#if you look carefully you can see the goblin guts

[saltyowlets]

What's better than one Bhaalspawn? ITS TWO!

Featuring my durge, Olive and amazing @henriethsmile 's durge, Zorn!

[vellichorom]

Hello Discord User Vellichorom AKA Twinkie AKA Velli AKA individual who’s character I love so much who has consumed my literal every day for the last year plus that I have not stopped thinking about (literally, over three hundred and sixty five days have gone buy and every single one of them I’ve had this man in my head, Vellichorom, do you know what you’ve done Vellichorom, you did this to me.) 

NOW I MAY BE UNHINGED ABOUT THIS MAN but how about I take a step back for a moment to just, talk about it? To discuss the absolute mastery I feel has been carefully and lovingly crafted into him? 

I’m really picky about the characters I like. Yeah I am fond of characters, I’ll like them and talk about them and whatever, but NOT ONCE has a character CONSUMED MY LITERAL BRAIN CELLS like Thierry has. Of course he has an amazing base to go off of, he IS THE NARRATOR, and I will admit that I absolutely ADORE TSP and all of the lore that has been crafted into him... but that alone was not enough for me to be purely interested in him for a long period of time (cough: see me not doing much tsp stuff aside from Thierry cough) 

The way that you have woven in every aspect of TSP and its canon into him, and then MADE IT EVEN BETTER AND MENTAL-ILLNESS-INDUCING has got me gripping the edge of my seat like a feral goblin every time you post literally ANYTHING about him ever. You blended TSP/TSPCC/adjacent lore together in a way that makes Thierry his own thing and also the perfect embodiment of the Narrator.

I have hyper fixations that wane and grow over time, things that I have enjoyed for long stints, but NEVER, EVER, Has there been ONE CHARACTER that has captured my attention so wholly. 

Looking at just him as a character, I adore the way you actually embrace and show off his flaws in a way that feels so human and also just like the weird fucking creature that The Narrator obviously is. You paid SO MUCH attention to detail and THAT SHOWS! IT DOES!! The Narrator is EGOTISTICAL, he is AN ASSHOLE, HE IS NOT PERFECT! EVER!I won’t shit on other people for wanting that for their own interpretations, but by god if you aren’t one of the like, two other people I’ve seen PERFECTLY capture that in his actions and behavior. You interpret the scenes in TSP/UD with such a nuanced and in depth eye with Thierry that I actually ENVY YOU FOR IT because I WANT TO DO THAT TOO. The expression of his ego balanced with his simultaneous self-loathing is just a perfect coat of icing on the proverbial cake. You miraculously made this man exactly as loveable and hateable as the straight up copy-pasted canon. I want him to suffer, and I love him so much, and I feel awful for him, and I think he’s an asshole. 

His relationship with Rosemary? Do I even HAVE to say anything? No, I don’t, but IM GOING TO. 

I seriously have never understood how you and Tomie so amazingly captured that Stanley/Narrator relationship through Gore/Guts in such an AWE INSPIRING, BEAUTIFUL, AND HORRIFIC way. Like, I genuinely do not know how to put into words the way that I absolutely ADORE this interpretation of it. The never ending spiral of desperation, need and reliance that the Narrator has on Stanley (and vice versa) is FLAWLESSLY executed and showcased with Rosemary/Thierry. I know I don’t really talk about Gogu as much as I talk about Thierry, but I have said it before and I will say it again, they are AMAZING, THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL, AND I CANNOT THINK OF ANY LITERALLY ANY NARRATOR X  RELATIONSHIP THAT PERFECTLY EXEMPLIFIES THE WAY THAT THE NARRATOR WOULD BE WITH SOMEONE, AND THE HORRORS THAT COME WITH IT. EVER. 

And the most amazing part is that you, YOU, a fucking EXCELLENT, BEAUTIFUL, TALENTED ARTIST, have made THE design ever. THE. DESIGN. EVER. No exceptions. OBVIOUSLY the enjoyment of a design of a character of such a nature is mostly up to personal taste, but for one second can we stand back and think about who the fuck we’re talking about? 

We can go based off of a few things:

His VA, Kevan Brighting: Mr. Brighting is a fat, old man. He has JOWLS, he has WRINKLES, he has WEIGHT not only to himself, but his voice. OBVIOUSLY not all VAs match their characters, but when you consider someone’s voice and the voice you assign TO a character, you usually want it to mimic that, and The voice that Mr. Brighting does for the Narrator is literally just that. And old, crotchety, fat british man. 

Specifically based on his Voice: Again, to piggy back off of what I was just saying, a character is meant to match the voice, you can hear the way he slightly slurs/mushes his words together, (which, by the way, if people didn’t know, slight lisps can be caused by more weight/fat being in the face! :D) You can hear him creaking around in his chair!

Based on context clues/general ideas of what the character is doing/does: The Narrator, as described in the game, is old (context clues people, context clues), codes/can create things using code, is not human (‘various human sensibilities’ gives that RIGHT away) and sits in a chair coding/reading shit most of the time. If anyone looks me in the eyes and tells me that a person who does that would not at least be heavy set, I will wack them with a stick. 

ALL OF THAT BEING SAID: this means that YOU MADE HIM! Look at him! Look at that man! It’s FUCKING HIM, ITS THE NARRATOR REAL! HE’S REALLL!!! I don’t give a flying fuck what my bias says, if I think of the Narrator I am going to think of someone that looks either like Kevan Brighting, or Thierry Ellis-Baker. There is no other thing for me. I can kinda smush other designs into it, and see it that way via The Square Hole /ref - but it will ALWAYS AND FOREVER be that. He’s an omnipresent voice that doesn’t show himself, when he’s not, he is NOT WEARING A SUIT. But he is FASHIONABLE, WHO is looking at him, seeing the fact that he wears a fucking fancy, flowing, stylish cardigan WITH A GOLD CHAIN, and saying NO He LOokS lIke A sLOb??? Because you are literally wrong, I would AND HAVE worn things that are LESS FANCY than that in professional settings. He’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, dress pants, and some comfy BUT PRESENTABLE shoes. If someone thinks he looks slobby they’re delusional. Like what do they think? That that old man should be wearing a suit for whatever fucking reason??? In his Office??? In his chair while sitting on his fat ass? (NOT TO SAY THAT HE CAN’T, AND I KNOW THIERRY HAS, AND CAN, AND WOULD IF HE NEEDED TO, BUT WHO ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH, ESPECIALLY WHEN CODING AND SHIT, WANTS TO WEAR A SUIT 24/7)  Also, tacking this on here at the end, you have helped SO much with my comfort with acknowledging my own body weight, accepting it, and liking myself more than literally anyone could ever have, and Thierry is a HUGE part of that for SO many reasons.

I love everything about him, Vellichorom, and it is of my humble opinion that everyone who does not and looks at him like he is anything less than what The Narrator is at his most basic, are dirty little liars who are jealous

TL;DR: Anyone who is disrespectful and disregards the expert care, craft, and love that has gone into Thierry lore and design wise can go and suck the fattest, dirtiest rock they find outside in a river, and report back to me in fourteen business days with their illnesses so I can laugh at them :)

Thank you for coming to my two+ page essay/TED Talk Uh... oh yeah this is an ask box... uh... what's your favorite fun fact about Thierry/Romary? :)

ujm jm, umm um that they love you

[greenhousethree]

Fear ☔️

April Prompt 26 for @hinnymicrofic. (367 words)

“You have to let me see it.”

Hemione’s glare is severe. Accusing. Cuts back and forth between their faces and the paper packaging she’s fished from the bin, soggy with bacon grease and coffee grounds. So incredulous and hurt that, for a moment, Harry believes her.

Ron’s the first to crack. 

“I don’t think you’re helping, 'Mione.” Fighting a smirk, now. “He’s already scared shitless.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t wait for me. I’m never letting you two off on your own again.”

Harry sighs, eyes squeezing shut. He’s slightly sick, like something slippery and writhing is living in his gut. It won’t go away until this is finally out of his hands, and maybe not even then.

“You have to swear not to–”

“Of course I won’t tell.”

It’s in the pocket of his cloak. Hanging by a hook in the flat’s little foyer, still dripping from the rain. Bound for the best security vault the Auror office has, or, if he can swing it, the Department of Mysteries. His hand clenches around it on his walk back to the kitchen, knuckles white.

Hermione hasn’t moved an inch, still frowning. He pities her legislative opponents. The wriggling thing finds its way to his throat.

Watching carefully now for her tell. His language with Ron is easy: jerks of the head, dramatically rolled eyes, elbows into ribs. With Hermione, it’s always been something else. A twitch of his lip, tightness in her temples, a penetrating look. 

The space between her brows softens when Harry places it on the countertop, handling it like a bomb. A tiny smile he knew lived behind her rage emerges as he opens it up.

It’s simple. Delicate and sparkling, with little rubies and nothing filigree or goblin-made, because he can picture the sardonic look he’d get while down on his knee or something.

He swallows back a mouth full of cotton. “She’ll like it, right?”

Hermione meets his eyes with the same look of unbridled, beaming pride he’s known for years that, for the moment at least, quiets his fear.

“It’s perfect.”

Behind her, Ron shrugs and raises a brow to remind Harry that he’d been the one to say it first.

✨

[blackjackkent]

Rakha finds the first of her targets in the front atrium of the former temple.

For a little while, she and her companions watch the goblin go about her business, which seems to entail branding each member of the goblin company with the "mark of the Absolute." She promises them eventual ascension to her station as a True Soul. Her acolytes surround her with eager enthusiasm, hanging on her every word.

The whole place is dirty and dim; it stinks of rot and of burned flesh - a smell that makes the beast in Rakha's head squirm hungrily.

"Now, here's somebody special!" the priestess crows as Rakha approaches. "The Absolute has touched you, hasn't she?"

She gestures dramatically with the branding iron in one hand. "Priestess Gut needs to touch you, too. Hold out your arm so I can mark your flesh."

"A priestess," Wyll mumbles under his breath. "One of the leaders, no doubt about it. Let's make her squeal."

"What's that?" Gut demands sharply. "Tell your friend to keep quiet, or he'll lose his good eye."

Rakha's jaw works - anger at the goblin's disrespect mixes in with the everpresent hunger for death. Tempting to follow Wyll's advice and simply slice the priestess's throat right here. But she wants information first... she wants to know everything about this cult, because they are the ones that put the worm in her head and put her on that ship. Answers first, then blood.

"Ignore him," she says curtly. "Tell me about the mark, priestess." She leans just a little on the title, sardonically.

Gut snickers. "Ready for the fire, are you?"

Rakha raises and lowers one shoulder noncommittally. "I assume this mark has a purpose."

"Shows our devotion to the Absolute!" Gut says stoutly. "These maggots see how strong we are with Her guidance. Whole camp'll be branded soon - an' you should be too." She gives Rakha a nasty smile. "You ready? Brace yourself - this'll sting."

Rakha considers for a moment. There is a practical aspect here that she can see; the presence of the worm already got her passage in here, and carrying a brand of the cult would reinforce the illusion. Not that she cares if it comes to violence in the end, but full vengeance for what has been done to her will no doubt require entering many such places.

And the brand... the stink in the air... that calls to her darker nature too.

"I *have* always wanted to smell my own burning flesh," she hears herself say coolly.

("Ew," she hears Shadowheart mutter behind her.)

In spite of the fact that the branding iron is almost as tall as she is, Gut is quick and deft with it. The heated metal presses into Rakha's palm with an exhilarating sizzle of heat and agony, and the smell of cooked meat grows in intensity.

Narrator: As the pain muddles your thoughts, your minds become entangled. A familiar sensation. She too carries a parasite.

Narrator: Darkness seems to swallow the temple, leaving you with a vision of the goblin priestess receiving instruction from a handsome young man - one of the Chosen.

Narrator: The vision dissolves away. You stand before the goblin priestess in the temple once again.

Rakha's brain twists in her head. The pain and the smell are waking the beast but she needs to know-- she needs to know about the Chosen. The man in the vision. Those people are the center of all of this.

Push deeper into her mind.

Narrator: Her faith floods into you - a tide of shuddering ecstasy. Her tadpole nestles within that mania, secure... hidden.

The priestess flinches, then smirks. "I feel you in there, digging around," she says sharply. "Works both ways... and I saw some weird shadows swimming around in your head just now." She squints appraisingly up at Rakha. "Maybe I can help with that. Us True Souls got to look out for one another."

Rakha blinks curiously. This could mean any number of things - but she wonders. Is it possible Gut knows something about the deepest shadow in her? The dark urge?

"Do you think you can fix whatever's causing these shadows?" she asks carefully.

Gut smiles widely. "With the Absolute's will, I can fix anything!" she crows. "Let's deal with this in my chapel. It's private. Don't want this lot interfering with True Soul business."

Ah. Rakha's lips twitch in a sardonic smile. There is nothing in her that will be fixed with the Absolute's will. Gut has nothing for her after all. But... it's private. Good.

Good...

