explain a bit more why you think Sam is autistic and would you class him as a “high functioning” one

Omg um thank you??? I almost forgot about that post ngl haha

Personally I don’t like to think of autism has high and low functioning; though I do understand why people might use those terms. It helps distinguish (in a more professional sense) who might need a little more urgent help to live comfortably. I like to think of it more as a colour wheel so to speak. Some autistic people can handle more input than others but that doesn’t mean they don’t still struggle. That and high function usually just means the person is better at masking their symptoms haha. Many autistic people actually don’t like the labels low and high functioning, but it really comes down to who you ask.

I have many neurodivergent friends, and my mother works closely with many people who on disability because to their autism. My brother also had adhd himself (and I have my suspicions that I have it too lol). So I’m constantly surrounded by them and I guess I just picked up a vibe from Sam? He reminds me of a lot of my friends who masked their symptoms throughout majority of their childhood and didn’t get diagnosed until older because of it.

Sam much like Steve has a strong moral compass. In fact, he’s very stubborn and blunt, but he covers it up with snark and dry humour much like Bucky; plus half his jokes are more for him than anyone else and I know so many autistic people who do this, it’s hilarious. (I should state though that PTSD and Autism have a surprising amount of overlap, but it’s up for debate whether or not that’s because a lot of autistic children are traumatised due to the world not being designed for them. So what I interrupt as Sam’s autism could simply be symptoms of how his PTSD affects his day to day). It’s no surprise that his special interest would be flying, or even just aircrafts/mechanics in general. He pursues flight majority of his life and when he can’t, he’s off tinkering with Redwing, the boat, constantly fixing things — literally and figuratively. I think he’s also got a bit of Oldest Sibling syndrome so that probably adds to how he acts.

Sam is also shown to have a fairly strict schedule before Steve enters his life. He jogs, he works, with how many radios he had around his house and wine corks, I wouldn’t be surprised if after he was dismissed from flying he picked a new interest in wine to fill the hole, but he kept tabs on his wings. Even after probably a year at least, he didn’t forget about his passion for flying.

Sam is also what I call the “master masker”. Man hides so much inside canonically, that I can completely see him burning out alone and picking himself up after and forcing himself forward regardless. Also him being autistic and black, he would have had to learn the social cues for protection regardless if he understood them. It’s a sad truth for many black kids that they have to grow up quickly to survive, and that especially includes the ones with autism.

I like to think that he allows himself to take the mask off slowly with Bucky when Bucky sees how much it overwhelms Sam though. Slowly but surely, I can see Sam learning to seperate himself from the mask and instead using it as a MASK and NOT an identity.

And just for shits and giggles; that whole “Sam just doesn’t share” comment from Bucky? Absolutely Bucky teasing him for being stubborn about his trinkets and how things go around the house. You don’t wash the dishes in sections like he does? He will complain for hours even if they are all clean anyway 😂 Bucky would pet Sam’s head, going down the side and around the ear, while cuddling and Sam would just go “ew no, don’t stroke it that way wtf, you’re doing it wrong, no I refuse to cuddle”. Straight up kicks the man off the couch and pets himself until it feels right again.

I’m rambling because it’s like 2am and I’m excited to talk about it, but honestly the question got away from me because I have so many headcanons to go along with autistic!Sam but I think the only solid answer I can give is; he’s got some traits in canon, but it’s mostly a vibe. I adore that vibe because it reminds me of many neurodivergent people in my life that I love, so I just smacked the label on him and went “Ah, yes, this tickles that spot in my brain”.

[riversofmars]

I know you must have done wedding prompts before but perhaps one where the Doctor is trying to find something to wear but keeps coming up with all the stupid suits or other oddball clothes River dislikes and refuses River's suggestions of anything decent?

Hello all! Just back from holiday in the middle of nowhere and brought loads of fanfic content back! To start us off, a silly prompt filler! I've had a lot of fun prompts that all felt a bit too short for one thing so I've mixed a whole lot of them together for a chaotic and utterly typical day in the life of River and the Doctor! Hope you like it!

Word count: ~3k

Rating: G

Read below or on AO3

A Day in the Life

“You’re up early,“ River commented, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen in the TARDIS. She had woken up alone which wasn’t an unusual occurrence, the Doctor didn’t sleep much. She was, however, surprised to find her busying herself in the kitchen, rather than tinkering around the TARDIS.

“Big day today!“ The Doctor announced with a grin and turned around, she was waving a spatula about, and batter had somehow found its way into her hair and onto her entire outfit. River couldn’t help but chuckle, her hearts warming at the adorable sight in front of her. She pushed herself off the doorframe and made her way over to her wife.

“Doesn’t have to be if you don’t want it to be. We have a time machine, after all,“ she pointed out, recalling the conversation they had had last night. They had been invited to a wedding, which sounded a lot more recent than it was. The wedding had of course taken place thousands of years ago and they had encountered the happy couple many times since, but that wasn’t to say they wouldn’t be at their wedding at some point. The Doctor seemed to have decided that the time had come.

“No, no, I think it would be a nice thing to do today,“ the Doctor nodded enthusiastically and turned back to the stove to flip what looked like a pancake.

“Feeling sentimental?“ River asked, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“Maybe…“ The Doctor gave a little shrug and proceeded to curse most colourfully when the pancake split as she flipped it, and batter splashed everywhere as it crashed down.

“Is this something to do with that new face of yours?“ River hummed, nuzzling into her neck placing a soft kiss there.

“Something to do with you not being stuck in the library anymore,“ the Doctor answered more sincerely than River would have anticipated.

“Fair point,“ she had to agree. Life had been very different for them since the Doctor had freed her from the Library. For the first time - with the exception of their years on Darillium - they were living together in linear time. No running, no spoilers, just time, little time together, and they both appreciated it more than they could ever find the words to say.

“Sit down, breakfast is almost ready,“ the Doctor smiled and turned her head for a brief kiss.

“What are you making?“ River asked, eyeing the mess on the stove.

“Pancakes,“ the Doctor answered, bewildered, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“You sure about that?“ River frowned. Not only the consistency was suspect, the colour as well, upon closer observation.

“Oi, of course I’m sure!“ The Doctor exclaimed. “Special recipe. It’s from one of those colony worlds, over the far side of the Andromeda Galaxy. See, they don’t have chickens there so the eggs they use are…“

“Right,“ River nodded and decided that was all she needed to know to skip breakfast.

“And they don’t have maple syrup either but there is this really nice substitute they got…“ The Doctor went on and reached for a fork. She scooped up a presumably baked sample of the pancake and dipped it into some odd-looking white liquid in a bowl. She held it out to River expectantly.

“I’m gonna have to take your word for it,“ River hummed and let go of her to put some distance between herself and the offending pancake.

“Try it!“ The Doctor insisted, evidently hurt at her rejection. “It’s lush!“ She took the bite herself, sampling her own cooking, and was careful not to let her expression give any indication on the quality of the food.

“No, I’m good, watching my figure, with the dress and everything,“ River waved it off with a polite smile.

“You’re silly. You look absolutely beautiful,“ the Doctor seemed put out that she would even think that. She grabbed her hand to hold her back while scooping up another bite for her.

“And I really don’t want to try that,“ River grimaced, and with a sigh the Doctor ate the second bite too.

“I've been slaving in this kitchen for hours!“

“And I am ever so grateful.“ River pecked her cheek trying her best to avoid the sticky syrup all over her lips.

“Not even a proper kiss?“ The Doctor pouted.

“Not like that!“ River pointed out the sticky liquid and quickly pulled away before she had to sample the cooking second hand.

“Oi!“ The Doctor called, disappointed.

“Let’s go and pick out our outfits then!“ River grinned, skipping back to their bedroom.

——

“No… no…“ River shook her head vehemently.

“What do you mean, no? This is brilliant,“ the Doctor insisted, taking a twirl in a rainbow-coloured suit.

“No, it’s not, I’m not having it,“ River put her foot down. This was the fourth outfit the Doctor had tried and things were only getting worse.

“But…!“ The Doctor looked down at herself, disappointed. She thought this time she had picked a winner. The main problem was that she just didn’t really see the difference or what River’s issue was, else she would have been able to make a better choice. She was left guessing.

“No! Get something else!“ River sighed, getting frustrated.

“How about this?!“ The Doctor picked up another suit from the rack and River groaned:

“It literally is the same suit but in a different colour!“

“Brings out my eyes though, doesn’t it!“ The Doctor tried to reason but River wasn’t having it:

“No!“ She exclaimed and marched over to the rack herself. “Here, let me have a look…“ She started pushing through the coat hangers. “How about this?“ She pulled out a dress for a change and held it out to her, it was sky blue and silky.

“No.“ The Doctor shook her head immediately.

“Or this?“ River chose a red dress next that she remembered wearing herself for some occasion or another.

“I’m not going to wear one of your dresses!“ The Doctor huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“They’re not all my dresses… I’m sure this one is my mum’s,“ River mused, looking at a green one that she only had vague recollections of.

“No!“ The Doctor retorted decisively.

“Then I think we have reached an impasse…“ River sighed, putting all the dresses back. “I think we need to go shopping,“ she announced.

“River…“ The Doctor rubbed her face, she didn’t like the idea of it at all. .

“Unless you settle on one of my suggestions?“ River suggested sweetly and the Doctor shook her head.

“No.“

“Then, we’re going shopping,“ River decided, not taking no for an answer.

“What if I don’t dress up?“ The Doctor suggested in a last ditch attempt.

“Or you could wear nothing at all…“ River suggested with a sly smirk, and the Doctor blushed. “But no-one but me would appreciate that, so we’re going shopping.“

“Fine…“ The Doctor huffed.

——

“Right, back to the TARDIS,“ River announced triumphantly.

“I can’t believe you've dragged me around the shops…“ The Doctor was carrying several bags and did her best to avoid bumping into people. It was incredibly busy. They had come to the biggest shopping centre in the universe, the shopping planet aptly called “Capitalism“, which was rather on the nose but at least the people knew what this place was all about.

“Only until we found something we both liked well enough. Marriage is all about compromise, Sweetie,“ River chuckled, pleased that they had finally put the pesty issue to bed. Now it was just a matter of getting back to the TARDIS, changing into their new outfits and enjoying a very special day with some of their closest friends.

