#i'm going to get trodden on or something

[heeblybeebly]

a fuckin flea

good news! you're an animorph! bad news! you didn't know about the two-hour limit and got stuck in your first morph, which is whatever this wheel lands on

[livingdeadgirlflorette]

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS? ₊˚✩⊹ carl grimes x fem!reader

summary : After what happened a few weeks ago, seeing Carl made you anxious. Just looking at him made you ponder what was the thing you had with him. But one visit to a friend of his may just be enough to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

word count : 4.7k

tags / rundown : average teen angst, fluff, more-than-friends-less-than-lovers trope, glenn and maggie are your substitute parents here, carl has an emotional capacity of a teaspoon, reader and carl are so oblivious oh my word, slight jealous!carl, kissing, sitting on carl's lap, brief mention of teen pregnancy

a / n : hi guys! this is a part 2 for "late night kisses", but it could be read as a stand-alone as well ! i just finished this like 2 hours ago and proofread it, i'm pretty satisfied with how this came out. i really wanted to show how angsty teenager's could be for such trivial things, and i think i showed it pretty well here >_< enjoy reading !

dividers by @cafekitsune 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

PART 1: LATE NIGHT KISSES ⊹˚. ♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖

With Rick interrupting your whole secret rendezvous with Carl in his bedroom, and practically telling you he knows about you guys— you wonder how bad it really would be if they did find out about you and Carl.

But there was one question that gets under your skin more than anything. It makes you think if anything between the two of you was more than just what you guys were doing. What were you and Carl?

All this time it has been just Y/N and Carl, inseparable, attached to the hip best friends. Just. Friends. That's an interesting way to state the relationship between the two of you, if just friends sneak around and makeout in their bedroom, and If just friends hold eachother at night, looking into each other's eyes lovingly, never wanting it to end.

It makes you concerned also, what did Carl think about the two of you? You don't what to acknowledge it, but it makes you stomach churn thinking that Carl would think you guys were nothing more than friends that kiss one another every once in a while. Thinking about it just puts a crestfallen, depressed look on your face.

"What's got you down in the dumps for?" A voice snaps you out of your mind question of is-Carl-a-friend-or-something-more crisis, remembering where you are. You're at your dining room table, eating breakfast with Glenn and Maggie. Ever since their group came, you became close with them, subconsciously (whether you wanted to or not) growing a familial bond with them.

They told you multiple times that you were welcome to come and go— so whenever you feel like it, you come to them when you have a problem, or you just don't want to interact with other teenagers in Alexandria. They get too posh-sounding when they talk about trivial things for your liking.

"Oh its uh— y'know it's just nothing." You dismiss the brunette woman's question. Since you and Carl didn't want anybody to know about the two of you, you decided to keep it a secret. And it would be a shame for the both of you if all of that came crashing down just 'cause Maggie had asked why you looked so sad.

"Well nothing doesn't make you of all people look so depressed. Why don't you go to your little boyfriend? He always puts a smile on that face." Glenn suggests, using a teasing sound for the question. You know he's just trying to make you feel better, but the mention of Carl just makes you even more down trodden. But you quickly realize what Glenn titles him as.

With an seemingly unstoppable flush blooming on your face, you quickly try to defend yourself, trying to save face.

"He's not my boyfriend, nor am I his girlfriend. We're nothing really, just friends." You argue. Saying that makes your heart break a little, even if you don't want it to. You play with the food on your plate, seeming uninterested. You just want to curl up into a ball and let time pause for a minute. Everything is just too much right now.

"He may not be your boyfriend per se, but he sure does act like one." Glenn counters, smiling knowingly. Despite every molecule and fiber of your being wanting to defend yourself, he was right. Carl did tend to have tendencies towards you that were too close for comfort on being the role of a lover.

If you ever mentioned a food you'd been missing, or an item so specific that you'd been missing in general, he'd get it for you and act all nonchalant and dismissive when you'd ask how the hell did he get it from (but he'd never tell you how he had almost got surrounded by a herd of walkers trying to get it for you). He would put his hand, hovering ever so slightly on your back when going through a crowded group or when he's behind you.

"We're uhm— I dunno. We're something." You say, moving food around your plate, showing signs of boredom, but no amount of uninterest in your body language could mask the sad look on your face. As much as your answer was adding nothing to the conversation, what you said was sincere. What really were you two? Friends don't sneak into the other's room at night, friends don't straddle each other, and friends definitely don't lock lips with each other. It stumped you, if you were going to be honest.

"Well figure that something out with the boy, okay? It's disheartening watching the two of you walk around like sad little puppies all the time." Glenn finalizes, he finishes his plate of food and walks over to the sink. Unknowingly to him, what he had said made you perplexed. Carl was also blue? As much as it made you feel empathetic for him, it made you wonder why he was also feeling like he had his heart punched out of his chest. You thought what you were feeling was just you, but with him also feeling upset over it, it kind of made you guilty 'cause it felt good knowing that what you were feeling was mutual.

"I actually have an idea, but it's not one of my most proudest. . ." You barely let out, feeling all shy now that you realize you're gonna say it out loud. Glenn was washing his dish, but he turned his head to the side to share a look of curiousity with his wife. They both looked back at you, silently tell you to go on.

"I'm gonna talk to Mikey. He seems to know Carl well enough, and I think maybe he could help me." Without skipping a beat, Maggie had paused the spoon with food that was about to go into her mouth and Glenn paused his movements before they continued doing their actions.

You know it was a silly conclusion, but with all the mood swings you were getting from avoiding Carl, desperate times call for desperate measures. You figured you had no choice anymore, and this was the only thing you thought of. Ever since Carl and his group had been recruited by Aaron, Mikey and the other teens seemed to have grown close with him, and you concluded that maybe he'd know if Carl was acting strange and if he had maybe, possibly told him about you.

But before that ridiculous thought, you pondered if maybe Enid could help you with this debacle, but you know she wouldn't be all that comfortable sharing feelings like that, and she wasn't a person that you could talk to about it. You also knew she'd thank you for saving her from that talk about how Carl made you feel all mushy inside.

Is it a stupid and dumb idea? yes— but as you said yourself, desperate times call for desperate measures. The married couple share a uncertain look with each other, but decide silently they wouldn't press too hard about it.

"And uh, how do you think Carl would feel about that? Y'know, going behind his back and all that?" Maggie suggests, finally finishing her last spoonful before standing up to go to where Glenn is at the sink.

You also thought that while thinking of a solution, but you figured that it would be better off if Carl didn't know. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"I . . . I uh– actually don't plan on telling him about it, I don't think he needs to know." You're not really sure if does, also it would be a hell of a lot embarrassing knowing Carl knows that you asked one of his friends about what he thought of you.

"Well, if you're gonna do that just make sure you make it right, okay? He seems like he wouldn't be too grumpy about that, but maybe a little." Maggie tries assuring you, standing up and brushing you hair in passing.

What she says gives you a little assurance, but it doesn't outweigh the fact that you're about to lie to Carl; not by saying something but the opposite actually. Lying by omission had never felt so burdening.

"I'll try." You finish you last spoon and head to the sink. Glenn and Maggie seemed to be readying to go outside. Maybe they were going on a walk together? You're not sure.

"Good. Also don't forget to dry that plate okay? You're thinking too much. From what i've read, it's bad for pretty girls." Glenn tries to joke with you, but it doesn't really work. You thank him for that, despite all the teenage angst you're going through, he still wants to put a smile on your face. It makes you heart feel a little lighter.

"I got it, now go away. Let me wallow in my self pity while I wash the dishes." You joke back with them, both parties laughing a little. Even if you're still feeling bad, all that pep talk with them gave you a feeling of determination. You had to get to the bottom of this before it all came crashing down before you.

You look back at the couple, seeing them walk out the door hand in hand with one another, having such a caring gaze for each other. Observing them made you question you and Carl. Did you want that with him? And if you did, did he also feel the same?

Walking to Mikey's house was an interesting experience, to say the least. With a mantra of affirmations in your mind that spans to saying "everything is gonna be okay" , "don't panic, it's not a big deal" and rubbing your hands up and down your arms a dozen times you're sure you could start a fire by doing it, you finally reach Mikey's house.

It helps you realize you don't even have a plan on what to say. Really, what were you gonna say? 'Hey Mikey, I just wanted to know if Carl said anything about me? Not to dump anything on you but i've been sneaking into his room and making out with him these past few months and his father caught us 2 weeks ago and now im panicking.'?

You rethink your choices, starting to backtrack your decision. But sometimes you just have to calm down— grin and bear it for the sake of needing to get to the bottom of this, before you spiral into a fit of hysteria and isolation.

Your knocks on the door are firm but hesitant, and not long after you see your friend's familliar face. Mikey seemed surprised, and you understood why. You guys were never really that close with one another, with you choosing to hang out with Enid (cause she seemed to understand you too) and him hanging out with Carl and the other boys in the walls. It's justified that he'd be looking like a deer in headlights at the sight of you at their front door.

"Oh, you're the last person I expected to see here. Not in a bad way though, heh. Hey Y/N, you need anything?" Even with the shocked feeling he has, he seems to recover it quickly, putting on a more welcoming, friendly expression.

"Yeah actually, uh— can I come in? I need to talk to you about someone, privately." Your voice comes out meek, frazzled because you haven't really thought out how this conversation would go.

"Uh yeah sure! Come in, come in. I'll uh- I'll ask my father if he's fine with it though, he's just out back and I think he'd be fine with having you over. While i'm talking to him, make yourself at home, okay?" Mikey scrambles to get his words out, it's obvious he feels awkward. But it doesn't stop him from trying to just make it seem like two friends (that's pushing it, better word for you and him would be acquaintances) hanging out. You thank him silently for that, trying to make it seem less awkward than it actually is.

With him going out the back door, you're left to your own devices in his living room. You look around, and there doesn't seem to be anything that interesting. It just looks like any other upper-class house you'd see in Alexandria.

You try to make yourself feel home, sitting down on the couch. Moving from multiple positions on the comfortable cushions, you give up and just fiddle with your fingers. For what feels like an eternity, in his living room, Mikey and his father come in and his father greets you in passing before settling in a chair in the kitchen, busy doing something you can't really see. But before you can really think about it, Mikey comes in and sits next to you.

"I have a glimmer of an idea on why you're here, but I won't say anything unless you want me to." Mikey leans back, getting comfortable. You're confused. How would he of all people know what you were gonna tell him about? It made you feel like you should bite the bullet and ask.

"No it's okay, I wanna know." You urge him. If he did know about who you were gonna talk about, how obvious were the two of you?

"I'm guessing it's because of a certain long haired boy? Just a guess though." His words seem to say he's just guessing, but his tone says otherwise. He sounded teasingly, like he knew something you didn't.

"Shit, was it that obvious? It's just— okay let me think about it, I'm just confused. He seems like he cares about me, but he never really wanted to talk about us. Like what we were. We're something, well we were." That's all you could say before your mind went blank. Thinking about all this is making you go stupid at this point.

"Well since you both seem and look like trainwrecks, i'll talk for you." Mikey knew what you needed right now, and that was for someone to tell you just straight up what was happening.

"You and Carl aren't just friends, okay? You and him may think that, but friends don't act like that with each other and act like it's nothing." Your friend's word seem to reach to you, telling you what needed to be done.

"We're friends, right? You and me? We don't do that. That's different. You and him have something different than friends. It's more than that, Y/N. And if you can't get that through your thick head, i'm not sure how you'll end up." Mikey finishes. He thinks his words got to you, and it did. You feel grateful, really. Despite it being blunt and straightforward, you got the message he was trying to send. You know what you have to do now.

"Wow, that's— huh. Thanks for that, Mikey. It means a lot, even if you unintentionally did refer to me as a numbskull." The joke you let out lightens the mood, putting a mood on both of your expressions. You realize you're lucky to have a friend like Mikey, he's not afraid to tell you straight up when you need something said.

"So since that's out of the way, wanna play videogames? I got something you might like." Mikey suggests. Even if you weren't that close to him, he still wanted to be civil with you. Given his inquiry, you didn't think it would hurt to play videogames with him, even if it was just for an hour or two.

You follow him up the stairs, but before you could make it up halfway with him, a firm knock at the door stops the both of your movements. You look at eachother, obviously curious.

"Stay here. It's probably just my father's friend or something asking about him."

He jogs down the steps, hesitant to open it but when he does, his shoulders drop in relief.

"Oh Carl, what are you doing here? You need something?" Mikey asks. With the stairs directly in front of the door, you tilt your head to the side, to see the long-haired brunet you'd been avoiding all this time.

"I was looking for Y/N actually, have you seen her?" Carl was asking. He seemed urgent, with a frantic aura to him, but his face was controlled. Before Mikey could answer Carl had finally found you, catching your gaze. You were on the stairs, looking like a deer in headlights. How did he know you were here? But weird enough, why does he look so rushed?

Carl seemed as confused as you. Why were you with Mikey? Why were you guys alone together? And why does it look like you were just going down from his room? Too many questions and no answers was gonna send Carl into a downward spiral. All these thoughts and no conclusion. He'll have to ask you later, 'cause he's going to die surely if it eats away at him from the fact that he'll keep thinking about it. It makes him feel such an unfamilliar feeling that he hasn't felt in a while; like venom coursing in his veins and his blood piping hot, he knew it in himself that he was jealous.

"Oh she's right here actually," Mikey turns so his body's facing you slightly. "You need her right now?" Mikey's question is starting to sound a lot more like earlier, with and underlying tease and knowing look.

Carl seems to pause at the question. Mikey's simple question feels like a more complicated one to him. To explain how much he needs her, he'd have to dive into an ocean's worth deep of words he's been meaning to say. But he'd rather open that can of feelings another time, preferrably with Y/N. Right now, all he wants to do is to speak with her.

"Yea can I actually talk to her? It's important." No matter what Mikey says, either way he'll get Y/N out of that house. It's killing him inside, he doesn't know why you've been so distant lately. The variable of your presence becoming absent in his routine for the past few weeks has left him dumbfounded. He needed to know what was wrong— or else it'll destroy him.

Before Mikey could even utter a proper response, Carl pushes past him and grabs your arm firmly, but gentle enough that he doesn't hurt you. His action befuddles you. First; he looks like a headless chicken trying to find you, and second; he's dragging you out of Mikey's house hurriedly. What could be so urgent that he needed to up and pull you out?

Your heart was in your mouth, unable to say anything. What would you say even? Carl was pulling you out of Mikey's house, and to the direction of his, were you supposed to ask why? You were frazzled, but all you could think about was how careful he was holding you hand. By the time he dragged you out of the house, his hand intertwined with yours, be it a habit or reassurance to him. That simple action made your heart leap out of you chest.

With the brisk pace he was walking with, you made it to his porch in record time. To add more flush to your cheeks, you see his father, Rick at the porch steps— looking at you both knowingly. It seems like he could tell you were tongue tied, and chose not to say anything else to save you the embarrassment (he'd do it later instead).

Walking quick to his room, he pulls you in and locks the door. He turns to you, standing face to face. You want to say something, so badly. But knowing if you would, you'd open up a pandora's box worth of words you'd been meaning to say. So you start slow.

"I wanna start off with i'm sorry, okay? Listen, it's just i'm really worried about us," Carl softens his gaze and walks closer to you. "—and I don't even know what we are anymore."

He grabs your hand and aligns it with his. "What are we, Carl?" As you ask, you watch him. It's cute, watching him observe your hand difference. It's as if he's trying to stall what storm is about to come. He then close his hand, intertwining it between the gaps of yours.

"We're friends, right?" He assures, he looks so pitiful, eyes pleading with you not to let this dam of unspoken words open into a whirlwind of emotions he desperately wanted not to let out.

"Are we really?" You barely say above a whisper. Are you really just friends? With all that happened with you and him, you guys are just platonic? It makes your heart shatter thinking that.

"Carl what you do— what we do isn't just friends. I'm sorry but I can't deal with it if it's just being friends with you." Your face falters, showing a more betrayed expression.

Carl thinks he's pathetic. He swore to himself that he'd never let anyone or anything make you upset, but he never thought he would be the cause of it. It makes his eyes teary, but he'd rather get eaten alive by walkers than show you how much he's been holding in.

"I. . ." Carl hesitates. ". . . I don't want to be just friends with you." Him confessing that makes you doe-eyed, what did he mean by that?

"It's just— everyone I love always leaves." Before he can even register it, his hot tears spill out of his eyes. He's embarrassed, and looks down to hide it.

"I can't lose anybody else." Despite him looking down and his voice low, it's enough for you to hear. You felt stupid now. All this time he was trying to protect you. He felt as if he was magnet of death and chose to love and cherish you from a distance instead, no matter how much it makes his heart feel unsatisfied.

"I— I can't anymore." Carl barely says between his cries. Carl felt silly. Here he was, crying in front of the person he wanted and needed so badly just because he couldn't possibly have her. If he had to choose one word to name his state right now, it would be desperate.

But what you do next is something he never expected you would do. You use your free hand to lift his chin up and wipe away at his tears, still looking at his teary-eyed gaze. Your other hand that was holding his closes, finally reciprocating the action. And what you say next sends his heart going a hundred miles per minute.

"I'm not leaving anytime soon, okay? I care about you too much to do that."

Carl felt special. The one and only person he genuinely wants to be with feels the same, the feeling was mutual. All of it makes his heart feel like it's gonna jump out of his throat. With hesitant movement, you chastely kiss the stains that had been left from his sobbing. Everything Carl was feeling right now made him so overjoyed, it made him lethargic.

With a hesitant hand, he returns the action by caressing the side of your face, looking into your gaze before nervously asking her what he's been meaning to say all this time.

"I love you, okay? I wanna be—" He sighs before he could finish, and shuts his eyes in focus before opening them to look at you once again. He's hesitant, would him saying this ruin everything? You look to him curiously. What now?

"I wanna be your boyfriend." He concludes. All of a sudden you feel your body feel so much lighter. Him stating that made you feel so happy, wanting to jump for joy 'cause everything was going right.

Carl looked nervous, like he would break any second. It was adorable, really. Normally you would be the one doe-eyed and shy from your interactions, but now the roles reversed. You figured it wouldn't be so bad, him looking like that, eyes glassy and pitiful. You couldn't deny how even in his state, he looks so cute.

". . .Okay." You finally say as you smile. The moment you say that, it's like a switch flips with him. He still looked teary-eyed, but he looks ten times more happy. He holds you face in his free hand and asks the other question he's been dying to ask.

"That's— that's great! I- uhm, can I kiss you?" Nervous and skittish, he manages to let out a jumble of words. Even so, you vehemently nod at him.

Carl goes in slowly, trying to gauge your reaction, eyes going to your lips then to you, before he goes in completely to close the space. It feels like heaven, his lips on yours. Just like clockwork, his hands hesitate on your waist. It makes you relax, knowing no matter how many times you kiss, he'll always end up bashful. It makes you smile into the kiss.

Feeling bold, you gently push him back on the edge of his bed, making him sit while you hover on him to keep you as close to him as you need to. He looks so perfect; him sitting on the edge of his bed, looking up at you, pleading eyes begging for you to come back into his space.

With languid, calculated movements, you place yourself on one of his thighs and go back in to capture his lips with yours again. He blushes at this; with the extended amount of time you'd been apart from one another, he's gonna have to get used to you all over again and your touch.

But just like last time you saw each other, you get interrupted. You both hear a loud, firm knock, before an unnecessary amount of wriggling of the door.

You practically jump off one another, before you both come up to the door, with you slightly behind Carl.

The door unlocks and you expect to see Rick, but unexpectedly, you're met with Michonne at the entrance.

"You kids good in there? You seemed pretty silent." Michonne asks. She seemed to know what was going on, but proceeded to ask anyway.

"Yeah– uh-huh, I was just talking to her uh– Y/N." Carl quickly says. But his defense seems to make it a whole lot worse.

"Oh you're talking. All right, i'll stop buggin' ya. Enjoy your talk." Michonne looks at you, letting your already flushed face get even warmer from the implications she was trying to tell you, and then to Carl, who was trying to regulate his breathing, all while Michonne was growing a smirk on her face. She proceeds to close the door, leaving you and him to bask in the shy atmosphere that had been created.

". . .So you wanna make out some more?" You ask. You know you should be shy about it, but there's no use beating around the bush, especially when you want him to touch you so badly all over again.

"Hell yeah." Carl says before grabbing you by the waist and kissing your lips once again. Kissing you with your hands on his shoulders and his hands rubbing circles on your waist, he knows one thing for sure.

He'll never get tired of this.

BONUS ೀ⋆⑅˚

"Oh they're smooching it on alright." Michonne reports to Rick, seemingly teasing the teen pair that wasn't there to defend themselves.

He had asked her if she could go up and see what they were doing, not that he didn't trust his son and his friend or whatever she was to him, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to make a precaution. They didn't want another baby Judith situation after all.

"Ah. . . good, thanks." Rick looks back at Michonne then to the neighbourhood. He has an unreadable expression on his face. Michonne takes note of this, though.

"Trust me, with how shy Y/N is and how emotionally constipated your son is, you won't have to worry about another baby Jude in a good long while." She pats his back, reassuring him.

He silently thanks her, trying to believe what she's saying. But with how loose discipline is with the state of the world, He doesn't know how much that statement holds up when none of them know what they're like behind closed doors.