----

"Rakha," Lae'zel hisses under her breath. "Do not tell me you intend to trust this creature. Rakha-- ah, tsk'va," she snaps, for Rakha is already stalking away after the priestess, up the side stairs. "Come on then," she growls to the others. "With her, lest we lose before we begin."

But she needn't have worried. Rakha and Gut disappear into a side room of the temple, and just as Lae'zel's hand reaches the door handle she hears a muffled BOOM from inside.

"What the--" Wyll mutters; knocking Lae'zel aside, he slams the door open.

Rakha stands inside over the mutilated, burned corpse of Priestess Gut. Her eyes are wild and lingering sparks drift off of her fingers.

"Smokepowder," she says hoarsely. "The matter is settled. She had no further information."

Lae'zel seems to relax slightly. "Ah. Good," she says curtly, shutting the door behind them before any passing underling notices the commotion. "Search her body and we may continue."

"You should have waited for us," Wyll says reprovingly. "We'd have helped you."

Shadowheart just laughs softly, shaking her head. "I was right on the very first day. You are crazy. But I guess it hasn't failed us yet."

[mirkwoodmunson]

Hi. I’m struggling a lot and I was wondering if you could write a Eddie comfort fic?

Im sorry if that’s too deep. My dad died a year ago and the holidays are really hard. Anyway. I’m sorry this is awkward lol i really like your writing.

hello! first off i am truly deeply sorry for your loss, i hope you are doing well and finding your way through the grief. second of all, thank you so much for this request and for your kind words, and for trusting my ability to at least attempt to do this request justice — i really hope i do. third of all, i'm so sorry you've had to wait and thank you for being patient with me, i wanted to make sure i was in a good headspace to tackle this but also wanted to make sure i got to it before the next holiday. i hope, again, that i do your request justice and that you find comfort in this fic. this is for you, sweet anon!

post divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

you turn your head at the squeeze of your shoulder, meeting a soft gaze that regards you carefully yet sweetly, big doe eyes that manage to catch your attention and pull it away from your cloudy thoughts. a smile just for you, and you do your best to return it, but eddie’s expression twists a little more into sympathy when it falters on you almost immediately.

“hey. you with me? we can go, if you wanna-“

“i’m alright,” you assure him quickly, resting a hand over his and returning the comforting squeeze. “promise.”

you turn your head away, looking back towards the commotion. steve had put together quite the party, everyone in attendance; you watch him and robin bicker over something likely not that deep, yet both are firmly planted in their views, exchanging exasperated expressions and words that are tinged with humor and desperation. robin sees you watching, waves, and when you only manage a quirk of the corner of your mouth she falters slightly, glancing at eddie and then smiling at you again before turning back to steve.

eddie, who’d kept his eyes on you, meets eye with robin and you feel another squeeze before he leaves your side to approach them. they talk quietly, trying to make it not obvious they were talking about you, but steve’s worried glance your way spills the beans. you can’t help a soft sigh, lowering your head a little.

there’s a moment of guilt. you didn’t want them to feel bad for you. you didn’t want them to worry, least of all eddie; whether you wanted him to or not that boy was going to worry for you. you hold yourself at the middle, can’t help that shrinking feeling, heaviness in your gut.

the three share smiles and nods, and then eddie turns away and heads back to you, keeping his touch light and easy as he fixes a little bit of your hair, “think i’ve hit that time, sweet thing. mind if we head out?”

your heart beats a hard pump and your throat clenches. he so badly doesn’t want to make you feel bad, wants you to feel like it’s on his terms, wants you to feel okay with leaving early. eddie can read you so easily, and you’re both thankful for that and pained by it. you want to tell him again that it’s okay, if he’s really having fun you didn’t mind staying a while longer. but words die on your tongue as he pulls in closer, makes sure his eyes are all you can see, wants you to really hear him.

“it’s okay. i promise.”

just as your eyes start to water, he pecks your forehead and wraps an arm around your shoulders, leans you into him so you can hide yourself there.

“sayonara, goblins!” eddie throws up devil horns and wags his hand, the party bid their goodbyes joyfully behind you as eddie leads you out the front door, helps you up into the passenger seat of the van before driving you to the trailer.

he’d taken you right down to his room, laid down on the sheets and let you lay yourself on him, petting your hair while you hid your face in his neck and vented tears and frustration. when talking becomes too hard he rests lips against your temple and gives soft pecks, murmurs to you gently, reassuring words.

“you’re okay… i’m here… just let it out, baby, that’s it… i’ve got you…”

his love is present in everything he gives you, and even though you feel so empty, eddie is adamant in helping you feel more full with that love. you didn’t have to be okay for him, eddie would always take you as you were; there was never any pressure to put on that mask around him, because to him the mask was glass. he’d learn to see you, through and through, and you him. when everyone else heard ‘i’m fine,’ eddie could hear the ‘please help.’ and eddie would always help.

after a while you’re both sat up on the bed, cheeks since dried and now you were dressed in one of eddie’s baggy old corroded coffin t-shirts and a pair of his ratty plaid sweatpants. you have his headphones over your ears, holding the muffs firmly against you to let the music envelop you. eddie watches with a warm smile and shining eyes.

you see his gaze flit up to something behind you, a grin spreads, but before you can react there’s a light tap on your shoulder. pulling away the headphones and turning, you see wayne standing at the bedside almost shyly, looking right at you and smiling as he holds something behind his back.

“know it’s pretty early but, uhh… seemed like you could use a pick-me-up… thought i’d give you this now…”

from behind his back he procures a small-ish, colorfully wrapped box, offering it to you.

you crack a genuine smile, carefully taking the box and looking up at wayne who nods at you to say ‘go on now, open it up!’

you tear into it with a light giggle, eddie and his uncle watching with bright eyes as from within the box you pull out… one of wayne’s mugs, from the wall. your favorite one.

looking back up at him you swallow another growing knot in your throat, smiling wide but it trembles.

"now you, uhh... you c'n use it here, if you like. that's your special mug now. or-or if you'd wanna bring it home..."

“th- … thank you, wayne.”

he rubs the back of his neck, relieved you like the gift.

“don’t mention it, kid…”

[dakotacrisis]

Topsy Turvy

Hyper-fixation has been activated! Who needs to work on their wips when they can start something else entirely? Hahaha...it’d be funny if it wasn’t true.

Anyhoo! Saw this cute comic by @hannahyonana and my goblin brain latched on and wouldn’t let it go. So I give you this unofficial expansion of this wonderful comic. In short: these children are disasters in more ways than one.

---

Two weeks. That is how long Adrien would be gone. Two long and painful weeks without seeing his face or hearing his voice. Pictures and videos were well and good but they were no proper substitute for the real thing.

Marinette came to the train station to see him off and steal a few more blessed minutes with him before he departed on his work trip/vacation. She had tried to convince Alya and Nino to come so she wasn’t totally alone with him but they already had plans. Marinette hadn't heard about any plans before this so she could only assume this was another Alya scheme to give Marinette a chance to confess.

Marinette had thought about it. Telling Adrien how she felt would get a lot off this nervous tension and anxiety off her chest. He didn’t even need to respond or give her an answer. Just having him know would be enough.

But could she do it? She had tried countless times before to no avail. What made this different?

Adrien and her walked along the platform full of people bustling to get here and there. Marinette gripped the box of macarons her parents made for Adrien behind her back.

The Gorilla took Adrien’s luggage and carried it onto the train. He looked back to see if Adrien was following.

"You go on ahead, I want to say goodbye real quick." Adrien ushered his bodyguard away. The Gorilla looked between them and with a curt nod of his head disappeared inside the train.

Adrien turned back to Marinette. His hair was stylishly tousled and his smile bright and beaming. Could the boy stop modeling for even a second? How was anyone meant to keep their wits about them with that thousand watt smile?

"Thanks for coming to see me off, Mari." Adrien said.

"Of course," Marinette replied, shuffling from foot to foot. "Even if you're only gone for two weeks…"

She brought the box out from behind her back and held it out to him. "Also, this is for you from my parents. A little something to snack on during the ride."

"What! That's so sweet! Literally." Adrien took the box with glee. "Be sure to give them my thanks."

"I will,"

BEE-BOOP!

The pair looked up at the sudden sound.

"Oh, that means it's time for me to go," Adrien said with a small shake of his head.

Gone again. In just another minute he'd be out of her reach once more. Even after all this time saying goodbye felt so hard. He was only going to be gone for two weeks! He was gonna come back! Why did it hurt so much being away from him?

That familiar weight settled on her chest. So many feelings left unspoken. Secrets she was dying to share. It felt like they were smothering her.

"Before you go," Marinette halted him before he could enter the train, "I have something to tell you."

"Oh yeah?" Adrien tilted his head like a curious little puppy. Why did he have to be so cute? Marinette was sweating he was so cute. Or maybe that was just her inner terror at what she was about to say.

"Well I--you see--I…" Marinette stammered and lost her nerve, "I uh, make sure to send us pictures."

"Of course!" Adrien responded with glee. "Alright well, see you later, Marinette."

He turned to get on the train and Marinette’s heart sank. Another chance at happiness, wasted. Perhaps it was for the best.

She forced her feet to move, to carry her from this painful moment. When they did though they didn't back away. They surged forward. She was barely aware that she had reached out for Adrien until she grabbed the back of his shirt.

"Wait! That's not it!" She proclaimed loudly. Her nerves came out in the shakiness and desperation in her voice. She kept her eyes shut tight. Afraid of what she would see if she opened them.

"The truth is, I'm in love with you!" She  blurted out. She let go of his shirt, her hands fisted into tight balls by her side as she quickly explained, "I'm not expecting a reply. I know you don't like me back. But have a nice trip!"

She turned on her heel and fled. Tears of anxiety or fear stinging her eyes. The last thing she heard was Adrien calling out for her to wait. Once she was far enough away she risked a glance back and saw Adrien’s face staring out the closed door in shock before the train pulled away from the station.

She stared at the now empty train track for a long time before it truly hit her. She just told Adrien she was in love with him. He was going to be thinking about how she told him she loved him for the next two weeks. Then she was going to have to face him knowing all that when he returned home.

Marinette whipped out her phone and called Alya. “I did something stupid and I need help.”

---

Adrien pulled himself away from the train door and sat down in his seat. Marinette’s parting words echoed in his ears. She loves him. She is in love with him.

When did that happen? He knew they were friends but he hadn’t expected her to be in love with him. Marinette…

He glanced down at the box in his hands. Something small and sweet to take with him. A reminder of home. A reminder of someone petite and kind that just spilled her heart out to him on the train platform.

She said she didn’t expect a response but he felt like he owed her one. She had also said she knew that he didn’t like her the same way she liked him. While it was true that Adrien’s heart had belonged to Ladybug for as long as he’s known her he did feel a warmth around Marinette. Was that love? Or was it just friendship?

Nino had a crush on Marinette. Maybe he would know. Adrien pulled out his phone and hit Nino’s number. “Hey, I’m on the train heading out but I had a question about Marinette.”

---

“Oh dear,” Alya shook her head, she covered the receiver of her phone so Marinette couldn’t hear. Not that Marinette could hear anything over the sound of her own panicked ramblings. She turned to Nino on the couch with a sly smile.  “Marinette just confessed to Adrien before he went on his trip and she’s freaking out.”

“Wow, good for her, do you think Adrien will respond?” Nino asked.

“No idea,” Alya shrugged, “It’s a good thing we left them alone though. Marinette finally got the guts to say something to him.”

“Speak of the devil,” Nino held up his phone where Adrien’s contact picture flashed on the screen. He hit answer. “Hey dude, what’s up? Miss me already?”

Alya went back to listening to Marinette and trying to calm her down while Nino talked to Adrien. The both of them were panicking messes as they ranted and lamented at their respective best friends over the phone.

“I don’t really know what to tell you about your own feelings, dude,” Nino told Adrien, “Yeah I had a crush on Marinette but it only lasted a week. That’s kind of how it is with most of the people from our class.”

“What?” Adrien said.

“Yeah, literally everyone has had a small crush on Marinette at one point or another growing up. You’re like the only person who hasn’t. Which is weird considering how much she dotes on you and swoons around you. Did you really not know about her crush until today?”

“No!”

“Ah...then again you have been head over heels for Ladybug I don’t suppose you would have noticed anyone else unless they confessed to you point blank.” Nino said. He had thought that Adrien’s crush on the spotted hero of Paris was something that had been waning recently once he had agreed to go out with Kagami. But when they broke up it had returned full force.

“Marinette, hold on a second,” Alya shushed Marinette on the other line and turned to Nino with wide eyes, “Did you just say that Adrien has a crush on Ladybug?”

“Uh yeah? Why?”

“What’s going on?” Adrien asked.

“Alya is--”

Alya snatched the phone out of his hands. She held up the other phone with Marinette on the line. “Girl, I know you are spiraling right now but I am gonna need to call you back. I swear I will only be like ten minutes max. Goodbye.” she turned to Nino’s phone, “Now you, pretty boy, I’m gonna need you to repeat that for me.”

“That I have a crush on Ladybug?” Adrien answered timidly.