“Look over there…“ The Doctor halted as she spotted a little girl, no older than five, wandering around by herself.

“She looks lost…“ River had to agree and stopped walking as well. The girl was looking around, clearly searching for something or someone. It was far too busy for a child that age to be left to her own devices.

“Hello, are you okay? Who are you here with?“ The Doctor decided they couldn’t just carry on, instead she walked over to talk to the child, her wife close behind.

“I’m looking for my parents.“ The little girl answered reluctantly, eyeing the two of them as if she wasn’t sure whether she could trust them.

“Where did you last see them? Maybe we can help, you really shouldn’t be here on your own, it’s so busy,“ the Doctor scanned around the crowd but should see anyone that might be looking for a child in turn.

“I lost them in the crowd, we were meant to go to the entertainment level…“ The girl carried on to explain and pointed to a big poster on the other side of the walkway.

“Okay, well, maybe they went there and are waiting there for you now, shall we see if we can find them?“ River suggested, as it was as good a place as any to start.

——

“Entertainment is saying a bit much…“ River huffed as they slowly advanced into the amusement deck. It was surprisingly quiet, considering the fact that it was meant to be a fun place.

“Quite creepy, isn’t it…“ The Doctor agreed, eyeing up mechanical statues that lined the walls. Up ahead was a large entrance to what resembled an amusement park, only it was half-hidden behind the shutters, and there was no way of looking inside properly.

“Maybe we should go and talk to the security staff, make an announcement or something…“ River mused as she didn’t like the look of the place.

“That’s my mum’s scarf!“ The girl exclaimed as she spotted a yellow scarf not far from the entrance. River and the Doctor exchanged knowing looks.

“Maybe they didn’t lose you at all, maybe they were taken…“ The Doctor mused and pulled out her sonic screwdriver, which was quite a struggle with her shopping bags in hand. She gave the scarf and then the entrance a scan.

“Taken?!“ The girl exclaimed, terrified, and River was quick to pick her up and hug her.

“Don’t say things like that!“ She hissed at her wife who mumbled an apology.

“Sorry…“ she patted the child’s arm who had wrapped her arms around River’s neck. “We’re gonna find them in no time.“ The Doctor assured her and scanned the way up ahead again. “See, there’s lifesigns up ahead.“ Slowly, they started making their way inside the park.

The place was abandoned and they walked in silence until suddenly there was movement.

“AH!“ It was River that screamed first, and before the Doctor could do anything, she unloaded her blaster at a mechanical clown.

“River!!“ The Doctor exclaimed, shocked, as the girl screamed as well and buried her face in River’s neck.

“I just… really hate clowns, OKAY?!“ River took a deep breath, advancing carefully towards the thoroughly beat up statue.

“Right, okay, you’ve really shown that one who’s boss…!“ The Doctor commented, relaxing a little when River put her gun away upon finding the clown completely broken.

“Emily!“ A voice called up ahead and River and the Doctor looked up.

“Mum!“ The girl exclaimed and River set her down, smiling, at the woman running towards her.

“It was one way, we couldn’t turn around, we thought you’d gone in!“ The woman scooped up her daughter in a tight hug and the Doctor and River exchanged smiles.  “Thank you so much for bringing her here!“ The mother carried on, immense relief in her voice.

“All is well that ends well,“ River smiled and looped her arm around that of her wife.

“We’d better go, before someone makes us pay for the damage on that clown…“ The Doctor chuckled and captured River's lips in a kiss before she could get affronted.

——

“Happy?“ River asked, giving her wife a sideways glance.

“Very happy!“ The Doctor nodded, as she adjusted her waistcoat. She was wearing a tailored grey suit with an emerald green bow tie that matched the dress River wore. It was long and fitted, showing off her curves perfectly without being too revealing.

“Right then, let’s do this.“ River smiled and took her wife’s arm as she offered it to her.

“Nice venue!“ River commented as they stepped outside the TARDIS. They found themselves in a Victorian manor house.

“Looks oddly familiar…“ The Doctor mused with a frown, getting an odd sense of déjà vu.

“You’ve not been here before, have you?“ River asked, recognising the look on her face. She felt they were in for a surprise.

“I think I would remember…“ The Doctor mused, scanning the room some more. That’s when she spotted it: the second TARDIS on the other side of the room. “Oh no!“ She breathed.

“Timelines crossing, that’s why you don’t remember…“ River chuckled and frowned when she spotted the other Doctor. Tall with floppy hair, bowtie, and a girl following close behind. “But who is that?!“

“Okay, all of this was a huge misunderstanding…“ The Doctor reached for her wife’s hand intent on pulling her back to the TARDIS but River was too curious to let this opportunity pass them by. Particularly since the girl who was following the young Doctor was doing her best to cling to his arm.

“Doctor?“ River flashed him a bright smile, pulling her wife along.

“River!“ The younger Doctor recognised her and the colour drained from his face. He was doing his best to shake off the girl on his arm while going bright red in the face. “Oh no, no no no…“

“Who’s this darling?“ The young girl piped up to which River raised her eyebrows.

“This is my…“ The young Doctor cleared his throat as he gestured to his wife, trying to make introductions.

“Darling?“ River echoed with a good-natured smile, already relishing in his discomfort.

“Oh God, I think I remember this…“ The blonde Doctor groaned next to her wife, running her hand through her hair nervously. This was not where they were meant to end up when she had set the TARDIS going.

“And what is this ?“ River asked and the younger Doctor stammered:

“It’s really not what it looks like…“

“I thought we were going to Vastra and Jenny’s wedding, we have been meaning to go for ages!“ River sighed, pursing her lips, raising her questioning eyebrow.

“I must have… overshot a little…“ The blonde Doctor admitted.

“River, I can explain, see there was this thing…“ The other Doctor started.

“There is always a thing…“ River hummed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was doing her very best to remain serious. It wasn’t exactly the first time she had caught her spouse in an awkward position and she didn’t care in the least, but she greatly enjoyed winding them up.

“Please, let’s leave this horrible place and start our life together…“ The girl piped up again, wrapping her arms around the young Doctor’s waist who struggled to push her off.

“Yeah, about that…“ He stuttered.

“There was this whole forced marriage cult that I was trying to break up and I don’t know what happened, suddenly I was married to this girl and…“ The blonde Doctor decided to add some context at last.

“Ah.“ River smirked.

“It was an accident…“ The younger Doctor interjected immediately.

“We will leave you to deal with this accident then and you can make it up to me next time you see me,“ River announced with great amusement.

“Yes well… but what about you, do I not get to be jealous?“ The younger Doctor suddenly realised, pointing to his future self.

“I am you,“ the Doctor retorted dryly, as if it wasn’t obvious by now.

“Right…“ The other Doctor looked his future self up and down. “Nice suit.“

“She is you? I am married to both of you?“ The girl interjected, drawing everyone’s attention, as a huge smile spread across her face at the prospect. She was taking the whole thing surprisingly well which probably had a lot to do with having regained her freedom after what could be considered a rather hopeless existence.

“You are married to neither one of us. She is. We’re not married, 'cause I was already married,“ the younger Doctor explained, hoping to clear things up once and for all. This was just typical. Try and do one nice thing and get caught out by your wife for it.

“She’s your wife?“ The girl looked to River but not with animosity, more like blatant fascination and probably considering if there was a case to be made for an extended arrangement.

“She’s something.“ The older Doctor hummed and got a gentle slap to the arm for it.

“So… Vastra and Jenny’s wedding? Or are we postponing that again?“ River turned back to her wife in amusement, but only after giving the girl a wink.

“Ohh you’re off to see Vastra and Jenny? Been meaning to do that for ages, can we all go?“ The younger Doctor grinned in excitement and River chuckled:

“I think you got something else to sort out first…“

[notmrskennedy]

Whatever You Need

(Chip x Fem!Reader)

A/N - am I little in love with Chip? Yes, but who isn’t? So please enjoy my hot take on our lovely Mr. Chip Taylor

Summary - a university professor meets a very adorable maintenance guy ...

Warnings - a pinch of swearing and two teaspoons of mentioning gross things

Word Count - 3k 

-------

There’s a thin line, she realises as she rushes into the lecture hall, between anthropological research and grave robbing. When you’re on loan to the federal government and a water pipe bursts at a cemetery, there isn’t much to do other than say, ‘yes sir Mr. FBI agent, I will gladly slop through three feet of mud and water, digging through graves!’

She’s ten minutes late to her lecture. Ten minutes long enough that the TA’s are snickering. Ten minutes long enough that the entire class looks horrified that their Anthropology 101 professor is covered head to toe in dried mud, grass, and whatever else could be found in destroyed 19th century coffins.

She sets her bag down heavily on the desk and startles everyone in the room. Sans the maintenance guy. He’s tinkering with vent at the foot of door. He’s mostly a faded ball cap and a distressed jean jacket, one arm shoved up the vent. She can’t imagine why someone would have their arm up a vent, but god only knows why the university would ask someone to.

A moment passes where she unabashedly stares. How did she miss him? Was she in that much of a hurry that she nearly tripped on the guy and didn’t look back? And what the hell is in that vent?

The TA’s snicker behind her back, sobering up when she shoots them a half deadly look. She’s covered in mud, not lenience. She half hopes Maintenance Guy will turn around—she has a desperate, yet beguiling feeling he’s hot. But what she’s really curious for is what’s stuck up that vent.

And he doesn’t turn around—his complete disregard of her is a 180 from the rapt attention she’s receiving from her students—until she’s frustratedly brushing dirt off her face. Pulling grass from her hair.

“Let me just start with,” she begins, pulling an earth worm out of her sleeve, “if the federal government asks you to sort through bodies in a flooded cemetery, tell them no. And despite how much fun grave digging can be, there’s a thin line and that line is punctuated by whether they’re arresting me or not.”

Maintenance Guy snorts, head turned to beam up at her. She’s almost taken aback by how bright he seems. How his grin puts the sun in its place. He looks honest, grease stains and all.

There’s something to be said about the fact she’s studying his bone structure instead of his fleshy bits. She can’t tell you what colour his eyes are, but his zygomatic bones are killer.