You'll never know until you find out.

oh wow, this one was a long fic, huh? I hope the wait was worth it guys, I really liked how this turned out ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و also the end bonus was just a silly little thing, i'm not sure if I would want to expand on it, it was just a throwaway line that sounded ominous and i'm a sucker for that :3 anyways ty for all of the support you've been giving me, I can't believe it honestly— I just want to thank all of you lovelies ! stay tuned and tell me if you want to be tagged next time I post !

what did you think ? don't be a silent reader and let me know ! °ʚ(´꒳`)ɞ°

tags : @carlslvr

[monsterfactoryfanfic]

30 Sickos, 3.5 Stars, and Pervert Writers

As I gear up to publish Detente for the Ravenous, I've been thinking a lot about these tweets. I know that my writing is solid, but it's not groundbreaking. My designs are fun, but they're not revolutionary. My prose is simple, my plots well-trodden. The fights and monsters kick ass, but god help me my romance is milquetoast at best. It's not what I'm interested in. I'm interested in the 30 years war and Catholic kaiju.

We like to quantify things, online. When I'm shopping for games, I sort by "most popular" and "highest rated." I don't want my time to be wasted, I don't want to spend my money sub-optimally. It's easier to connect to folks over a movie that 3 million people watched as opposed to a podcast listened to by a few hundred. I am not criticizing the impulse. Life is too short, and none of us have enough money.

But as a creator, whatever that means, I think I have to get comfortable with my shortcomings, and be honest about what I actually care about. I am not interested in writing a novel that appeals to all people. I am interested in writing a novel where they assassinate Pope Kissinger. That doesn't mean I won't ever try to improve my romance, or make my character arcs less predictable. But if I am gonna write another book, I have to write it for me, not for my imagined literary agent or Big 5 editor.

There's this great manifesto on itchio by “Average Urotsukidōji Enjoyer," called "Good Writers are Perverts." It touches on this sentiment that I've been stewing on, and I think this passage crystalizes what I'm trying to do with my own work.

I know my best work is the work of the pervert, the ex catholic who grew up on Naruto, the military history dork who trained for years to save lives instead of taking them. That is the stuff that makes me want to create, the hope that I can take all my stupid interests and life experiences and twist them into something at least partially interesting, to hit that 3.5 star rating that isn't all things to all people, but is at least one really good thing to a few people. If a handful of young folks get ahold of my work and it changes their lives in a small way forever, then I'll be happy.

I hope that as art becomes less profitable, as financial incentives only encourage the bland and inoffensive, the tried and true instead of niche and experimental, more artists double down, go deep instead of wide. I'm not afraid to fail, I'm afraid of trying so hard to be loved that I stop giving a shit about the craft

[whiskeyskin]

Make Me Feel

Premise: What's that? The well trodden trope of weird potion creates problems of the - ahem - 🍆 variety? Well if you insist.

• Astarion x gn!tav • 18+ • E/M rating

They/them pronouns, Potion mishap!, interrupted masturbation, handjob, bj/deep throat, embarrassment, tone shift, mild canon trauma discussion, connection, enthusiastic consent, communication, dirty talk.

4.1k words

Edit: RAHHH! You're all so wonderful for getting me over 200 notes 😚 it may be a small number for some but to me it's a lot. Love you! 🥹🖤

Editedit: Over 400 notes?! Excuse me as I ugly cry 😭😭😚✨

Thank @northernolddragon for the beautiful screenshot 💜🥵

•°•°•

Tav was on watch with Shadowheart this evening, not that they really needed to with Gale's wards keeping an alarm on things coming in or out of camp but they all slept better with a night watch.

They'd enjoyed company and conversation as they spoke about everything and nothing. Mostly about Tav, since Shadowheart had very little memories to share.

A friendship had steadily grown with them, so much that she'd revealed herself a Sharron - which wasn't really a shock.

A low alarm pulsed and they went to investigate to the left of camp but after a little cooperation between Tav's survival skills and Heart's perception, concluded that an animal had triggered the alarm - hence the low pulse and the fresh animal tracks belonging to a rabbit.

Tav paused a moment, a thought flashing across their mind. They called to Shadowheart, "Hey, did you hear Astarion come back in from hunting?

"No, he didn't go out tonight. Said, 'he had something else to attend to'."

Again, Tav paused. Oh, shit. Had they promised he could feed tonight and completely forgotten?

"Are you supposed to be 'dining tonight'?" Shadowheart asked through a smirk.

"I don't think so.. maybe? Oh, gods. Maybe I did say." Said Tav, trying to think back on the day.

"Go check on him, see if he's waiting up for a midnight snack. I'll stay on watch." She pursed her lips and swished her long braid as she walked to do a patrol of the camp.

~~~

Tav quietly made their way passed the tents of their companions, who were softly - or loudly - snoring. Astarion's tent however still had a candle going and made no sounds of sleep, or revery but rather stranger noises. Hissing sounds from the side of his mouth and what seemed like a painful gasp.

Their brow creased with concern, Tav stepped up to the entrance of his tent. The noises intensified.

"Astarion?" Tav called through the fabric in a hushed whisper, "Are you alright?"

A choked noise of frustration replied to them first, "Uh-yes. I'm perfectly fine. Why do ask?" He retorted a little too sharply, despite his usual lulling tones.

"Shadowheart said you hadn't gone hunting and I couldn't remember if I'd agreed to let you feed tonight."

"Ah, you're such a sweetheart.. while I always delight in our little nightly visits, I've rather got my hands full with something at the moment." He strained, like he was in pain. Something wasn't right.

"Astarion. What's going on? I know something's wrong. What is it? What have you done?" Tav asked, exasperated.

"Ughh, it's nothing just-Arghh" he let out a muffled cry.

"I'm coming in." Tav announced, pushing their way inside the dimly lit interior.

"No, no, don't!" But it was too late.

Tav's mouth flew to their face, shocked at the view.

There, on the floor, in only his ruffled shirt and barely covered in his grotty blanket was Astarion. Although, the blanket was more of tent itself with what it was shielding.

"Oh! Oh, shit. Sorry-sorry! I'll leave." Tav blustered at the sight of the half naked pale elf on the floor before them. They'd clearly not been sounds of pain, and the frustration was aimed at them not leaving him to masturbate in peace.

"No, stay. Please." He croaked, desperate, "I don't know what else to do; I need your help."

"With what?" Tav questioned, averting their eyes to afford him some sort of privacy.

"I appreciate the gallantry but we can do away with the charade, you know what I was doing." He sulked, shifting his weight to sit up, the ruffles on his shirt bristling as he heaved himself upwards.

Tav's eyes tracked the movement and flitted down to the protrusion, unwavering in it's vigil against the thin protection of his grey comfort rag.

Hot flashes of memories seared their mind; remembering how it felt in their hands, hot and cool at the same time. Harder than rock as he'd moved within them, expertly stroking their sweet spot while feeding openly on their blood.

Tav bit their lip, then jolting back to the situation, looked away.

"Um, you said you needed my help. I don't know how I can-"

"I have been.. doing this to myself for the past three hours. It's incessant."

"Jeez, Astarion. I don't need to know that."

"Not for my own selfish good. I-" he growled to himself, it made Tav's stomach flip uncomfortably, "I drank something. It looked like a normal potion, but it tasted a bit off.. and now, this." He gestured to the distinct lump, "It's unbearable and painful if it's not being.. used." He paused, discomfort clear on his face.

A blush flooded Tav's cheeks, "Aaand, you want me to help by..?" They trailed, needing more explanation. Because if he was suggesting what they thought he was suggesting...

"Ugh, I don't know. This obviously isn't helping! Find something that can? Another potion, a spell? Anything!" He waved his arms helplessly into the air.

Astarion looked up at them; his shirt in disarray, his legs gently folded with the blanket tucked between them, with guilty but adamant eyes. He looked helpless and adorable.

A feeling was stirring in Tav's chest, something rumbling and loud but it wasn't arousal, it was laughter. They caught a snicker behind their hand, trying to hold in their amusement.

Astarion's face changed to surprise, with a big frown cutting across his beautiful features.

"Well, thanks a lot. Glad the bleeding heart thinks it's funny." He pouted.

"Oh, come on Astarion. It's pretty funny."

Astarion's eyes narrowed, "How precisely is this funny?" He demanded.

"It's so unfunny that it's funny again. It has to be laughed at how ridiculous this is. I mean, come on." They tried to explain, "you drank a strange elixir and now you have an erection that won't fuck off." Tav barely made it through the last word without sniggering, "You've been beating yourself stupid and it's not going anywhere. It's a fucking ridiculous situation to be in and if you can't laugh about it? Fuck." They shrugged, smiling brightly and encouraging him to see the funny side of this ridiculousness, "I thought you said Lae'zel was the one with no sense of humour."

"Actually, Lae'zel is hilarious. She just doesn't realise she's being hilarious," The frown on his face softened, a smile clearly fighting to spread across his face, "I suppose it is absurd. Most men would kill for this."

"Most people would pay good money for this problem!" Tav squeaked, "Oh gods, the old men that have given all their gold for this problem!" They whined out before coming down to kneel on the floor.

"All of them furiously masturbating to get rid of it after their mistress has left and their wife will notice." He chuckled.

"Oh, the scandal." Tav flourished.

"What would the neighbours say?" He jested, opening up to the idea that the incredulity of it all needed to be laughed at.

He mimed trying to push it down only for it to spring back up with a pop sound effect provided by him and they fell about cackling together.

It was nice. Seeing him smile.

~~~

They sat laughing for a while, trying to come up with unfortunate scenarios to find yourself in with this predicament. Each as hilarious as the next.

Howls turned giggles, and giggles turned to titters, until eventually they were all laughed out.

There was a comfortable silence between them for several moments. Tav glanced back at him.

"Did that help? Taking your mind off it?" Tav asked, hopeful.

"I'm afraid not. Still there. Although, it's taken away the urgency of needing that release."

"That's a start at least. What the hell's did you drink?"

"I don't know, it was in the pack from today's adventure with the hag."

"You drank one of the hag's potions?" Tav chided, incredulous.

"Of course not! What do you take me for?"

Tav raised their brows and wordlessly gestured to his lap.

"Point taken," he relented, "but, no it was a regular looking potion bottle. I needed a little healing, so I.." he trailed off, loosely waving a hand.

"You drank a random potion from today, before we'd had a chance to examine it and expected nothing to go wrong. You brought this on yourself." Tav pursed their lips mockingly.

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, dear. What am I going to do?" He asked, exasperated.

"Well, masturbating yourself sore hasn't worked, so it can't be about orgasming it out of you."

"Oh, I haven't orgasmed. That's what I was trying to tell you before, but in my feverish haze didn't get out into words properly."

"After three hours?" Tav asked, wide eyed.

"It was more stop/start than powering through. I'm drawing the assumption that while this potion grants me this bloody thing, it doesn't heighten the sensation much."

"Maybe it deadens it? To keep it going longer? That's why you couldn't.. yuh know." Tav mimed the action for affect. They shared a small titter through their noses.

"I haven't a clue. Although, I'm not really.. versed in this sort of thing. It's not something I do, not something I've done for centuries," he admitted, shrugging, "Self pleasure wasn't high on the list when the thought of touching anyone, let alone yourself made your skin crawl-" Astarion caught himself, his eyes widening.

Tav's mouth gaped, "What?" The question came out breathy and low. Hurt struck painfully into their heart, "So the night we spent together you were disgusted-"

"-No. No. Well, at first it I was a little but-"

Tav's eyed widened and they recoiled, wounded. He knew he'd revealed too much and Tav could see that flawless mask of his was trying to slot back into place after it's momentary lapse.

"Don't." Tav urged, "Don't pretend you didn't say it."

"It wasn't like that-I didn't mean you, you're wonderful. I meant in Baldur's Gate with Cazador. The manipulation, the deceit. I couldn't. I never." He stopped himself.

Tav softened, the harm still stinging but this was important. Astarion had never spoken about his time with Cazador apart from being a slave and using sex to lure people back. He hadn't elaborated more than those facts. Obviously, he would have sexual trauma.. and he'd opened up a chance at the conversation.

"It's alright. I'm here to listen. Go on." Their tone was low and understanding.

His face full of uncertainty and shame, Astarion shook his head and refused to look at them.

"I don't want to. Not yet. Not now. I mean.. I just want this thing gone." He motioned to his still swollen member.

Tav's brow knitted and they shrugged heavily.

"Apart from distracting you from it, I don't know what I can do." Tav raised their hands in exasperation, "I mean if you can't do it after three hours, what am I supposed to do-"

"Trust me, you'd be able to help." He said darkly, almost to himself. His gaze darted back, scared by another accidental confession. Tav's confused expression must have been clearly legible.

"What do you mean?"

Astarion averted his eyes, clearly debating on letting more of his secrets out.

"Shit." He cursed. There was a pregnant pause that Tav refused to break.

"You-" he stopped himself, "the other night at the party was- it was-" he shut his eyes and sighed through his nose, "I can't do this, you can leave. I'll just keep this forever."

"Astarion.." Tav said softly, gently reached a reassuring hand to the floor beside him.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and swallowed.

"It was the first time I've known actual pleasure in almost 200 years. Where I actually enjoyed myself, much to my surprise."

Suddenly feeling relieved and very flattered, Tav remained stone-faced silent, encouraging him to keep going.

"My existence has been about having my body used to lure back pretty things for him. To get them to trust me and let their guard down, then.." he trailed off, "I tried to make the most of it and relish in the copious amounts of sex I was having.. It didn't last long. I got extremely good at pretending I did, they never suspected a thing." He said with a sneer.

"I became numb to the entire experience. It was nothing to me. A dance. A deception. It became second nature and I got used to the disgust I felt, I used it to push through. To hold onto some semblance that I had one shred of humanity left. As long as I despised myself for what I was doing, there was still hope."

"So imagine my shock when I actually felt something different with you. Something good." He finally looked in their eyes, "You are a bastion of firsts in this newfound freedom of mine. My first true blood, the first person who has let me indulge in my instincts and helped me grow in my power," Astarion swallowed, "the first person in so long to make feel something.. anything.. during sex that wasn't hatred and self-loathing."

Tav's throat closed and tears threatened to brim but they blinked them back.

"You offered your neck to me, your life blood to me and I felt something.. it wasn't like our usual feeds.. it was something immense.. something transcendant and I.. I lost myself in you.. wholly. Pleasure had returned to my body and I froze. I didn't know what to do."

"Nothing else existed outside us.. and I could have spent the rest of my life buried inside you," he paused, closing his eyes as if the memory over-powered him. Tav sat there, breathless, mesmerised by his beauty in the candle's soft glow.

"I think I came back to consciousness when I saw my seed over your beautiful body. You looked just as shocked as I felt. It was all over your chest, your mouth.." he was breathing heavily now and the air around them shifted. Tav swallowed dryly. They remembered.

The grunting, ecstatic moan he'd made just before he came over them echoed in their mind long after. They'd pulled back from lavishing his thick, pale cock to pause for breath and to whisper sweet words to him. He'd erupted on them with no more than a silent gasp and a hand fisted in their hair.

Staring deeply into Tav's eyes, Astarion continued, "You took me so well," he brought a hand to their bottom lip, grazing it lightly with his fingertips, "With your mouth.. with all of your holes, actually. Your wonderfully tight holes." He moaned through a sly smile.

Tav's mouth was aridly dry, as all the blood in their body rippled and pooled to their core. Heat radiated through them and quickly made breathing steadily a problem, and logical thinking was non-existent.

"I know you could do it again, if you wanted to." He closed his eyes and snaked himself closer against Tav's neck, inhaling deeply. His breath cool raising gooseflesh, as he pressed his lips against the shell of their ear, "You could wrap those soft lips around my cock and suck me like you did in the forest. So deep and so warm."

Tav's thoughts were like wading through thick, soupy mud as Astarion's words clouded their mind and flooded their body with desire.

"I've never been devoured quite like that, you fit yourself around me so well.. you were such a good f-"

Tav quickly brought their hand to his mouth. He had to be silenced. His seductive power was too much to leave unbridled.

Mentally shaking off his charms, Tav came some what back to their senses.

"In one breath you tell me how disgusted you are with sex and the next you say about wanting my 'tight holes'? What is it that you want, Astarion? You can't have it both ways."

"Of course I can, darling. Now I can. Things have changed. Lots of things. I have my body back and I decide what to do with it. And right now.." he moved with the lithe limbs of a panther to sidle himself beside them, the grey blanket gently pulling back to reveal his thick, swollen manhood. He exhaled at the softness leaving him, "I want.."

Tav swallowed hard, their lips parted. Another wave of euphoric desire swept over them as the cool touch of his skin ghosted against theirs.

Astarion reached over and grasped their hand and placed it on his engorged cock.

"This." He hissed as their skin finally touched, his cool hardness welcome in their palm.

Gods, he was so erect. The veins in his thick shaft pulsating. The velvet softness of him thrummed with desperate need.

He was so close to them, so close now.. they could kiss if he wanted them to. Astarion breathed against Tav's mouth, "Touch me."

He started to move both their hands in short bursts over the head of his penis, Astarion shuddered out a gasp and screwed his eyes shut, "Touch me. Please."

Tav willingly acquiesced, bending down to spit on his painfully erect cock and began to work.

He made a staggered, breathless moan as he leaned back on both hands, exposing himself to them. Tav pumped his rock hard length in a steady rhythm, remembering back to the Tiefling party that he had appreciated the gentle building of friction, to fruition.

His head was purple and looked sore from his abusing himself for so long in search of relief. Tav generated salvia in their mouth and spat on their other hand to use on him.

The sweetest moan they'd ever heard sang from Astarion's chest.

"Yes-yes-use your hands on me.. make me feel like before.. make me feel-" he gasped through the last word so ferociously he inadvertently bared his fangs.

Tav used their hands in symbiotic motion; pumping the bottom of his shaft with their non-dominant, while teasing and playing with the head between their deft fingers, all the while keeping his entirety slick in saliva.

Gods, they wanted to use their mouth on him properly. He looked so beautiful, unmasked before them. He had been so unexpectedly naked and raw with his past. Revealing hard and difficult truths regarding his lack of control, and autonomy of his own body.

And Tav had to respect that, no matter how aroused they were. They would show that his trust was placed rightly in them.

"Astarion?" They called softly to him.

He answered back with a broken, "Mhm?"

"Thank you for telling me what you did. I won't tell anyone else, you have my word."

"Mm-mm-thankyou, Tav." He managed, his voice tense.

Tav slowed their pace and Astarion let out a whine, balling up his fists in frustration.

"Don't pretend with me. Don't force it."

"I'm not, I swear." He gasped, looking directly at them, a light sheen of sweat appearing on his upper lip.

Tav smirked, "Promise you won't."

"Yes-yes, I promise. Please speed up again." He pleaded through gritted teeth, thumping his head back on the pillow.

"I will. But I'd like to use my mouth on you aswell, would that be okay?"

He let out a pent up huff of air, "Oh gods yes, yes, yes-please use that gorgeous mouth on me. Swallow me. Take me."

Tav smiled and quickly got into position, propped between his legs, "I'd also like to play with your testicles, if that's agreeable."

Astarion wrenched his red hot eyes open, making contact with theirs again. Tav irked a suggestive brow.

A devilish grin crossed his face, once again his fangs shone in the dim candle light, "Oh, my dear. That would be most agreeable." He purred through steadier breaths now they had paused.

"One request from me though; don't push my head down, I don't like it. I'll respect your wishes and you respect mine. Deal?"

"Deal." He smiled and reached down to collect his shirt up to reveal his pale, chiseled body. Tav looked hungrily at his toned flesh, desperate to snake it with their tongue.

They took a breath to ask but Astarion interrupted, "Yes, gods please yes! Lick me, kiss me, bite me, suck it. Do what you want with me.. I'll tell you to stop if it's too much."

"I'll hold you to that." They crooned with a serious edge, as they spat on their hand again, then manoeuvred themselves to be able to kiss his beautiful body, and pump the head simultaneously.

He twitched at the increase in contact and laughed hungrily through strained teeth, "Uhhgh, fuck yes."

Tav lavished their lips and tongue across the defined muscles, gently sucking and nibbling occasionally for added sensation. They kissed and dragged their tongue up and down the V in his hips, paying equal and excruciating mind to each side, making Astarion moan and buck.

Tav firmly pressed kisses on the creases of his pelvis, breathing hot over the area. They took their time, languishing over his form with their mouth, exploring the contours of his hips and thighs with their spare hand. Astarion groaned in vexation.

"Ooh, don't tease me. Please."

"The potion is making you impatient. You enjoyed this last time." Tav reminded him.

"It's not the bloody potion-Gods above-AUGH-I'm asking nicely. Don't keep me waiting any longer, I've already been edged enough. Show me-make me feel-let me feel-"

Astarion gasped as Tav collected the precum that bloomed at his tip, and licked their fingers clean, before deftly angling themselves to engulf his thick cock as much as they could.

The noises that were illicited from the pale elf were unlike any they'd ever heard before - strained and trembling, through gritted teeth and grounded fists - and the sloppy, wet sounds that their mouth made around his unyielding cock were intentionally and debaucherously pornographic.

Momentarily retreating, they began flicking their tongue over the slit, Tav moaned from the back of their throat like he was a tall mug of water quenching debilitating thirst. One hand holding his length steady, the other lightly grazing his testes.