“How long has that been a thing?”

“Since she first showed up in Paris. Why?”

Nino saw the calculations going off in Alya’s head as she processed this information. Had she not known? He was sure she had to have known but apparently that wasn’t the case.

“Adrien, listen to me very carefully,” Alya said, “You are going to want to accept Marinette’s feelings.”

“Listen, Alya, I know that you are her best friend but--”

“No buts, Agreste!” Alya snapped, “Really listen to me here. I know that you have feelings for Ladybug. Who wouldn’t? She’s amazing but she’s also a superhero with a secret identity. Do you really think you can take Ladybug out to the movies or invite her home for dinner? How are you gonna call her? How do you plan on making that work?”

“Well I--”

“Moonlight rendezvous over the rooftops of Paris sound fine and dandy but you know what else is nice? Marinette. Tangible and readily available with romantic feelings already pre-downloaded in her core. You already call her our Everyday Ladybug. What more do you want?”

“I see your point. But that situation is a little more complicated than that.”

“No it isn’t. Do you not think Marinette is great?”

“She is. She really is.”

“Do you not think she is cute?”

“She is very adorable and attractive. I will confess to that.”

“So if Ladybug wasn’t a thing then would you consider dating Marinette?”

“I mean I guess. But Ladybug is still real and she owns my heart. I can’t just give up on her that easily.”

“Adrien, I do not know how to tell you this but you are not giving up anything by dating Marinette. She is every bit as amazing as Ladybug and you would do well to remember that. As a wise man once said, “far better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood, one warm and caring, and right before your eyes.””

“Did you steal that from The Little Mermaid?”

“Not the point! Just think on it. You have two weeks before you come back and make a decision. I suggest you use the time wisely and really consider what I’m telling you. I’m not just saying this because Marinette is my best friend but because I know deep in my gut that you two were made for each other. The only one that doesn’t see it is you.”

“You think we’re made for each other?” Adrien’s voice was soft and quiet. It made Alya’s heart melt.

“I do. I think that you two would make each other so incredibly happy.” Alya sighed, “But no pressure or anything. At the end of the day it is your heart and your choice. I’m just asking you to look at all the possibilities before you make a decision.”

“Okay, I’ll think on it. I promise.”

“Good. Now I gotta call Marinette back before she worries herself into a human pretzel. Bye.” Alya handed the phone back to Nino. She dialed Marinette back and wandered into her room for privacy.

“Why did you hang up on me?” Marinette asked. “I am having a crisis here!”

“Girl,” Alya’s face broke into a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “You are not gonna believe this. Adrien’s had a crush on you this entire time. Or rather, a huge, massive, fanboy crush on Ladybug that is.”

“WHAT!”

*Two weeks later*

Well that was the longest two weeks of Adrien’s life. He had done what Alya suggested and really thought over his feelings for Marinette and Ladybug. The more he compared them the more he realized how alike they were. He knew he called Marinette their Everyday Ladybug but he hadn’t realized how true that was until now.

His heart belonged to Ladybug but he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel anything for Marinette. Adrien knew that through Alya and Nino’s eyes the answer was obvious. Marinette was their friend and classmate and she was so much closer to them then Ladybug. But they didn’t know that Adrien was Chat Noir. They didn’t know that he had a direct line to Ladybug. They didn’t know he had this already huge connection to her.

So what was there to do? Have a happy civilian life with Marinette and stop his pursuit of Ladybug? Or let Marinette down gently and keep trying to make things work with his Lady? He needed to come to a decision quick since his train was getting closer to the Paris station. What if Marinette was waiting out on the platform? What was he going to tell her?

The train came to a screeching halt that flung everyone forward. What in the world was that? HE scrambled to the window and saw the leg of a huge a robot. An akuma.

He was thinking up an excuse to leave his bodyguard when the roof of the train was ripped off. The giant robot looked in and reached out its hand and started grabbing random people and dropping them into its mouth.

He had to get out of here and transform! He made a bolt for the bathroom but the robot got him first and lifted him off the ground. He struggled to get free but he was no use against thousands of pounds of metal and magic.

“Oh no you don’t!” the robot’s arm lurched away from its mouth. Ladybug stood on a nearby building with her yo-yo drawn tight to keep the robot from dropping Adrien down its gullet. “Rena! Now!”

Rena Rouge leapt out from behind Ladybug and pounced at the akuma. She dug her flute down between Adrien and the clamp holding him captive. With a large heave she pried the clamp open enough for Adrien to wiggle free. She reached to grab him but at that moment the robot had broken free from Ladybug’s hold and the pair of them were thrown off.

“I got ya!” Ladybug swooped down and grabbed hold of Adrien. Rena was quick on her feet made a safe landing down on the ground.

They landed on a nearby rooftop for Ladybug to deposit him. “You okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, never better,” Adrien’s heart was beating wildly in his chest.

“Good,” Ladybug looked back at the akuma with a small frown, “I gotta go take care of this guy but you should be safe here.”

“Alright,”

“By the way you’re really cute and I think we should go to a movie sometime. Bye!” Ladybug said quickly and leapt back into the fight.

“Wait! What?!” Adrien shouted after her but she was already gone. He was so stunned that by the time he remembered he was Chat Noir and should be helping Ladybug and Rena Rouge had already defeated the akuma.

The miraculous cure swept across the city and Adrien was deposited back in the fixed train in his seat like nothing had happened. Well this got a whole lot more complicated!

---

(Part 2)

[spxllcxstxr]

Post-Hogwarts Enemies to Lovers with Sirius • Headcanon

(Gif not mine)

Warnings: firewhiskey mention, weed mention?, Death Eaters, curses (both language and magic), near death experiences, blood and injury mentions

Request: Hello! Can I have a Sirius headcanon please, one where it’s post Hogwarts in the time of the first wizarding war, and reader was a quiet, loner ravenclaw when she was in Hogwarts whereas Sirius was obviously very popular and loud, and they didn’t like eachother back then but now they’re in the order and dating and it’s just enemies to lovers angst to fluff 🥺 — @mabelle-cherie

A.N: Headcanons are weird because I have no idea if this is long or short. Anyway. I might’ve strayed a little away from the request? But it’s essentially the same. I think I like this one, actually...Love you all ❤️

Sirius Black was the most obnoxious entity you’ve ever encountered

James Potter was obviously a close second

Remus Lupin was tolerable, but only when his nose was stuffed in a book and when he was alone

Peter Pettigrew? He was more scared of you than you were of him. Completely harmless

They would strut around the castle, smug looks glued on their faces, like they owned the place

And you know what?

They practically did

Ever since they pulled their first prank, they’ve had the entire school wrapped around their fingers

Classmates idolized them

Teachers struggled to hide fond smiles

You despised it

You were here to sit, learn enough to get a good job, and keep your head down

The so called “Marauders” obviously had their own plans

The second Sirius witnessed you scoff and roll your eyes at another one of their stupid disruptive pranks, you were on his radar

The first time Sirius ever directly spoke to you, you were in the farthest corner of the library buried underneath a mountain of books trying to finish your three essays

You didn’t even notice him until—

“(Y/Ln), right?”

You were too busy writing about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 to even entertain the idea of giving him a proper response

So in your haze, you just gave him your default response

“Piss off, Black.”

If you said that to any other person, it would’ve worked

But Sirius Black is not any other person, unfortunately

“Well that’s not very nice, love, now is it?”

And thus, your enemyship begins

That was in your fifth year, meaning you had about two and a half more years dealing with him and his merry band of pricks

By the next day, you were ready to toss yourself out of the Astronomy Tower

He now spots you in every room you’re in together, which is a huge inconvenience, considering you would rather be left alone and unbothered

But he prances towards you, shit eating grin plastered on his face, ringed fingers raking through his hair

He’s a pest

“Leave me alone, Black.”

“Aw c’mon, (Y/Ln), I’m just saving you from being lonely.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“Well you don’t talk to anyone. That’s lonely.”

“I talk to people, Black. I just don’t talk to you.”

You try to leave with the last laugh

You really do

“Pretty sure you’re talkin’ to me right now, love.”

His stupid infuriating smirk makes you wanna hex him into oblivion

Instead, you walk away fuming

And that’s how the rest of your time at Hogwarts goes

Sirius Black bothers the shit outta you

You tell him to go fuck himself

He doesn’t

Wash, rinse, repeat

There are a few times your patience wears so thin that you throw a couple hexes his way

You’ve reversed his knees, made his head grow four sizes too big (to finally contain that ego of his, you told him), made his toenails grow straight through his shoes, and even managed to shave off some of his precious hair

And yet he still came back

Every single time

Sirius would just brush it off and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world

At that point, what do you do?

You try to ignore him the best you can

There are times you find him alone, drunk on top of the astronomy tower

Or high behind greenhouse number two

You like him better this way

He seems more real

Not because he’s under the influence

But because he’s not giving you a cocky smirk or a wink and laughing at every little move you make

You almost tolerate him

But then the next morning he’s back to calling you love and shouting at you at the top of his lungs across the Great Hall

And you’re back to hating him again

You’re counting down the days to graduation

And when it finally comes you bid him a firm farewell

Sirius finishes off with a “More like see ya later, (Y/Ln), love”

But you don’t care because the next day you have your bags packed to study in Bulgaria

But with one foot out the door you get an urgent letter

Something called the Order of the Phoenix

And and after carefully scanning through the contents of the letter

You unpack

And go meet up with your old Headmaster

Headquarters is a dilapidated shack on the outside

Chipped paint, broken shutters, water damage, the works

But the inside is elegant

Long purple rugs running throughout the house covering dark wood flooring, glass vases, magical artifacts strewn on top of dark counter tops

Sirius Black sitting, cigarette in one hand, twirling his wand in the other—

Sirius Black?

You almost march straight out the door

But you’ve already been spotted by Dumbledore and Alastor Moody, so you can’t exactly back out now

“Long time, no see, love, eh?”

The smirk, the attitude, the wink

It’s all there

Thankfully, he’s sitting in the middle of his friend group, so when you take a seat at the table, there’s about four people between the two of you

You smile at Alice and Frank, who you only know because they helped you with potions assignments a few years prior

You notice a glimmering ring on her finger

Everyone turns deathly serious when Dumbledore and Moody start explaining the situation with Voldemort and his Death Eaters

And how the Ministry of Magic is practically incompetent, though you knew that already

Even Sirius knew when to keep his mouth shut

He sat there, smoking, taking harsh sips of firewhiskey

Yes,

You noticed

You noticed how his fists would clench in anger

And how he silently swore

When James would put a hand of his shoulder to calm him down

And when Remus would start edging away his tumbler

He would twist the rings of his fingers

And smoke through an entire pack of cigs during the meeting

You’re not going to Bulgaria anymore, you’ve decided

Everyone got assigned stations they would patrol

Just your luck

You got Diagon Alley

With Sirius Black

You want to slam your head on the table

“Did you really bribe Dumbledore and Moody to put us together, Black?”

“It won’t be so bad, (Y/Ln), promise.”

“You’re a prat.”

“Well now that’s just rude.”

So everyday, you and Sirius donned dark cloaks that covered your faces and ambled through Diagon Alley, keeping an eye and an ear out for anything out of place

You would stop into shops, pretend to browse through items, keeping an eye on people

Sirius would convince you to get ice cream or stop in the Leaky Cauldron

You hate to admit it

But these little breaks the two of you took together were...

Nice?

The two of you would just be sat in the farthest corner of the tavern

Cigarette smoke swirling around

Eyes watching through the haze

There’s small talk between the two of you, but mostly silence

“The Potters died a month ago.”

He tells you out of the blue, eyes still trained on the other customers

You might not know Sirius Black well, but everyone knows how he ran away from his abusive home to James Potter in sixth year

“I’m so sorry, what was it, if it’s ok to ask.”

“Dragon pox.” He takes a second to exhale completely. “They were old, they knew it was coming. Just doesn’t feel right.”

So that’s how your partnership works

Sirius would be utterly insufferable during meetings and other get togethers

Silent during patrol

At least one of you would spill some secret or heartbreaking thought while on break

And then it would be back to silent concentration

Maybe you didn’t hate him anymore

But you certainly didn’t like him

About six months into your recruitment into the Order, you get a tip off about a huge Death Eater raid in a nearby Muggle village

Moody leads the rest of the Order to the village, and sure enough, there’s a crowd of Death Eaters dressed in black cloaks and silver masks already starting to make their way down the hill and into the main square

Spells are shot at an alarming rate

You’re forced to run, dodge, hide

You have have to not only fight a whole group of people happy to use Dark magic, but you have to continuously check on the numerous Muggle families asleep in their homes

It’s tiring

There’s bruises and cuts all over you

Lily had to save your arse a few times

You shoved James out of the way from the Cruciatus curse, getting hit with it instead

You were staggering, barely taking in enough air, but still you fired off spell after spell

You lean heavily against a wall, the bricks digging into your skin

The world around you spins and turns blurry

You fight to hang on, but your body is in so much pain it wants to shut down

You get cornered by a tall man in a dark cloak and a skeletal mask

“Well, well, how unfortunate.”