“Professor?” a TA prompts, ineffectively holding back their own knowing smiles.

“Thanks for reminding me,” she replies, digging through her bag to hand out a stack of student essays. “Pass these back, please?”

Tick one for the professor.

“And as per usual,” she announces, leaning back against the white board, “let’s do our daily recap. And as you know, these questions can be used to aid in exams.”

She sneaks a glance at Maintenance Guy, pulling his arm out from the vent. He grumbles, digs through his toolbox, and grabs a screwdriver. Whatever is in that vent is stuck.

Once the rustling stops, she says, “Okay, question one: if your professor—that would be me for those of us who are new—were to be one of, say, five wives with one husband, it’s called—?”

“Polygamy!” a student shouts from the front row.

“You’re right, but you aren’t correct,” she says, standing up straight. “Polygamy is the practice of having more than one spouse. Polygyny—with an ’n’—is multiple wives to one husband. Examples of the culture are Kenya’s Logoli and other Abalulya sub ethnic groups.”

She writes it on the board for spelling, and glances over to see Maintenance Guy paused in his excavation of the vent. He’s paying better attention than her students. It’s sort of sweet and she stifles her soft giggle at the thought.

He’s ridiculously tall and she takes a moment to appreciate just how long his femurs have to be.

“Question two!” she announces and finds even the most hungover kids forcing their attention on her. “If your professor were to marry five men all at once, that’s called—?”

“Polyandry,” a student pipes up from the back. “A lot of times it’s fraternal marriage.”

“Examples of a culture that practices—”

Pop!

Maintenance Guy rolls back with the force. His knees are still bent from where they’d been used as leverage against the vent, a wall of debris bursting into his face. In one gloved hand was a dead raccoon, while the other desperately brushed bits of the vent’s clog—a raccoon’s nest—from his eyes.

“Oh Jesus,” she mutters, jumping into action. She picks up a garbage bag from his toolbox and nets the dead animal from his hand. It’s a pretty tame find, though she’s used to human remains which tended to be—gooier.

With the animal tucked up, she hauls Maintenance Guy to a sitting position, frantically cleaning the odds and ends of the nest out of his eyes. She steals his ball cap as she whispers kind words to him, further trying to shake the bits of insulation out of his shaggy hair.

The class is in a terrible chatter behind them. Not that it matters. Not with Maintenance Guy’s eyes opened and his hands gently clutching onto her wrists as she brushes the last bits of insulation off his cheeks. His eyes are definitely hazel up this close.

“Thanks,” he croaks, still gently latched onto her hands.

“It’s no problem,” she smiles back, absently studying the rest of his face. He’s got the kind of skull she’d love to see on her table—well, maybe once he’s died of his own accord because he seems rather sweet. Confused and concerned, but…sweet. “Don’t worry. I’ve had much worse flung all over me. You don’t much get used to it.”

He smiles, barely chuckling. Coughs up a bit of insulation.

“You might want to see a doctor. Insulation in the lungs is…what gets you a one way ticket to my lab.” She grins at her own terrible joke. His eyes are too close and she can’t help but wish for a skeleton to be looking back at her. She understands those. People are too…gooey.

“I’m Chip,” he offers, silently asking her for help to his feet. She does, offering her own name in return. He mulls over it, like it’s a fine wine sitting on his tongue. “Professor Y/N. Thanks again.”

She shrugs, mouth suddenly too dry. Heart beating too fast. Jesus, human interaction was going to kill her. There was no job to distract her from Chip’s strong hands. There were no bodies to keep Chip’s genuine gaze off of her. There wasn’t anything to distract from seeing Chip as so pleasantly human.

“Want the raccoon as a consolation prize?” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with a newly de-gloved hand. There’s something satisfying about answering questions that aren’t meant as questions. Especially ones that showed just how weird she really was. The questions that were relationship testers—like can we be friends if I tell you that I keep carrion beetles as pets?

“Actually, sure.” Chip’s jaw drops just slightly open. He has cute teeth. “Dissection is a key part of the anthropological process, forensic or not. Let’s see just what this raccoon was up to. Eh, class?”

Every single one a deer in the headlights, the class goes eerily silent. She winks at Chip and announces again. “Don’t you guys want to see what I do for a living? I mean human remains are much cooler but I think we can settle for a mostly solid raccoon carcass.”

A TA clutches at her stomach. “Professor, never say that again.”

The professor just laughs, absentmindedly taking a soft grip on Chip’s shoulder. “Don’t worry everyone, Chip’s going to keep the raccoon. At least I’m not making the final a practical examination. I do have access to laboratory rats—“

The entire class clambered forward, hoping to dispel the idea and the evil smirk off their professor’s lips. She just beamed back at Chip, dropping her hand. She expected the same horrified expression of her students, but he seemed, dare she say, impressed.

That wide eyed shock creeps onto her face. Because who would risk being impressed by a professor covered in dirt from grave digging who offered to dissect a raccoon at 10 AM on a Tuesday?

Apparently, it’s this guy. Must have a thing for crazy women.

Chip shakes his head, bites his lip, and turns to stoop for his raccoon trophy. “I’ll, uh, have them send someone for the nest. I—I guess I have to do something with the raccoon, if you’re sure you don’t want it?”

She just shakes her head, failing miserably at keeping her cherry red tint to herself. “No, no. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” he repeats, rather sadly, to himself. Though, as he turns to leave, it feels more like a promise.

#

The worst part about knowing Chip is that she seems to see him everywhere. Rushing between lecture halls? There he is, doing his best to fix a fountain. Getting escorted away by federal agents? There he is, sympathetically waving as he walks across the quad. Leading a group of students outside to lecture on the green? There’s Chip, fixing a sprinkler.

She’s had exactly three times in the last six months to talk to him. All under three minutes.

But today, today she’s running late from court. Grand jury testimony had gone fine, until Agent—God, she’ll never learn his name—WhatsHisFace tried to ask her out again. Because what a turn on talking about the mutilation of a hacked up college girl was.

It also didn’t help that, outside of the court room half an hour before, she was doodling what she thought Chip’s skull would look like.

So she can’t help but storm into her postage stamp of a classroom, dropping her package on the desk with a gentle, yet annoyed huff. Her 12 students, all seniors in the Anthropology department, raised their eyebrows at her. At her court getup.

She’d missed those formative lessons at 13 on how to be a proper lady. And even if she had had them, it probably wouldn’t have stuck. Besides, what she wore into the field had to be more than acceptable for the university’s standards. The heels and pink blouse of today were extremely rare and uncomfortable.

“Whoa, Professor Y/N!” Reese Rosebeck calls out, dramatically twitching in his chair, “Is that really you? You look hot!”

“Ha, ha. That’s a very coherent thought for the kid who wrote the worst paper I’ve ever read,” she deadpans. She relents when she sees his dramatic puppy dog pout. “Though, I do have to say I enjoyed you’re use of colloquial slang. Accentuated your point very cleverly.”

“As long as I impress the hottest professor on campus, I’m alright.”

There was a quiet laugh from the back of the room, and she found her eyes snapping to the hunched over back of none other than, Maintenance Guy Chip Taylor. He’s just quietly listening—as always—tinkering with the radiator pipes in the back of the room. She’s half thankful. It is starting to get cold.

“Hey, Chip!” she chirps and the poor thing bangs his head on the pipes. He waves her off in a flash, hand extended wildly above the other desks in the room. Reese chuckles to himself, dragging Lionel with him.

She kicks her heels off behind her desk, straightening herself once she’s back on stable ground. She’s about three apples short of a pie to wear heels for more than six consecutive minutes. The female students give her rather sympathetic looks as she begins to roll her feet and open her package.

She pauses halfway in. Jeez, she forgot about—“Hey, Chip?”

Like a meerkat, he pops up with a dazzling soft grin.

“Are you going to call the cops on me?”

“Excuse me?”

Her students’ eyes bounce back and forth between the pair, following the invisible tennis match. The professor settles on a rather tired, “Are you going to call the cops? The last person who attended lecture that didn’t know me, called the cops because of a demonstration. So, are you?”

“No.” He shakes his head and she wonders if he’s a little too trusting. He’s honest as he leans back down to continue futzing with the pipes. He’s genuine in every interaction they have. Does she really deserve the kind of trust he’s offering? To a crazy woman who’s asked if he’ll call the cops on her?

She shakes the thought away. These 12 students—tangible students—need her focus. At least for the next few minutes. She pulls six human skulls from her package, all neatly wrapped up in protective glass cases. She places those on the table along with a box of gloves.

“Two people to a skull,” she announces and runs through the rest of the directions. “Don’t forget your gloves. You too, Ms. Figg.”

Jamie Figg’s fierce blush is long forgotten once they are all set to work. Tactile learning is the best way to learn in her opinion, expressly in advanced classes like these. It also gives her a moment to rest her brain—even if it’s a few minutes before the onslaught of necessary questions.

She settles into an unused section of chairs and desks, smiling absently at the way all of the kids have squeezed themselves around the one table. She misses the days when she was young and new, ready to find her own legs to stand on.

Chip’s not quiet and she watches him with too much adoration as he sits down next to her. It’s not all too unexpected nor uninvited. He smells like grease and good cologne up close, mixed up with that dangerous combination of hazel eyes and delicious bone structure.

Chip smirks, drawing her out of her smidge of staring. “See anything good?”

“You have excellent bones,” she mutters, tracing a finger against her own cheek instead of his. “Prominent zygomatic bones and well balanced supraorbital margins. But the, um, the rest of you is—is nice too.”

Oh great one, Y/N. Perfect. You’re such a fucking creep.

Chip just smiles. The kind of soft upturn of the lips and dip of the head that means he took it like the compliment it was meant as. He runs a rather shakey hand through his hair, bringing his gaze back up to do his own staring. She wonders what he sees about her. She’s sure he doesn’t see bone structure like she does, but does her flesh give away something she doesn’t know about?

Chip wrings his hand down behind his neck and she sees it. That little bit of something that brews between his bones and his epidermis. The fuzzy sort of thing that sits behind his eyes. The one she’s seen in war veterans, cops, and now the university’s maintenance man.