Astarion's thighs fluttered and tensed, as Tav heard a smile through his own moan, "Ooh, that's new."

"Mhm."

Gathering more sleek, Tav ran the flat of their tongue up the smooth underplane of Astarion's cock from base to tip, and encircled the head. His member twitched unconsciously as he let out a warm, low rumble from his chest.

"Is that alright? Not too much?" Tav asked, checking in. They kissed the crease of his frenulum, while nimbly massaging and squeezing his sac.

"Mm-mhm-yes. I'm gaining quite an appetite for your skills in this area." He cooed, shifting underneath them, "but I remember a rather more deeper approach last time."

Tav grinned at his less than subtle request, "Oh, my darling. We're just warming up.. but if you're ready for more. I will, of course.. oblige."

Unhinging their jaw like a snake preparing to consume their pray, Tav gorged on the willing partner in front of them.

Astarion sucked in a gasp and Tav felt a hand on the back of their head briefly, before being removed hastily. Tav heard his fist pound into the bedroll beside him. They moaned in thanks, vibrating against his solid shaft.

He replied with a deep rumble from his chest, "Yes.. that's what I've been missing. This is what I needed.."

Bobbing and dipping, taking just a little more in their mouth each time. Sucking and stroking his perfect length. Their mouth salivated and filled with lubricant, anticipating the meal in front of them. Meeting their lips on their pumping fist, working together harmoniously.

Tav relaxed their throat further and began swallowing the last length of him, valiantly suppressing the need to gag until it would afford the most pleasure. They flattened their tongue and swallowed, sucked and gagged as Astarion whimpered and moaned, unconsciously jerking. Tav placed a hand on his hips to steady him, to not ruin the mood by choking unexpectedly.

They pressed down just above his pubic bone as their lips bottomed out against him, tears forming wet stains under their eyes at the challenge of taking his full size. Tav gulped and gasped against his cock, enveloping him with their tongue and throat working in tandem, coating him in liquid slick. The debased, vile sounds coming from their meeting wet and loud and hot as the hells; pushing him higher, dragging him under, coercing him to cum.

He gasped and raised his head to look down at them. Tav met his tear-streaked, claret gaze, with their own.

"Ohh-yes-yes-look at me as you devour my cock-take it all the way down your throat-such a good-nasty-AHH-YES!" He gargled the last word through moans and his hips pulsated and thrust wantonly as he bunched his shirt in his hand, the other fisted around his greyed rag blanket.

His brows creased, his face wracked with pleasure and pain. His face contorted and twisted as he writhed and moaned. He panted and heaved and shook his head from side to side.

Concern furrowed their brow at his expressions, while he seemed to be "enjoying himself", they were reminded of his words from their conversation, that his sexual conquests couldn't tell that he was pretending.

Tav pulled back to breathe through their nose. They reached out with the tadpole and gently stroked his mind, seeking reassurance that this was what he wanted. That he wasn't pretending. That this was real. That this was what he wanted.

"Yesyesyesyes-oh gods-please don't stop-choke on my cock till you can't breathe-ARH-going to cum down your throat and taste myself on your tongue-fuck!-fuck my hard cock deep in your throat-do it-do it-doit-doit-doit" he repeated, trailing off in whimpers against his soiled comfort blanket.

That enthusiastic consent was all they required.

This was a challenge that they would unabashedly attempt to conquer. They had no idea if they could; he hadn't fed on them this time and the potion was an unknown quantity for help, or hindrance. They had no idea. But damned if they weren't going to try. Tav steeled themself and took a deep breath.

They made no illusions at a slow build in tension, they went straight for the kill.

Straining down his hard length to the hilt, making the most illicit and disgusting sodden noises as they consumed him, squeezing him with the throat that tried to resist his intrusion.

Astarion growled and whined and shook with the tension in his body coiled so tightly.

Tav stretched their jaw to lap their tongue against his balls, which tightened due to the expected feeling. He rewarded their efforts with another mumbled, half coherent onslaught of praise and explicit desires.

They re-applyed the pressure on his pubus, pushing down firmly against his taut skin.

A breathless gasp shot from his throat as the hand bunched in his shirt now flew to grasp their hand with choruses of, "yes-yes-yes!"

He was so close, they could feel it. His precum tainted the back of their throat. His jaw was tight and his glistening fangs were bared.

Tav remembered back once more to what had unexpectedly tipped him over the edge when they'd made him cum the last time.

Concentrating hard on keeping the fast-paced rhythm, tears streaming from their eyes, they flipped their hand to hold his properly.

Tav reached out through their connection and whispered, "I've got you, Astarion.. you're safe. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise.. I have you.. Cum, Astarion.. cum, my love."

Astarion stilled, his every muscle contracting and seizing, his chest rising off the floor as his spine curved.

A gentle, surprised gasp escaped from his mouth. He squeezed their hand so tightly as their name died on his lips.

Suddenly Tav felt warmth shoot against the back of their throat as he came hot and quick, filling their mouth and spilling out the sides and he thrust wildly, unable to control his movements. His cries of pleasure muted and gasping.

Tav gagged and slowed to a gentler pace, swallowing him down. Astarion twitched and quivered as they saw him through his climax; still holding each others hand.

His soft, whimpering groans dissolved into laboured heaves as he relaxed into the lull of his orgasm.

A moan shuddered from him as Tav expertly extracated his thankfully - slightly - softening member from their stretched throat.

They tenderly cleaned him up with their tongue, as there was quite a lot that had spilled from his heavy, metallic-tanged load, while Astarion lay there in stunned silence.

Tav dried their eyes and gently rested their chin on his thigh and sighed deeply, their hands still joined on his stomach.

They kissed his cool skin, "Are you alive up there?" Tav asked, jokingly.

Silence.

If he wasn't already dead, they'd have thought he'd died.

"Astarion?"

"M'alive." He mumbled in a stupor.

"Good." Tav said through a wry smile.

They looked to their left where his cock was already starting to swell again and sighed.

"I don't think it worked, you're getting hard again."

Still nothing.

Tav furrowed their brow, "Do you hear me up there?"

Still nothing.

Starting to worry, Tav raised themselves up and started padding their way one-handed up towards his face. His crimson eyes were fixed on ceiling of the tent, drying tears still streaked down his temples.

"Are you alright? Was it too much?" Tav asked, worried they'd gone too far.

He finally blinked.

"My body feels like it's.. weightless and.. empty. My head feels like.. I've been zapped with a.. shocking grasp.. and my ears are ringing." His tone was high and dazed. His every move tinged with exhaustion. His expression one of pure contentment.

He was fully in an afterglow bubble. That was better than potentially traumatised.

Tav pursed their lips with pride, "Sounds like a good orgasm then. Was it?" They asked, feigning innocence.

Astarion gave a long blink and turned his gaze to Tav, who lay to the side of him.

"You've rendered me paralsyed. I think we can call that a success, don't you?"

Tav chuckled, "Well, a semi-success. You've still got your problem." They gestured a thumb towards his now alarming erection again.

"Oh no, that's not the potion. That's me."

Tav jerked their neck in questioning confusion, "Eh?"

"I'm laying here sprawled on the floor after one of the best orgasms of my long life. Two of whom have been granted by you.. and the only thing I can think of.. is that I need to do that again."

Tav bit their bottom lip through a grin spreading across their face.

"But we said that that night was a one-time thing and this is an extraordinary circumstance.. this isn't supposed to-"

His pale pink lips came up to capture their first kiss of the night and from the passion and force behind it, it was not to be their last.

Astarion slid his fingers to their umber trousers and cupped them through the fabric. Tav gasped against his mouth as they twitched within his grasp, the damp spot of their arousal staining their clothes. They sucked in Astarion's bottom lip into their mouth and cursed.

"Well, apparently that arrangement needs to be renegotiated." He smirked, as he kissed them deeply, sweeping his tongue to taste himself there.

He brought his hand to the buckle, "And these definitely need to come off."

•°•°•

Psst.. hey..👋 you want some more smut? 👀

[bcacstuff]

Sunrise somewhere near the east coast of Brazil.

I’m not sure what time it is, or really where I am. Somewhere near the coast of Brazil, I know that; sometime during my birthday - I know that, too. I've flown past the Hindu Kush Himalaya, Pamirs, Caucasus, and Atlas Mountains, and will soon cross the Andes. I'm headed to Chile to meet my family after a long time away. A blessing, to be sure, and made even more sweet coming as it is on the heels of an incredible adventure in Nepal.

I’ve spent much of the 12 hours since Istanbul sorting through photos, visual portals into experience far away yet close at hand, pixel-born reminders of a trip, a trail, impact and experience and immersion.

I’m never quite sure how to share tales of any adventure, less so one with such meaning (to me at least) as this past one. The standard travelogue seems too mundane, too pedantic, to capture it all. Some deep and philosophical tome equally missing the mark.

So, perhaps neither, maybe some of both, a hope of struck balance, or at minimum translation of time and place and experience and people. And not all at once: Like any expedition, these things must be savored, a bit at a time, building and percolating and settling and expanding yet again. So, first, the beginning…

Me on the Kongma La back in 1993, wondering about remote valleys less-trodden than Khumbu.

I guess it was about 31 years ago - December 1993 - that Stuart Sloat and I bashed our way across the lower Khumbu Glacier from Lobuche and, laden with heavy packs, made our way to the Kongma La. We had no map, just a vague point from locals and the knowledge that there was a lake up there somewhere. We found only a puddle and a frigid night, but awoke to a splendid sunrise and the Star Wars zaps of sun-warmed ice cracking, alerting us to the real lake on the east side of the pass (as opposed to our mud wallow on the west). Glorious views, backlit Lhotse and Nuptse and countless more unknowns behind, peak on peak and valley on valley leading who knows where. I knew someday, maybe, I’d get into those valleys, wander the paths away from it all.

Thirty years later, I sat in a teahouse in Chheskam, the northern triumvirate of Mahakulung, with Jhanak Karki and Harka Kulung Rai, talking about opportunity over a steaming mug of tongba. We had just trekked parts of the Mundum Trail from Phedi over Silicho to Mahakulung visiting dZi Foundation work and communities; and then we went up above, following the Hunku Khola just enough to get a taste, an idea of what may lay above. The townspeople and government were excited as we were, having had the same idea for years: create a trail up the Hunku, connecting Chheskam to Kongme Dingma and the quite-popular Mera Peak trek.

It was all possible, all doable, but like the proverbial tree falling silently in the woods, this new trail would be all for naught if no word got out about it. But, I had an idea, and it seemed possible.

Two months before, I shared coffee in a small cafe in Glasgow with Sam Heughan. We’d “met” months earlier on Zoom calls for an ill-fated film project, and then I stalked him down in Scotland; he was, as is his manner, kind enough to indulge me rather than call the cops. I mentioned this idea, going to Everest Basecamp, but doing it the back way, the hard way, the way no one would know or understand or really care about, but the way that would be far deeper, more profound, more meaningful and purposeful and fun. He was game, but I needed to see some of it, understand it more, before committing to guiding anyone up there.

Tongba steaming and heads spinning, Jhanak, Harka, and I knew now it was doable. A route possible, something that promised to bring meaningful tourism and tourist dollars to this long-forgotten part of Nepal, so close to Khumbu and yet utterly left out of the economic boon of the Everest economy. Now I just had to convince Sam.

Trekking to Basecamp is not for the faint of heart, even doing it the standard way from Lukla up the Khumbu Valley. There’s long days, cold nights, high altitudes and dry air and new foods and more. It kicks people’s butts with glee. But this route? It promised much more: camping rather than lodges; an unknown trail through unknown country (How steep would it be? How long each day? Would we find water where we needed it, flat ground?); a 19,000-foot, semi-technical pass to cross into Khumbu; and more.

As I thought and hoped, though, Sam took little convincing. An adventurous soul with a heart of gold, he was excited immediately about it all and was on board. And, to be honest, my little coffeeshop meeting was both to suss out his interest and let him meet me (and judge me) in person, but also, more importantly, to feel him out. Guiding for me is not simply an economic thing, transactional, but about time and people and experience. I’ve done too many “off-the-shelf” trips in the past to have zero tolerance for sharing the mountains with people whose goals and values are misaligned with mine. It took but minutes with Sam to know our worlds, while vastly different, were built upon similar ideas and ideals and approaches.

And so, on December 3, we met in Kathmandu, a year’s planning finally coming together.

Unfortunately for Sam, I don’t really believe in the sugar-coated version of Nepal; fancy hotels and windowed views of life are little more than television with smell. I want people to see the real Nepal, wander the back streets, immerse in the smoky incense of dawn on cobbled streets, bells chiming and dogs barking, ambling through the visceral reality that is Pashupatinath, taking in the respite of Bodhanath, embracing the comforting chaos of alleys and backways of Lalitpur.

Sam rose to it all, never flustered or bothered, always interested and engaged and inquisitive. We had but 24 hours in the Valley, but Sam saw and did and digested a lot.

And then we were off, an Altitude Air B-3 piloted expertly by Moreno whipping us up and out of Kathmandu, through the clenching smog of the city to sprawling views of the Himalaya: the Ganesh and Langtang ranges, on to Dorje Lhakpa and Gauri Shankar as we fluttered high over Kavre Palanchok. Then the jumbled jags of Rolwaling and behind, finally, the Everest range, giants piercing the morning sky, Cho Oyu, Nuptse, Lhotse, Everest. Makalu behind, hiding a bit, masked by multitudes, a distant Kangchenjunga almost a mirage eastward.

Before long, some 40 minutes, the show was over, the reality about to begin. We dropped down, our mark Chheskam, a small village clutching the flat ground hundreds of meters above the Hunku Khola, a river raging and carving down from above. Moreno, Swiss to the core, politely but abruptly ushered us out with our duffels and, counting fuel minutes, was off in a jiffy.

We were here, and town was ready.

Going into this trip, I knew Chheskam was excited. A new trail represents economic possibility for the village, the chance to not just be small pawns in the bigger Khumbu trekking economy, but rather to capture some of that themselves, to control it, to reap the benefits and build it out in a way that fits and flourishes.

I guess, though, I didn’t know how excited: We were met at the chopper by many, locals and officials, all adorning us with kathas and warm welcomes. We then walked around the village, Sam getting to see firsthand the impact of dZi Foundation’s work here, projects like one house-one tap, one house-one toilet, kitchen gardens, and more resulting in a very self-sufficient, healthy, clean, place with relative prosperity. Thanks to Jhanak’s connections, we met the oldest man in town as he demonstrated traditional weaving of nettle fabric, sipped raksi in our friend Prashanta’s house, and briefly sat with wedding guests tipsy from revelry. And then we were summoned to the local school for a bigger gathering.

Our team ready to leave Chheskam for the Hunku Khola valley and the new Muddhi-Kongme Dingma trail.

It was huge, much of the town was gathered, hundred of school children, the local government officials, and more, all in the school grounds. We were run through the welcome gauntlet of ceremonial recognition, our necks strung with dozens of kathas and marigold garlands before being treated to local cultural dances and speeches of excitement and gratitude and welcome. Gratitude and ceremony are big in Nepal, and it was strong enough in Chheskam to feel a bit awkward: after all, Sam and I and our team were here just to walk up the valley. We had no guarantees of success - for us or for the future trail. But, the point I think was far bigger than either of us, any of us; the celebration on that day was one of excitement for the future, of possibility, of potential signified by the two of us being willing, caring enough, to come and do this and see where it leads, literally and figuratively.

Thirty-one years before I stared off into these valleys, selfishly hoping that one day I’d wander them, filling my personal cup with some adventure. It took a long time, and was beyond gratifying to finally be here, but doing so with great people, a great team, and a goal beyond anything personal.

[occamstfs]

2.5k Follower Special

Hi all! Coming back from my little break soon with a special project! In my little lapse in posting I hit 2,500 followers, which is wild, equivalent to my entire high school just about! To celebrate I'm going to be doing something of a short series where you all get to vote on the next story!

Tentatively titled Talismen, it's planned to be a 5 part series centered around the well-trodden idea of a man buying some talisman from a magic shop. I've already got the first story planned but after that it's up in the air! After each posted story I'll throw up a poll to be open for a day so you may decide where the story goes next! Similar to Fred W. Kong's 1000 Follower special :)

If you have any ideas on what kind of transformations you'd like to see explored in the series feel free to leave a comment on this post or send me a message! Otherwise thanks for your patience! I should get it written and posted next week or the first week in December-

Hope to be writing again for you soon!

Occam

[yokohamapound]

BSD Boys With a Nervous Flier S/O

For Amulet! <3

(I added Chuuya for me. :P)

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Edogawa Ranpo, Nakahara Chuuya

Contents: NSFW jokes/references, fear of flying.

Dazai Osamu

Don’t bother trying to hide it. Dazai can pick up on every tiny little tell, so unless you’ve got the world’s best poker face, he’ll figure it out before you say a single word. It’s all there, the shrunken pupils when he shows you the tickets, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants when you’re booking the taxi to the airport, the harsh, unsteady breathing when you’re queueing to check in. 

For once, wisely, he drops the double suicide jokes. The last thing you need to think about right now is you or him dying, and he’s that much of an ass. Most of the time.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, leaning in and whispering in your ear so it doesn’t carry to the other passengers in the boarding queue. “Guess what?”

You frown, distracted momentarily, and look at him. “What?”

His eyes glitter with mischief, and his smile widens into a full blown smirk. “You know how your ears sometimes pop when the cabin pressure changes? They say you should have chew gum or suck on candy.”

Your eyes narrow, suspicious. Dazai leans down to look into your eyes, grinning. 

“I don’t have any candy, but I’ve got something you can su—oww!”

He deserved to have his foot trodden on, really. Dazai might pout, but internally he’s smug that his plan to distract you worked. He’s got plenty more like that up his sleeve. 

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Flying with Fyodor is something different entirely. With the weight (and wallet) of the Decay of Angels behind him, he would never fly on a commercial airline. Normally he doesn’t care much - he’ll take a helicopter or some other type of solo plane. If he’s taking his precious myshka though, he’s flying in style. 

Naturally, he already knows about your fear of flying.

You can take comfort in the fact that Fyodor has literally already thought of everything. There are multiple contingency plans for any conceivable emergency onboard the jet. He has a backup helicopter. There are parachutes. There are backup parachutes. 

All you have to do is get dolled up and sit pretty on one of the luxurious recliner seats, being fed little tidbits of fruit and cake and sipping champagne. Fyodor has his laptop out, watching the endless screeds of incomprehensible information, one resting on your thigh, thumb tracing circles into your warm, soft skin. 

If you want a sedative, he’ll allow it, though his tone is subtly disapproving. He doesn’t like seeing you passed out (unless he’s been the one to drug you or exhaust you, naturally.) Still, if it makes you feel better.

He has…other methods to distract you however. Ones you’ll learn all about when he orders the cabin crew out of the main seating area and draws the curtains. You’ll be flying so high you might not even notice you’ve landed. 

Edogawa Ranpo

Ranpo has an easy solution to all your fears and anxieties—he’s such a baby that you have to look after him and you just won’t have time to worry about the plane going down, because you’ll be trying to convince him he can’t cram a whole gumball machine in his suitcase.

“It’ll fit!”

“You know it won’t! It’s physically impossible. You’re supposed to be a genius!”

“Well, I'm on vacation!”

He’s exuberant and excited to wander through Duty Free and buy all the varieties of chocolate and snacks they sell. Ranpo isn’t getting on that plane without snacks. Have you eaten plane food? That’s simply not going to cut it for the World’s Greatest Detective. 

It’s almost…calculated, the way he seems to rush off to a new thing every time your jitters start coming back. Your heart starts to race, your mouth goes dry, and then you notice Ranpo is gone from your side again. 

By the time you get onto the actual plane, you’re lowkey exhausted, and he still looks as smug as ever, his bag of chips rustling as he snacks in his seat. He opens his eyes, looks around the plane with that sharp, green gaze, then shrugs and settles against the backrest. 

“Nothing wrong with the plane, we’ll be fine,” he declares, tossing a chip into his mouth. “Do you think they have Ramune?”

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya is a well-travelled guy due to his position as a Port Mafia executive and enforcer. It seems as if he gets sent abroad now and then to look after the mafia’s foreign interests and contracts. Koyo seems to stay back more, acting as Mori’s advisor, so it’s Chuuya who racks up the airmiles. He generally travels first or business class, because he’s not about to be back in the cattle runs—sorry, economy. 

He’s so used to it by now that booking the flights, packing, and getting to the airport are a breeze. It’s so mundane to him that he’s a little surprised to find out how frightened you are. He has to admit, it’s kinda cute. 

He lounges next to you in your first class seats, a glass of wine in one hand and your hip in the other, cuddling you against his side. 

“Dollface, what’re you shakin’ for?” he teases, poking you in the ribs. “You forgettin’ who you’re flyin’ with?”

Oh. That’s right. Mr. Gravity Master himself. 

“So if something happens, you could stop the plane falling?” you ask, almost in disbelief. 

He scoffs. “What do you take me for? You’re gonna be on the safest flight in existence. They should be paying me to fly.”

[hourcat]

the best part about ody3 rn, aka the part that has me so confident about them being endgame, is that the hardest part (for television) has already happened. like, everyone's had an ot3 before but it's almost always been in concept only with tidbits of canon and a throwaway line here and there. it's usually the audience's job to piece it together, and it's usually something that goes completely unaddressed.