Your ears are ringing but you can hear him loud and clear

A gloved hand slips into his cloak and produces a silver dagger, shining in the pale moonlight

“Maybe I’ll gut you the Muggle way.”

He chuckles darkly, and you shudder in fright

The tip of the blade just touches your abdomen, the cool point sending goosebumps up your skin

You try to muster all the strength you have left in you, but it’s not enough to break free and fight back

You get ready to accept your fate

“Get off of her, you bastard!”

A figure bodyslams the Death Eater away from you

And the two of them roll around on the street, the silver of the blade flashing between the two forms

You have no idea who’s winning

You do hear a guttural cry coming from Sirius, but when you look back down, the Death Eater is apprehended and there’s a fresh and bloody cut across Sirius’ collarbone

Somehow, anger surges up in you

“You could’ve died, Sirius! You shouldn’t have been so stupid and reckless!”

You shout, pushing yourself off the wall and limping towards him

One of the Prewett twins comes to take the Death Eater away

Sirius scoffs

“Since when did you care about me?”

“You’re my partner, Sirius! Of course I care about you!”

At this point, the two of you are face to face, close enough to smell stale cigarettes and cinnamon on his breath. Copper mingles with the scent

“That’s the first time you’ve called me Sirius, (Y/n).”

He points out softly

You two are so close, eyes gazing into eyes

No, you don’t kiss

You got hit by the torture curse like fifteen minutes ago and then almost got impaled

You faint directly into his arms

How romantic

You wake up on the black velvet couch in headquarters

However, when you turn your head to the side, eyes open, you notice the head of a shaggy black dog resting near your face

Their ears are back, sad and glistening eyes staring at you, nose wet and cold.

The dog perks up when he spots that you’re awake

You hear their tail thunk against the base of the couch

You move your hand to scratch behind those soft ears

The dog whines and sighs in happiness

And then suddenly the dog in gone

And Sirius Black is kneeling at your side instead

“Always knew you were a dog.” You mumble out

“I saved you, and you call me a dog? How kind.” Sirius smiles, relieved

You soften. “Thank you, Sirius. Thought I was a goner.”

He brings a hand up to your face, his thumb rubbing your cheekbone gently “Just glad you’re safe and awake.”

You lean into his warm touch

“Can I kiss you, (Y/n)?” He asks softly, stormy eyes flicking between your eyes and your lips

You notice that he calls you by your first name

“You save me once and now you think you can kiss me, Black?”

You raise an eyebrow, but you aren’t serious.

His face falls and he opens his mouth the apologize, the thumb in your cheek stuttering

“Oh, alright, Sirius...I don’t mind.”

His face lifts back up at your smile

And he kisses you lightly on the lips

“Been waiting to do that for years.” He tells you when you finally separate for air

“Don’t be a prat, Sirius.”

And you know what?

You never hated Sirius Black

You especially didn’t hate Sirius Black now, that’s for sure

You would even say that you love him

Even when he is a prick

•

Sirius Black Taglist: @fific7 @quindolyn @msmb

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

So, wait, toes Remus know that Virgil is a dragon too?? if he does, did Virgil tell him or did he just figure it out?

It wasn’t too long after their escape from the prison complex that Remus got irritated.

He didn’t regret dragging the strange assassin along — after all, Remus probably wouldn't have been able to escape without him — but he was getting more and more frustrated with his lack of response to...well, anything.

Remus has attempted more than once to scare and/or gross the stranger out with diatribes of gore and violence, but that hasn't phased him at all. Really, Remus thinks he probably should have expected that response from a dark-elven warrior, but it was a little jarring to have his usual monologues accepted with little more than a cursory glare. It didn't help that he had to speak to the soldier in the goblin language, which neither of them knew well enough to share many complex ideas.

Then, there were his rages. Remus wasn't really himself in that state, and he knew he was quite the sight to those who had never heard of a barbarian. He's pretty sure that if he had some foggy awareness of the assassin being disgusted or even mildly intrigued by his berserk mode, he would have remembered them. As it stands, nothing.

Then, there was his trump card: The first time Remus let out his true form and went berserk on a few guards, the assassin barely even noticed the difference. Remus dismissed it at the time, assuming they had just been busy doing their thing and hadn’t seen him do it. But, as they were sneaking away from the castle spires the next day and he had to dispose of some noble-looking witnesses, Remus definitely saw the assassin look at his wings.

Still he made absolutely no reaction! He doesn’t seem to react to much of anything, unless he’s being mad at Remus for yelling too loud or missing a swing. Admittedly, being able to spark annoyance in the stuck-up soldier is a little fun, but even his moments of anger are few and far between.

This is the first and only time someone has seen Remus’s kick-ass undead angel wings and not had a damn thing to say about it, and Remus can honestly say he hates it.

So, now that they’re finally outside of the Colony walls (and Remus doesn’t have to worry about the assassin chewing him out for making a scene,) Remus smirks deviously at the unsuspecting drow.

“Hey! Watch this,” Remus shouts, then closes his eyes to focus.

He reaches deep inside himself to connect with that boiling mass of discordant energy — a frothing core of divine light that’s spoiling rotten and necrotic, burning away the mold, healing, and then spoiling again, over and over with each beat of his two hearts. As he’s practiced ever since he was a child, Remus grabs that energy and pulls it out, dismissing a weight in his stomach that he hardly notices until it's time to let go.

The instinctual protective glamor that hides his true form dissolves in the firelight of his true essence, as bone-like angel wings, void-like eyes, and a tidal wave of smoke pour out of Remus like air from a popped balloon. A sickly green glow outlines his irises, his scars, and emblazons the emblem of a sword over his chest. He can feel it as the energy unfurls, how the world spins and sears into focus, how his senses grow sharp and breathing is suddenly so much easier than it’s ever been before. This is what he truly is, how he really looks, and it is a figure that strikes fear and awe in every creature who has the misfortune of seeing it.

All except one. Apparently.

The assassin simply stares at Remus, stone-still as Remus’s whole fucked up magical girl cutscene plays out point-blank in front of him. The fear-inducing necrotic gas rolls past the assassin's feet and into his lungs, but nothing happens. A few seconds pass, and he still hasn’t moved, but he’s clearly not gone into shock or anything of the kind.

Eventually, the assassin gets the impression that Remus is expecting a response. So, he cocks his hip out to one side and folds his arms, mimicking the facial expression that he’s gathered humans make when they’re confused: a pointed eyebrow raise.

(Given his usual glowering expression, it comes across more like sass.)

The minute passes, and though Remus feels the smoke dissipate and his eyes and scars return to normal with a sinking feeling in his gut, the wings remain. Instead of dismissing them, Remus throws his arms out wide with a growl,

“Seriously? That’s it? You’re not scared!”

“Scared?” The assassin parrots lowly.

A wide smile stretches across his lightly-freckled face. In the space of a blink he’s behind Remus, gently peeling the barbarian’s tattered shirt away to get a better look at the base of his wings.

He lays one ice-cold hand against the divot between them, touching him clinically, like he’s trying to figure out how solid Remus's wings are. His hand smooths gently across the stump where flesh gives way to semi-transparent bone before Remus's brain catches up. He shrieks and jumps away from him,

“What the shit are you doing?!” Remus squeaks, eyes wide as saucers. He would be more embarrassed by how absolutely unthreatening he sounds right now if he didn’t still feel the shape of that hand on him like a brand.

(He decides that this is more because of the supernatural nature of his wings, and not because Remus hasn't been touched that carefully by another person since he was like eleven. He doesn’t have time to unpack that feeling whatsoever.)

“You told me to look.” The assassin teases, openly laughing at Remus’s expense.

Then, — and Remus could swear he’s doing it slowly just to make sure Remus sees him — the soldier takes a deep exhale, and his purple eye flashes a soft glow. Suddenly, his body evaporates until he is a cloud of shadowy smoke. This smoke quickly blends in with the surrounding darkness of the cavern, and before Remus can get a word in edgewise, the assassin has re-solidified and is poking his back again.

“StoOOP TOuching me!” Remus yelps and spins around to face him, face red as blood and hands up in a defensive position, “Since when could you do that?!”

The assassin rolls his eyes at this, his hands falling to his sides. Now he takes a moment to think, before reaching down to untie his dagger belt and pull his tunic loose.

“What are you doing?” Remus protests louder, covering his eyes with his hands.

The assassin doesn’t respond.

Though he’s reciting curses in his head and trying very hard to respect this stranger’s privacy, Remus’s curiosity quickly gets the better of him.

He peeks out between his fingers to find the soldier shirtless, his white hair parted and pulled over his shoulders. He looks up at Remus with a completely unimpressed stare.

The assassin reaches out to grab one of Remus’s hands, then turns to show Remus his back.

Remus stares for a moment, eyes tracing the thin, ragged lines of a latticework of scars. They stretch across and around the assassin’s back, some older and some deeper. Most seem to have been inflicted by animals or monsters rather than weapons.

Remus feels no sense of pity at the display — he’s got his own patchwork of scars and his own complicated relationship to them, but over all he sees them more as a mark of survival, as stories to tell. But, he is definitely curious, and his mile-a-minute brain is already spinning outrageous tales to match each and every mark.

Then the assassin guides his hand up towards the top of his back, just alongside his spine. The skin there feels leathery, and significantly warmer than the skin of the elf’s hand, though the heat seems to be emanating from someplace lower on his spine. It’s also slightly off-color, a bit lighter than the skin around it. Whatever this is, this scar is old.

Remus traces the outline of it up, then off to the side as it tapers to a thin line between his shoulder and the base of his neck. The assassin’s ears twitch at the gesture, and Remus’s hand flinches away.

He turns to look at Remus over his shoulder, his neutral grimace returned.

“We are the same. Shadow and wings. You are kitrye'maelthra, right?”

“I don’t know what that is.” Remus frowns, always frustrated when the assassin sneaks an elven word or two into their rare conversations,

“I’m not super good at reading energies, but you don’t feel like an angel… You have wings??”

“No.” He frowns, his gaze becoming soft and distant, “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Remus sighs, now reeling at the possibilities.

What sort of dark elf grows wings, and how can they be removed? He winces at the phantom pain to his own wings as he parcels through every guess. Did a monster tear them off? The scar was so smooth, it seemed more like they had been burned away with acid. Did he fall into the pit of a living ooze, or maybe it was a punishment from some cruel cultist—

“Yours are broken.” The assassin pries, still staring at him while Remus zoned out.

“Broken? No they're not!”

“You have no skin.” The assassin remarks, like that should have been obvious, “And you look like a ghost.”

“Wait, skin? Like a bat?” Remus laughs, imagining it. He shakes his head, “I’m not supposed to have skin! —Well, I mean, I am, but also feathers. Y’know, like a bird?”

“Bird?” The assassin repeats, like he doesn’t understand the word. He probably doesn’t, goddamn Underdark.

“...Ehh, forget about it. I’ll show you one when we get up there.” Remus shakes his head.

The assassin pulls his tunic back up and re-ties it. While he waits, a sudden thought knocks Remus out of his gruesome imaginings.

He thinks he probably shouldn’t ask, but it takes him all of three seconds to snap and say it anyway,

“Hey,” Remus hums offhandedly, like he’s not extremely invested in knowing the answer, “If you could ‘go ghost’ or whatever this whole time, why didn’t you just poof yourself out of that cell?”

(“And why did you stay to help me?” Remus refuses to add, because he is not that attached to his little stray-criminal monsterboy, goddamnit. He refuses.)

The assassin doesn’t answer or turn back to him, simply staring off in the direction of their path.

Remus huffs and rolls his eyes,

“Fine, damn, keep your secrets. Bet you just can’t hold it that long~”

“Don’t xhandal me, lotha mal'dhalaruk. Usstan orn da'urzotreth dosst et'zarreth.”

“Again, I do not know what the fuck that is.”

[jengajives]

Couple of OCs in this one to make it work, but I really wanted to do something with second/third age Maglor gettin too close with Ulmo and the Oath sneaking up bite him

“So... you’ve seen it?”

Maglor didn’t look up when he spoke. Just went on dragging his fingertips through the sand, drawing swirling patterns on the beach around him. Ulmo sat cross-legged on a rock watching him, letting the wind blow warm and gentle raindrops through both their hair. A beautiful evening for a talk in the rain.

“Seen what?” he asked absently. There wasn’t anything familiar enough in the way Maglor stiffened at that to be alarming.

“It,” the minstrel said again, softer but more insistent. “You know. The...” He trailed off. The fingers on his right hand, twisted with scars, gave a feeble twitch.

The burn marks reminded Ulmo what they were probably talking about and so he nodded.

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen it. I keep it safe, you know. You needn’t worry yourself.”

A long silence. Maglor pressed his hand into the cool damp of the sand.

“Yes,” he mumbled distantly. “No need to worry...”

Silver armor and royal blue banners. Swords that gleamed under the light of the stars.

A figure atop a mountain peak, cloaked and hooded, and the blood-red torchlight lighting his brothers’ faces in the high court of Tirion.