And as if he’s just a skull on her table, she states ever so eloquently, “You look like the kind of guy who’s seen some shit, Chip.”

And as if she’s accepted his offer for the raccoon all over again, he beams. He further turns away from her, shaking his head, and she follows his eye line to the students not so subtly glancing over at the pair every three seconds. The dozen are still chattering on, examining the skulls in their hands with rapt fascination.

Chip, despite all the non-threatening, sensitive, idiot boy vibes, looks over the skulls with more recognition than she cares to admit she sees. Most people don’t look at skulls like they’re familiar. Like the idea of them being formerly attached to a living person doesn’t bother them.

Again, looks like he’s seen some shit.

“Are they real?”

She nods, taking a tiny chance and pressing their shoulders together. She’s not upset to say that Chip carries very warm skin on his lovely skeletal structure. She wipes the blush off her cheeks and answers, “From the university’s collection. I’ve done a lot of travelling, lots of excavations, lots of grave robbing—sometimes the university doesn’t miss the skulls of the not-so-recently deceased.”

“You’re very—“

“Creepy? Weird?”

She hopes that Chip is too stupid to hear the insecurity bleed through. That he’s too stupid to look at her the way he is. Instead, he squints as if he can’t risk choosing the wrong adjective, so the words inch through his brain. All carefully refined into his choice of, “…Intelligent.”

His takes her hand in his to accentuate his point. She nearly stops breathing.

“You’ve forgotten more this morning than I’ll ever know,” he whispers. She doesn’t know how to look at him without letting him see the hearts in her eyes. Her fingers tighten against his. “I’d never call you creepy.”

She swallows, fighting against the rock in her throat. It wasn’t often people paid her any compliments, especially after she’d let her mouth run for more than five minutes in a one-on-one conversation.

And as if she isn’t already trying to desperately clutch onto her frayed nerves, he confidently pulls a slightly creased business card from his shirt pocket. Offers it to her irritatedly hesitant fingers.

“I do home visits, you know,” he says, putting more weight into where their skin touches. “So, if you’re dishwasher breaks or something, give me—give me a call.”

Chip squeezes her fingers one more time, double checks she’s holding onto the business card, and walks back for his toolbox. Only when the classroom door is closing behind him does Reese shout out, “Oh-ho-ho! Professor’s getting some!”

“Get back to your skull before I use yours as a soup bowl,” she snaps, though she can’t hide the cherries in her cheeks as she thumbs over the business card. Chip Taylor. Whatever you need.

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 8

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Content warnings: death mention, possible minor body horror with regards to injury

It had been a fortnight since Andariel. Morgan was adjusting to his new reality, one where speaking much louder than a whisper for more than a few sentences made it feel like he'd been screaming his throat raw. Where pain was out of proportion to the damage that caused it. Where his left arm was all but useless. Although he felt well enough to get up and move around, the wound on his arm showed no signs of closing. An inky colouration had spread out from the puncture, extending up above his elbow and down to his wrist. It turned his stomach to look at it. Any remaining strength in the limb was negated by the pain that shot through it at the slightest jostle or pull. Akara's expertise in the healing arts was not sufficient to handle a wound like this, caused by a demon queen and determined to linger. She had offered her sympathies and a supply of bandages, which at least allowed him to bind the damned thing so he didn't have to see it. His own limited knowledge of medicine did not extend to this manner of injury either, so simply keeping it covered and clean seemed like the best option available.

Morgan had been spending most of his time and energy on meditation and geomancy. Physical pursuits were not very attractive at the moment, so instead he focused on improving his magic. He would need it more than ever now, given the state of his arm. Eventually he would return to the graveyard he'd marked, to check on the restless spirits there, but he wasn't yet well enough for that journey.

The ground around the encampment was largely untended, but the soil was good. Morgan had been using it to flex his magical abilities cautiously, not wanting them to suffer from disuse. He turned small patches at a time, shuffling the richer earth up toward the surface bit by bit, until eventually there was a respectable area prepared. Nobody had asked him to install a garden, but it felt like it might be a useful contribution. It also helped to ground him. He had often tended the gardens back home, and found now that he was missing that work.

Short forays into the surrounding fields were still within the scope of Morgan's ability. Over the course of about a week, he'd managed to successfully transplant a reasonable variety of usable plants. Comfrey, feverfew, yarrow, and chamomile had all been easy enough to spot, and each had at least one medicinal use. They also had the benefit of being reasonably hardy, taking root well in the freshly turned earth. He had also experimented a little with some preparations of other plants he'd found - an outcrop of sway grass by a small lake, some sage nestled in among a patch of bright trefoil, a little bark from the willow just outside the encampment - but despite following standard procedures for preparation, none of the resultant concoctions did anything to relieve the pain of his injury. He took some fruits from what looked like an oleaster, intending to dry them for another attempt in the future, but he kept his expectations low. If the wound wasn't going to heal properly, it stood to reason that the other effects would also linger.

Cain had been good company, stopping by often. He inquired about the garden as it was talking shape and seemed legitimately interested in the various applications of the plants filling it. Morgan took care not to speak at too much length on any one topic, endlessly interesting though they were. Equally fascinating were the tales Cain had to share in exchange. The story of Tristram had been a sobering one, between the king's corruption by Diablo and the destruction it had wrought. And it seemed that it was not yet concluded, given the hero-turned-dark-wanderer who had fled. It would be worth pursuing that tale to its conclusion; Morgan's original request had been duly fulfilled, but the evident threat to the Balance was more pressing than returning to the Necropolis.

He'd also been alternating between meditating on ways to improve his clay golems and creating small versions to test the changes he'd thought of. So far he had come up with a lot of failed designs, going too far to the extremes to test the boundaries. A build with above average mobility that would crumble in combat, a strong and sturdy make that could absorb a great deal of punishment but would be too slow to hit anything that wasn't standing still. Now it was time to rein it in, to tinker with proportions and the flow of magic through the construct until something better emerged. Morgan slipped easily into the in-between state, retreating into his mind while his body rested in a comfortable cross-legged position. A pleasant breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree he was leaning against. Today would be good for focusing on the smaller details. He lost himself for a time in the contemplation of his designs.

A crawling, prickling discomfort pulled him back into reality. The sun was getting low in the sky. Someone had put their hand on his shoulder, and they were speaking to him.

"- word I've said, have you?" It was Blaise, looking annoyed.

Morgan shifted away from her, and she let her hand fall. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't hear you. I was meditating." The rough sound of his voice was another thing he was still getting used to. He rubbed his throat gingerly. Should have thought to keep some water nearby.

"Of course you were. I said, I talked to Kashya and she's agreed to give you some training. If you're going to keep fighting monsters and demons, you'll need some help. With your swordplay. It's not very good."

She was right, of course. Now that he could no longer hold a shield, his sword would have to be defensive as well - and magic had always been his strength, not actual physical strength or coordination. He'd been planning to refocus himself entirely on the magical side of things, but this was undeniably a good idea even if he didn't relish the prospect of physical training. Any formal instruction in the use of a sword would be useful.

"When?"

"You're welcome. Whenever you're ready. As soon as tomorrow." Instead of turning to go, she sat next to him. He expected her to keep talking, but she didn't. Maybe she was working up to something. The silence stretched uncomfortably. She didn't like him, she'd often said as much - so why was she staying so near? He'd been doing his best to be avoidable, true to his word. She hadn't been taking advantage of it, instead crossing his path at least once a day. Probably some sort of sense of obligation. The Sisterhood had been treating him with a cautious, grudging respect since Andariel's defeat. It was... strange.

That reminded him of a question he'd been meaning to ask. Now seemed as good a time as any, so he turned to study her. "Blaise. Why did you tell everyone I killed Andariel?"

She startled visibly and raised a hand to shush him. "What the hell, Morgan," she hissed, "you can't just say-" she cut herself off, looking around furtively. Apparently satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping, she continued in hushed tones. "Look, if Akara and Kashya knew I killed that big ugly bitch, they'd never let me get away from this backwater. It's different for you. They're expecting you to go. And when you leave, I'm going with you. At least until I'm well away from here. This place... I'm not really cut out to be part of something like this."

"Ah." That explanation made enough sense. He hadn't realized she wanted to leave, but then he often didn't realize things about other people. Perhaps he'd misinterpreted her loyalty as fondness. There wasn't always a correlation there. She hadn't exactly been talkative during their time together - not to him, not about personal wishes and desires. It also explained the closeness; by spending time around him, she was putting on a front, laying the groundwork that would justify her departure. Satisfied, he turned away to look at the sky. It was starting to be tinged with pink, and it was lovely to see.

"How do you do it?" Now it was her turn to scrutinize him. She was staring intently at his face as though it was going to hold anything other than confusion. Do what? Had he slipped back into his thoughts and missed part of the conversation? "I mean, doesn't it bother you?" That clarified nothing. He stared blankly, and she huffed. "People don't like you. As a necromancer. I mean, we didn't exactly give you a warm welcome. But there's no way it's just us. Your kind are... well, hated."

Oh, that. It was just a fact. He'd come to accept it easily enough. People didn't usually take kindly to him even before they knew his particular area of specialization. He shrugged, wondering idly what had lead to the question. She didn't seem to like that response.

"It's normal," he offered.

"It's not normal! How could you think that's normal? How do you... live with it?" She gesticulated, as though the waving of her hands might clarify her meaning. It did not. How else would he live? He took a moment to search for the words to frame it.

"As followers of Rathma, we are driven by pursuit of the Balance. What others think of us is not important."

"Not im- Morgan, of course it's important! The way people treat you matters. You have to rely on other people all the time."

"I try not to."

Blaise pinched the bridge of her nose as though the conversation was giving her a headache. "Yeah, I know you do. But sometimes you don't have a choice. Like - there's no way you could have gone up against Andariel alone, she would have killed you in a second."

"Mm." While certainly true, it didn't change much. Alone, he would have been more cautious, planned better. Probably died anyway. Others would have come to take his place. His individual life only held value in the contribution it could make toward the Balance. Death came inevitably to all things; to die in service was at least honourable.