BUT DOC OD DID IT.

tristan and avery and max DID hook up. we watched them. it has already happened, they're already in it. we've now seen all three of them Clearly Remember how good it was, and heard it from their own mouths.

the rest of this is all part of their journey to realizing how deep their connection is! they get to deal with the consequences of letting themselves have what they wanted! max has to fight his bisexuality demons, tristan has to recover from getting professionally and emotionally trodden on, avery has to deal with the double rejection of two of the most important people in her life rn, and we get to SEE it

like, the way the three of them interact in the first six episodes, they're so in sync with one another. they like each other. they tease each other. they flirt! and then in 1x07 the ease of that relationship comes apart bc they (mostly max and tristan) can't undo what's already been done - they've already exposed their true feelings and wants and desires, and they can't go back. max calling the threesome wonderful and tristan comparing it to his favorite foods is so crazy bc they both clearly WANT IT but haven't had the journeys they need to in order to be in a place where they can understand they want it

i know i'm just reiterating everyone else's posts about it but like. it's going to happen. they didn't spend the entirety of gay week introducing the general audience to a healthy trio by teaching the captain about it The Episode After They All Fucked for nothing. we've got our foundation. all we have to do is stick around and watch the excellence come to life 🙏

[josphitia]

Demon HRT, part 1

Trigger Warnings: Horror, Vomiting, Blood, loss of bodily control

--------------------------------------------------------------

So I live in this place called Hyper City. Fun place, as far as cities go. Lately I’ve been seeing so many freakish peoples around. Dragon and Fish girls, an Eldritch monstrosity or two, hell I even saw Sonic the goddamn hedgehog walking around! Which, don't get me wrong, is FANTASTIC. All these people getting to be their true selves, it brings a tear to your eye! So I asked a few of them, very politely I might add, whereabouts they've been getting these medicinal interventions from. They all pointed me in the same direction.

An unassuming building lay before my feet as I entered a dinghy lobby. The place was littered with fur of every color and length, along with the occasional reptilian shedding-flake. The overworked receptionist looked at me with her bagged eyes and handed me a clipboard and pen. “Walk-in or Appointment sugar” “Walk-in!” “Alright. Wait time is about 3 hours if you're able to wait that long.” I looked around at the empty lobby and shrugged. I had nothing but time after all.

I lazily filled out the form, checking ‘No’ on all the usual culprits. From there I enjoyed the simple pleasures of people watching. Or I guess in this case, animal watching, as they walked in one after the other for their appointments. All sorts of creatures you'd think only existed in cartoons. A blue snake lady, a white tiger, like 4 fucking slimes. All of them seemed to leave with the same two things: lifeless eyes and a small paper bag they held onto like a treasure.

After 4 hours of waiting, finally, finally it was my turn to go back. I was escorted to the man’s office itself. Though you'd think a doctor would have better furniture. I had a comfier chair to sit on in elementary school. Soon the doc entered and he asked me to plead my case. “Doc, you gotta help me. I’ve seen the people in the streets and they say you've helped them! So I'm asking you, are you able to help me? I wanna be a demon!”

“Are. Are you serious? You're not making this up? This is for real?"

“Of course Doc! Deep inside me is a Beelzebub just waiting to burst free!”

“Absolutely not. How in blazes would I even create something like that?? I deal with the terrestrial, the creatures that actually roam this earth.”

“Bitch I literally saw a Sonic the Hedgehog.”

“Changing the hue of a standard hedgehog’s hair and incorporating specialized techniques to aid in speed is one thing. I'm not some revolving door for people to just turn into any farcical fictional absurdity that crosses their minds! I'll have to ask you to leave.”

I was escorted out of the building and as soon as I was I turned around to the doors and gave them my parting gift: two middle fingers and a loud “WELL FUCK YOU TOO!” As I turned to walk away I saw a young person in a tattered cloak approaching me.

“Troubles with Dr. Erian?”

“Yeah and what's it to you?”

“He is ignorant. Afraid of the worlds beyond his meager vision.” As they said this, they removed their hood, fully showcasing the double-irises of their eyes and a pure white eye in the middle of their forehead without any indication of an eyelid. “I know a place of power. A repository of knowledge. It is there you can acquire the help you need. Simply walk the road least trodden between the spires of ill-progress. At the end of the trail you will come upon a fork in the road. Take the third option, for all others are lies.”

“Okay cool but like what do I put in my Maps app?”

“Oh. Uhm. It's 666 Arkham Drive.”

----------------------

An hour or so of walking later I arrived at my destination. A library that seemed as both a cathedral and a butcher’s shop. But off in the alleyway beside the library was an old lady with a sharply crooked nose. She was wearing a long trench coat and as soon as she saw me she outreached a long, spindly finger in a “come hither” motion.

“Hello boy. I have the target of your mission…” she coyly remarked as she rummaged around in her coat before pulling out a plastic orange medicine bottle.

“I heard about you from Lidless Vision.

They told me to anticipate your arrival.

For you and only you, I have this vial.”

“Yeah yeah lady I've been down this road before. This isn't my first time encountering a creepy old crone in an alleyway offering me drugs. How do I know you're not a cop like the last one?”

“I can offer you no assurances but this: What I offer, I offer freely.

My master is one of chaos and all things unseemly.

I am a friend to those whose souls offer a dark shine.

I am no accomplice to the thin blue line. Also ACAB.”

“Ah right on, right on… Okay so what'll it cost.”

“I seek no compensation, no monetary transaction.

I only wish to help you achieve your satisfaction.

I have heard tell inside of you is a demon.

Take these pills, with water, and release what's within.”

With this she quickly grabbed my hand and thrust the bottom between my fingers. The label was haphazardly placed, but the instructions were what she said: “Take one pill twice a day. WITH WATER.”

“Well thank-” and before I knew it she was gone, along with the library. Around me was nothing but the shattered dreams of Mom ‘n Pop stores of the past. I looked around but could find no evidence of the crone, as if she was never there to begin with…

It was a long walk back home; and as soon as I arrived I collapsed on the couch. I was eager to ingest my new medication, with water, and to see the changes my body would undergo. I went to lie in bed and I was so exhausted I could only accomplish an hour of doom scrolling before sleep caressed me into her embrace.

------------------------------------

I awoke the next afternoon and immediately ran to the bathroom. I poured over my reflection for any changes, but all I could notice was that I was… pale? My skin all over was becoming pasty and white. I hope I wasn't getting an allergic reaction…

Although perhaps this was a normal part of the HRT process. Shedding my previous color before my demonic hues came in. But great, now people will think I'm some kinda nerd. Hopefully I could develop a tan to help normalize my complexion.

I took my first allotted HRT pill, with water, and prepared myself. I got dressed and was ready to start my day off visiting any and all businesses begging for a job while being told “there's an application online.” I went to put on my sneakers and… hrm. My toes were pressing up against the end of the shoe. I guess all that walking made my feet a bit swollen today. Nothing another day of walking wouldn't fix. Not like I could just buy another pair, certainly not without a stable income.

First stop on my itinerary was Emperor Burger. I walked onto those sticky floors and was immediately hit with a wall of smell: a queasy concoction of grease, potatoes, and depression. Not many people eat here if they could help it, after all. I walked up to the counter to an acne riddled individual but before I could speak I vomited all over the minimum wage worker to an audible “aw COME ON MAN!” I collapsed onto the floor as the worker began moping around me, either unwittingly or maliciously ignoring my plight as I kneeled over. I couldn't breathe, I was choking on something caught in my throat. Instinctively I clawed into my mouth to dislodge the object, grabbing what felt like fabric. I gripped and pulled but the more I pulled the more felt trapped in my stomach. It was like I was pulling out my own intestines as a long rope of tightly tied… hankerchiefs? were pulled out of my body, soaked in my own bile and blood. But eventually with one final yank my throat was free of the obstruction and I could finally breathe, if in ragged short breaths.

“Help me get this guy the fuck out of here, he's some kinda drunk or something!” was what the clerk started yelling as two workers hoisted me to my feet and threw me out onto the curb. The fall should have hurt, but all my mind could focus on was how much the sunlight now burned my skin and obscured whatever vision I had through tear-stained eyes. I gripped my stomach as I limped home, pedestrians giving my pained body, stained with my own fluids, a wide berth.

I arrived at my humble hovel with another fall onto the floor. I felt like a failure, I wasn't even out an hour before coming back to my dimly lit den. Was the clerk right? Was I just a drunk? Hungover? But I didn't even have the money for alcohol, let alone enough to leave me in this condition. But the thought finally flashed through my mind like lightning:

The pills.

I tried crawling to the table where I was keeping my precious medication but I was barely there before more pains creeped their way across my body, sending me into seizures. The pain wracked my body, yet trying as I might in my agony, no tears flowed. Instead the only sounds emanating from my body were a continuous series of cheerful, upbeat laughs.

🤡

[humbledragon669]

S2E3 - I Know Where I'm Going Write Up P3 - Aziraphale’s road trip and Crowley’s (friendly) conversation with Jim

This may well be another short(er) instalment, for similar reasons to the last one - ultimately this episode just breaks down into nicer chunks if I tackle this “present day” section on its own. That said, we should all be familiar with my tendency to ramble by now so let’s see how I get on.

The very first thing I wanted to comment on is the cut between the past of Edinburgh into the present of the Bentley. It’s entirely visual/audio so describing it is likely not to come out too well, but I’ll give it a go. At the end of the previous scene, the camera pans up and then appears to move, extremely quickly, towards the sky. At the same time there is a noise in the soundtrack, a “whoosh” that suggests rapid movement. On the opposite side of the cut there’s a tiny movement that suggests the end of the movement which ends on a close up of Aziraphale’s face. I hope that didn’t come off as too laborious. Not much I can do about it if it did anyway. Anyway, all of that to say that this cut between scenes suggests to me that, just like with the previous episode, the scenes that we see of Edinburgh are actually Aziraphale’s memories, his flashbacks. Which in and of itself, doesn’t really seem important. It does however lend credence to the theory I raised in the last section (that the minisodes show us epiphany-inducing moments specific to the angel, rather than being simple retellings of events that have occurred in his history).

I don’t think it would be inaccurate to say that the scene that follows in the Bentley is something of a fandom favourite for the Clues it gives to the state of the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley, and for a couple of neat media references that can be found in it. I won’t be going over well-trodden ground too much in this write-up, and I’ll try and keep it as brief as possible. With that said, I want to touch briefly on the changes we see on the Bentley. I’ll start with the music, which, as is explicitly stated, is classical (Danse Macabre by Saint-Saens to be exact. I looked for a potential Easter egg here but couldn’t see anything obvious) and “stays classical”. This last point is pretty obviously a reference to the fact that all music in the Bentley inevitably eventually changes to Queen, not dissimilar to the music in the jukebox Aziraphale is seeking out (artist and song differences aside). There is something here I find interesting though:

So, we can see that the radio has been tuned to BBC Radio 3. For those of you outside the UK, this particular radio station does play whole programmes of classical music, though they do play other genres. He would probably have been better of choosing Classic FM if he had wanted an uninterrupted schedule of classical music. Perhaps there was a rights issue. Anyway, that’s not what I find interesting. If I understand correctly, the fact that Aziraphale is using the radio is what facilitates the conversation that is about to take place with Crowley. I think I actually recall that communicating using existing radio waves was something that Crowley had suggested to Hell as a precursor to the mobile phone. So, radio in use = possible communication. So far, so good. Here’s the “but”. It’s typically static sources of music that are prone to changing when left in the Bentley - in the book it was cassette tapes, in the show it’s updated to CDs. I have a feeling it may even be possible to use the cassette/CD player in an attempt to stop communications coming through (no radio waves = no communication) - I think this may even be why Crowley inserts a CD when trying to get through the wall of fire in the first season. So we have a bit of an inconsistency with the lore here. In all likelihood, I think it’s probably another instance of scriptual convenience - we need to have the conversation; we also need to be told how the Bentley has adapted to Aziraphale’s preferences. You can’t have both things whilst maintaining the previously established elements of Omens legend. There might be some other things to be said about whether the angel chooses to use the radio in order to ensure communication with Crowley was possible, or whether he’s actually not aware of how the music tends to change, but I think it might be overkill in this particular instance.

Looking at some of the other changes we see to the Bentley itself - there’s the horn (now delightfully camp) and of course, the colour. Looking first at the former, I was trying to recall a time when we hear the horn when it’s not Aziraphale driving but I’ve come up empty (even after watching some of the scenes where it might most likely be used), so if anyone has an example I’d be grateful - that way I can make a direct comparison. As it is, we only have Crowley’s word that the Bentley’s horn doesn’t sound like that all the time, though I will agree that it’s hardly the mean sound you might associate with a demon’s car. The colour though, we can be in no disagreement as to the huge change that has been made there. And it would be remiss of me not to highlight the commonly accepted fandom trope that Aziraphale has chosen yellow because it matches the colour of Crowley’s eyes.

(Image shamelessly lifted from a Reddit post by r/goodomensprime - if you’re here on Tumblr, let me know and I’ll credit you properly)

It’s quite a sweet little tribute really, and gives us a huge insight into Aziraphale’s feelings. It’s no wonder he looks so put out when Crowley tells him it’s unacceptable.

There’s something else about this exchange though, and (combined with the demon’s comments about driving at the speed limit) should tell us a lot about Crowley’s link to the Bentley, which is that this vehicle really is like an extension of his own being. The horn he could hear, maybe even the travel sweets (that’s quite a distinctive noise it makes when Aziraphale removes it from the tray), but the colour? And he doesn’t just know that the colour has changed - he knows what colour it’s been changed to. At this point I feel like it’s worth noting the phrase that Crowley uses about the changes to the Bentley:

CROWLEY: What are you doing to it?

So here’s the insinuation that the changes to the Bentley are being intentionally caused by Aziraphale. The fact that it “doesn’t seem to want to” drive above 30 miles an hour would further suggest that the changes are not being resisted by the Bentley, if there is to be an element of sentience applied to the car. I feel like there is something to be said here about Aziraphale presuming tangible changes to something that isn’t strictly within his (moral) power to do - we’ll see that presumption raise a very ugly head in the Final 15. And just as with the Final 15, status quo with the Bentley is returned by force and threat, albeit in a slightly less devastating way.

When I was first writing my notes for this episode (which seems like a very long time ago now), I made a comment about the presence of tartan and the loch ness monster in this shot. Now that some time has passed, I have been made aware that this is a direct reference to a Powell and Pressburger film that this episode shares its name with. I also now understand that this is one of many references to the work of the British duo. @captainfantasticalright made a beautiful post about it here and rather than rehashing the lovely work they’ve already done, I’ll direct you there. It's really beautifully put together. The only thing I now find odd about this tableau is that it’s a really “breaking-the-fourth-wall” sort of reference. As much as I can remember, the Easter eggs I’ve seen up to now are subtle - they blend into the background, and look absolutely natural. This one, sweet and comedic as it is, sort of screams that there’s something to be found. I think the tartan is supposed to look almost like sedentary rock, and I feel like it almost does. The Loch Ness monster is somewhat harder to argue about on that point, though you gotta love the addition of the bagpipes to that awesome rock treatment of the theme tune as this scene plays out.

I don’t think I have an awful lot to say about the next scene with Beelzebub, other than perhaps we should have realised there was something more going on with her than he run-of-the-mill Hellish responsibilities. It’s pretty clear she’s very worried about Gabriel’s absence, especially as we actually haven’t had any indication that she’s been issued with any instructions to find him from higher-up. I do quite like the throwback to the conversation she had with Crowley earlier on in the season when she asks the crony if they ever wish they were told they were doing a good job, and it makes me suspect that part of her mental crisis isn’t just about finding Gabriel, but that she has started to sympathise with Crowley’s point of view when it comes to doubting those that exert power over you.

That book that Gabriel is using to try and understand the concept of gravity is another Powell and Pressburger reference. Again, I’d encourage to look over that blog post if you want to find out more about this particular Easter egg (or the whole set of them).

Those two GIFs are there for no other reason than so that everyone can watch Crowley showing his fully domesticated self, stalking around the bookshop, looking sassy whilst he does it. Do I need any other reason that that? I mean, those bicycle clips around the arms are a slightly strange choice, but I can understand the logic for them being there. And I know I’m nowhere near the first person to want to know exactly what it is that the demon is doing here. Tidying? That seems like a sensible solution.

Ah. Not tidying then. Or perhaps intending to tidy and getting bored. I can only assume he’s trying to keep himself busy here, as opposed to being bored without Aziraphale or stressing about the state of the Bentley. I have seen a lovely little catch somewhere that there are an awful lot of fire extinguishers on the second floor of the book shop (which we’ll see in episode five), and that this is likely to do with the fire that consumes the store in the first season. With that in mind, it would be nice to think that Crowley is at this point covertly making space for those extinguishers by moving books. That said, if the fire deterrents were in response to the previous fire, you’d think they would have been installed long before now. And then there’s that sneaky little suggestion that the people involved in the aversion of the Apocalypse in the years prior don’t actually have any memory of the events as they took place. Whatever Crowley’s reason for his “tidying”, there’s another suggestion about the demon’s behaviour that I really love, which is that he brings an organised chaos to Aziraphale’s disorganised chaos, and with that in mind I think it’s a real shame we don’t get to see what books it is that he’s carrying. I guess we maybe shouldn’t be surprised at his actions here; according to the book has sorted his CD collection meticulously, so it stands to reason that he might want to bring order to another collection (especially if, like me, you believe he’s actually living in the bookshop with Aziraphale at this point).

Leading on from that bracketed point in the last paragraph, I think it’s probably worth noting that Crowley is sans sunglasses at this point. On the one hand, I can absolutely see that this is likely because he’s comfortable in his environment and feels physically and emotionally safe there. On the other hand, we know that his feelings towards Gabriel are, and will continue to be, very guarded. He still doesn’t trust this ex-archangel, not one little bit. Nor is he particularly comfortable with Muriel, who may or may not be in the book shop at this point. And yet, these are the only beings with which he can interact with during this scene. It just strikes me as a little odd that he would go without them, particularly in Aziraphale’s absence, but it does at least really highlight how comfortable he is when he’s at home in the book shop. And if you don’t think that relaxed attitude is evident from the lack of eyewear, it’s blatantly obvious in the way he speaks with Jim about his plan.

I mean, it’s so conspiratorial. Again, remember how much Crowley hates and distrusts Gabriel at this point. Even Aziraphale hasn’t gotten comfortable enough with Jim to speak to him with that level of comfort, so I find this friendly tone from the demon very peculiar.

And on that bombshell (not really a bombshell at all, it’s just something that Brits say when we get to the end of something thanks to a popular television show), that’s the end of this section. Again, not exactly short, particularly as it was less than 5 minutes of film, but shorter as far as these write ups go. More of the same for the next one I think, but I guess we’ll see when I get there. As for now, and as always, questions, comments, discussion, always welcome. See you for the next one!

[amaranthinecanicular]

THE KING'S CANARY TAKES FLIGHT!

The king's canary has abandoned his duty. Jimmy would argue he just quit a bad job. Either way there's a bounty on his head and a curse around his neck, and with Grian and Joel's voices ringing in his ears, Jimmy's dreams of freedom seem further out of reach by the day. That is until he saves a blaze hybrid who, for some reason, is hellbent on returning the favor. Alone, Jimmy is pathetic. Honestly, even with Tango, Jimmy still thinks they're kind of pathetic. But with a little bit of luck they just might make it.

[My gift for the @mcytblrholidayexchange, for @thesleepycat! I'm so sorry it's so late, but I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you had a stellar holiday!]

[alternatively read on ao3.]

:

THE KING’S CANARY TAKES FLIGHT!

It’s a catchy headline. Jimmy glares down at the trodden newspapers and admits at least this: it is a catchy headline.

One week and three towns out from the capital and the gossip still refuses to die. Jimmy blames the excess of perfectly reproduced ink on paper; if redstone wizardry hadn’t automated the process, he’s certain the printing press would never have taken off, and he’d have been able to slip through the cracks of the kingdom long before news could spread. 

He skirts the edge of the street and keeps moving. The phantom twinge of a boot grinding into his toes is easy to ignore. Less easy to ignore: the voices of the townsfolk, tittering over his crime. He hears his name but more often he hears his title. Canary. Canary. Canary. 

“Poor birdie. Can’t be easy, being the king’s canary,” says one woman. Jimmy doesn’t know if she’s being sarcastic or sincere; he can’t risk looking her in the face.

“Pah! Canary. Yellow-bellied sapsucker, more like,” says a man. “All he ever had to do was stand there and not die and get paid for standing there and not dying. Couldn’t even do that.” He’s starting to sound like Joel. “Got no idea what a real, honest day’s work looks like. Spoiled and ungrateful, you ask me. If I were him, with gifts like that, I’d be up in the castle no questions asked. Bitty canary’s nothing but a coward—ow!”

The man hops up and down on one foot, glaring at the oblivious butcher who’d stomped on it. 

Jimmy draws his hood low. 

:

Joel thought he was cursed by a witch. Grian thought he was born with it. The Red King said it was a gift from the gods, divine proof that he was meant to rule and no harm was to come to him.

Jimmy doesn’t know anything about a witch, or the gods, or the circumstances in which he was born, but he thinks Joel was closest to the mark. It’s a curse. It's always been a curse.

:

A dilemma: Jimmy needs food. 