Constantly the words of the Oath boomed now in Maglor’s head, where it had slept for many hundreds of years. Constantly the weight of his father’s spirit pressed his mind.

He would have left the coastline and forsaken sight of the sea, but the glimmer of silver and gold he often saw now beneath the distant waves kept him fixed upon the shore. To turn his back would be to give up the Oath and suffer the ultimate pain of retribution.

He could not. He could not. He could do nothing but cower on the edge of the water, too afraid to act.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril from the house of Fëanor,” said his father within the deeps of memory, “be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

Ulmo.

His burned fingers trembled and twitched.

Ulmo, his friend. Sheltering the Silmaril at the bottom of the sea.

He buried his eyes beneath quivering hands and tried not to let the connection form.

The Oath waited ever so patiently.

The water was still and glassy black, reflecting a sky of stars that reminded Maglor of the ages before the sun and moon. His days in Valinor, before any curse or oath had torn his family and soul asunder.

He liked the pool. It was always cool and tranquil like a vast sheet of glass within stone’s throw of the sea, and when the world was younger he used to come here to remind himself that he was a lord of the Noldor no longer; look at his reflection and see nothing but a wanderer without people or honor to plague him.

Tonight, though, he saw frost-white armor glinting ghostly beneath his coat, and the light of Aman burning fierce in his face, and in his eyes the soul of the two trees mingled and tamed within depths of stone.

Maglor cast a stone across the pool to shatter the image, unable to stop the quivering that spread up from the root of his spine.

“Is it far?” he asked softly.

Ulmo didn’t stand there in the gangly form he was so fond of, but Maglor still knew he was listening.

The water lapped at the shore like gentle laughter.

“Far enough, but well within my reach.”

When Maglor turned to look at the sea the entire horizon was turned to streams of molten gold and silver chasing each other endlessly within the ocean’s cold jewel.

“Where are we going?” Riston asked eagerly as he trotted behind.

Maglor had forgotten he was there. His mind was busy with other things.

“Going?” he repeated. “When are we ever going anywhere?” But the words were numb and he could not stay the path his feet now took of their own accord.

“I just thought,” huffed Riston, scurrying over the sea-hewn boulders to try and keep pace, “that we would be avoiding places like that.” He pointed upwards.

On the nearby clifftop, a tower fortress blazed with torchlight red and fell.

Maglor let his eyes wander down the cliff face to the dark gap at its foot.

“Yes,” he said dimly. “We should.”

And he hurried along, desperate now to come quickly to the cave and dispense with this mania.

If he could just see what he was seeking, the need for it would pass.

It would pass.

The cavern was cold and dripped with seawater, and in all the ages of the world it had not changed. From the tower above, the stone seemed to vibrate with raucous shouts and music, but the dark stone, crusted with barnacles and grasping things of the sea, was fast and familiar under Maglor’s feet. He moved eagerly now, driven forward by the desperate need to prove himself wrong, forgetting entirely the fact that Riston trailed behind him in wonder.

In the darkest back of the cave, a pale green light shone just enough to illuminate a small stone chamber, wide and high-roofed, and the shelf carved carefully into its back wall.

He knew the place, because he had labored there cutting stone to forget the world, because he had poured Maglor Fëanor’s son into this rock to forget him.

On the shelf rested gleaming white armor, and above it on the wall was set a pale sword with a green gem set into its hilt.

They looked polished and new, as if he had left them yesterday and not thousands of years hence.

It felt as though everything warm left Maglor in a single rush and he was nothing but cold stone himself, staring blank at those arms and wishing he could forget them.

If all was fair, Glírlang’s curved blade should still drip with blood for every life it had taken. The blood of his kin and his friends who had done nothing but stand between him and his father’s prize.

Maglor fell to his knees.

Yes. Yes, it was over now. There was no Oath that could hold him to kill again. No promise he had made would drive him any longer. He was not his father. He was not the elf prince who had sailed from Valinor long ago. Yes, he was no one. No one.

“Maglor-!”

Slowly he turned.

Riston was still here, but oddly enough he was not the only one.

When Maglor saw eyes gleaming cold with greed and malice he thought at first of goblins, and of his brothers, but these were only Men with stout swords who crept in on thick boots that cracked the clinging shells beneath them. They spoke Westron, roughly, though it took him long seconds to understand it.

“Trespassin’,” one said. His blade flashed in the green light of the gem. “Little vagabonds trespassin’ on our lands.”

“Oi,” said another. He pointed to the shelf with the tip of his sword. “Puttin’ some shiny armor down here so’s you and your friends can come back and kill us with it later?”

“That don’t make no sense.”

“Shut up! They’re trespassin’, and you know trespassers gotta die!” The first man’s pale lip curled into a grin. “Besides. I want me that nice silvery sword, and they’re in the way of me takin’ it.”

They moved closer, and Riston stumbled back with a squeak. His Westron wasn’t good enough to understand what was going on.

“Maglor!”

They would both die. What would Maglor do? He could do nothing. Well enough for him to die on the point of a sword, but Riston was barely more than a child.

Well enough for him. Well enough to die here.

“Look at ‘im squirm!” roared the one man, and with fluid ease he cast Riston to the floor and planted a boot on his chest to keep him there. “You say I gut ‘im, boys, or take ‘im up to the tower and let the others have a go?”

Laughter echoed off the walls of the chamber. Maglor’s back hit cold stone but all he could hear was Riston screaming his name.

“Maglor!” cried Elros as the orcs swarmed around him, arm thrown protectively in front of his brother, both little ones wide-eyed and trembling with fear. “Uncle Maglor, please!”

The sun glinting through cloud near the sea. Orcs guffawing to find the little lords of the Noldor unguarded.

So many ages ago and Glírlang dripped with blood.

Fire rushed across the surface of the pool with a deafening roar.

Glírlang pushed in through the back until the tip of the blade came right out the other side.

Blood gurgling through punctured lungs.

Maglor pushed and the Man fell, toppled over, the sword slipping easily from the hole it had put in him, resting with such familiarity in Maglor’s hand.

His Glírlang. So familiar.

He turned to the other Men, standing right over Elros, blade glinting and body slipping automatically into a defensive stance.

No, no, it wasn’t him. Elros wasn’t here, he was long dead now.

It was Riston. Little Riston.

Yes. Riston.

The sword in his grip brought him back through centuries of honey-slow time.

“Step back,” he said steadily. Many years had passed since last he used Quenya, but it flowed now easily past his tongue and filled the whole of the cavern with a crackling power. “You will not touch him.”

The Men scrambled away, faces frozen in awe and terror, for it seemed to them that they had just watched a wandering beggar transform before their eyes into a fell warrior of old, shining with the light of countless centuries and the power of ancient kings, and his sword was alight with green flame.

His enemies fled before him like the cowardly goblins had in ages past.

Torchlight. Blood-red torchlight in the night without end. The courtyard of Tirion stained crimson.

“Let no creature stand between my house and a Silmaril,” Maglor said softly, speaking the same words to the cavern that had sealed his fate those ages ago. “Be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

He heard the dull roar of the ocean outside, and left Riston behind to cry gently in the earth’s cold embrace.

The waves slammed the shore with fury, but to Maglor, all seemed silent. The stillness of the night utterly complete.

Nothing to shatter his fevered thoughts as he screamed a challenge on the wind to the Lord of the Sea.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril.”

No one.

Vala.

“Maglor.”

He looked up and Ulmo was there, standing in the ankle-deep water in the tall, gangly form he’d once kissed. The sky had grown cloudy but he couldn’t remember when, and the distant line of the sea was alight with fire.

Maglor raised a trembling hand and put the tip of his sword to Ulmo’s chest.

“You... will... give it to me...”

“This is mad,” Ulmo said, very calmly. “Maglor, you don’t have to do this.”

Sea spray brushed against his cheek in some semblance of a fond touch, but he was not swayed.

“Give it to me,” he hissed, his own voice like the touch of hot metal to water. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t do this,” Ulmo said again. When he stepped back Maglor took a swipe at him, but it was easily blocked by a forearm coated in rough blue carapace like a crab’s. Rusted chains clinked against each other with every movement Ulmo made.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“You would keep what’s rightfully mine!”

The hissing flame and shadow of Balrogs. His father’s eyes burning brighter than the sun with his last words.

“Thief!” Maglor screamed, batting Ulmo’s shield arm aside to press Glírlang to his breast again. “That Silmaril is mine!”

Ulmo straightened to a new height. His brow, crusted with salt and living stone, grew hard and fell. His simple clothes hardened to plates of chiton armor.

“Do not make me hurt you,” he said again, but now his voice boomed like thunder on the plains and waterfalls and waves breaking against unyielding stone. Behind him the sea rang with the blowing of horns in the deep, shaking the ground, sending rushes of icy water up to swirl against the solid cliffs. Lightning split the sky. Rain began to fall in cold sheets.

“Deliver me what is mine!” Maglor roared against the wind. “Or I will take it!”

Glírlang flashed white light back at the sky. Maglor felt the might of his brothers behind him. The strength and glory of Valinor rushing through him as if he had just newly set foot on Middle-Earth. His blade moved in a blur of green and white, and when he returned again to ready stance, Ulmo stood before him with a gash across his face slowly beginning to seep seawater.

When he touched the tear in his skin, the water turned blood red.

“So be it,” Ulmo said at last, and with the rush of the sea, the tall glorious form was gone, and in its place was a tower of water adorned with sharp yellow teeth stained scarlet, and lengths of rusted silver chain caught in the swell, and a million blue-green eyes that saw everywhere water touched the world, that saw into Maglor’s very soul.

The roar of a tidal wave filled his ears and the flood took him.

Direction became utterly meaningless because he was spinning too fast to recognize any way at all. There was no color but the black of fathomless depths, and Glírlang was torn from his fingers, and teeth tore his flesh, and he spun alone suspended in the might of the sea.

Well enough, to end this way. Conquered at last.

Maglor screamed and water rushed in to fill his lungs. All around him and within him Ulmo spoke.

“If it is the Silmaril thee desire, then take it.”

Before his eyes, the brilliance of the Two Trees locked in a jewel without equal.

“Take it and see where it leaves thee. Let it drive thee mad. Let thee fall as thy brothers have fallen.”

Maglor stretched out his fingers. It was there. It was there, he could feel it, he could almost taste it...

“Take the heirloom of thy house,” Ulmo rumbled, “and let it destroy thee.”

Maglor screamed and the water played the sound he couldn’t make as Being began to fade.

Everything went still and silent.

When air rushed again into his lungs, all he could do was sob.

“Why didn’t you do it?!”

On his knees. Water dripping slowly from his hair, his fingers in the sand.

“Why do you keep me here?!”

The blinding light of the Silmaril resting in a pool in the sand. Glírlang at its side. Maglor took up the blade and threw it with all his strength into the sea, then fell again with his eyes turned from the jewel, his whole body shaking with sobs.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it! Please!“

Still he was here. Still he lingered.

“Just let me go,” he breathed to the motionless air. “Just take me! I don’t want it! I failed! Just let me go!”

Ulmo did not answer. No one answered.

The waters were still and the Silmaril lay there watching.

Maglor screamed at Ulmo to take it away, but the Lord of the Sea would not answer.

And his mind crackled and folded like the flesh of his hand.

[malfoys-demigod]

I’ll Always be your Protective Brother - Draco Malfoy x Reader x Brother! Cedric Diggory

Summary: Y/N Diggory, a Slytherin, faces an issue when her enraged brother, Cedric, finds Draco Malfoy around her. 

Being a Diggory has its perks. First, your father was a respectable man in the Ministry for working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, bringing honor to your family name. Then here comes your older brother, Cedric, who became popular for being an excellent Quidditch player. He became more well-known for being a Triwizard Champion after. You gained a popularity for being the gorgeous little sister of Cedric. 

You were truly happy for your brother as the both of you were really close to each other from the start. You could still remember how he made sure you were doing well on your first year in Hogwartsm especiallymaking sure you didn’t get lost around the castle. 

As you grew older, you blossomed into a beautiful young lady which attracted many boys from all 4 hourses. But they were scared to speak more than 2 sentences to you because they were aware of how protective Cedric was over you. Whenever a boy had the guts to simply ask things such as studying with them, Cedric would appear out of nowhere to answer for her saying, “Sorry, mate. She’ll be spending time with her big brother. You understand, don’t you?” 

You dind’t mind your brother swarming off countless boys because you had eyes for a particular housemate: Draco Malfoy. You were lucky that Cedric wasn’t placed in Slytherin like you, otherwise he would’ve seen the way you’d stare at Draco whenever you were both in the common room. 

Your friendship with Draco started out with being both the best at Potions which made Snape change the seating arrrangements, making you two seatmates and partners in Potions. 

Eventually, the both of you saw how you could work and communicate easily with him, making you seatmates and partners with him in every class you had. 

This lead to getting one another, and flirting with one another. 

You were both having the most boring period as the two of you had Professor Binn’s History of Magic Class. As he kept droning on about various Goblin Rebellions and Giant Wars, he managed to bore a number of students, successfully making them fall asleep as usual. 