Blaise seemed agitated. "I don't think you understand - this is life and death stuff. For fuck's sake, you nearly did die! When-" she lowered her voice, which had risen in frustration. It shook a little. "When I brought you to Akara, she argued with me. She didn't want to waste her supplies on you. She was just going to let you die on her doorstep, because she doesn't like you. That's not normal. You can't just think that's okay."

It certainly wasn't extraordinary. That was why necromancers generally brewed their own potions, not that he'd had either the time or the forethought to reach for his own during the encounter. He started to shrug again. Akara had been pleasant enough since - oh. All the pieces came together suddenly, but the picture they formed didn't quite make sense. Blaise had lied to save him. She'd decided, probably on an impulse, out of desperation, to frame him as the hero because the healer wasn't going to touch him otherwise. She had wanted him to live, and had sacrificed her own part in the story to ensure his survival.

Of course, that type of instinctively selfless behaviour was part of the reason he'd decided she was a genuinely good person. But having that kindness extended to him - that was new. He didn't quite know what to make of it. People weren't kind to him, as a rule. That was familiar, at least, predictable. It didn't feel like he'd done anything to earn this special treatment. He'd have to tread carefully.

"It's what I'm used to," he said quietly. "Death comes to all things. We do not expect others to delay it for us. But you... are extraordinary." It didn't really feel adequate, but he would need some time to process this new information, and the moment would be long past by then. "Thank you," he added. That also felt shallow. He had no reference to draw from - what was the appropriate way to convey this tangle of feelings? Indebtedness, surprise, gratitude, admiration, and those were just the aspects he had names for. He purposely held her gaze for a moment, hoping she would be able to glean something from that since his words weren't doing the job.

Blaise opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Instead, she stood and stretched. "I bet you haven't even eaten today. Come on, Charsi made these beautiful rabbit pies. You have to try them." She extended her hand toward him. He didn't especially want to join a communal meal, but it would be rude to refuse such a rare offer. And he had, in fact, neglected to eat. He took her hand to pull himself up. Tomorrow he would attempt to train with Kashya, but right now he wouldn't worry about it.

[sirowsky]

The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, mentions of torture and murdered children. 

Link to Masterlist

Comment: Well, now, I seem to have gone a little overboard here, because this chapter is 6550 words! I’m sick with the flu and isolated and bored, and all I do is sleep, so I have no idea how this happened. The chapter is a bit heavy, lot’s of information to get across for future developments, but we meet some new characters that will be recurring! Also - next chapter is going to be the big 100K one, so please send me a word or phrase you’d like me to incorporate in it, I like a challenge! All my love to you, darlings!

Chapter 36

  The next morning, Marcus woke you up in an unconventional way. Normally, he’d just kiss you somewhere, or throw one or two limbs over you and pin you down so that he could try and pretend that he didn’t have to get up from the warm bed, and your soft skin.   While he didn’t have a bad morning mood, like you, he was lazy and languid and almost excessively soft the first half-hour of the day.   But on this day, he woke you by quite literally jumping on you.   You were lying on your side, with your back to him, and somewhere in the sluggishness of still-asleep-but-not-fully, you heard his phone beep. Since it wasn’t your alarm, your sleep-drunk brain ignored it, but you were aware of him turning to retrieve it from the floor next to his side of the bed. It was just a double mattress on the floor, but it was good enough to hold you over.   But then, he was suddenly bouncing into the air with a loud whoop coming from his lips, before he landed on top of you and started attacking you with wet kisses, tickling you with his patchy beard and giggling happily while he kept bouncing.

  “What’re you doin…?”

  You were groaning the words out in a garbled mumble against the pillow, but he ignored you. He kissed your nose, then bounced, then his moustache tickled your neck, and he bounced again, then he tugged the covers down and kissed your shoulder, bounce, his beard rubbed the top of your right breast, bounce, his lips smacked against yours, bounce…   He was being deliberately annoying in order to get you angry, because he knew that that was the fastest way to get you fully awake. But even though you knew that, it still really got on your nerves.

  “Fuck-off, Marcus…”

  He just giggled more, knowing he was starting to get to you. And then he stood on all fours over you, and just bounced like a gazelle, repeatedly, endlessly, while he kept chuckling like a giddy kid, until you had enough.   With a loud growl, you flung your eyes open and rushed at him, pushing him backwards until he fell over onto his back at the foot of the bed, still smirking and vibrating with light laughter even after you pinned him down and glared at him.

  “What the hell is so damned funny ahead of the fucking alarm clock?”

  “Ooh, I love it when you get all rough first thing in the morning.”

  You were technically straddling him, although there was no real contact between your sexes, and you were too tired and angry with him to feel the least bit horny.   That is, until he lunged his hips up and his hard morning glory bumped right at your opening. It was just enough of a reaction to cause you to lose focus, and he took the opportunity to use his superior strength to swap your positions, except he didn’t hover over you anymore. He nestled himself in between your thighs, grinding hard into your mound, knowing you needed a bit more force to coax your body into playing, while your brain was practically still asleep.

  “We got it, querida.”

  He smiled into the sweet kisses he peppered onto your neck while you tried not to let him persuade your body into morning sex. You weren’t in the mood, not really, and this was gonna be a hell of a day, even if everything went smoothly.   His voice dropped to that silky husk that you loved, as he whispered in your ear.

  “We got the house.”

  …What……?

  You flinched and stared at his eyes as he brought his face up to where you could see it. He was serious.   Suddenly you weren’t the least bit tired.

  “We got it? It’s ours? Don’t you dare joke with me right now, Marcus…”

  You already knew he wasn’t, but you needed him to confirm it. The whole house-hunt had been such a mess, and you’d fallen so madly in love with that place, with the big yard and the perfect kitchen, that when you thought you’d lost it, the whole hunt had sort of become irrelevant to you.

  “They backed out, at the last minute. The realtor just texted me to congratulate us. It’s ours, mi amor. We can move in next week.”

  His smile widened as he watched you absorb the news, and saw the joy spread through your features. Your body started responding to his, and he felt the heat rise in your skin, so he rolled you both again, to let you be the one to bounce this time.

  That led to the two of you somehow not getting out of bed until an hour after the alarm did go off, subsequently ruining your entire morning, but amazingly, not your good mood.   Your press-conference had been scheduled for noon, and you had some things to get done before then, but none of it bothered you all of a sudden.   All those things that would have normally stressed you out just passed by without so much as raising your pulse, and you had the singular pleasure of seriously wigging out Anita when you crossed paths with her in a hallway, on your way to legal.

  “Hey, Máma. What’s happening?”

  “Why would anything be happening?”

  “Um, because you’re here. You’re only here when something interesting is going on. So, spill.”

  “Fine. I’m interviewing candidates for your replacement today.”

  “Oooh… that means weird questions centred around flowers, right? Can I sit in?”

  “Absolutely not, loco.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like having you around when I’m working, especially not when you’re… giddy…”

  “It doesn’t come around often, you know, you might wanna capitalize.”

  “And what exactly do you think I might need your good mood to get you to agree to?”

  “How about… a garden in our backyard? So, your magic flowers can keep tabs on us.”

  “I don’t need a garden to keep tabs on you, loco.”

  “But you do need flowers nearby, because of the pollen, right? That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

  Uuuhh… and just where did that come from?

  Anita stared at you with the most complex expression you’d ever seen, and at any other time, you would’ve been seriously disturbed by it, but this time, you just beamed a huge grin at her, and patted her shoulder affectionately as you passed her by.

  “I won’t tell. Promise!”

  Then you skipped away down the hall, happy as a cloud, having apparently worked out how at least one of Máma’s abilities worked, without even knowing it.

  After the meeting with legal, to officially sign on for all the duties and responsibilities of a Heroic, you headed down to the Batcave to put on your costume. Velma had tinkered a little bit with the detailing, but overall, it looked the same as before. You allowed her to style your hair into your preferred ‘up and away from your eyes’ manner, and do your modest and simple make-up, which she still managed to get twice as nice as anything you could do.   And then you were ready. With an hour to spare, no less.

  “How you doin with that sparkle, honey? Got a handle on it yet?”

  Right, you’d already forgotten about that.

  “Nope, I haven’t tried it again yet. But I have some time to spare.”

  “Ooh, yes, gimme more glitter, baby!”

  “Wait, don’t tell me you saved that stuff?”

  “See now, darling, that offends me. Do I look like the sort of person who would ever waste glitter?”

  “My apologies, my Queen, how utterly rude of me. Allow me to attempt to create some more for you.”

  Velma just nodded appreciatively and stepped back a little.

  You started picturing the same colourful images that had flooded your mind the day before, and tried to flood the air around you with them using your energy. But it was like it wasn’t there.   Whatever it was that had put you in such a splendidly good mood that morning, you were suddenly certain that it had something to do with the sudden emptiness inside you. As though the happiness had been some side-effect of your body no longer having to deal with that constant drain on your energy-reserves.   That strange feeling that lived in your chest and your gut, and that you had just started to become comfortable with, and used to, as it triggered and activated your powers, just wasn’t there anymore.   The giddiness vanished, replaced with a growing anxiety as you began to realise the potential consequences of this.   It might be temporary, or it might be permanent. Your powers weren’t natural, and thus, they couldn’t be judged by the same data as the other’s. But if it was a permanent loss, the contract you’d just signed would put you in a precarious situation, not to mention the fucking press-conference.   How the hell were you supposed to stand there and proclaim yourself a Heroic with no powers?

  “Sugar? What’s wrong?”

  “I… I can’t. My powers aren’t working.”

  “Oh, no. That doesn’t sound good. Go to research, honey, they’ll take care of you.”

  “No, I can’t. We don’t know who to trust, remember?”

  “Oh, dang it all to hell. Well, go find Marcus, then.”