His wings are numb with cold and his feet feel like he’s leaving behind the skin with every step, but food is the pressing issue. It’s taken two weeks and five towns of varying industry, but he’s finally run through the stock he took from the castle. He’s got plenty of money for more, but money isn’t really the problem. They just put out a reward for him. Martyn’s doing, if he had to guess. If anyone was considering letting him go before, they certainly aren’t now. 

Redstone has taken hold here, turned the town metropolitan, and he can hear as well as smell all the local dishes that the vendors are hawking: caramelized redstone sweets, charred and spiced meats, cups of blazepowder soup. They smell so good. He keeps to the outskirts of the market square, watching from the corner of his eye as steam wafts up every time the vendor ladles out chunky red broth. Jimmy feels the hiss of a burn on his hand; a second later the vendor’s eye twitches at a splash of hot soup. She looks up, and Jimmy ducks away before their eyes can meet.

There are no good options. If he pays for a meal, he’s almost guaranteed to be recognized and exposed. If he tries to steal something, he’s almost guaranteed to be caught and exposed. (He has no talent for thieving, as Grian and Joel proved every time they dared Jimmy to nick something, back when money was tight.) If he does nothing, his traitorous stomach will complain loud enough to garner attention, and then he’ll be exposed. Or he’ll starve. Which is also bad.

If he could, he’d have hiked through the forest until he got to the plains biome. Away from the towns and the crowds, free to hunt for his own meals. But every time he drifted from the path Joel and Grian’s voices rang in his head, reminding him that he’s never been good at camping, that mobs seem drawn to him like they knew he was weak, that he could barely hold his own with them around and on his own he was next to useless. 

He’s almost at the end of the square. What then? Keep going and hope he doesn’t collapse on the road to the next town? Even the thought of food leaves him lightheaded, he’d never make it. Wheel back around and pass through the market a second time, and risk being recognized? His pace slows to a crawl. Joel and Grian were right—he can’t survive on his own. He doesn’t know why he tried. He was warm and well-fed in the castle, and if he wasn’t appreciated then at least he was secure, and he only had to die occasionally.

Among all the spiced fruits and roasting meats, there is a small cart selling apples. The man working the cart is distracted (reading a paper with Jimmy’s reward plastered across the front, because what else would he be doing), only halfheartedly calling out prices to the bustling crowd. Jimmy is several yards away. Then only a handful. And then he's within arm’s reach, and no one has looked his way once. Surely no one will miss an apple? The owner of the cart shouts, and Jimmy flinchs, but he's only making a sale to a man on the other side of the cart. They fall into animated conversation. Jimmy stands scant feet away, unnoticed.

He could do it. He could do it now. That would show Grian and Joel. If Jimmy could steal an apple, what else could he do? What couldn’t he do? Of course he could survive on his own! Oh, they’d feel so terrible for thinking otherwise. They’d fawn and shower him with praise, and they’d tell him how capable he was, how strong and clever, how they were wrong to doubt him. They’d grovel, probably. They’d tell him they were sorry that he had gone through what he’d gone through, and how they appreciated that it had been for them, and that he didn’t need to do it any longer because he had tons, oodles of other skills and gifts that made him worth the burden of keeping him. He’d show them. 

If he ever saw them again, he’d show them.

The nearest apple is shiny and perfectly red. Jimmy reaches out.

Pain ravages him. It explodes hot along his side, blunt force that shatters his arm and leg and pulverizes his insides, even as it doesn't. He staggers. He chokes. Every breath feels like a betrayal, his body piercing itself over and over. The ghost of broken ribs. He chokes. He groans. 

It doesn’t stop hurting. It’s getting worse. Fear and pain leave him nauseous. Where will it come from? Where where where—

There. A redstone automobile down the street, blurred by his tears. It’s moving too fast. The wheel is wobbling wildly, the redstone in the undercarriage is sparking. It’s coming straight at him. No, it’s—it’s coming straight at the apple cart. 

The crowd is parting around him, now, he thinks. He’s getting looks—recognition or alarm, he doesn’t know. He tries to say run, but all that limps from his mouth is a moan. The man speaking to the vendor turns and sees him. Jimmy thinks he sees him. They have seconds.

“Run,” he thinks he says. Gasps, sobs, something.

The world jags and falls sideways. A man is above him. The man from the apple cart, and the vendor looking perturbed over his shoulder. One of them is speaking, the words bleeding and incomprehensible. Jimmy retains none of it. The pain is sun-bright. It razes away everything else.

Scant feet away, a vehicle screeches, and an automobile, out of control, smashes into the apple cart. There’s shouting, screaming. The vendor is gaping at the wreckage that is his livelihood. The man he was speaking to gapes as well, first at the splintered remains of the automobile and the cart, then at the mashed apples, then at Jimmy. If Jimmy could see him, he would know, then, the difference between alarm and recognition.

Jimmy doesn’t see him. Jimmy is dead. 

:

Jimmy doesn’t wake up right away. First, he stops being dead. Then he’s sleeping. He’s aware when this happens, in the loosest sense of the word—there’s no dreaming, no out of body experience, nothing in particular to tether him to the world at all. But the body knows when it’s dead and when it’s not, and so Jimmy knows. He lays quietly, thoughtless, floating, starry, until his body decides to stop doing those things. Then he wakes up.

The first thing he notes is that he’s still starving. At least he’s no longer cold.

The ceiling is a bland beige, splotched with dull scorch marks. Not back in the castle, then. That’s good. He blinks. He blinks again. His eyes are crusty and dry. So is his mouth. It’s very, very dry in here, actually, and very hot. Practically boiling, but in an arid way. Now that he’s awake, his armpits and the small of his back start to prickle with sweat. He has to wrestle his arms out from under a heavy quilt to rub the last of the sleep and death from his face, and his palms scrape against chapped lips. Still, he’ll always take too hot over too cold.

“Hey, you’re awake,” says a voice. “How are you feeling?”

There’s a blaze hybrid standing in the middle of a small, round room. He’s stoking a little fireplace with—with his bare hands, by the looks of it. Wow. Jimmy’s never seen that before. 

The hybrid turns to him fully. He’s shorter than Jimmy, wiry and sharp all over. He has wild blond hair, swept back from his face, the ends of it wavering into candle-like flickers of flame. His eyes are red all the way through. A long, slender tail flicks behind him, tipped in a merry ball of orange flame.

“I’m okay,” Jimmy says neutrally. 

“That’s good. You, uh, looked like you were in a lot of pain before.”

Jimmy does his best not to react to that. Grian always chides him for wearing his heart on his sleeve. “Okay. I’m feeling much better now.”

“You look it,” says the blaze hybrid. Jimmy chances a glance at his expression, then away. Does he know? Impossible to tell—mostly he just looks relieved. “Do you remember what happened?”

He does, for the most part, though he doesn’t remember this man. But the faces were all blurring together at the end. “Kind of.”

The blaze hybrid scrapes a small wooden chair out from a small wooden table and drags it to Jimmy’s bedside. Jimmy does his best not to stiffen up too noticeably. The man throws himself into the chair, his limbs poking in different directions like an awkward bundle of sticks.

“We were in the market. You looked like you were in pain,” he says. “A lot of pain. You called me and the apple vendor over to you, and then a carriage took out the cart behind us. Then you—” He pauses. “Passed out. I brought you here.”

Passed out. Jimmy doesn’t correct him. Instead he focuses on the “here,” and how very not a doctor’s office “here” is. Unless this man is the town doctor, and this is just the very cluttered and unsanitary place he practices medicine. Or maybe he’s a trained healer so he saw no need for a doctor? This could be innocent. It could mean nothing. 

Stupid, says a voice in his head that sounds like Joel. He knows. 

Jimmy does not panic. He is so so good at not panicking. “Well. Thank you. For that. Um. And—and where is here, exactly?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course. Welcome to my home!” The blaze hybrid throws out an arm, gesturing to the small room: the tiny fireplace, the tiny table, the tiny dresser, the few utilitarian appliances and the many tinkering knick knacks scattered all over that Jimmy can’t make heads or tails of. “Temporary home. Place I’ve been renting for a few months, I guess. Welcome either way.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy says again. Still in town, it sounds like. Okay. Okay. He can work with this. What would Joel and Grian do? Fight their way out. Not really an option for Jimmy; he’s always frail after revival, unlikely to win a fight or a foot race. But he’ll figure it out. And the blaze hybrid might not know who he is. Probably. Definitely!

The blaze hybrid says, “Sorry if this is forward, but. You’re the king’s canary, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like that name,” Jimmy says immediately, like an idiot. Death always muddles his brain, blunts his filter. “I—I actually have to go, right now, immediately. Places to see, people to go, you understand how it is, thank you again for the help—”

He lurches for the side of the bed, where the floor, predictably, rises to meet him. Less predictably, the blaze hybrid catches him around the shoulders.

“Hey, hey! Careful, man, slow down.” He pushes Jimmy back to the bed. Jimmy wishes he could say it was forceful, but Jimmy's pretty sure he's just as weak as a foal, and terrified out of his mind. He must do a poor job of hiding it, because the man makes a funny sound in the back of his throat. “Oh, I’m not—I’m not going to, like, turn you in or anything. No one else recognized you, and I didn’t tell them. Don’t worry about that.”

Jimmy will absolutely worry about that, thank you very much. “Um. Okay.”

The blaze hybrid holds up his hands. “I mean it. You’re safe here. The only reason I asked is because I was wondering if it was your, uh, power that happened? Back at the apple cart? I think that’s what happened, I just wanted to be sure.”

This feels like a trap. Like the king’s men are just outside the door, waiting for confirmation before they burst in and drag him back, where Ren will likely soliloquize about loyalty and betrayal and then Martyn will lob off his head. But if that were the case, shouldn’t they have already done the bursting and the dragging? Jimmy all but confessed his identity two seconds ago. He sees no way out of it now.

He nods, just once. 

“I thought so.” The blaze hybrid's eyes are deeply red. Fire dances inside them. Jimmy can’t tell if it’s reflection from the fire or something inner and innate. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

Jimmy swallows. “You’re welcome.”

“Seriously. Thank you.” He reaches out and squeezes Jimmy’s shoulder. He’s smiling. “So: don’t call you canary. Got it. What should I call you?”

“Jimmy,” Jimmy says, after he fails to think of a proper alias that isn’t Joel or Grian or King Ren. “Jimmy Solidarity.”

“Jimmy Solidarity. I’m Tango, of the Tek variety. You can just call me Tango.”

Jimmy nods. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Tango says, “You hungry?”

Is he trying to stall Jimmy long enough for the king’s men to get here? Most likely. Jimmy’s stomach decides he doesn’t care. “Oh my gosh yes please I’m starved.”

:

Three bowls of blaze powder soup later (better than what was being sold in the street, if only because it is now in Jimmy’s belly), Jimmy finally feels like more of a human again. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, reclining back on the pillows of Tango's bed. The bowl is still warm in his hands. He’s loath to let go of it. “That was amazing. I’m, uh. Sorry if I took too much.”

Tango is still on his first serving. He laughs, and it doesn’t sound mean-spirited at all. “Dude, don’t worry about it! Nothing a chef likes more than someone enjoying his food.”

Jimmy swirls his spoon through the creamy broth at the bottom of the bowl. “Is that what you are? A chef?”

“Nah, not really. I just like cooking. Sometimes you gotta have a hobby that’s just for you, not for money, you know?”

“Sure.” It’s not something Jimmy has ever thought about, but he likes the idea. “Um, I should. I should probably go.”

“Okay,” Tango says easily. “You want some tea before you head out?”

Jimmy might actually cry. “Yespleaseohmygosh.”

:

The tea is even better than the soup, spiced and fragrant, smoky in the aftertaste. Somehow, against all odds, the company is even better.

Rather than being a wildly successful chef, Tango works with a nomadic troupe of demolitionists. Not a job Jimmy’s ever heard of before, but it sounds cool when Tango describes it. According to Tango and his expansive hand gestures, the redstone wizardry boom has resulted in cities and infrastructure rapidly expanding, deconstructing, rebuilding. In the chaos—his eyes brighten with the word—there’s opportunity for innovation, discovery, entrepreneurs. 

“And blowing stuff up in creative ways,” he adds. “So that’s always fun. I just figured out how to make the buildings implode instead of explode—reduces debris and collateral damage, and just looks awesome.”

“That’s amazing,” Jimmy says sincerely, and Tango’s smile glows, literally. It is suddenly imperative that Jimmy break eye contact.

“Another cup?” Tango asks.

Jimmy wants to, very badly. He’s enjoying talking to Tango. He’s enjoying the warmth and the tea and the conversation where both parties see each other as people, instead of a tool or a burden. “I should probably get going.”

“Oh,” Tango says, then laughs, a little bashful. “Yeah, of course. Look at me, chatting your ear off! Let’s get you up.”

He takes Jimmy’s cup and then his arm in a firm, claw-tipped grip. His hand is bony and pleasantly hot. With his support Jimmy finds his feet, and manages three whole steps before his knees buckle.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Tango catches him, and leads him back to the edge of the bed. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine,” Jimmy says. He feels a little lightheaded, a little breathless, more than a little humiliated. “This just happens when I—it just happens sometimes. I’m used to it.”

“Do you want to rest up a little longer?”

“I really should get going. You’ve done enough for me as it is.”

Tango nods slowly. “How far are you headed?”

“Far.”

“Right.” 

A pause. Jimmy clasps his hands between his knees and wills strength into his body. Usually it takes about three hours after revival to fully recover, not that Jimmy will tell Tango that. It’s not like he hasn’t had to get up and go minutes after death before. Ren was the target of back to back assassination attempts once, and Jimmy made do then. He can feel Tango reappraising him, the paleness of his face, his worn clothes and unwashed hair. He struggles not to shrink on himself.

This was a nice reprieve—a lovely surprise after a terrible death. He needs to leave before he ruins it. Oversteps Tango’s bounds, annoys him, reveals himself as something to be used or pitied.

Tango hovers, then sits beside him. 

“It’s just that…you still look kinda iffy, dude. Is there anyone I could bring you to? Anyone you trust to help you get…wherever you’re going?”

“I do,” Jimmy says quickly, eager not to be thought of as pathetically alone. “I mean, I did. I mean—I don’t, anymore. They wouldn’t have been safe, is all, with the whole on the run thing, and anyway, they wouldn’t have—that is, I…” He trails off, and says lamely, “It’s complicated.” 

Tango’s voice softens. “Okay. I get that.”

They sit together. Tango offers him another cup of tea; Jimmy takes it. He blows across the surface, watches the flecks of leaves bob on rippling waves. 

After a minute, Tango claps his hands on his knees and stands up. 

“Well hey, if you’re going to go you should at least go in some good shoes.”

He crosses the small apartment to the door, where Jimmy’s tattered shoes are propped up against the frame. Instead he grabs the sturdy pair of work boots beside them. 

Jimmy blanches. “I can’t take your shoes!” 

“Sure you can.” Tango sizes up Jimmy’s foot, decides it’s close enough, and pushes the boots into his arms. “They’re my extra pair, so you’re not putting me out. They might be a little snug, but I think snug is better than what you were working with.”

“That’s not the point! You’ve done too much for me. I can’t take your food and your tea and your shoes, I just can’t.”

Tango gives him an amused look. “Okay, but you saved my life, remember? I value that a little more than an extra pair of shoes. Take ’em. I insist.”

Jimmy does take them, but only because Tango also tries to give him new clothes, cloak, and packed-up food, which he turns down. This time when Tango helps him up, though Jimmy teeters, he keeps his feet.

Outside it’s still winter. In the warmth of Tango’s apartment, Jimmy had almost forgotten. Since his death night has fallen, and the streets are empty and bitterly cold. 

“You’re sure I can’t convince you to rest a little longer?” Tango asks.

Jimmy draws his cloak tight around his shoulders. “Long way to go, I’m afraid. Thank you for everything.”

Jimmy looks back at him. It’s the first time he’s looked into Tango’s face in a while: he’s pointy all over, angular, bordering on gaunt. He’s a candle in the dark. His smile is tinged with concern.

“No need to thank me,” he says. “I hope you get where you’re going, Jimmy. Take care.”

He offers his hand. Jimmy shakes it. If either of them linger, Jimmy tells himself it’s only because Tango is so warm. 

Jimmy walks away. With every step further he remembers that he’s a fugitive, and that he needs to go quickly, quietly, and carefully. On to the next town, and the next, and the next, until he’s run out of towns entirely and has made it to where the sky is blue and the horizon opens into forever. He looks back once, and sees Tango still standing there, waving. He looks back again, but now the door has closed, and Jimmy doesn’t know which window was Tango’s. The gifted boots squeeze gently at his toes.

His hands twitch with splinters as he reenters the market square, where the stalls have been folded up for the night and the street is empty. 

Only it’s not empty. The owner of the apple cart is despairing over the broken remains, picking through sharp shards of wood. He hisses and shakes out his hands. Jimmy grimaces. He tugs his hood lower and turns on his heel.

“Hey,” the man calls behind him. “Hey you!”

Jimmy walks faster.

“You! You’re the one who—stop, blast it! You owe me a new cart!”

“I really don’t, actually,” says Jimmy, dropping his voice two octaves. A hand grabs his shoulder. Jimmy’s wings protest, pushing back hard under the cloak. The hand is shaken off. So is his hood.

“It’s you,” the man says.

“No it isn’t,” says Jimmy.

“It is! You’re the canary! That reward could buy me a whole fleet of new carts.” He looks around wildly. 

“Please don’t,” says Jimmy, but the man is already hollering. 

“I’ve got him! I’ve got the canary, guards! Someone!”

Jimmy turns to run but the man seizes the back of his cloak. His hand closes on the arch of a wing, and Jimmy yelps.

“Hey! Let go of him!”

There’s the distinct, winding pain of a body shouldering hard into Jimmy's ribs. Then Tango is tackling the man to the ground.

Jimmy goes sprawling. He struggles to his knees through the phantom dings and scratches of two men wrestling on cobblestone. Behind him, Tango is fuming, “What the hell, man! He saved your life, what are you doing?” 

All along the street, lights are coming on. Doors are opening. Heads poking out. Eyes going wide. The town is folding in on him. Jimmy can’t breathe.

And Tango is above him, once again.

“Come on!”

He offers his hand. Jimmy takes it.

They run.

:

Grian and Joel would have come with him. 

If he’d asked. If he’d told them. Of course they would have. They would have protected him, taken care of him. They would have sighed and scoffed the entire time. They would have resented him, and made sure he knew exactly how much of an inconvenience this was, and didn’t he know he was upending all their lives, and why couldn’t Jimmy just do his job? He was always causing problems, and never considering the effect it had on others. 

The moment Jimmy revived on the cold marble of the throne room and realized he had to leave was the same moment he realized he couldn’t bring Joel and Grian with him. He couldn’t even tell them. They would have insisted on joining, whether Jimmy wanted them to or not. Whether they wanted to or not. They cared for him; they would risk implication and conspiracy for him. And they would never let him forget it.

He’ll never see them again. That hurts too much to think about, so he doesn’t. 

:

“I’ve ruined your life.” 

“You haven’t ruined my life, come on.”

“I have, I absolutely have. Your home—”

“My temporary home.”

“Your temporary home, your job, all your things. Poof! All gone, Tango! Because you helped me!” 

Tango is starfished flat on his back. Jimmy is making the ground’s acquaintance with his face. They fled down the darker road out of town, figuring they were less likely to be followed, and after an hour of hard running, they both pancaked in the dirt. Jimmy has too many cramps to name, and a doubled echo of Tango’s cramps on top of that. The stars above feel judgmental. Jimmy is glad to stare at hard-packed earth instead.

“Oh my gosh, you’re my accomplice now,” he moans. “They’re going to be looking for you too. Tango, your life is over, I’ve ruined it.”

A warm hand pats at Jimmy’s back with infinite, undeserved patience. “You didn’t ruin anything, buddy. I mean it! This is for the better, if you think about it.”

“For the better. Ha.” Jimmy spits out a little bit of dirt. “How?”

“Like you said, that place was temporary. My team will pick up my stuff, so I haven’t lost any of it. Well, except for what Bdubs will scavenge. That’s a given.” Tango waves a hand like being forced to abandon his entire life in the dead of night is hand-wavable. “And the good thing about working with your buds is that they’ll always have a job for you if you need it, so no harm there. Honestly, demolition was fun, but I’ve been thinking of trying something new for a while now.” 

“You’re a wanted man now. How are you going to go back? You’ll be arrested on sight.”

“Pshaw. One guy saw me help you.”

“The whole town saw you help me!”

“Hey, you’re the one they’re after, not me. By the time I get back, they’ll have completely forgotten I exist. Tango Tek who?”

Jimmy rolls his head to one side to give Tango a flat look. Tango is already looking back at him. He looks amused. That makes no sense.

“Okay, honesty time? I wanted to offer to go with you before,” Tango says. “Help you get wherever you’re going. But you seemed pretty jumpy, and I thought it would freak you out. Offer’s still on the table, though. I like traveling new places, seeing new things. Makes for good machination inspiration. And two is safer than one, right?”

“You don’t know me,” Jimmy says. His voice is weak. 

“I don’t know how many times I can say this, but you literally saved my life. That makes you a pretty cool guy in my book.” He looks Jimmy dead in the eye, and says simply, “You seem like you could use some help. I’d like to help.”