Draco saw the sleepiness in your eyes and whispered to your ears, “Trying to have a beauty sleep right now, love?” You eyes shot up and looked at Draco with a blush on your cheeks which you tried to hide. “Trying and failing, sadly.” you playfully pouted. 

Draco patted on his shoulder and smiled, “Come, lean on my shoulders and rest your eyes. It’s a good thing we’re seated in the back, the old ghost won’t even see a thing.”

You smiled, trying not to hide the blush you had again as your cheeks turned frmo pink to red. “It’s a good thing I have you to lean on.”

As classes ended, you were woken up by the boy of your dreams as he carefully shaked your shoulders. “Time to wake up now, love. Binns finally stopped rambling about who knows what and ended class.”

When classes ended, Draco offered to walk with you to the common room, with his posse behind him. As he cracked some jokes about Professor Bins, a familiar Hufflepuff robed young man spotted you and jogged towards you. “Y/N!!” when you looked up, you saw your brother Cedric as he opened for a bone crushing hug. 

“Who was your last class, kiddo?” he said, ruffling your hair. 

“Professor Binns!” 

“Ah, I barely listen to the old man when I have him.” imitating a yawn. 

“Me too, thanks to Draco over here,” you pointed at your crush,” I got to have what he called, ‘my beauty sleep’.”

Cedric didn’t even see Malfoy beside you and when he did he gave him a cold glare, expecting him to run away. Despite being nervous, Draco remained beside you, showing that he slung your bag over his shoulders and waved. 

“Diggory.” he silently greeted. 

“Malfoy. Good game you had yesterday, winning over the Ravenclaws.” your brother coldly said. 

As much as Draco wanted to let your brother’s dominance win over him, he wanted to prove how confident he was in front of you. “Well I couldn’t have done it without the support of your sister here. Saw her from the crowds, cheering Slytherin on.” he said patting your shoulder. 

Cedric raised an eyebrow, “Is that so, Y/N?”

You knew where this was going and wanted it to immediately stop as you could see students exchanging glances and whispering, ‘I can’t believe Draco hasn’t left ever since Cedric stopped by!’, ‘Maybe Y/N Diggory is dating Malfoy?’ 

So you nodded and tried pushing Draco to move forward, “Well, we better get going, need to put our belongings back in our common room. I’ll catch up with you later, Ced. Love you!” you yelled as you were walking quickly away from your soon to be jealous brother. 

You were in the common room, laying down on the couch, thinking of all the possibilities your brother could do to scare off Draco. Your thoughts were interrupted when Draco walked in with a big smile when he saw you. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, Dray.”

“Did I interrupt another beauty sleep of yours?” he said as he sat on the couch. 

You didn’t want to tell him that you were thinking about your brother but you shook your head. 

“Just thinking about that Potions essay given this morning. I know it was just given out and that it’s due next month but I thought of starting it soon.” 

A great idea popped into Draco’s mind as he rose up from the couch. “How about we start right after dinner. Just you and me.” he smirked at the last line. 

Alone time, with Draco Malfoy. Just what you needed. So you nodded and the both of you walked out of the common room to have dinner at the Great Hall. 

Usually, you’d be always eating with Draco, his posse, and your posse. But as you entered the hall, your eyes met your brother’s as he montioned you to sit with him in the Hufflepuff table. “Sorry girls, my brother’s calling me.” which made them pout,”Could we come and sit with him too?” they joked. 

As you made your way to your brother’s group, he gave you a big smile, “Hey, baby sis.” You were weirded out by his cheerfulness, thinking he forgot about that moment with Draco earlier today. As you sat down, he made sure your Slytherin friends weren’t with you. And after you finished your meal, he gave you a serious look, “Okay, what’s up with you and Malfoy?” 

You rolled your eyes as you could hear Cedric’s friends whisper, “Little Diggory is off the market” they playfully sing to. 

“We’re friends, Ced!” you raised both your arms. 

“What kind of friend offers you to sleep in his loving arms while class was ongoing?” 

“It was his shoulders, but you said it yourself that you barely listen to Binns! We’re just good friends in the same group!” 

“Mhm, sure, Y/N.”

“Please! Draco and I-”

“Are heading to the library.” you were interrupted when Draco happened to have walked in your conversation. 

Draco offered you his hand to stand up, “Come, love. How about we finish what we haven’t started.” An enraged Cedric, not knowing what that really meant stood up and was about to draw his wand at Draco’s face when you stood between them.“Stop it, please!” 

“STOP WHAT? HIM TAKING YOU AWAY TO SNOG EACH OTHER?” this made countless of students whisper to each other. 

“NO! WE PLANNED ON WOKRING ON OUR POTIONS ESSAY AT THE LIBRARY, CED.”

Professor Sprout came in and looked at you and Draco “I think we should stop the commotion right now. Mr. Malfoy, I suggest you take Ms. Diggory to the library now. Then she looked at Cedric, “Come with me, Mr. Diggory. We’re going to have a talk.” 

As you and Draco were in the library, neither of you could actually concentrate on your essays. It was either your thoughts were filled with the scene that just happened earlier in the Great Hall or groups of students would walk by the two of you, whispering once again. 

You placed your elbows on the table and covered your face to sigh. You quickly stopped as you heard footsteps walk towards you. As you looked up, it was your brother with a face full of sorrow. “Go awa-” 

Cedric stopped you as he raised his hand in defeat. “N/N, let me explain. As Sprout removed points from Hufflepuff and lectured me on my behavior, I realized too many things. Although you’re getting older, your still my baby sister, but... you’re old enough to make your own decisions which I failed to remember. I’m truly sorry if I was being overprotective back there. I just hated seeing my little sister with another man. But it seems that he makes you happy. I respect that, Mal- Draco. Just keep her safe and don’t hurt her, or else-”

“I’ll make her the happiest girl alive. I’ll make sure of that, Cedric.” 

Cedric nodded and walked away. You didn’t even get to say anything so Draco gave you a reassuring smile and you stood up to run to him with a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my crush over Draco. I was just too scared you’d scare him away.”

Cedric understood what you meant and hugged back. “I’ll always be your protective brother.”

“Can I be your protective sister? I do see the way you look at Chang too.” Cedric blushed and covered your mouth as he saw Cho nearby. You saw as well and chuckled, “I’ll take that as a yes. I love you, big brother.”

“Love you too, Y/N.”

[frostsinth]

The Secret We Keep - Pt. 3

Part 1|2  - MasterList 

So, I’m kind of in love with this goofy, awkward pair of fools. I’ve already mostly written the next part, so if the interest holds, I’ll post it soon. My usual rule of thumb is at least a day in-between posts and at least thirty notes to post the next part.

This part is pretty long, I think, so hopefully you guys enjoy these two as well. This will be quite the slow burn of mostly gooey fluff and snuff. Buckle in for the ride folks. As always, comments and reblogs are what I live for. Thank you for your continued support and love! 

Also, check out my new one-shot with a Goblin King (who may look suspiciously familiar) and his arranged marriage with a Prince from the neighboring human kingdom. You can find it on my MasterList. If there’s interest in it, I’ll post more.

I worked hard over the next few days. I went to my favorite farmer who I knew always had good, healthy stock and purchased three pigs for a gold coin and some silver. Then I went to the woods and gathered some fresh wild herbs, setting them to dry in the rafters as soon as I got back. I couldn’t help but continuously glance at the wildflower bouquet on my table as I did. That evening, when the sun had gone down and the temperature cooled, I took my old beaten up shovel to the dirt in the center of the yard. It took half the night, but I soon had a pit deep enough and wide enough for the three pigs. I spent the next day gathering rock and kindling, waiting for the beasts to be delivered. I went and bought as many bottles of the gin as the silver I had left would buy. On the third day, I hoisted up the pigs and drained and gutted them before prepping them and filling them with seasoning.

I filled the pit with vegetation once the stones had heated up from the wood and kindling, then dragged each big pig in. It was a lot of work that took most of the day and part of the night. I was covered in sweat and dirt by the time I had covered the pigs back up to cook through til the next day. I practically collapsed in my bed and slept well past dawn.

Four days. It had been four days now. I could barely sit still, pacing back and forth around the yard. Late morning, I started to dig the pigs up. The aroma filled the air with its succulent smell, and I had many visitors come to the shop inquiring after it. Each time the door opened, I would jump up with excitement, only to be crushed when it wasn’t him. I sold most of my spare meat, and got a fair few commission promises for more once my patrons learned the pit roasted pigs were not going to be for sale. I went over to the trough multiple times to scrub the dirt off myself. Around midday, I even washed and brushed out my hair anxiously. I basted and re-seasoned the pigs to keep them moist as the remaining heat in the coals kept them warm. I wrung my hands nervously; much longer and they would dry out.

I changed my dress after the sun passed its zenith. There wouldn’t be much labor left for the day, and I felt fairly certain I could keep myself clean through it.

I was washing my hands for the umpteenth time when I heard the tell tale sign of the door scratching across the floor. I tried to calm myself. Probably just another customer enticed by the smell. I tried to remind myself how many times I had gotten my hopes up already just to be disappointed. It didn’t stop me from hurrying to the shop front.

I nearly dropped from shock when I went into the shop front and saw not just one big, burly orc, but three. Standing hunched, shoulder to shoulder, inside my store.

Quickly composing myself, I smiled, wiping my hands on my fresh apron. 

“Welcome back!” I greeted Hans, hoping I didn’t sound too excited.

He grunted, and jerked his head over his shoulder at the pair of orcs with him. “They’ll need the gate opened.”

I glanced at them. “O-oh, yes! Of course… I’ll meet you back there.”

I wasn’t sure how I thought the reunion would go, but that was hardly it. A little disappointed, I turned and made my way to the small yard to unlatch the gate. I heard a heavy, sauntering step behind me, which had me glancing over my shoulder. Just in time to see Hans duck through the back door to follow me into the yard. My heart leapt a little at the sight.

I swallowed nervously, but gave him a small smile. The others must have gone around the outside, and I quickly bustled over to the gate, trying to distract myself. Didn’t want to keep them waiting long. My nervous hands fumbled uselessly with the latch for a moment, before finally managing to slide it back with a grunt. I dug my shoulder into the wood and started to push.

I nearly fell over as my overexertion suddenly became unnecessary and the wood pulled away from me. I realized Hans’ big body fit neatly over top of mine without touching it. He swung the heavy gate open easily as I caught myself from face planting into the dirt. His companions waited on the other side.

I straightened with a small huff, resting my hands on my hips. Then I gave the other two another welcoming smile. Which suddenly dropped away as I realized their arms were full. One had fresh sawn logs and planks tucked under each huge arm. The other had another load, as well as a crate of what looked like tools and other odds and ends. I opened my mouth to question, but Hans waved them in before I could and gestured to the empty corner. Effectively cutting me off in the process. They passed me by without much more than a polite nod to deposit their goods. I slipped around them and over to Hans.

“What’s all that?” I asked him, still a little stunned.

“Supplies.” He grunted, as if it were obvious, but then sauntered away again over to the cooking pit.

I saw him eyeing it, as well as the rusty shovel leaning against the wall nearby. He considered the huge piles of dirt surrounding the pit and the heavy rocks the pigs were roasting on. I heard him give a loud grunt as he shook his head, hands crossing over his broad chest. His thick brow knitted and a scowl settled on his lips. I felt my stomach roll in knots, worried that perhaps this was not quite what he had meant. Perhaps I had taken too much creative license choosing to pit roast the pigs rather than on a spit as I’m sure he had intended me to.

“We could smell them from the edge of the town, ma’am.” Came a friendly, raspy voice, “They smells right good!”

I turned, taking in the orc who spoke. I gave him a kind smile, blushing a little. He was not nearly as large as Hans, with a thinner waist and more slender muscle. But was still more than a foot taller than me. His skin was also a more vivid green, and he had a long beard that was braided thickly down his chest with various bones and beads. His grin grew as I appraised him, and I noticed one of his tusks was broken off at the tip.

“I hope you’ll enjoy it!” I managed to reply politely, still smiling.

“Bar’tok!” Roared Hans, and the orc before me winced slightly.

He dipped his head to me, then quickly went over to the edge of the pit. Carefully, he reached in and lifted up a pig. He tossed it up over one shoulder, easily as a sack of flour, and I was surprised it wasn’t still too hot to handle in such a manner. The other orc bent down and picked up the other, juggling it the same way. My heart sank again as I realized there was only Hans left to take the final pig. Perhaps this wouldn’t quite be the visit I had envisioned.

I hesitantly wandered over, rubbing my arm with one hand. The big, dark skinned orc was considering the last pig. His companions had already disappeared out of sight with their loads. But Hans glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and blew a big puff of air between his thick lips.

“Too much for us.” He grunted, then shrugged. “You’ll have to keep this one.”

My eyes shot open. “Wh-what?”

He shrugged again, striding past me towards the gate. At first I thought he was leaving, but instead he tugged the big wooden gate shut with the slightest flex of his huge arm and latched it. My heart raced in my chest, and I realized my mouth was hanging open a little when he turned back to face me.