  You sprinted out of the cave and went to find him, not even seeing the eyes popping on the people you passed in the corridors and stairwells, as they took in your outfit.   He wasn’t in his office, so you headed for the Control centre, and forced yourself to stop and calm down before you stepped inside.   He was there, by the centre console with his broad back to you, overseeing some transfer of equipment from overseas, and there was a kind of chatter in the room, as the operators and analysts kept feeding him information, and mumbling to and between themselves.   But, as you entered, all eyes fell on you, and everyone went quiet.   Marcus noticed the change and turned around to investigate. You watched his eyes go from seeing the people all staring in the same direction, to seeing you standing there in your outfit, and for a moment, that same predatory darkness filled his eyes. He was acutely aware of how everyone was staring at you, and while it made him proud to see others appreciate the beauty he so clearly saw in you, it also made him possessive. A need to declare to the whole world that you belonged to him flooded his system and made his adrenaline spike, and you could see it in his whole frame.   But it only lasted for a second, because then he saw your eyes, and realised that something was wrong, and his fear took over.   He handed the room over to one of the operators, and led you out, and he didn’t stop until you’d reached his office. He placed the little device that scrambled all forms of listening or recording of the room, on the desk, and turned it on before he spoke.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re gone… my powers, I can’t even feel them.”

  “What… how is that even possible?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Do you know if this has ever happened to any of the supers?”

  “No, it hasn’t. We all experience fluctuations, especially while we’re young, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually losing their powers. Are you sure they’re gone? Not just… on the fritz?”

  “They’re gone. I know that feeling so well, because it scared me for so long, and now it just isn’t there anymore. I can’t be a Heroic now. Which, technically doesn’t bother me, you know I never wanted to be, but we needed this.”

  “Okay, slow down, we don’t know if this is permanent yet.”

  “Marcus, the announcement is in half an hour! You expect me to stand there and proclaim myself a Heroic, when all I can do now is throw basic self-defence at any enemy?”

  He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “No, you can’t do that. We can’t let anyone see that you’ve been weakened. We have to call the conference off.”

  “Fuck. Allen is gonna have my head…”

  “He’ll have to go through me.”

  “I feel like such a hypocrite even wearing this thing now.”

  You tugged poignantly at the top of your costume, suddenly feeling even more uncomfortable in it than you had the first time you put it on. He grabbed your chin and lifted it to keep your eyes on his, so that you could see that he was dead serious.

  “Hey, don’t say that. Whatever else has happened, few people have earned a Hero’s costume more than you, and I don’t ever wanna see you wear it with anything but pride, you hear me, hermosa?”

  Your eyes teared up for some reason, and it sparked a torrent of emotions to flood your system. Suddenly you were shaking with fear, sadness and a growing feeling of vulnerability.

  “I know it’s irrational, I know I’m not any more fragile just because I can’t tear buildings apart anymore, but I just feel so breakable now.”

  He wrapped his arms around you and held you close, knowing that no words of comfort would be enough right now.   You tried to calm yourself, knowing that there was too much for you to get through in the immediate future to allow you the luxury of breaking down just yet.

  “We need to talk to Allen and Ms. Granada, before it’s too late to call it off.”

  “We also need to get you checked out, but by who?”

  “Fuck if I know. One problem at a time, please.”

  “Oh, shit! Norway…”

  “You got the green light?”

  “Yeah. For you and me, at 4 pm.”

  “Great, this just gets better and better. Now all we need is for our fucking house to burn down, too.”

  “Whoa, don’t jinx it!”

  “Honey, if that happened – we would have to finally accept that the universe has chosen us to bear a large percentage of all the crap in this world, so that someone else doesn’t have to. And then we can just give up on all dreams and ambitions and go live in an igloo in Antarctica.”

  “I have no idea how to respond to that, except - penguins.”

  “Wait… I think I have an idea about how we can steer past the press-conference.”

  “If you’re about to tell me it has something to do with flightless birds…”

  “What? No, of course not. We need to talk to Allen.”

  An hour later, you and Marcus where on the Heroics jet, heading for Norway, and Marcus was genuinely impressed with how easy your solution had ended up being. Granted, it only bought you a little bit of time, but perhaps that would be enough.   Basically, you’d just convinced Allen that your business in Norway had become urgent, and that you needed to go immediately, or lives might be in danger. It worked because it was technically true, which made it just real enough to persuade him.   Whatever shitstorm you’d be facing when you got back, was another matter entirely, and one you’d both chosen to ignore for now.

  “So, provided my intel is accurate, and we have to assume it is, we should start looking in a small community called Ersfjordbotn, just south of Tromso.”

  “What led you there?”

  “A twitter-post. Don’t ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “You told me that her power is discreet, and that that’s how she’s been so good at staying off the radar, but you never told me what it is?”

  “She can fiddle with temperatures, only in her immediate surroundings, and only a few degrees, but around people that’s all it takes to put you out.”

  “Neat. When did you last see her?”

  “Oh, god… probably around ten years ago now. She was really young and really scared of everything to do with Heroics and responsibilities and the spotlight, most of all. But her family was poor and her parents only saw the advantages of having their daughter become a famous person, so they ignored her protests, and as a result, she ended up running away.”

  “And they sent you to find her?”

  “Mhm. I caught up to her in Canada, but she was so desperate to be free, to not have to shoulder the burden of caring for her family, as well as the whole damned world, at a mere 16 years old, that I just couldn’t bring myself to take her back. I gave her all the cash I had on me, and the names of some people I knew would help her if she could find them. And that’s the last I ever saw of her.”

  “Poor kid. I’m sorry you have to do this, honey.”

  “I hope we can find her, because I’d love to know that she made it. That I didn’t send her to her death that day. But, if we do find her, we’re not gonna force her to do anything, which is why I’m fine with all this.”

  “Did you get the new location on Verity yet?”

  “Yeah. Mississippi this time.”

  “So, if Neune wants in, that’s our next stop.”

  “Let’s just find her first.”

  Airport, rental, getting lost twice, and swooning over absolutely every piece of scenery you drove past, later – you found Ersfjordbotn.   Your costumes were enough to draw all attention to you, so if Neune was there, she was bound to hear about it soon enough. So, you just parked the car and headed into a coffeeshop for an evening snack while you waited.   The shop closed about an hour later, but the midnight sun meant that you had full daylight all through the night, which was odd, but really amazing. The scenery was so dramatic with the steep mountains and hills dropping almost straight down into the fjord. The community was small and all the buildings ran along the waterline at the base of a mountain, and as you walked, you started thinking about the house that waited for you back home.

  “About the move.”

  “Hm?”

  “Honey, we’re gonna have to go on a serious shopping-spree as soon as possible. As if we have time for that, in the middle of all this… And you know what furniture stores are like. It takes five weeks to get anything delivered, and if you want something special or customised, it’s twice that.”

  “Don’t worry, in that regard, being famous has it’s perks. No store wants the bad press involved with disappointing a Heroic.”

  “It’s still gonna take time. Moves always do. I mean, for christs sake, we don’t even have cutlery.”

  “What happened to your cutlery? Someone eat it?”

  You stopped at the sound of a melodious voice to your right, and turned to find a woman sitting perched up on a rock a few metres up the hillside.   Her clothes were so perfectly toned to the colours around her, that if she hadn’t spoken, you’d have never seen her, even if you’d looked straight at her.   You felt Marcus relax next to you.

  “Hi, Neune. I’m happy to see you again, you look good.”

  She stood up and made her way down to you, moving with ease over the lose rocks and patches of unruly grass. She was a few inches taller than you, and heavyset. Strong, there was no doubt about that, and curvy to boot, but her warm dark skin was probably the most beautiful thing about her.   She looked like the kind of woman that wouldn’t hesitate to beat you senseless if you deserved it, but would also love you unconditionally if she decided that you were a good enough person.

  “So do you, Moreno. I was sorry to hear about your wife. But I’m glad to see you seem to have found your way.”

  “Thank you. Yes, this is my fiancé. Hermosa, this is Deema Neune.”

  You held out your hand and she took it. Her grip was firm and cool, but when her skin touched yours, she seemed to react to something, and kept holding onto your hand while she looked closer at you.

  “You’ve been damaged. Badly.”

  You were suddenly nervous. The intensity of her eyes was piercing.

  “Uh… which time are you talking about?”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “There’s like a dozen. I apparently have some self-sacrificial tendencies, and it’s landed me in some serious trouble a few times.”

  “Neune, how can you tell that she’s been hurt? You didn’t have that kind of ability the last time we met.”

  “My powers have evolved over time, Moreno. I can use my gift to reach into peoples’ bodies and trace their blood, their history, through their scars. And you, my dear, have a great many on the inside, though none on your skin.”

  “Yes. People keep wanting to hurt me, for some reason. I blame the balance of the universe.”

  “You have known power. I can trace the marks it’s made when you’ve ended up hurting yourself. It’s like your body was at war with your power, the damage is everywhere.”

  “That’s probably because it wasn’t natural. It was put inside me by a… mad man.”

  “That would explain it. But I’ve never heard of such a thing. How was it done?”

  “That’s a long story, and not a good one. It involved the torture and murder of dozens of children.”

  The younger woman flinched, and her eyes darted over to Marcus, looking for confirmation of these terrible news, before returning to stare at you. But your eyes had dropped to somewhere around her waist, but not seeing her. Your focus was on something inside your own mind, a thought that had occurred to you, hearing this woman detail what Prince’s experiments had actually done to you.

  “Oh, my god. Marcus, that’s why my powers are gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m protective by nature, that’s why I’m always ready and willing to sacrifice myself if that’s the only option I can see. But, the baby changes all that. I’m not willing to sacrifice that, not for anything. So, if my own powers have actually been hurting me, a little bit every time I use them, isn’t it possible that I somehow just forced my body to stop producing those cells?”

  Marcus frowned.

  “I wouldn’t put it past you, but it still sounds improbable. Those cells are incredibly strong, even if you stopped producing them, it would still take months for them to leave your system, and leave you completely powerless. It wouldn’t happen overnight.”

  Neune asked you to look at her again.

  “What I see inside of you, tells me that you’re stronger than any person I’ve met before. If your body decided that the stress it was under was too much to provide a safe place for your child, I do believe that you could and would’ve done whatever was necessary to change that. But I also believe that Marcus is right. Your body might have forced the powers to stop, but I don’t think they’re actually gone.”

  “But I can’t feel them at all.”

  “What exactly can you do?”

  “I can heal people, at great cost to myself, and I can reach into other dimensions, and the energy I find there I can use in several different ways. Like adding to the density of a room or specific area, until it breaks, or displaying images and memories around me, like tv-screens. And recently I created some sort of rainbow dust that seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever, except it was really pretty.”