Jimmy believes him. In the back of his mind he can hear Joel and Grian taunting: just like Timmy to trust the first stranger he meets. Can’t ever hack it alone, can you, Tim? Probably he’s about to run off with some maniac bent on selling his curse to the highest bidder. Or an opportunist who intends to hold this favor over his head for the rest of his life. Would be just like him to get into hot water like that. Sure, it would be nice if there were someone out there who really wanted to help for the sake of helping, and it would be nice if doing so didn’t lead to resentment or blackmail or a direct ticket back to the castle. But that person is a fantasy. That person doesn’t exist.

But Jimmy believes him.

He sniffles. Some dust goes up his nose. “We don’t even have a torch.”

“Okay, you got me there,” Tango concedes. “We’ll need to get some supplies in the next town. Oh—here, this is yours.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Jimmy’s coin purse.

“It’s why I followed you. You left it in my apartment.”

Jimmy just gapes, so Tango plops the purse on his back. 

“Take your time,” he says, generously.

Jimmy does take his time. After a few long seconds of fish-mouthing, he says, “I hope you took some. I was going to bribe you into not giving me up.”

Tango snickers. “Darn. Missed my chance. Guess you’ll just have to buy our first meal instead.”

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Even if Tango is being genuine, Jimmy is still a wanted man. Bringing him along could only put him in danger. Grian and Joel would be judging him so, so hard if they knew.

But Grian and Joel aren’t here.

“Deal,” Jimmy says.

Tango smiles. Jimmy dares to smile back.

Then Jimmy yelps at the ghost of sharp fangs sinking into his neck. “Ow ow ow—Tango, spider! Spider spider spider!”

“What spider where now—whoa!”

Jimmy yanks him up just as a spider the size of his torso skitters out of the forest, barely missing a lunge for Tango’s face. 

The spider chases them a full second hour until torches intersperse the road again. If this had happened yesterday—or even a few hours ago—Jimmy is sure he’d have burst into tears. 

But Tango makes this funny yelp-laugh sound when he screams, and when they finally reach safety, he cheers. Jimmy, despite himself, cheers too.

:

The next town is close enough to reach by afternoon the next day. They walk through the night and arrive exhausted, unwashed, hungry, and in better spirits than Jimmy expected. By a lot, actually. Turns out sharing misery halves it instead of doubling. Who knew?

Jimmy tries to keep a low profile while Tango goes to retrieve food and supplies. Waiting in an alley with nothing but his thoughts (and Grian and Joel’s imaginary advice), feeling equal parts conspicuous and insignificant, he half-expects Tango to return with guards. Maybe more than half. Even if it hadn’t all been a ruse to gain his trust and turn on him when most profitable, Jimmy finds it hard to believe Tango won’t come to regret his decision when he realizes what deadweight Jimmy is.

But all Tango returns with is two loaves of bread stuffed with roasted peppers and Jimmy’s exact change. He even managed to secure lodging. The innkeeper refused to give them a two-person room when she hadn’t vetted the second person, so Tango conceded to a single. Then he helps Jimmy climb through the window in the back. There’s a lot of flailing and scrambling and frantically beating wings, but once they’re through, Jimmy lays flat on the floor and stares up at the ceiling in wonder.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Jimmy says breathlessly. “You’re a genius.”

“Aw shucks.” The flame on Tango’s tail flares and puffs. “Thanks, man!”

They crowd onto the tiny bed and Jimmy is out as soon as his head hits the pillow. He wonders, as he falls asleep, if maybe Tango cut the innkeeper in, and he’ll wake to guards waiting to arrest him and Martyn laughing at him for thinking he got away, and Tango and the innkeeper splitting the reward money…

He wakes twelve hours later to Tango fiddling with some new redstone contraption. He sees Jimmy’s awake and says, “Morning, buddy!” Then he hands him a bowl of oats with fresh winter fruit, and a hot cup of spiced tea. 

:

In the next town, Tango sells his little redstone doohickey, and uses the money to pay for their meals. It’s only fair, he says. And when Jimmy protests that bankrolling the trip is the least he can do for all the help, Tango just laughs.

“Back with my crew, we split everything evenly,” he says. “Theoretically, anyway, when we weren’t enabling Etho’s spending habit and Bdubs wasn’t trying to weasel his way out of it. Regardless! We should be supporting each other equally. That’s what partners do, right?”

Partners. Jimmy doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, so he just nods. Partners. That sounds nice.

:

On the road, they talk about their people.

Skizz, Impulse, Bdubs, Etho—Tango’s demolition crew, a cast of colorful characters. “You’d like them. They’re good guys. Skizz especially, he’s my bestie. Nicest guy in the overworld.”

Tango has loads of stories, a broad range from heartwarming moments with Skizz to absurd adventures with Bdubs to wild tales of Etho that make Jimmy question whether he’s a real person or not.

“He soloed a wither once,” Tango declares proudly.

“No way.”

“He did.”

“No way! You’re lying.”

“Jimmy,” Tango gasps, scandalized. “Would I lie to you?”

Jimmy’s gut instinct, for some reason, is no. “No one can solo a wither.”

“Etho can. Though if you asked Bdubs, he’d tell you he soloed it. Now that’s a lie.”

Jimmy hums. Night is falling rapidly but the sky clings to a deep, dusty orange. Joel always says that means snow.

“Grian and Joel might be able to take down a wither together,” he says. “Especially if I was there to help them. Definitely not alone, though.”

“You talk about Grian and Joel a lot,” Tango says, a gentle invitation. 

“Oh, sure. I spent most of my life with those jerks. Don't really remember anything before I met Grian. I think I lived by the sea?” He daydreams sometimes about sparkling blue that stretches on forever. He’s not sure if it’s a memory or a dream. “But then I got saddled with Joel and Grian, and we kept each other alive. Or I kept them alive with my curse, not that they’d be caught dead saying thank you, no sir.” 

He chuckles, and thinks to stop there. But Tango is watching him and smiling. Jimmy snaps his eyes back to the sky. 

“I sort of grew out of my wings as I got older, can’t really fly with them, you know? But I could fly when I was a kid, and there I was, zooming through the trees, when bam! I get slapped in the face by some invisible brick wall, and that makes me bam! smack right into a tree. A second later, and bam! Grian smashes into a tree right next to me. Turns out he was flying behind me, saw me crash, and that made him crash, and his crash is what made me crash in the first place.” 

Tango laughs. “Feedback loop of pain, huh? That’s how you met?”

“Yep. Then we found Joel two years later, and that was that. Locked in with two bullies. We kept each other alive. Or I kept them alive with my curse, not that they’d be caught dead saying thank you, no sir! They’re my—” 

He almost says brothers. Thank goodness he didn’t. Even the thought of Grian and Joel’s ridicule makes his cheeks burn with shame. 

“They’re my roommates, kind of. Or they were, before I started working for Ren and living in the castle. They’re why I stuck around so long, actually.”

The way their jaws had dropped, the first time he gave them their cut. He’d had the thought: I can finally repay you. I can finally be of use.

“They were the first ones who called me a canary,” Jimmy says, brightening. “It was just a joke. An annoying one that I hated, but it was ours, so I didn’t really mind that much. Martyn heard it once, and he told Ren, and, well.” He stares hard at the orange sky. “Kind of got overdone, after that.”

“Yeah,” Tango says. When Jimmy glances over, his smile is a little dim. “I bet it would.”

He seems glum. Jimmy doesn't like that. "You know, Joel has a curse too. Turns into a big monster at night. Needs true love's kiss to break it, the whole thing."

"Yeah?" Tango perks up. "What kind of monster?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you," Jimmy says breezily.

Tango's grinning again. Thank goodness. "Try me."

:

Money was always tight, when it was just the three of them. Jimmy minded, of course, though not as much as Joel and Grian did. Privately he liked that it was them against the world. The worst part, to him, were the nights they had to split a thin serving of broth and Grian and Joel were in foul enough moods to needle Jimmy for not pulling his weight.

Still, they made ends meet. And there at the end, they were even doing well. Jimmy can confidently say that Grian’s the best architect in the kingdom, and his reputation was only ever growing. He was commissioned by some nobles in the capital. This is the one, boys, this one changes everything, Grian would say, over and over, and Joel would grumble, it blummin’ better be, how much you keep banging on about it, but he’d catch Grian and Jimmy in headlocks and knuckle at their hair, so he was excited too.

They got to the capital. It was bigger and busier than any place Jimmy had ever been, built into the shadow of the king’s castle. While he worked, Joel took up odd jobs throughout the city. He was hired to clear out a nest of phantoms that was terrorizing the outer districts. He let Jimmy tag along.

Jimmy felt the death coming up on him. Claws raking his back, tearing his throat. He swung around, looking for Joel, and saw a king’s guard instead. He was bleeding and exhausted. Jimmy tackled him out of reach of a phantom’s talons; somewhere in the distance Joel screamed Timmy!; before the pain had a chance to fade, Jimmy shuddered. Jimmy died.

Jimmy un-died in the castle. Joel and Grian were nowhere to be seen. Instead there was the king’s guard, who was actually the king’s hand, who was actually Martyn.

Your whole life’s about to turn around, mate, Martyn said. You’re welcome.

:

“Why didn’t you turn me in?” 

He manages to rein the question back three more days, until it pops free on the road. It’s started to snow, just a handful of delicate flakes that Tango tries to catch in his mouth. He’s looking at Jimmy, frozen, with big eyes and a pointed tongue poking out of his mouth.

The question is still as ill-advised as it would have been on day one. He’s sure Grian would think so. Why would you bother putting the idea in his head, he would say, why push it? Grian is smart about things like this, keeps his cards close to the vest. Joel is more forward, likes to know things upfront, doesn’t mind being confrontational about it. But Joel wins fights that Jimmy doesn’t. He’d say it’s plain stupid.

Tango doesn’t say it’s stupid. He says, “Yeah, that’s fair. I’d want to know too.”

It makes Jimmy feel almost reasonable for asking. Tango wipes his mouth and kicks thoughtfully at the road. 

He says, “I’ve got no loyalty to the king. Nothing against the guy, I’ve heard some good things, but I’m netherborn, right? And I barely feel any national pride there, so not much obligation here.” 

“There’s a reward,” Jimmy points out. Imaginary Joel and Grian groan in frustration.

Tango’s eyes narrow skeptically. “Sure, but you didn’t commit a crime, did you? Unless I read that article wrong. Seems to me you just left your job. You should get to quit like anyone else. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

He says it so simply. Just as simply as Jimmy thought it was.

“I mean,” Jimmy says, “I did steal some bread.”

Tango barks a laugh. “Well, now I have to turn you in. Moral obligation.”

Jimmy nods solemnly. “It’s only right. Clap me in irons, throw away the key.”

Tango keeps laughing. His nose scrunches with it. Jimmy feels a little silly for being so proud. He’s made loads of people laugh before, thank you very much. It’s just that he’s usually the butt of the joke instead of the one making it.

He likes making Tango laugh. It’s a nice laugh.

It doesn’t snow much longer, but they spend the time counting who can catch more snowflakes on their tongue. Jimmy wins by one.

:

“Here,” Jimmy pushes one horn into Tango’s hands. He’s so excited. 

Tango turns it over, as confused as intrigued. “Is this an animal horn? Where did you get this?”

“Just now, when I went to the bathroom! There was a goat out there, it tried to kill me—”

“What—”

“Honestly it shouldn’t even be here, Grian says they only live in the mountains. But it missed, and it broke its horns off against a tree trunk.”

“Wow.” Tango admires the color and the shine, the smooth break and the grooves in the dark keratin. “It’s so cool.”

“It gets cooler.” Jimmy lifts his horn to his lips. A sweet note carries, and a flock of birds take to the sky. Tango’s jaw is on the floor. 

“How’d you do that?”

“Grian knew how, and he showed me and Joel,” he says. “I thought if we were separated, or lost, or see a threat or something, we could blow this to find each other.”

Tango’s eyes are shining. “That’s an awesome idea. Can you show me?”

:

Not every town can be reached in one hard day’s walk. Sometimes they have to camp out on the road, laying out bedrolls and building fires to keep winter at bay. Tonight it’s cold enough that Tango gives Jimmy his extra bedding; he’s netherborn, he says, so he doesn’t need as much to keep warm. They keep the fire high and scoot the bedrolls close, talking too late into the night. And Jimmy just…tells him.

“You’re going to build a ranch?” Tango asks. 

He sounds surprised. He probably looks surprised, not that Jimmy would know, since he’s having trouble looking at him.

The ranch isn’t something he likes to talk about. Every time he says it out loud, it sounds sillier, so he tries to keep it tucked safe and close behind his heart. He mentioned it to Joel and Grian once, though he’s sure they don’t remember it. Why would they? They’d been so dismissive at the time. There aren’t enough riches in the world that could convince me to sell you a farm, let alone teach you how to run it, Grian had sneered. Joel pointed out that even if there were, no one in their right mind would stick around once they realized what a slow study Jimmy was. Jimmy felt small, and he never mentioned it again.

With Tango, he told him only as much as he needed to. They were heading out of the forest biome and into the plains, where the land unfurled into smooth, rolling prairies and burst with sunflowers. The logic was sound enough on the surface: Ren’s borders ended with the biome, and with one step past Jimmy would be free and clear. Tango was just glad to visit somewhere he’d never been before. He didn’t ask further questions, and Jimmy didn’t offer further answers.

But they’ve been traveling together for weeks, now. Tango has never made Jimmy feel small. 

“I’m not planning on building one, exactly,” Jimmy mumbles. He busies his hands by sitting up and thrusting his hands at the fire. A talent of Tango’s: he can build a beautiful fire in three minutes flat. “Grian’s a way better builder than I am. I’m just hoping to buy it off of someone. Something small, if the owner was already hoping to retire or something. And then I’ll pay them extra to stay on a little while and teach me how to run things.”

Tango sits up too. “That’s an awesome idea.”

Jimmy’s head snaps up. “Really?”

“Yeah, man! Way better to admit when you need help than to crash and burn just because you tried to tough it out alone. Keeping the old rancher on until you’ve got the hang of it is smart.”

Tango looks genuinely impressed. He looks admiring. Jimmy’s wings start to flutter. 

“Do you know anything about running a ranch?” Tango asks. He doesn’t sound accusing like Joel, or mocking like Grian. Just curious.

“Not really,” Jimmy admits. “But I’m pretty good with animals, and I don’t mind hard work. It might take me a while to get the hang of something, but I’ll stick with it until I do.”

“That’s great,” Tango says earnestly. “I think it’s way more useful to be able to stick to something than to be good at it right away.”

One of Joel and Grian’s favorite pastimes was poking fun of Jimmy until he shouted and flustered, and then laughing at how splotchy he got. They said he looked like he had a rash. He hopes he’s not as pink as he feels now. “Thanks,” he says again.

Tango leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright. “What kind of animals will you have?”

Jimmy hums. “Chickens, for sure. Lots of cows. A couple goats, I think. Maybe a warden?”

Tango’s laugh is surprised and delighted. “A warden?”

“Yeah. I was thinking like—if I could train it, then maybe it could use it’s sonic thing to round up the herd. Is that weird?”

“No, I love it! Wardens are so cool, and we know so little about them. Plus they’re kind of cute, in a scary monster way.”

Jimmy beams. “Exactly! Tango, I could not possibly agree more.”

“You’d have to bring that one up from the underdark yourself,” Tango says thoughtfully. He lights up like a firefly. “I could help you! I bet I could think of a way to get it safely to the surface.”

“You definitely could, that’s not even a question. You’re brilliant.”

Tango’s eyes go ruby round. Jimmy’s mouth opens and shuts. Should he take it back? He should take it back. 

But Tango just smiles, broad and lopsided. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“You’re—” Jimmy’s voice cracks. God damn it. “You’re welcome, Tango.”

They stare at each other. Tango says, “You have frost in your eyelashes.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Huh?”

“You have—” Tango clears his throat. “You know, because it’s so cold. It doesn’t happen to me because I run too hot, so I just, uh. I noticed.”

“Oh,” says Jimmy.

Tango nods, pink at the ears. He turns quickly to the fire, stoking it with a few deliberate pokes of his fingers, then says a little too loud, “I’d love to make some mazes for your animals. The warden especially. Obstacle course type things, you know, for enrichment.”

They're just daydreaming. Jimmy knows that. But he wants it. It’s a little too revealing, how much he wants it. 

He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin on them. “Yeah? Like what?”

:

The good news is that they’re getting closer to the border, if Jimmy’s map is to be believed. The bad news is that they misjudge the distance to the next town and run out of food a full three days before they get there. Tango slaps together ingenius redstone traps to catch hares that tide them over, but that doesn’t stop them from ordering two full stews each when they finally come upon a tavern, nor does it stop them from hunkering down right outside the building and inhaling the stew in companionable, ravenous silence. 

Deep into the second bowl, Tango giggles, “Oh no, we’re pathetic.”

Jimmy thinks that yeah, they kind of are. He thinks, maybe, he doesn’t mind being pathetic with Tango.

:

Working for the king wasn’t so bad. It really wasn’t. 

On his good days Ren was generous, kind, goofy and forgiving. He cared about his subjects’ problems and pushed for the industrialization that improved quality of life throughout the kingdom. He treated Jimmy like a subject instead of an equal, but like a subject he was respectful of. Most of the time. Half the time.

The issue was that, the other half the time, he stopped being the good King Ren and started being the Red King. Vicious and uncompromising. A nose for weakness and for bloodshed. Jimmy suspects it’s a curse, though it’s clear he’s not eager to break it. He makes lots of enemies, the Red King does. Jimmy knows that better than anyone. Once he died impaled on a traitorous guard’s spear. When he came to, curled around a wound that wasn’t there, Martyn was beheading the would-be assassin three feet away, the spear was cracked in half at the foot of the throne, and the Red King was howling with laughter. 

Never look him in the eye, when he’s like that. Never expect an apology. Never expect to be free.

But reiterate how generous he was. Happy to pay for Jimmy’s services, and provide him with safety, food, comfort. On Jimmy’s first day he said, The crown appreciates your service, lad. You have been touched by divinity to prove our birthright by providence, and for this we shall be gracious. How might we show our appreciation? No price is too high for the king.

Jimmy is still surprised he managed to stop quaking long enough to request a stipend for his family. (Family sounded more sympathetic than roommates, he figured. He was glad Joel and Grian weren’t around to hear.) 

Martyn looked annoyed by the request, imposing at the king’s right side, and Jimmy tried to clarify, something modest, please, but Ren didn’t hesitate. The first payment was enough to set the three of them up for life, if they were scrupulous. The second payment ensured they could live comfortably without having to work another day ever again. The third payment was excess, and it never stopped. Grian and Joel were overjoyed. 

Tango is frowning. It’s a strange look on his narrow face. Jimmy has rarely seen him without a smile.

“I guess that’s generous,” he says, slowly.

“It was,” Jimmy insists. He fingers the leather pouch weighed down by his earnings. More than enough to get him where he’s going and then some. The Red King may be waiting to kill him for abandoning his post, but Jimmy can’t deny that the only reason he has any chance at all is because of his kindness.

“Right. Right.” Tango scrubs a hand through his hair—it sends sparks flying off the ends. Jimmy watches them swirl with the snow, and then he watches Tango’s mouth purse as he makes funny humming and scoffing sounds. Jimmy looks back at the sparks again with renewed focus.

“It’s just,” Tango blurts, “You didn’t really have a choice, right? I guess it was nice that he paid you, but you weren’t allowed to say no to the job offer, because it wasn’t really an offer. And obviously you weren’t allowed to leave.”

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably. “I guess. What’s your point?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think you should be defending him, is all. He forced you to hurt for him. He didn’t give you a choice. You shouldn’t have to be grateful.” 

His eyes are fierce. Striking, hot like live coals. The sharp angles of him look harsh in a way that Jimmy’s never seen before. He doesn’t know what to say. 

The indignance goes out of Tango’s shoulders. His tail curls. “Sorry. Not my place.”

Jimmy thinks of agreeing with him. Instead he says, “Don’t be. That’s nice of you to say. Thanks.”

Tango smiles, but it doesn’t have the spark it usually does. They walk for a few more hours. Tango’s silence is uncharacteristic, and it makes Jimmy antsy. He feels like he’s done something wrong. He doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Eventually they decide to take a break before the next leg. Not for long, if they want to sleep in beds tonight, but it’s good to get off their feet for a little while. Jimmy nibbles at some jerky and sips at his waterskin. The only downside to the break is how the winter reasserts itself. He very carefully does not wince at the cold water that needles down his throat.

“Here,” says Tango. 

He holds out his hand for the waterskin. Jimmy gives it to him, though he knows he has his own. Tango clasps it firmly between both hands, and after a moment, hands it back. Steam puffs cheerily from the top. The next sip Jimmy takes is hot enough to make him shiver. 

“Thank you,” he sighs. He takes another scalding gulp and shuts his eyes to focus on the warmth as it flushes through his chest and belly. “You’re amazing, Tango.”

Tango says, “You know, I worked in a coal mine.” 

It catches Jimmy off guard. “You did?”

“Yeah, for about a year. They hired me as an engineer, to make things safer and more efficient. Not an easy balance, but a fun challenge.” Tango licks his lips, then says, “I actually worked with canaries. Designed an apparatus that resuscitated them when they passed out.”

“You did?” Jimmy says again. Broken record, Joel would say. Jimmy can’t be bothered to care. His chest is winding tight.