“You can sell it.”

I closed my gaping mouth and shook my head. “You already paid for this pig. I can’t just sell something that’s already been bought!”

Again, Hans shrugged. “Three is too much. You already did the work, so keep the pay.”

I sighed in frustration, and started to raise a hand to argue. But he didn’t give me the chance to reply. The burly orc made his way over to the pile of wood and other supplies, cracking his knuckles. With his back to me, he began to unstrap his armor.

Blood rushed to my face at the sight, and I nearly swooned. I looked back and forth between the pig in the pit and the big orc, my thoughts racing. I watched as he dropped his armor on the stumps, then turned back to me in just his tunic and trousers.

“Where do you want it?”

I blinked at him stupidly, and he jerked his chin pointedly at the pig. I looked over at it, then back at him. I tossed my hands up exasperatedly.

“In the shop then.” I relented, sighing heavily. No way I was going to out stubborn an orc.

He shouldered the big beast easily and maneuvered his way quickly into the shop. I heard him drop it onto the counter with a thud, then made his way back into the yard and over to the pile of supplies his men had brought in.

“What are you doing now?” I demanded, but before he could answer, I heard the scrape of old wood on the dirt floor. I shook a finger at him. “Wait here.”

It was a customer, eagerly thumbing coins in his palm. Over the next hour, the shop flooded with more customers. Apparently rumor had quickly spread that there was extra roast pig after all. At first I felt guilty selling off something I had been commissioned for. But I quickly began to wonder if this had been the big orc’s intent all along. And I was far too busy carving the carcass into sellable chunks to think on it too much. Before dusk hit I had carved and sold off the last of the pig, even down to the ears. I breathed a sigh of relief when the last customer left. I latched the door behind them and closed the shutters. More than a little exhausted. I tucked the last of the coins into a small pouch and returned it to its hiding place behind the counter.

Remembering my original guest with a little hitch in my breath, I quickly went back to the yard, my pulse ricocheting against my skin. Now that the chatter had died down, the soft thud of a hammer filled the evening air. I went to investigate exactly what the orc had been up to. Worried what I might find had kept him preoccupied over the last hour.

His back was to me when I came out, and I found him shirtless again. I paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame and crossing my arms over my chest. I was too tired and flustered to hide my open gawking of his big, muscular body. It seemed he had built me a door from the fresh wood he had brought, and was currently installing it on shiny new hinges. The remainder of the previous was stacked in a neat pile by the gate, and I almost had to marvel at his efficiency. I rolled my eyes and walked over, skirting the huge pit in the center of the yard.

“You know you don’t have to do that.” I told him, coming up beside his right elbow.

The big orc jumped a little at the sound of my voice, and I almost laughed at the sight. To think a big orc like him had anything to fear. He turned, considering me over one huge shoulder. Then he grunted, testing the door one last time. After a few moments of silence, it seemed like he wasn’t planning on saying anything in response. I wrung my hands together nervously. Wondering if he was mad.

“...Are you staying for dinner?” I finally managed to ask.

Again, he didn’t answer, picking up the tools and tossing them into the crate he had brought. I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye, as if debating something. He reached up, rubbing his chin between his large thumb and index finger. I noticed his beard seemed a little less scruffy than before; the curly black hairs didn’t go as far down his neck, and there was a neat line along his cheek.

“Did you shave?” I blurted out, then quickly sucked in a breath. My ears burned in embarrassment at my outburst.

He paused, dropping his hand. Then turned towards me. I found his big slate eyes just as entrancing as the last time, and my heart fluttered in my throat. He seemed uncomfortable then, and his gaze fell away. His hand came up again, rubbing at the back of his neck. The big orc gave a deep grunt, which sounded affirmative. He almost looked... Bashful.

His reaction brought another flush to my cheeks, and I tried to turn away to hide my smile. But my movement brought my eyes back to the pit, and I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. Remembering how irritated he had looked when he had first seen the roast pigs. I shuffled my weight from foot to foot, and rubbed at the back of my own neck.

“... I-I have your change…” I stammered, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the remaining gold coins. Gods knew I had made more than enough from the sale of the pig to return both. “Here-”

He caught my wrist as I started to hold the coins out to him. I jumped, startled by his sudden touch. When I turned to look at him, he was scowling again. His brow scrunched over his big nose, his lips tight and curled down. The expression somehow made his tusks look bigger. I blinked at him nervously. Yet his grip on my wrist was surprisingly gentle, if firm. Still, he took a step closer, looming over me. I tilted my head back to hold his gaze.

“You did too much work.” He growled, both fiercely and quietly. He cast his free hand over towards the pits, and his scowl deepened.

I followed his gesture, frowning a little myself. “A good sized pig on a skewer would be hard to control and cook evenly; keeping the natural juices was easier in the pit. Especially three pigs simultaneously! And pit roasting just makes the flavor really pop! One of the best ways-”

The big orc growled again, silencing me in the middle of my explanation. Shaking his head, he dropped my wrist. He still looked quite cross, and the sore look darkened his features a little. My frown deepened as my confusion did. I glanced over at the pit again, feeling a lump in my throat.

 “.... I am sorry… I seem to have upset you, but I’m not sure why… Did I do something wrong? It was not my intent, I swear. If I’ve insulted you, or if you were displeased with the roast...”

“No.” He grunted, his rumbling voice cutting through me. He gave a big, heavy sigh, shaking his head slowly. “No… You did nothing wrong.”

He reached out again, more slowly this time, brushing his fingers against the arm he had released. I felt his thumb move, tracing the soft skin on my wrist. I hesitated, looking down at his hand. It slid along my palm to scoop my fingers against his knuckles. The coins fell from my loosened grasp to the ground, clinking together softly. He didn’t even spare them a glance. I was suddenly reminded of his very bare chest so close to my person, and felt a little heat rise to my cheeks. I craned my head back to meet his gaze again, and he looked at me through his dark lashes. We stayed that way for a long moment, then he breathed another deep sigh.

“I intended to repay your kindness,” He began quietly, “But instead gave you more work.” 

He ran his thumb over my knuckles slowly. I felt my hand quiver a little beneath his touch. I forced myself to focus on his words instead, turning them over. I glanced down at the coins half buried in the dirt.

“... I don’t want your money, Hans.” I breathed finally. I dared to reach up and place my hand on his wrist, even though it shook a little as I did. “I’d rather just…” I stopped, finding myself unable to finish, and dropped off. I couldn’t bear to look at him. My ears felt so hot I thought they might just fall off or catch fire on the sides of my head. “...Will you stay for dinner?”

I felt his large hand under mine give a gentle squeeze, then the big orc sounded his familiar affirmative grunt. I couldn’t help but smile a little at it. Slowly, he released my hand, letting it fall away from his. I rubbed at my arms shyly, turning slightly as if to go to the house.

I almost jumped as his big hand came into my view. He bent in his index finger and gently tucked it under my chin. Lightly tilting my head back to look up at him again. His face had softened. Gone was the last remains of his previous scowl, his thick lips relaxed, his heavy brow smooth. And those deep, slate blue eyes, twinkling in the last light of the dusk. I felt a smile forming on my own lips, as well as a fresh flush coming to my cheeks. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding yet.

“... I thought you might like some steak tonight..” I told him softly.

I saw those big blues dart down to my lips as he nodded. A tiny shiver ran down my spine, and my mouth parted slightly. His thumb came up, and I trembled as he gently touched my bottom lip.

“I-I got more gin, too,” I stammered, flustered, his thumb pulling back slightly to allow my lips to form the words, “You seemed to like it last time.”

Another nod, and he slowly dropped his hand. I quickly regretted having spoken, and felt hollow for having lost his touch. I tried not to stare at him as he turned, walking over to the trough of water. While he slowly splashed water over himself, I turned to the pits off by the wall. I had readied some steak, and now that the dry rub had set, I fanned the fires and placed them on the hot irons. They sizzled immediately, and I tried to pretend it was the heat from the cooking that filled my face. I could hear Hans shuffling and splashing behind me, and it took all my strength not to sneak a peek at him as he washed up. I could almost imagine the water rolling over his bare skin, and my mouth felt a little dry at the thought.

Four minutes on each side, and the steaks were ready. I reached for a cleaned and polished slab of wood, forking each on to it. The sun had mostly set by now, with only the last touches of its light licking at the edge of the horizon. I chanced a glance out of the corner of my eye and saw Hans slowly putting on his tunic again. My tongue felt uncomfortably large as a touch of disappointment stabbed at my chest. Not that the orc’s taut chest and abdomen were much subdued by the clingy material, I reminded myself. And of course the orc still had many other distracting qualities for me to stumble over during dinner

I turned, making my way back to the house. Our eyes happened to meet as I walked past him, and I smiled shyly. His big brow twitched, and he pushed his great mane of hair back. Following a few steps behind me to duck into my room.

“The door looks great, thank you!” I told him, setting the steaks on the table, “I already feel safer, not having to worry it might fall apart in the next storm.” I went to the larder next, pulling out some small cherry tomatoes I had found growing wild near an abandoned farm. “I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to practically dislocate my shoulder to get it open.” As I turned back to set the tomatoes on the table, I noticed a scowl settling on his face. I almost smiled, but hid it as I fetched one of the bottles of gin. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I always sleep with a knife under my pillow.” I teased.

He didn’t seem to find that amusing, eyeing me as I struggled to open the bottle. His big hand came out, pulling the gin from my grasp. He placed the errant cork between his large canines, and with a short jerk and a twist, it came popping out. I smiled again, fetching the bread and drinking horns.

“I may not look it, but I can take care of myself.” I assured him, settling onto the bench across from him. He filled our horns, giving a soft grunt. “What about you? Sure, maybe you can lift a barn, but you apparently don’t eat very well. That’s not taking care of yourself either.”

His slate blue eyes flicked up to my face as he recorked the bottle. His lips twitched a little, and I thought perhaps he was smirking at my comment. But he didn’t answer right away, picking up a tomato and popping it into his mouth. He rolled it about with his big tongue contemplatively for a moment. I took a deep drink from my cup, elating at the feeling of the liquid courage sliding down my throat.

“I get by.”

I laughed lightly. “And so do I.” I brought my carving knife over, polishing the edge with a clean cloth. “I have managed completely on my own for the last year, after all.” I pointed out, cutting the steaks into manageable strips. I noticed him eyeing my knife, and I smiled shyly. “Sorry, I’d let you cut your own steak, but I only have this one knife left.” I placed it to the side and picked up a piece, holding it out to him to try. “Nor I don’t have company often.”

He delicately took the piece from my fingers, and I was certain our fingers didn’t need to brush quite so long as they did. But I felt my skin tingling from the touch. I brought them to my mouth, quickly catching the juice with my lips before it trickled down my hands. His eyes followed me as I did, and I felt the heat rising into my ears. I distracted myself by taking another sip of the gin. And by sip, I mean draining half the cup.

Hans savored the bite of meat I had given him, chewing it slowly as he watched me. He even smacked his lips together in pleasure. Reaching over, he uncorked the bottle and refilled my cup for me. Then picked up his own, draining it back quickly before refilling it as well.

“Your mate does not keep you company?” He asked quietly, taking up another morsel of meat as he did.

I looked at him, surprised, a bite of steak halfway to my lips. I even laughed at the ridiculousness of his question. 

“You’re joking. Mate? I don’t have a mate.” 

The corner of his lips twitched, and I realized belatedly that he had just managed to ask if I was available without actually posing the question. I felt my face flush, picking up my cup and taking another sip in between bites of steak. I shot him a sly look over the top of my drinking horn. After all, two could play at that game.

“Though I suppose you ask because you must miss your mate terribly while you travel.”

He paused, a blood sopped piece of bread halfway to his mouth at my words. His brows shifted, and he seemed suddenly very focused on his hand. I resisted the urge to smile. He finished the bread and another large piece of meat in tense silence while I took another sip of the gin and popped a few tomatoes into my mouth. It occurred to me quite suddenly that I might not like his answer, and he knew it. Hence the delay. I had a sudden sinking feeling, realizing he might actually have a mate. He might actually be inquiring after mine because, of course I should have a husband! Otherwise why else would I let strange men into my house. Unless he intended a mistress. Did orcs take second wives? My panicked mind raced. I suddenly felt my cheeks burning hot at my thoughts, and tore off some bread to hide my sudden influx of embarrassment, accompanying it with more steak.

The big orc cleared his throat, dropping his hand. “... I have no mate either.” He said finally.

I let out my breath in a woosh. And perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed like his cheeks had become a shade darker around his thick beard. He cleared his throat again, his gaze falling to the nearly empty plates and picking up the bottle of gin to refill my glass.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you are trying to get me drunk.” I teased, desperate to break the tension that had suddenly settled into the air between us. “Though I’m sure a handsome guy like you doesn’t usually need to resort to such measures-”

Hans fumbled with the bottle at the word ‘handsome’, his eyes shooting wide. I saw it slipping from his big hand, and tried to reach out to steady it. But instead, the orc jerked in surprise at my movement, and the bottle slipped further from his control. Neither of us was quick enough, and the glass dropped. It hit the table, spilling gin everywhere as it bounced, then rolled. I gave a little squeal as the liquor splashed down my front, jumping up. I leapt to try and catch it, and wacked my head into Hans, as he dove for it too. It escaped both of us, rolling off the table and shattering on the ground. The sound reverberated in the sudden silence after it.