  “Everything we create has purpose. Where you doing anything special when you produced this dust?”

  You glanced sheepishly at Marcus, and he smiled.

  “I might have… been less than gentlemanly with her at the time.”

  “Ah… that would do it, I suppose. How recently was this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Good, then the echo will still be there.”

  You blinked and refocused on her.

  “Echo?”

  “All powers leave an echo in your body as they pass through it, if I know what to look for, I can usually find it.”

  “Usually. What are you, the local supers-witch-doctor?”

  “I never stay anywhere for very long. No one here knows about my powers, but wherever I’ve been, I’ve helped people passing by, over the years. That’s probably how you ended up being able to find me. Now, stay still and let me concentrate.”

  You locked yourself to the spot and tried to relax. You couldn’t feel her probing through your blood at all, but after a minute, you felt a strange wave course through you.   It started somewhere in your gut, and worked its way through your body, and into your hands, where it suddenly left you – in the form of rainbow-coloured dust. It didn’t feel the same as your powers normally did, though.   It didn’t shoot out of you in a plume, but instead just accumulated in your upturned hands, as Neune released them. She picked up a pinch of it, and rolled it around between her fingers.

  “Hm. I have to say, you’re right; I really don’t see what the purpose of this might be. But I’m still certain there is one.”

  You felt ambivalent. On the one hand, you were relieved to know that you weren’t as helpless as you’d feared, but on the other, you sort of wanted the powers gone. You’d never wanted them in the first place, and if they really were permanently damaging you, they weren’t worth the price.   But, at the same time, being able to heal the ones you loved was something entirely invaluable to you.

  “So, if I’ve somehow supressed my abilities because of the pregnancy, does that mean they’ll come back once the baby is born?”

  “Probably. I suspect that if you really need them, for any reason, you’ll find that they’re right were you left them. Supers are complex beings. Our powers develop based on equal parts genetics and personality, and those two elements are sometimes in serious conflict with one another, creating chaotic results. Like a boy who’s terrified of hights, finding himself getting the ability to fly.”

  “But mine weren’t naturally generated, so my genetics had nothing to do with it. The cells came from dozens of different people.”

  “That would explain why you have several different abilities.”

  “The scientists at HQ don’t think that. They say that my powers developed exclusively from my personality and body-chemistry, because the introduced cells wouldn’t have been able to influence my DNA.”

  “I’m not a scientist, but I’ve spent the past 15 years trying to help other supers stay out of the spotlight, and I’ve learned that the genetics are always relevant. Even if they didn’t mess with your DNA, they most certainly influenced you.”

  This was getting a bit too heavy for you to absorb any more, so you changed the topic.

  “Thank you, for helping me figure out what’s going on with me, but that’s not why we came to find you.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Marcus noticed you were struggling to focus, so he took over.

  “We’re here because of the crazy guy who did this to her, Dr. Prince. We think he created some sort of organisation, who’s goal it is to make all humans supers. We’ve found enough breadcrumbs to suggest that we’re dealing with a global network that may very well have solidified into a corporation by now, if they’ve been able to secure funding. And we’re trying to create one of our own, in order to have a chance at defeating them, if and when we manage to draw them out into the open.”

  “So, you’re here hoping to recruit me?”

  “Yes. I know you don’t want the spotlight, and that’s not what we’re asking of you. Our organisation is covert as well, for the time being, and we need our operatives to work in the shadows, and we need them to be available all over the world. We need intel and research, our own global network to spy on theirs.”

  “How many have you been able to recruit so far?”

  “Unless you agree to be audited, we can’t tell you any details.”

  “Audited?”

  “We have a way to know with absolute certainty, that you’re not an enemy, but it would require a bit of a trip.”

  “Where?”

  “Mississippi.”

  Marcus managed to persuade the pilot to take a detour on your return trip to the States, and you landed in Jackson-Ever airport the next morning.   You’d concealed your costumes under regular clothing now, and took precautions to ensure no one was following you to your destination of Bay Park Drive, and a not at all inconspicuous brick-house, probably the biggest property on that street, with a pool in the backyard, and a boat-house by the water. Most of the properties had boat-houses since they where practically sitting on the water, but this house was the only two-story house you could see. Why the man had picked this place was beyond you, but then, he was odd.   When the three of you walked in, Marcus sent a current through the house, to announce your presence, and a really uncomfortable surge of energy hit you in return. You must have felt that thing some 20 times by now, but it still felt just as unpleasant every time.   With the greeting done, you moved through the bottom floor to the living room, and found Verity waiting for you in a reclining chair, with a tall glass of ice-water on a small coffee-table next to him. Other than that, there was no evidence of his presence there. No clothes or shoes laying around, no suit-cases, not so much as a footprint on the tile floors.   He was thin to the point of looking almost hollow, but his warmly toned olive skin was radiant and his black hair and eyebrows made him look like some comic-book character, with those exaggerated features. All made even more poignant by his sharp and dark eyes.

  “Welcome, my intrepid colleagues. What have you brought me today?”

  You didn’t like speaking around Verity, for several reasons, but you did anyway, trying to train yourself to be less unsettled around him.

  “Neune, this is Verity, a super with the ability to tell the truth about anything and everything, and fair warning: he only ever speaks the truth too, and he has no filter and shows no sensitivity towards anyone for any reason.”

  The same uncomfortable energy surged around you, as Verity went to work.

  “Ah… an old friend, returned to the fold. I can see your reasons for leaving were a bit over-dramatized, but no matter. In the time since, you’ve been busy. Hopping from place to place, looking for a purpose. You’re a clever one, good at hiding, staying just out of view. But you’re unfulfilled. Unhappy and lonely. You’re not here because you want to help, but because you’re looking for belonging, a family. No matter, your helpfulness will be no less useful.”

  He paused, and turned to you.

  “She’s acceptable. But, now tell me what’s happened to you.”

  You felt his energy shift towards you, and it made you cringe away from him and close your eyes. Marcus took your hand, knowing how much you disliked Verity’s probing.

  “You’re scared. Not just for your baby, but for something bigger. Something… on the other side of your power. Something you fear will come for you, from the worlds beyond.”

  Your eyes flung open, and you stared at him while actually taking a few steps closer to him, still holding on to Marcus’ hand, as a daunting realisation hit you. You couldn’t put it into words, but you didn’t need to, because the truth-seeker always voiced his findings.

  “You’re afraid that the energy you take from over there, will eventually be claimed in return, and that everything you love will be sucked over there, into the coldness. You fear your own power, because you don’t understand why it allows you access to those places. Those dark, empty, dead worlds. You fear them more than anything in this reality. And the realisation that as a Heroic, you’d be expected to use your abilities much more than you’ve been doing, finally made you scared enough to break the connection. You’ve cut yourself off from those worlds, and now you’re powerless and weak, and you can’t help but wonder which fear will kill you faster.”

  You kept staring into his eyes while he drew the truth from your soul, desperate to hear it, and equally desperate not to.   Tears streamed down your face as his energy let go of you, but you kept staring at him, kept trying to make his words less true somehow.   Marcus finally tugged you back into his arms and held you as the tears started falling in earnest, and you could feel his current surround you while he tried to soothe you.   Neune suggested they go into the kitchen to have a glass of water and sit down, probably because she too wanted a little distance from Verity.   She handed you a glass after Marcus sat you down on a stool, and then the two of them started talking while you did what you could to calm yourself down.

  “Is he always that direct? It seems a bit… brutal.”

  “Yeah, he’s not really a people-person. He’s one of the best kept secrets in all of super’s history. Only a handful of people even know he exists.”

  “Why? Someone with that kind of power…”

  “Could rule the world. Or tear it apart.”

  She slumped a bit in her chair as he cut her off, her own train of thought disrupted.

  “I was gonna say he could help so many people.”

  “Verity’s power manifested unusually early. He was only three when he began being able to tell – not just when he was being lied to – but what the truth behind those lies was. Imagine being three years old and realising that your parents are absolutely sick of not getting any sleep because of you.”

  “Oh, god… parents lie to their kids all the time.”

  “Exactly. Mostly for good reasons, mostly just to protect them, but Verity didn’t have that. And it made him distrustful towards everyone, to the point where he walked away from his family to live on the streets when he was just ten years old. If he wanted to, he could become president, he could force the whole world to bend to his wishes just by holding their lies as his hostages, or calling them out to discredit them. But he doesn’t have that desire for power. All he wants is to be free of lies and dishonesty, which is kind of impossible, so he stays hidden and keeps to himself where nobody can hurt him, and he can’t hurt anyone in turn. He’s only helping us because I asked him.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I met him almost 20 years ago, by accident. He was living in the streets, and he got attacked by a drunk. And while his powers work just as well on drunks as sober people, the drunks don’t respond to him trying to call them out. Usually, he can keep people from hurting him by jarring them into just not wanting to be around him, by throwing uncomfortable truths at them. But drunks just either don’t hear or don’t believe him, and they’re not really susceptible to the discomfort his ability normally causes. So, this guy just kept going at him, and he was just in his late teens back then, he didn’t know any self-defence or anything like that. He’d never needed it. I happened to be passing nearby, and I heard this kid scream for help, so I ran over and picked the guy up and made sure he knew that it was in his best interest to leave. And when he did, I kneeled down to check on this kid, not much younger than me, and he was so scared. He hurled truths about me at my face as though they were insults, even though I’d just helped him, and it made me realise that this boy was scared of everyone. So, I just sat down opposite him and let him talk until he had nothing more to say. And when he realised that my truths didn’t scare me away, he gave up and just cried.”

  “Poor kid. He must have had so much crap pent up inside after all that time alone.”

  “Yeah. I stayed with him all night, and the more I understood about him, the more I knew that he could never be allowed to become a pawn in the political scene, or the Heroic one, for that matter. So, I got him in touch with people I knew could help him learn what he’d need to survive under the radar, and as a result, he’s been free to live however he chooses. And that’s a gift he’s been trying to repay me for a long time. He was actually happy when I approached him with this.”

  “I feel like he might have gone easy on me.”