“Yeah.” There’s something off about Tango’s face, his voice. He looks a little earnest. He looks sad. “The owners of the mines weren’t too interested, but the miners themselves, they took as many as I could make. We all loved the little guys. Didn’t want to see them get hurt.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says. “That’s really cool.”

It’s a silly thing to cry over, so he doesn’t. He does indulge in a moment of bravery and reach out to hold Tango’s hand in his. Tango just runs his thumb over Jimmy’s knuckles, over and over. He doesn’t let go, even when they make it to town and a room and a bed.  

When Jimmy wakes the next morning, Tango is still holding his hand.

:

“Tango!”

Tango jumps up with a start, sending the wood for their fire pit scattering. “What! What’s up? Are we running?”

“No no no—” Jimmy skids to a stop in front of him, wings flaring for balance. He’s grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “That caravan we just passed. There was an old woman in the last cart, did you see her?”

Tango, gathering the sticks back up again, gives him a quizzical look. “Yeah?”

“Right, well, she had a thorn in her foot, I could feel it, and I figured she wouldn’t recognize me because she could barely see. So we got to talking, and I took the thorn out—bunions the size of mountains, man, I’m telling you—and look! Look what she gave me!”

He sweeps his hands out from behind his back. The green glass bottles slosh and clink together. Tango’s jaw drops.

“Ohmygosh, is that—is that wine? Jimmy! That’s wine! You’re amazing!”

Jimmy laughs, triumphant. “I know! I’m amazing!”

They jump up and down for a while. 

“Okay okay okay, we should be smart about this,” Tango says. He stops jumping but keeps flapping his hands. “If we’re careful, I bet we could make these last the rest of the trip.”

Jimmy nods rapidly. He’s already removed the stopper on the first bottle. “Right. Just a couple sips a night, to warm us up.”

He takes a swig, then hands the bottle to Tango. “Right! Just a night cap. We’ll play it smart.”

:

“Can you?” Jimmy asks, deep into the second bottle of wine.

Tango has been giggling for the past hour, this funny consonant sound like an ignition clicking. The more they drank the bigger he built the fire pit, until the flames roared higher than they are tall, but Tango is happy, so Jimmy is happy. “Absolutely! Can I what?” 

“Tango, Tango. Can you tango?”

Tango’s face is flushed. The pink clashes with the red of his eyes and the amber of the fire. Jimmy thinks it’s lovely. “Can I what?”

“Don’t laugh, this is an important question!” Jimmy is giggling too now. “I’ve wanted to ask you since we met. Do you actually know how to tango?”

“Jimmy.” Tango lifts his chin, expression sloppily stern. “What kind of question is that? Of course I know how to tango.”

Tango does not, in fact, know how to tango. They dance anyway, spinning and dipping and swinging each other in circles. They make flagrant and frankly ugly use of their horns. Tango nearly throws Jimmy into the fire by accident and then fishes him out at the last second. In return, Jimmy tries to lead Tango in a waltz he barely learned at the castle. They laugh so hard they stomp on each other’s feet.

They dance and dance and dance until they spin out of the safety of the firelight and get attacked by a skeleton. Then they stumble back to the fire and dance some more.

:

THE KING’S CANARY AND HIS COAL MINE?

“Is this kind of racist?” Jimmy asks. “It feels kind of racist. They’re calling you a whole coal mine.”

Jimmy and Tango squint together at the newspaper that nearly got them caught. Tango’s involvement has finally been noticed. His attempt to get them lodging for the night was met with guards and a frantic escape into the forest, where they crouched beneath a rotted old log until their legs fell asleep and their pursuers moved on. Then Tango pulled out the flier he’d grabbed in his haste.

He pokes at a short paragraph detailing his life. Well. His work history, mostly. “I think maybe it’s a reference to the fact that I used to work in a coal mine. I’m surprised they knew that.”

“Still feels kinda racist,” Jimmy says, then sighs. “I’m sorry, Tango. I knew you’d get caught up in my nonsense eventually, and it’s finally happened.”

Tango snorts. “I think I’ve been caught up in your nonsense for a while now, partner. This is like recognition for all my hard work! It’s kinda cool being on a wanted poster, huh? None of the other guys have bounties on their heads, not even Bdubs. I can’t wait to see their faces.” He prods Jimmy with a pointy elbow. “Guess we really are partners in crime now, huh?” 

Jimmy knows he should feel guilty. But Tango is smirking at him, like they’re sharing a secret, and Jimmy banks the warmth of it in his chest like like something to be hoarded and adored. “Guess so.”

Tango’s name in the papers means they have to avoid towns and main roads. Meaning, in turn, that the safest option is to just keep to the forest.

This is fine in the daylight. Exciting, even! Jimmy always marvels at how Tango keeps their energy up. Cutting through the forest is more direct than the roads, anyway. It’s a bit of a struggle, but they’re making good time.

Then night falls, and suddenly it’s mobs mobs mobs, and Jimmy is shrieking and fighting with creepers and zombies and spiders while Tango is scrambling to find a clearing and build a fire big enough to ward them off. Somehow, they manage, after many scrapes and bruises, but winter is only ever deepening. The cold reaches into Jimmy’s bones. All of his joints ache, and even with the fire beside them and all of Tango’s extra bedding he shakes so hard he can’t sleep. He tries to keep his teeth chattering to a minimum.

“Jimmy,” Tango whispers from the next bedroll. Jimmy cracks his eyes open. From one side Tango is lit up in gold, but from the other the moon bleaches all his warm hues blue. “Jim?”

Jimmy does not let himself stutter. “Yeah, Tango?”

“You’re still shivering.”

“Um. Yeah. I guess I am. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Jimmy falters. “You already gave me all your blankets. I—I keep putting you out.”

“You’re not putting me out. Don’t think that.” 

His hand brushes Jimmy’s cheek. Jimmy sees it coming and still he jumps at the first brush of warm thin fingers.

“You’re freezing,” Tango says, brow screwing into a knot. He bites at his lips, his eyes wide and worried. Moonlight glints off the points of his teeth. “Okay, so—I run hot. Blaze hybrid and all. If you’re up for it, I think it would help a lot if—if I get in there with you? Insulation and body heat and stuff.”

Oh, Jimmy won’t freeze to death at all. His face is on fire. “You don’t have to, Tango.”

“I want to,” Tango blurts, a few sparks flaring off the ends of his hair. Then he subsides, fidgety and shy. “If you want to, I mean.”

“I want to,” Jimmy says. “That could—that might be nice. Thanks, Tango.”

Tango’s shoulders sag in relief. His smile is toothy and painfully awkward. “Okay. Cool. I’ll just, uh—wriggle on in then. Incoming.” 

Jimmy snorts. Tension, miraculously, dissipates. Tango does wriggle in, and when he’s done wriggling, he tucks the blankets under him to insulate the heat. The difference is instant, cocooning Jimmy in warmth so profound it practically tranquilizes him, eyelids suddenly heavier than bricks. He knows he should be embarrassed. Gratitude and affection drowns it out.

“Is that better?” Tango asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, good.”

His arm rests gingerly across Jimmy’s shoulders. Already half asleep, Jimmy nudges into the narrow cage of his body. His sternum is hard and Jimmy’s nose thaws against it. "Thanks, Tango." 

Tango’s arm relaxes. The world smells of spiced tea. "Always, Jimmy."

Jimmy sleeps better that night than all the many nights he’s spent on the road thus far. Better than any night in the castle. Better than he has in a long time.

:

They’re less than a day’s travel from the border when the snowstorm hits. While the sun is up Tango and Jimmy trudge and trudge and lob snowballs at each other, and when the sun is down they’re forced to cobble together some sort of shelter. Eventually Tango rigs up something droopy and wet that does nothing to keep out the cold but at least will keep them from being buried alive. 

“Oh my god, it’s awful,” Tango laughs.

“Shut up, it’s amazing,” Jimmy says, because it is.

They drink the very last of the wine and then hold each other close for the rest of the night. For the first time since Jimmy met him, Tango shivers. Jimmy holds him hard and tries his best to rub warmth into his back.

And then Jimmy gets caught.

:

It’s his own fault. Of course it is. It always is.

The snow has stopped by morning, but Tango is still shivering. His golden hair is just hair, no sparks or flames at all. His tail is barely a smoldering ember.

“I’m fine,” he assures Jimmy though cracked blue lips. “It’s just a cold, it’ll pass. Not so good in the rain and snow, is all. I’ll be right as rain in no time, don’t even w-worry about it.”

Jimmy does worry. The only food they have left is hardtack, and the only water is freezing cold. Tango’s so weak that he can't even heat it. “There’s a town near here. You rest, I’ll keep my head down and get you something warm to eat.”

“Don’t,” Tango says, but any sternness is undercut by his trembling. “I’m telling you, I’ll be fine. If we get going now we’ll make it to the border before sundown. I’m serious, Jimmy, don’t.”

“I won’t go,” Jimmy lies. “Rest anyway. One nap to regain your strength won’t kill us.”

It takes some convincing, but eventually Tango agrees, and drops off nearly as soon as Jimmy cards a hand through his hair. Then he tucks Tango in, builds the fire as high as is safe, and hikes through the snow to the nearest village.

When he gets there, the townsfolk are too busy digging themselves out to really spare him a second glance. Notably, he doesn’t see a single paper with his name on it, not even in the tavern. He keeps his head down anyway, he’s careful, and he doesn’t whoop with joy when the tavernkeeper says they serve blaze powder soup, no matter how badly he wants to. 

As soon as the town is at his back he sheds his cloak to wrap up the bowl and keep the heat in. A little sloshes over the side, but not much. In minutes his spine is aching and his muscles are seizing with cold, but it’s fine. Tango isn’t far. 

He doesn’t see the club coming at all. Suddenly his head is cracking open, and his teeth are rattling in his skull, and starbursts are blotting out his vision and he’s on the ground, in the snow. 

There are men. There are ropes. Jimmy blinks sluggishly and stares at the soup, splattered and steaming, and thinks, but that was meant for Tango; what will Tango have to warm him now? And he thinks, I’ll have to get free, so I can get more.

Darkness pulls him under.

:

“For the last time,” says the mercenary. “Where’s that coal mine attached to your hip?”

He’s one of five. Jimmy doesn’t know which one; they all look the same, even a week out, with the same rough beards and ugly laughter and bad humor. He might be able to discern them if he ever looked at their faces for more than a second at a time, but he refuses to do that, even when they yank on the rope slowly skinning his wrists and grab his chin and sneer inches from his face.

“For the last time,” Jimmy says back. “I wasn’t traveling with anyone.”

The man growls. Jimmy’s wanted poster is shoved in his face. It’s old, the ink smudged and barely legible.

“Bullshit. It says right here, coal mine. We want that reward, canary, and we’ll have it.”

“The paper’s wrong,” Jimmy snaps. “But kudos, you know, for being able to read. You don’t look the type.”

The back of his hand splits Jimmy’s mouth open. Blood speckles the snow in bright ruby droplets. The earth spins and Jimmy starts to list toward it until a meaty hand throttles his collar and brings him nose to nose. Jimmy looks sharply to the side.

“Watch yourself, canary. Mouth off like that again and I’ll skewer and roast you over this fire.”

It’s a bad fire, objectively. Tango’s are better by far. Jimmy shouldn’t say so, but he’s going to, because he’s angry. When he woke up and realized what had happened, he was angry. The next day he was angrier. And the day after that he was angrier still. He keeps expecting himself to cower, but his fury won’t let him. He’s angrier than he’s ever been in his life. He’s angry at the mercenaries, and at Ren and Martyn. He’s angry at Joel and Grian and his curse and the world and himself. He’s so sick of fear and sadness and hurt. The hurt won’t ever stop but he can get rid of the others. He can spit in this man’s face and damn the consequences. It’s not like he hasn’t died before.

Jimmy opens his mouth but all that comes out is a grunt of pain, echoed by the mercenary when another one comes and kicks him in the hip.

“No, you fuckin’ won’t. Reward’s only if we bring him in alive. You kill him, I kill you.”

Around the pitiful fire the other mercs guffaw in unison. The first man growls, gives Jimmy a shake like a dog with a rabbit, and then throws him aside. 

“Reward don’t say nothin’ about roughing you up,” the man says. His boot digs into Jimmy’s stomach. Jimmy glares down at the snow and dirt and blood and doesn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out.

They try to get Tango’s whereabouts out of him for a while longer, but eventually grow bored with his silence. After a short debate they toss Jimmy the bones of their dinner. Jimmy ignores it.

In the dead of night, when most of the mercenaries are sleeping except the one on watch, Jimmy thinks he can hear the musical call of a horn in the distance. He thinks he must be dreaming. 

:

At the end of the second week, the mercs get drunk. More drunk than any other night. At first Jimmy thinks this might be an opportunity for escape.

They drink more. They get reckless. Jimmy thinks, oh, this is bad. He’s right.

All they do at first is taunt him. Shove him around a little. A few more bottles in and they come up with a quick, admittedly creative game involving Jimmy’s curse. One mercenary grabs a rock and has the others stand around him in a loose circle. Jimmy is forced to stand in the center as well, and as the man with the rock turns slowly, threatening each of his friends one by one, the other merc watch Jimmy for his reaction. When Jimmy flinches at a strike to the shoulder or hip or face, the mercenaries try to dive out of the way of the hit they know is coming.

They do this for an hour. Jimmy is barely standing by the end of it. He doesn’t cry out once.

He doesn’t cry out, either, as they drag him to a tree and tie him to the trunk. Drunk fingers make poor knots. He could get out of this, he thinks. If he could just get his feet under him. If he could just make his hands work and his vision stop swimming.

The mercenaries are speaking to him. Words register on delay. 

“Can the canary sing for himself?” one mercenary slurs. “Let’s find out!”

“It won’t work,” Jimmy mutters. His curse has never worked on himself. They don’t hear him.

One pulls a crossbow, and takes too long fumbling a bolt in. The others egg him on. “If you kill our reward, I’ll take it out of your hide,” one of them says, but doesn’t stop him.

“Stop distracting me,” says the man with the crossbow. He takes wavering aim. “I’ll jus’ knick his arm.”

Jimmy stares down the stock. He thinks about all the time Joel and Grian have ever laughed at him. He thinks of all the times Joel and Grian have ever made him laugh. He thinks of Tango, and the fragrance of spiced tea. He wonders if dying for real will feel like every other time he’s died. 

A bolt slots neat and sharp between his ribs, and Jimmy thinks, yes, this hurts just as much as every other time.

The pain is blinding. He died to an assassin’s arrow once, choking on blood that both was and wasn’t flooding his lungs. It took ages. He hopes this is quicker. He can’t catch his breath. His head hangs and tears press from his eyes. For a second his vision clears.

There’s nothing there.

His head snaps up. The mercenary is still taking aim.

He shouts, “Tango, don’t—” 

An inferno consumes the camp, and Jimmy’s vision sears to colorless white. 

The mercenaries are screaming. A fire is roaring. Someone cuts Jimmy free, but he doesn’t see who. He can’t see anything. Pain comes in from everywhere, too much to separate. He’s burning and he’s bruising and he’s coming apart. All of it coalesces, all of it becomes the one lancing bolt that isn’t in his ribs. He can’t think of anything else. He can’t think at all. 

“Tango,” he chokes. “Tango—”

His vision starts to go. No. He can’t die, not to this. If he dies, then that means Tango—

If Jimmy could lift his head, he’d see the forest on fire, and the mercenaries burning alive. He’d see Tango’s heaving back, bright as a star, and he’d see him turning back to find him, a hand pressed to the wound in his side.

Jimmy does not see. Jimmy is dead.

:

First, Jimmy stops being dead. Then he’s sleeping. In some starry, dreamless place, he grieves. Then he wakes up. 

The first thing he notes is the ornate ceiling, a mural to Ren’s magnificence. Various takes on this same theme are painted in every room of the castle, so it's pretty obvious where he is. Either he was dead much longer than he's ever been or some other mode of transportation cut the travel time down to a fraction. Maybe both.

The next thing he notes is Grian and Joel standing over him. That explains that--Grian probably flew him here. They stood over him like this the first time he died, too. An old man had had a heart attack nearby, though they didn’t know it then. Jimmy was dead, and then he wasn’t, and then he was staring at Grian’s face, a thousand miles away, and Joel beside him, blubbering into his hands. When they realized he was alive they screamed. 

They don’t scream this time, and they aren't crying. They look like they might have been, though. Their eyes are rimmed with red.

“Look who’s awake,” Grian says. His wings are poorly groomed and his smirk doesn’t look half as shit-eating as it usually does. He nudges Joel in the side. “Go get him, Joel.”

Joel glares. “Why me? You go get him!”

They argue about it for a minute, though Jimmy is too muddled by death to follow. Who are they fighting about getting? Ren? Martyn?

He settles back into his pillows. It doesn’t matter, does it?

Grian wins, eventually, much to Joel’s chagrin. He turns his glare on Jimmy, as he usually does. Jimmy expects to be noogied or boxed around the ears. Instead Joel hooks an arm under his neck and butts their foreheads together. 

“If you ever scare me like that again,” he says, and sniffles hard, “I’ll bloomin’ kill you, you hear me?”

He huffs and grumbles his way out of the room. Jimmy watches him go. He turns his attention to Grian.

Grian waves a little. “Hi, Tim.”

“Hi, Grian,” Jimmy says, and he bursts into tears.

Grian holds him. “There there, you big baby,” he says, and pats his back gently. 

Tango is gone, Jimmy tries to say. He tries to say, I’m sorry you had to save me again, I’m glad to see you, Tango’s gone. Tango’s gone.

Instead he cries and snuffs and gets snot all over Grian’s red sweater. Somehow, Grian lets him. He pushes at Jimmy until he scoots over on the bed. There’s more than enough room for them both; the beds in the castle are bigger and softer than any he shared with Tango on the road. That thought sets him wailing again. Grian chirps at him, sits him up until Jimmy’s slumped in the center of the bed and Grian can sit comfortably behind him, picking through his wings while he hiccups and sobs and shakes.

The tears don’t stop, but eventually they quiet. Various saline fluids drip silently down his face while Grian preens him. 

Grian says, “Why didn’t you tell us you wanted to leave, Timmy?”

Jimmy’s breath shudders out of him. “You—you would have come with me.”

“Obviously.”

Jimmy can hear Grian’s eye-roll in his voice. He bites the inside of his cheek. “…You would have made me feel bad about it. I didn’t want to ruin your life.”

Grian’s practiced fingers twitch to a stop deep in his feathers. He huffs, withdraws his hands, then closes them firmly on Jimmy’s shoulders and turns him in place.

“You ruin my life every day, Timmy,” Grian says. He's frowning, but he meets Jimmy's eyes with determination. “But so does Joel. And I ruin yours and his too. We're all messing with each other, all the time. That’s how it’s meant to be, or we wouldn’t be—we wouldn’t be—”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. Grian’s face falls into relief.

“We went after you anyway, you understand?” he says, gentler than before. “It was a lot of work, but we’d do it again. And we’d only make fun of you a little. So next time, just take us with you, save us the trouble.”

“Okay.” Jimmy’s eyes swell up again. “Okay.” Then he says, “I met someone.”

“I know. We were tracking you both. We found him first, then he helped us find you.” Grian pulls his sleeves down over his hands to wipe carefully at Jimmy’s face. More tears take the place of the last.

Jimmy can barely get the words out. “He’s gone, Grian. I don’t, I can’t—he’s gone.”

Grian’s eyebrows fly into his hair. “What?”

The door opens. Joel staggers in, supporting a wild-eyed Tango. His hair is a mess, singed at the tips. His slim chest is a cocoon of white bandaging. He is very much not dead.

“Jimmy!” 

Tango breaks free despite Joel’s protest. He launches at Jimmy and immediately falls flat on his face. Jimmy feels it first.

Jimmy screams a little. Then he lurches out of Grian’s grasp and straight off the side of the bed. 

“You’re—you’re alive! Tango, you’re alive!”

“I’m alive? You’re alive!” Tango springs up. His nose is bleeding. His hands are warm on Jimmy’s arms, helping him up, then on his face. The calloused pads of his fingers, the chips of his claws, the warmth of him. Alive. “I can’t believe you went to town like that, I told you not to, ooohhh, I’m so mad I could kiss you—”

“You’re alive,” Jimmy is sobbing. “You’re alive.”

Tango’s mouth wobbles, then purses, then wobbles some more. That makes no sense. What reason does he have to cry?

He pulls Jimmy into his chest. Every awkward angle and sharp jut of bone digs into him, and Jimmy only holds closer, tighter. 

“I thought I lost you,” Tango says. His voice cracks. “I thought I’d never see you again. When I saw what those bastards did to you, I lost my mind. I could have burned the whole forest down. I could have killed them all.”

“You did kill them,” Grian says flatly. “Like, all of them. Barely left any for me and Joel. Rude.” 

"I hurt you," Tango says. His arms around Jimmy stop holding so tight, which won't do. "When I burned them, I hurt you. You died for me, again. I'm so sorry."

"I don't care about that. I come back to life, Tango, you don't. You—" He pushes Tango back by the shoulders, feels his heart break at the sight of the bandages. "Oh my god, you did get shot. I knew it. You can’t do that again, not ever.”

Tango makes a clucking, clicking noise. Through the panic, Jimmy thinks: I missed your silly noises. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do my best to not get shot again.”