  “He doesn’t generally, but he also just doesn’t see the need to disclose every little detail he finds. For the most part, he just voices the relevant stuff. Unless he decides he doesn’t like you, then he’ll reduce you to a crying ball with childhood traumas and unresolved issues.”

  “Um… and… your fiancé? What was that about?”

  His arm tightened around your waist, where he sat next to you, and he sighed.

  “She’s had a difficult relationship with her powers from the start, and she was actually the first person that Verity’s had real trouble probing. Her fears are hidden incredibly deep, and she seems to be hard-wired to protect herself from them, to the point where even her powers have been shielding her from the truth. Now that that barrier has been lifted, Verity could finally see them clearly. It all makes so much more sense now.”

  You didn’t feel like taking part in their conversation, your thoughts and feelings were all over the place, so you just listened and sipped your water and did your best not to cry anymore.   After a few minutes of silence, Neune finally asked:

  “So, what happens now?”

  “If you still wanna be a part of this, we’ll send you back to Europe, to look for anything you can find about any covert organisation working on human/superhuman convergence. This is a marathon, Deema, and we need runners. Are you in?”

  “I am. So, can you tell me how many people you’ve been able to recruit, now?”

  “With you that makes 31 people across Europe, another 28 around Asia and Oceania, and 45 here in the Americas, including Canada.”

  “You’ve been busy…”

  “We don’t have a choice. These people have to be stopped. And because my querida is their first successful subject, they’ll keep coming for her. She’ll always be in danger as long as this threat exists. I can’t allow that, and I refuse to live like that. So, when I say that I’m truly grateful for your help, you can be certain I mean it. Thank you, Deema.”

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, please don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@allmyspideys​ @blueeyesatnight​ @hrk-fic-recs​ @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts​ @computeringturtle​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @giselatropicana​

[coffeebeannate]

From This Prompt List

“If a person is destined to have a soulmate in this life, they will find that one of their eyes has changed colour, reflecting the colour of their anticipated soulmate.

For this to occur, the two must be in close proximity to one another (most studies say no less than several miles, but others claim that there have been some variations), and that, upon meeting, the eyes will revert to normal.

In some legendary, and notable cases, the eye colours will remain heterochromatic for the rest of their lives.

Of course, keep in mind that these stories are not always the same, and not every couple has a soulmate status. And that there is nothing less valid about non-soulmate couples.”

“Nicky?”

Nicky looked up, hastily closing the cover over his tablet, “Ah, sorry, can I help you?” 

“The computers broken, again.” His co-worker sounds the most interesting combination of annoyed and sheepish, “Do we have to call tech support?”

“No, no, let me take a look, it’s alright.” Standing up from the desk, “The one we use for catalogue searching?”

“What else?”

He sighs, muttering curses under his breath, “Thing is about as good as a piece of scrap metal, at this point.” Resigning himself to an afternoon tinkering with the world’s most stubborn library resource computer. “It’s alright, go back to work, I’ll let you know if it decides to behave.”

“Thanks, Nicky, call me if you need help.”

“Yeah, yeah no problem” Facing the not-ancient but absolutely useless desktop, “You going to behave, or do we have to fight?”

Predictably, the computer blinks at him, Nicky sighs again and settles before it.

---

It isn’t that Nicky hates his life. Because he doesn’t, and despite what people might think, he’s fairly content. Working full-time as the head librarian might seem like an outdated job, but Nicky’s only 32, and he likes to argue that libraries are a vital part of society. Upgraded as they are, and some facets available entirely online. Besides, he had a degree in the stuff, and plenty of practice.

Andy might’ve had a series of interesting names for his life. His small apartment, three cats, more books and tech than is strictly necessary for a single man to have, and a car that is really a ridiculous thing, but it runs and he loves it and maybe the radio doesn’t work and it has no AC and the heater is also dying, but it’s a good car and he happens to find it charming.

He’s fine.

He’s dated, some one night stands, but nothing sticks.

“Are you reading that book again?” Andy asks, when she catches the soulmates book opened up on his tablet for what is definitely not the 10th, 12th, let’s not talk about it time.

“I think it’s comforting,” Nicky retorts, catching her look of disbelief.

“You know that in most cases, that shit’s a load of crap, yeah? Quynh and I have been married for eight years, no issue. She’s my soulmate, magical eyeballs aside.”

“I know I know..I just think it’s sweet.”

Nicky does not tell her that, for the last six or seven months he’s been glued to the damned thing. Everything feels antsy. He’s not an anxious man at all. His life has never felt empty, nor hollow. And yet, a few months back everything started feeling weird. Like he just couldn’t settle. Bee’s beneath his skin. Ghosting sensations across his scalp. Tingles.

He’d casually mentioned it during his yearly physical, but the doctor determined nothing out of sorts physically, and Nicky had been delaying calling a psychiatrist.

“Maybe you just need a change of scenery.” Andy suggested, stirring too much sugar into her coffee. ‘Maybe your library is finally getting to you.”

Nicky had declined to respond, but filed it away in the back of his mind regardless.

--

The morning that it happens, Nicky is running late, and doesn’t bother to look in a mirror much beyond ‘brushing teeth and running a comb over hair” before heading into work. 

They’re finally upgrading the useless front computer, and he has to let the techs inside. Meaning he’s supposed to be at work an hour before he’d usually be, fiddling with his keys and muttering apologies as he opens the door fifteen minutes after he was supposed to let them in. Offering to buy them coffee for the troubles.

He’s that sort, after all.

He stands in the early morning crowd rush at the cafe yawning and buzzing, body thrumming with tension he can’t pinpoint, nor understand. It’s ridiculous and by the time he stumbles his way through the unfamiliar order, he feels much like he’s about to explode from it all.

The techs are thankful for their coffees, at least, Nicky tries to do some work in his office, and by the time he finally takes a break from his unsatisfactory work, it’s nearly noon.

There, in the libraries Men’s Room, is when he finally notices it.

His left eye isn’t grey, or green, or blue.

(Or whatever true colour his eyes seem to think they are)

It’s dark brown. So dark Nicky can barely see any other colour to it beyond pupil.

He blinks. Splashes water across his face, scrubs his cheeks.

It’s still there.

He takes a selfie with his camera, and stares.

Still there.

It’s still there after work, and the next day, and the Friday when he meets Andy for their usual after work time at the bar, Andy staring at him.

“So it’s not a contact?”

“No, I don’t wear contacts, or glasses! You know that.”

“You think your flowery soulmate shits legit then?”

“What else could it possibly be, Andy?”

Andy studies her beer, for once, she has no answer.

---

It is an extremely boring Wednesday morning when Nicky scrolls through his emails and finds something that bothers him for absolutely no reason at all.

It’s from one of the other departments, and it’s about the national art show being hosted at their oh so esteemed library. Nicky’s library is a popular venue because the building is historic and has a nice receiving room.

That’s not what bothers Nicky. He looks forward to this show. And it’s the first time he’d be in charge of much of it since becoming head librarian some eight months back, but no, it’s the shows headline artist that is prickling at him for yet again, reasons he can’t discern.

Nicky scrolls past the necessary details, but keeps going back to the beginning.

Headline Artist: Mixed Mediums. Classics with a Twist. Yusuf al-Kaysani

Nicky saves the email.

Again, no reason at all.

--

“Do you think it means anything?” He asks Andy and Quynh while four beers in and sitting on their couch.

“Some artist’s name you’ve never even met or heard of?” Quynh snorts, ‘Yep, definitely cracked some universal secret code there Nicky.”

He sighs, “Hand me another..”

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe he’s being ridiculous.

--

“Sorry, are you uh,,Nicky..Genova?”

Yes, okay, that does sound odd. But to his credit! He was named  Nicolò thank you very much. His mother had made some comment about classics, traditions, blah blah.

“Yeah! Sorry just let me-”

He’s at the top of a ladder, fiddling with a birds nest, of all things. The outside of the library (again historic building) attracted plenty of them.

“Take your time, I don’t usually yell at people on ladders, on principle and all.”

The voice is nice.

It’s the dumbest thought Nicky has had in his head in months.

“Good practice, that.” Finally gasping the nest, starting to climb down the ladder, “Okay!” When he’s returned to solid ground.

“So, what can I do for-”

Nicky, quite elegantly, forgets how to think. Or breathe. Or do anything appropriately life sustaining like that.

The man before him, nice voice man, his brain helpfully supplies. is..gorgeous. And see, Nicky has SEEN gorgeous men and is nicely partial to them. But this man is gorgeous, attractive and, most distractingly, has one blue-grey-green who actually knows eye, and one dark brown one.

And! Nicky notices, has completely lost his own ability to speak. The two of them seem to amend this moments later by pointing at each other’s face mostly rudely, stunned and confused.

Nicky seems to find intelligent language first, but only manages to say, “..Are you Yusuf al-Kaysani?”

The equally stunned gorgeous man confirms this, and Nicky is quite sure he either faints, or dies.

(He does neither of these things, thank you very much)

“..It’s nice to meet you, Nicky.” Yusuf says, finding actual intelligence far before Nicky does. Nicky just swallows.

--

Their eyes never reverse to their birth states.

Not at the first date.

Not at the proposal.

Nor the engagement party.

Or the wedding.

--

10 years later, Andy remarks that ‘the most romantic bastard she knows’ would indeed, find an even MORE romantic sap, and that they’d have the perfect book romance.

--

Joe’s cleaning out the closet one evening when he finds a well-worn paper back version of the novel that Nicky had read endlessly on his tablet all those years ago.

“Hey babe, you never told me you had a paper copy of this.”

“Hmm?” Nicky pokes his head out of the bathroom, “I do? Oh, yeah, it’s a bit worn out.”

Joe flips open the cover of it, peering down into the slightly musty paper, reading aloud and finding his way to join Nicky at the vanity.

~~

“Before reading this book, we must advise and remind that soulmates in this manner are rare, and that there is little scientific study to show a truth. Please do not fret if you never fall into this concept.”

Nicky hums, accepting the arm to his waist, the familiar kiss to his cheek, ghosting along the side of his lips.

“Go on,” Nicky says, casually.

“You know this story, my heart.” Joe chuckles, but continues.

“This rare phenomenon has been observed throughout history..”