He’s smiling. It’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. He's alive.

Tango taps their foreheads together. Jimmy’s eyes flutter shut. His nose is clogged, but he fights for a deep breath anyway. Just one breath of that spark and spice. Just one more. Just one more.

“Also I’m here,” Joel says loudly. “If anyone cares.”

Jimmy ignores him.

:

Jimmy is on the road again. The air is cold but not bitter. The snow is finally starting to thaw.

Grian and Joel filled him in on what happened to his bounty. Turns out as soon as they learned that he fled, they went to appeal to the king on his behalf. Predictably, the king ignored them. Joel and Grian are not to be ignored, as Jimmy knows better than anyone.

After weeks of dedicated campaigning and psychological warfare, in which they managed to turn the whole capital city against its monarch, the Red King gave way to King Ren. King Ren remembered that actually he liked that funny little canary guy, and didn’t think it was all that groovy to hold him against his will. The bounty was lifted, a retraction was printed, and Grian and Joel took off after Jimmy. Instead they found Tango fuming in the snow. The mercenaries were acting on a bounty that wasn't even live anymore.

Jimmy isn’t ready to believe any of it until Martyn, grudgingly, hands him a severance package in the form of several bags of gold, the reins to a genuinely massive horse, and an official pardon with the king’s signature and seal. Ren calls Jimmy dude in it.

“What are you going to call him?” Tango asks.

“Norman, I think,” Jimmy says. Tango nods approvingly.

“Norman. I like it!”

Tango is walking beside Jimmy with a pardon of his own, and even a small sack of gold as an apology for the bounty. No horse, though. He’s the main reason Jimmy hasn’t mounted and rode off into the horizon. Joel and Grian are closing out their own affairs, and then they’re planning on catching up to Jimmy and helping get him set up in the next biome. Ranching still doesn’t seem like the kind of life they’d enjoy, so he doubts they’ll stay. Jimmy will live on without them. He did in the castle, and the did on the road. They can survive apart. It's nice to know, still, that they'll come when he calls.

As for why they're trailing a day behind, Jimmy suspects the only real reason for that is because they’re giving him and Tango time to…he’s not sure what.

Jimmy says, “I guess you don’t have to escort me to the border, anymore.”

Tango kicks at some slush. “I guess not.”

“You could go back to your demolition crew. Or anywhere else you wanted.”

“Yup. Yup.”

The sun is rising. The sky is mostly pink. In the distance birds are singing.

“I was thinking—”

“If you wanted, you could—”

They look at each other. Jimmy laughs, and so does Tango, clear and loud.

“You first,” Tango says.

Jimmy summons his courage. He’s surprised at how easily he finds it.

“You could stay,” he says. Tango stops walking, and so does Jimmy.

“What?”

“You could stay at the ranch, I mean. You said you wanted to see the plains, so you’re still welcome to join. You could stay at the ranch. For a little while, or—or however long you’d like.”

Tango stares at him. Jimmy’s courage falters, but does not crumble. He starts rambling.

“You wouldn’t have to pay rent or anything. Just help me around the ranch sometimes, with the cows. And the warden. And when you want to go explore, you could, and the ranch could be like—like a homebase or something. I’d never expect you to get hurt for me. And you’d—you’d never expect me to get hurt for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tango says. “Never.”

“I know.” Jimmy’s throat is tight. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Tango takes a few deep breaths. He looks a little starstruck, which Jimmy wasn’t expecting, and is very sweet. With each one breath the flames in his hair and tail swell and ebb, swell and ebb, until they calm down with one firm exhale. Jimmy waits patiently.

Tango meets his eyes and clears his throat. “Yeah, yes, I’d like that. I’d really really like that. I was going to say the same thing, but you said it better. You’re really incredible, you know that?”

Jimmy kisses him. Quick, the corner of his mouth.

Tango looks starstruck again. “Wow.”

Jimmy spins to face his new horse and mess with the bridle. It nickers knowingly. “Ahem. Um. Are we both going to be able to fit, do you think?”

There’s a sound that might be Tango slapping his cheeks. “Only one way to find out!”

They do both fit, though it takes about ten minutes of flailing and sliding off the side and Norman probably laughing at them in horse. The whole thing is objectively humiliating. Jimmy doesn’t care a whit.

It’s full morning by the time they’re ready to start moving again. Tango’s arms come around Jimmy’s waist. His smile is sharp and crooked at his shoulder. “Ready, rancher?”

A thrill goes up Jimmy’s spine. “Born ready!” 

He gives Norman a little kick. They rocket into a gallop, and in under five minutes Jimmy is somehow the one tumbling off the side of the saddle.

Tango howls with laughter. He pulls Norman into a canter, then a trot, then a walk. It’s clear which of them have actually ridden before. “Oh man, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

Jimmy groans from the ground. “Maybe you should drive the horse.”

That sets Tango off again. “Sure, sure. I’ll drive the horse. Here, let me help you up.”

He leans down, offers his hand. Jimmy takes it.

“My hero,” he laughs. “My rancher.”

:

[saelterlude]

I want to be honest, I grew up in a car-centric city. Everyone goes everywhere either by car or motorcycle, the typical traffic-infested SEA city. A car is a need, it's important because of its function, you go for a drive because you need to move from point A to point B and that's it. Which is why I learned and got my driver license mere days after I turned 17 in 2019. No motorcycle license though because my parents won't let me, even though I've borrowed my friends bike and knows how to.

So its been 5, almost 6, years since I got my license, and to be honest I've barely ever used it. In fact, other than a couple of drives on the month I got my license, I haven't driven in 5 years.

When could I? The pandemic hits soon after and with a comorbid parent and old grandmother in the house, I wouldn't dare risk going out. When it was over, the one family car we had is used by my parents for their work commute and the city has since evolved so that public transport (while sometimes tedious) are reliable enough most of the times.

So hopefully it's understandable why I'm relunctant to drive, even with my 5 year old license, I have a total of probably less than 10 hours of driving experience. Funny thing, I had the easiest time renewing my license because technically yeah, I had zero incidents.

This lack of experience though, slowly but surely grows to a fear of driving.

Then in September of 2024 The Grand Tour releases One for The Road, marking the end of Clarkson, Hammond and May. It didn't mean anything for me then because frankly I've never watched The Grand Tour, or Top Gear. I was vaguely aware of Top Gear, my dad watched it a couple times, and I'm familiar with Hammond due to Science of Stupid and Brainiac, but that's about it.

Funny thing about how the internet works now though, is that when something trends, it can get to just about anywhere. Hence when TGT ends with CHM along with it, clips of them from both TGT and TG keeps popping up in my youtube shorts.

And I got curious.

So curious in fact, that I've started watching those shorts, then compilation videos, before finally moving on to full episodes of TG and TGT.

Not everything, I haven't got the time for every single episode and I'm conciously avoiding One for The Road bcs I just found them and I refuse to say farewell now, but still, I've watched a lot of their episodes, more then what you would expect. A minimum of 3 episodes and an average of maybe 5 from every series of both shows, yes including series 1 with Jason Dawe.

And that helps me a lot, somehow?

I can't say I've never been interested in cars. I like engineering so I know how internal combustion engines works from years ago and I can name a couple cool looking cars from well-known hollywood movies. But cars for me has always been an object of function, pretty sport cars are unachievable things that only the rich has and are utterly pointless in this traffic trodden city.

So really, TG and TGT shouldn't have interest me.

But it did.

Because for once in my life driving looks fun and enjoyable. These 3 men, wheter they're in shitty old sportcars, brand new grand tourers, your everyday hatchback, or even their own made cars. Doesn't matter if they enjoy the cars they are driving or not, they always enjoy the driving.

And that enjoyment is infectious.

I can't say I've gotten over my fear of driving yet, there is still that underlying anxiety that I'm going to mess up and crash. But thanks to Clarkson, Hammond, and May, I've at least scrounged up the courage to start again. In fact within the last month I've driven a couple of times already and just last week I've driven on my own for the first time ever.

It was anxiety inducing and I botched the parking a little and it's great! The enjoyment and the fun that CHM shared is there, I felt it and I love it.

So I guess, this is a thank you to a trio that has lasted for as long as I've lived, a goodbye to something that has passed months ago, a letter to a show that no longer runs.

I'm driving.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

NSFW Gale x Gwen (Single Mom!Tav) Thoughts

A/N: I may be ace, but it's time for me to be horny on main. I've got it down bad for this autistic rizzard and need to share my thoughts. I'm writing this with Gwen in mind (masterlist here), but this mostly an excuse to share my headcanons about Gale.

Let's start with the obvious; Gale Dekarios has a praise kink

This is well trodden down at this point, but sometimes even the obvious must be stated

Gwen calling out his name, saying how perfect he is and how good he makes her feel will have him crumbling in minutes

This does lead me to my next point: Gale has a very hard time even thinking about hurting his partners, even in the pursuit of pleasure

 Not that Gale is shy or can't be more dominant in bed, but when he's in that position he’s not quite comfortable with doing anything he think might hurt Gwen, even if she insists it’s fine

Gwen has no such reservations

While they switch back and forth Gwen is more comfortable sliding into a more dominate role when asked for

She's honestly just has had more experience with physical sex and has a more casual attitude towards it than Gale

(insert demisexual Gale headcanon here)

Just imagine for a moment Gale come back home after a hard day

 Nothing seems to be going right. The students weren’t paying attention to his lecture and did poorly on their quizzes which means he’s failing them by not teaches them the material they way he should. Maybe he got into a spat with the other professors. Either way he’s frustrated and maybe takes it out on Gwen a bit. She then turns to him and in that tone says, “Stop.”

Gale finds himself pausing mid rant, realizing very quickly what he said. Gwen then tells him to close the door and lock it. Gale does and starts to apologize but Gwen gestures for him to stop and to kneel. Gale does and Gwen tells him very calmly she doesn’t want a verbal apology. In fact she doesn’t want him to say anything unless she tells him to. She doesn’t want him to think of anything beyond her next order.

As she says this she is running her fingers through his hair allowing his body to relax and slip into that mind set. Let go of the troubles of the day and focus on the task laid out in front of him by the woman he worships. A sharp tug at his scalp turns his gaze upward. She asks him if that is something he wants and what else can he do but plead for it.

Gale also has his own ways of getting Gwen to absolutely melt for him

She loves his voice; she always has and having him speak words of adoration and poetry in her ear as he makes love to her drives her wild

She holds back her own moans not wanting to interrupt him or miss a single word

Sometimes he teases her, telling her not to hold back; her sounds are sweeter than any of his words he could utter

Other times, he has mercy, letting her latch her mouth onto his skin as he continues to press words of love into her ear

Even after they've both come down and cuddled up together he still keeps talking

Luckily for Gwen, Gale also absolutely has an oral fixation so it's very easy to get him to stop rambling and start moaning

Methods including letting him suck her fingers as she rides him, letting him suck and kiss every inch of her skin he can reach, sitting on his face, or even just gagging him

Man needs to either be running his mouth or have it occupied with something else is what I'm saying

On the flip side sex not having to be as serious

Gwen laughing at one of his bad jokes and Gale laughing with her even as they move together feeling a type of intimacy he hasn't felt in ages

They try a different position, but suddenly remember they're both closer to 40 than either of them would like and giggling at how ridiculous they're being

Gale's bad knees absolutely coming up at inopportune times

Especially when he's been on his knees eating Gwen out until she's shaking around his ears

She then very coyly ask him to join her on the bed and his begrudgingly has to admit he can't really, at the moment

Luckily Gwen takes it in good humor and helps him back up happy to return the favor ;)

Gwen taking the time and energy to get it through Gale's thick skull that she adores him and his body just as much as he does hers

There is always the classic, tie him to the bed and kiss every inch of his skin and not letting him touch her so she can worship him properly

But then there is also using mirrors

Gale has a hard time looking at himself, but he loves watching Gwen

So tables reversed where Gwen forces to appreciate himself and his body as it responds to her; no gods or astral sea, just two mortal beings

While Gwen can enjoy the different kind of intimacy that comes from projecting themselves, that's only now and again

She much prefers the intimacy of feeling her husband's heart beat syncs with hers as they each come down from their climax, content to feel his weight on top of and inside her as they kiss and linger in the moment

More than once Gale teased her for being insatiable but the same can easily be said of him

They keep it in their pants enough not to scar their children for life, but it's easy to say the honeymoon phases isn't really a phase for them, more a life style

[circlejourney]

Playing the devil's advocate on AI and generative art

As someone who has long been making and enjoying generative art ("generative" as in all kinds of computer generation), and has written lessons about how to write programmes that do it, I'm always regretful that the current AI discourse leans so heavily on the argument that images made by a computer cannot be art because they lack the human touch, or whatever.

Because generative art is a mature field and this is a well-trodden discourse! People have been written and argued about it for decades, whether computer-generated imagery can be considered art, and whether beauty is in the form or in the perception, and so on.

Here's some generative art I've made - not a single pixel was placed directly by my hand, and it was all programmed with Processing / turtle libraries:

You might be tempted to point out that you can see my creative voice in the output. And you're right - I iteratively adjusted the code to make it produce an effect I liked. The results are, effectively, curated.

The only problem is...the above also describes the output of any generative AI. The AI user is choosing their prompts based on taste, refining their prompts if they don't like what they get, picking the best images for display. So now I have to ask, where does the difference lie? Is it in the time I spent programming the tools? What if I snagged the code from someone else and modified it to produce something I liked better? Is it that in your view, there's a clean divide between Tool and Input and because I made the Tool, that makes it art? Are fiber arts a kind of art, then, when the maker didn't invent the patterns but may have modified them for their purposes?

I think being an art critic or appreciator (two sides of the same coin) means revelling in non-answers. People aren't going to agree on whether this is art, whether it's beautiful, etc. and in my opinion that's fine, because beauty is a phenomenon. It emerges from the viewer's engagement with the piece. You can think something is not beautiful, and really it should not dictate what others think is beautiful.

So please...I know the genie's out of the bottle and there's no take backs on cultural moments...but I wish people would argue it on the basis of worker's rights, on the use of human work without consent...not on whether we can categorically call everything made by a computer ugly.

[ammoknightsofficial]

Just played through MiSide. God damn!! That was really fun!! I think the execution of its well-trodden base concepts were really cool and original, and I was a big fan of how referential it was.

Sure, the referential nature of it might not be for everyone, but I'm all for it. I liked how it played on some common anime design tropes + characterization, and the references were just fun. The PT section was awesome!

Warnings I'll give are that since the game is on Ver.0.9., it's not completely done yet. There's still a few kinks to iron out, like typos, and some slightly janky English. Also, this is a game where you kinda just have to gun the sections to completion. This is definitely not a new concept at all, but a lot of gamers are used to having an on-demand save button, or an autosave that activates every 5 or so minutes. You don't get that here! It does not hurt the experience at all for me, but it's something that some might need to be warned of.

The devs are also planning on releasing a major update soon that includes something called "Peaceful Mode", which seems to be planned to be just as expansive as the main campaign? Who knows! Considering how good of an experience the main campaign was, I have faith this side mode's gonna be cool, too.

This game is so neat. If you haven't gotten it yet, go get it now!!

Its base price is a mere $15 USD, though currently it's on sale for $13.50!! It's a cool experience that's a few hours long.

Some Screenshots + More Specific Commentary Below - Beware of Spoilers!

The "Fucked Up House(s)" elements of this game were a pleasant surprise!

This section with the computers displaying prayers from players that show up in real time was a super cool find.

As an avid Visual Novel fan, the surprise VisNov segment was REALLY cool. And super well done, too!! Absolutely LOVE the style of the CGs. And the part where Crazy Mita infiltrates the Visual Novel still in her own art style, and just... Completely dominates the UI - OOUGH!! IT'S SO COOL.

IT'S SO COOL!! This game's really helping embolden me when it comes to the artistic direction of my own webcomic - if you can do it in a video game, there's no question I'll be able to keep doing it for my own project!!

I have yet to cope with how well done the hands, limbs, and clothes are done in the VisNov CG style. I need to find something that looks similar. And the way the text distorts around the broken text box!! Really cool!

And, of course, a few stray shots I thought were super cool. I didn't manage to get a screencap of every shot I really enjoyed, mainly because I was grabbing these to send to my group chat, and some of them were so neat to me that I didn't want to chance spoiling it... But I do have these!!

The ending of the game was interesting. I wouldn't call it "Anti-Climactic", more just... "Inevitable". To me, it felt appropriate for the kind of game + story this is. There's a thick layer of what I'll call "Creepypasta Vibes" slathered onto this game. Really charming to me, personally!

[inscrutable-shadow]

Whumptober 2024 Day 1 - l'esprit de corps

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

Mariano and Luis (who is. not here. lol) belong to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump. Finally made a banner for the shared military AU! Thanatos is.... well adjusted, surely.

contains: post-traumatic stress disorder, flashback, water phobia, grounding techniques

also available on ao3!

One of the most important parts of therapy, in Thanatos's opinion, was remaining in tune with one's own emotional state. Allowing oneself to be buffeted about by the client's emotions and your own issues led to dysregulation, which was a slippery slope to all kinds of emotional fallout. He made a habit of regular check-ins with himself during a session to ensure he didn't have anything going on that would impair his judgement, which is why when he noticed his attention had drifted away from the words his client was saying, it immediately sent up red flags.

Than's pen had stopped moving over the paper several minutes ago, and he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus. With some clients, it was a battle not to fall asleep in his chair, so mundane were their problems or so well-trodden the topic, but not with this one. He'd never in his life been bored during a session with Mariano. Ortiz was one of his favorite puzzles, Thanatos was always laser focused during their sessions, taking reams of notes and running through what literature he's been through lately on post-traumatic stress, searching for a path forward. He'd been doing the same today, his handwriting at the top of the page was immaculate, flowing cursive, as usual, but as he'd proceeded further down "I had deteriorated into a barely-legible scrawl. His hands were… shaking. That wasn't good. What were they even talking about? He couldn't… he couldn't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears.

Oh. Yes. Panic attack. He got them on occasion, sometimes without an identifiable trigger. In this case, Mariano had been discussing his early days in the war mage program. Thanatos had thought he'd be fine hearing about it, he'd never have taken on the mage as a client if he hadn't. Must just be an off day, something else getting to him, making him vulnerable. He was fairly confident the dripping water he was hearing was not a leaky pipe, nor was his sweater vest actually kevlar. It was getting worse.

He needed… needed to get himself under control. Needed a break, needed to stop. Move, Thanatos. " H-Hey, Mariano. This is all— It's all great stuff, yeah? We're… we're making e-excellent progress." Inhale. Exhale. Steady yourself. "I really would like to pick up right where we left off next time, but I think— ahem! I think I need to wrap up for to day, if that's all right. I… I'm suddenly not feeling very well." As cliché as it was, Thanatos had always gotten good results from concentrating on his breath. Deep inhale after deep exhale, counting his heartbeats as they slowed. He was okay, really. He just needed a minute.

"Oh, that's okay… Are you alright? Do you want me to get you some water?" Mariano was already on his feet and moving to the cooler.

Water was the last thing he needed. Gods, he could feel it on his face. "No! I'm… fine, Mariano. I just need some time to myself, really. We can re-reschedule… for tomorrow, or some other day, or you can come in early next week! Whatever works best for your schedule." In Hermes' name just leave…

Fuck. He was dripping wet, and so cold. Shivering, leaning heavily on the desk from where he'd stood to show Mariano out. You're losing control. Get a grip, Booker. Inhale. Exhale. If it's obvious you're cracking under the strain, the abuse only gets worse. They're looking for your limit. Don't let them find it. He just needed to wait for this to pass somewhere he could be alone. Just needed it to pass. It would, he knew it would. Inhale. Exhale.

A hand on his shoulder nearly made him break. "I… don't think I can do it this time, Luis. I think it's too much…" The words came out slowly, mechanically. It was always too much. And he always kept going. Luis would tell him he could do one more, one more bucket, one more dunk, one more minute, and Thanatos would shake and shudder and cry but he would. He always would. Had to. The alternative was unthinkable.

"Oh. That's okay. You… you don't have to do anything."

That was… a surprise. Letting him off early? "I'm… almost done?" He didn't want to be dismissed from training, he could do it, he could be better—

"I think it's okay to stop for today. Come on, here, take a seat. You don't have to do anything anymore."

It didn't make sense, but Thanatos wouldn't ignore a direct order. He could deal with the consequences if it turned out to be a trap, weasel his way out of it then. He'd always been a smooth talker. He accepted being led to his chair and put his head on his knees, forcing his breath through his nose. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It was working, he was calming down. The edges of the world didn't feel as fuzzy. "No, it's… I'm okay. I'm sorry. I can do it, I just need a second," he tried again.

Luis held Thanatos's hands between his. "You're okay. No need to go again. No more water, Thanatos."

Really? He was done? No more? Relief crashed through him like a wave, and when he lifted his head, his vision no longer crackled with static. He… recognized those scarred hands though. A war mage's, but not Luis's. "M-Mariano?" Why was Mariano here? Had he been… He'd been in a session, hadn't he?

He looked up into the young mage's face, at the relief reflected there, and felt his own drain away into a pool of dread. He'd just had a panic attack in front of a client. He'd have to weave words very delicately to salvage this. Either that, or show vulnerability. He wasn't sure which idea scared him more.

taglist: @athens-writes, @albatris, @thethistlegirlwrites