I fell back, clutching my forehead in both hands, my vision spinning. My ankles were drenched with gin, and I heard more dripping off the table. Hans looked wide eyed between me and the shattered bottle, his big mouth dropping open a little. He tried to move quickly around the table to my side, and ended up bumping it with his wide hip. The flower pitcher, unsettled by the table’s movement, teetered precariously, then it too toppled off the table. I saw Hans wince as it shattered on the ground as well.

I looked at the mess in the dirt, then the table. Then up at the towering orc, who appeared even more massive in the tiny house and had an expression of abject mortification on his face. And I started to laugh, still with one palm pressed to my throbbing head.

Hans shuffled his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I… I’m sorry I-”

I waved my hand at him, dismissing his apology as my laughter turned to wheezing. I was smiling so much my face hurt, and I slowly started to stand.

“Oh, no, it’s absolutely alright! No, I should be the sorry one, I didn’t mean to startle you…” I took a deep, steadying breath, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle my lingering chuckles, “I was… I was too bold, I apologize. The gin seems to have gone straight to my head- ow,” I winced as my skull continued to throb, then shot him a tiny smile, “Don’t worry yourself, honestly.”

He looked doubtful, his brow bunched up again. I saw him glance at the mess, slack jawed, shuffling his weight nervously. I grabbed a cloth from the counter, spreading it out and dropping to my knees to pick up the remnants of shattered glass and ceramic. I began sweeping them carefully with the flat of my hand onto the cloth.

“You don’t need to do that,” Hans objected, and with a thud that shook the ground, I found him on his knees beside me.

I smiled, careful not to look at him in case I might burst into flame at the sight of him. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

How could I be so stupid? How could I just blatantly blurt out something so bold? I berated myself silently. I hoped against hope that maybe we would just be able to forget my comment and be able to move on with the evening. Hoped that he wouldn’t be put off at all, or frightened away. I mean, what if he was just being friendly? What if he didn’t see me… that way?

In his traditional response, he growled softly, using his own large palm to sweep up more of the shards onto the cloth square. I chanced a glance up at him, wondering what he was thinking, and found his brow furrowed. His mouth was in a tight line, and I saw him clench his jaw while I watched. His dark hair fell around his face, and I became distracted by his blue eyes searching the ground for more pieces.

I gave a sharp gasp of surprise as one of the larger shards cut into my hand. I quickly dropped the piece, clutching my palm and pulling it towards my chest. Another low growl rumbled in the air, and suddenly Hans was there. He crouched over me, one hand on my back, the other reaching for my hand.

“Ah! That was foolish of me, I’m sorry,” I gushed, “No, please, don’t fuss. It’s just a little cut.”

But he still took my hand in his, despite my protests. He pulled it closer to himself, using his thumb to gently part my fingers. I winced a little at the sight. The cut was deeper than I had first thought, and ran from the side of my index finger to the center of my palm. Dark red blood oozed out, enough that my hand was already coated and the excess had started to drip off the edges.

Still, I was far more interested in the way Hans cradled my wounded hand in the palm of his, and the way his other hand felt nice and warm against my back. My face was growing hotter by the second. I could feel my heart racing in my chest, and wondered if that was why my hand seemed to be bleeding so much.

“Come.” He grunted, still cupping my palm gently, but moving to stand.

I didn’t have the willpower to protest my own self-sufficiency at that moment, so followed along without complaint. He quickly led the way out the door, turning and steering me towards the water trough. The sun had fully set now, and the only light in the yard came from the candles inside the house spilling their glow out the open door. The orc seemed unbothered by the low light, and positioned me beside the edge of the trough.

I stiffened suddenly as I felt the full heat of him at my back. He curled around me, holding my hand in his, and gently easing it below the surface of the water. My besotted mind swirled uselessly, and I was pretty sure my mouth dropped open. I was glad he couldn’t see my dumbfounded face. All I could think about was the way his chest felt against my back, the way his muscles moved as he tenderly cleaned my palm with his big thumbs. His shoulders were so broad, even with his arms fully extended I still fit neatly in between them. I could see them, out the corners of my eyes, brushing against mine as he rubbed at my wound. I could feel his breath in my ear, and had to fight the shiver that sought to run down my spine.

“I-I guess I’m not really proving that I can take care of myself, huh?” I mumbled, attempting a lighthearted tone and trying to distract myself. “I’m sorry; I’m sure this is not how you wanted to spend your night. It’s alright, you don’t need to fuss over me…”

“It’s not alright.” He growled softly, and his voice reverberated in the air next to my ear. “I should not have allowed this to happen.”

I managed a soft laugh, though I wondered if he could hear the slight tremor in my voice. “Not have allowed it? Can you predict the future now, Hans? Control everything at all times?” I curled my fingers around his, stilling his movement for a moment. “It was an accident. A foolish one, but also a harmless one. And my fault more than yours.”

His responding grumble vibrated in his chest at my back. I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath. His administrations to my hand had stopped when I had curled my fingers about his, and he carefully pulled his hands back now, untangling them from mine. I almost staggered to the side as his supporting arms retreated, my bones having forgotten their own solidity at his touch. I traced my own thumb over the cut, washing off the last of the blood. As I felt the heat of his body slip away, I chanced a glance at him over my shoulder. 

“Wait here.” He instructed, then disappeared back into the house.

I heard the clink and shuffling of glass, and the rustling of furniture. It sounded like he was moving the bench and tables. I hesitated, longing to see exactly what he was up to. But I heeded his words. And I did not have to wait long. When he returned, a small square cloth was clutched in one hand. He must have found my clean linens, and came back over to me with it promptly.

Taking my arm gently, he steered me back into the light from the doorway, turning me to face him. He took up my hand again, and carefully wrapped the clean cloth around it. Tying it and tucking the ends out of the way.

To my surprise,  once he finished he dropped my hands only to cup my face in his. Tilting my head back. My eyes widened slightly as he turned my face this way and that. Heat shot up my neck and filled my cheeks, and I blinked at him stupidly. But his eyes didn’t meet mine. Instead, they seemed to be considering my forehead. He slid one hand up, tracing his palm over the spot.

I belatedly remembered headbutting him, and wondered if perhaps there was a sizable bump on my face. Though I wasn’t sure if my sudden inability to focus had anything to do with having knocked skulls with an orc. I supposed it was possible it was the gin that had set me back instead. But I honestly doubted it was either making my breath catch in my throat.

Hans paused, one palm against my temple with his fingers trailing in my hair. The other lingering on my cheek. His stormy blue eyes sought out mine from behind his dark lashes, and catching sight of them made my heart flutter in my chest. He seemed to freeze briefly, and our breath mingled together in the night air between us.

“You were not.” He said after a long, quiet moment.

I blinked a few times, trying to sort his voice through the fog in my head. “I was not... What?”

He ran his thumb out, tracing my lips. “Before. When you said you were too bold… you were not.” His other hand traced over the back of my head, smoothing down my hair. “... and I should have been more bold.”

I nearly squeaked at his words, and had to clamp my lips tightly shut to keep myself from making a peep. But I could not keep myself from quivering as he ran his hand into my hair at the base of my neck. His touch was so warm. So firm and strong and yet so gentle and tender.

With the gin as my courage, I reached up, resting my own hand on top of his at my cheek. I even leaned into his palm, and felt my eyelids dip. It felt so nice, his skin against mine. His warmth. Even the smell of him in the air, despite being dosed with the scent of gin and a tiny hint of blood.

But then he pulled back, dropping his hands away and clearing his throat.

“... I should be going.”

My heart sank with my hopes, deep into the pit of my stomach. But I resisted the urge to reach out to him. To lunge forward and wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his broad chest. My ears turned pink at the thought, and I wrung my hands a little.

“O-of course… It’s late.” I almost whispered. I hoped my disappointment didn’t weigh as heavily in my voice as it did in my chest.

I found I couldn’t look at him, and so wrapped my arms about myself as I stood there quietly. I heard him shuffle across the yard, heard him pick up his armor. Heard it slap against him as he slung it over his shoulder.

My feet moved of their own accord; over to the gate. Sliding the latch back and shoving it open for him. But I still didn’t look at him. I was certain if I did all my weakness would come to the surface and I would make a fool of myself. Beg him to stay. Offer him another dinner. Offer him another entire bottle of gin. Offer him companionable silence, if that’s what he wanted. Anything at all. Just for the chance to spend a little longer with him. Part of me berated myself for such thoughts. Of course he wasn’t interested! He was an orc! A big, strong orc, with lots of talents and obviously a well paying job. Surely he could have anyone he wanted. With all those options, why would he want some little butcher girl?

I heard his big footsteps, and took a few steps back to make room for him to leave out the gate. His boots filled my view, and he paused beside me. He gave a grunt, one of his appreciative ones, I thought. I saw his feet turning to carry their master out into the marketplace again. I blinked my eyes stubbornly, trying to wipe aside their burning edges. His halting footsteps began to fade. Then I thought I heard them stop abruptly, followed by a soft thump of something hitting the dirt and a quiet growl. I frowned through my burning eyes, because now I seemed to be imagining that the sound was getting louder again.

All of a sudden, a great big arm swept around my waist. I gasped as his large hand plunged back into my hair at the base of my skull and he tilted my head up to face him. But the gasp was promptly cut short as the great hulking orc curled over me and crushed his lips against mine.

My initial surprise was quickly replaced by a burning heat. My wide eyes closed, my arms wrapped around his big neck. I felt his thick hair falling like a curtain around me; I could smell nothing but his deep, musky scent. My heart pounded like a drum in my ears, and my breath was shallow and distracted. His mouth tasted sweet; of gin and the dry rub from the meat. He pressed his strong lips firmly but gently to mine, his big hand guiding me against him. As he felt me melt into his arms and respond to his kiss, Hans pulled me closer to himself, practically bending me in half with his eagerness. I molded myself to his body, feeling his firm chest pressed against mine, giddy with the fact that he kissed me so deeply that he lifted me off my feet. 

All too soon, he reluctantly pulled back. Leaving me panting, with my eyes fluttering open to meet his waiting hooded blues. Slowly, he leaned closer and rested his forehead against mine. I smiled, burying the fingers of one hand into his thick mane of hair and sliding the other around to cup his jaw as he slowly placed my feet back on the ground.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” He breathed, and my mouth caught his words right as they left his.

My smile grew, nearly splitting my face. “What stopped you?”

He gave a deep grunt in answer, and I saw his dark eyes flick down to my lips again. When my own eyes dropped to his, I saw his tongue come out and slowly trace his bottom lip. I swallowed the desire to simply close that gap and lean forward to kiss him again. I feared ruining this moment or scaring him off. Despite his strength and size, I felt the orc was more shy than he would ever let on. Timid even, at least when it came to affection.

And so slowly, very slowly, he unwrapped himself from around me. I felt his warmth leaving as bitterly as a door opening into a snowstorm. I felt myself almost shivering from the sudden cold. I retracted my arms equally slowly, wrapping them around myself to ward off the chill left by his absence. But one of his hands lingered, his fingers trailing along the edge of my jaw.

“I’ll be back…” He promised, his deep voice sounding more than a little breathy, “In a day or two… as soon as I’m able.”

“I’ll be here.” I replied, unable to hide my grin.

The corners of his lips twitched, and his brow softened as he looked down at me. Reluctantly, he backed away, his fingers lingering against my skin until I was out of the reach of his long arms. He still watched me for a few steps, walking backwards. Finally, he turned, scooping up his armor again from where he had abandoned it on the ground.

I watched his broad back fade into the silver moonlight, reaching up to pinch myself to see if it was all real.

...

Bar’tok was waiting at the edge of the town. He grinned as the larger orc approached. The deep scowl shot back at him had the younger man quickly clearing his throat and wiping away his smile.

“The roast was delivered, as per your instruction Boss.” He told Hans, falling into step beside him. “And the boys were well fed with the other; they are ready and raring to go.”

The taller orc grunted, dawning his armor without halting a step. The pair moved with purpose to the war hogs snuffing at the treeline beyond the town’s borders. Hans strapped the last buckle of his armor, slapping his hog’s shoulder as the beast shuffled eagerly. Bar’tok wrapped his fingers in the sparse mane of his own mount, then hesitated.

“You know, Boss,” He started, chewing the inside of his cheek, “The boys and I can handle this raid, if you’d rather stay-”

The responding growl sounded more like a rumbling roar deep in the throat of the big orc, and reverberated off the trunks around them. The fierce look shot at his second had the man quickly raising his hands and shaking his head apologetically. Before the larger orc could follow up on the silent threat, Bar’tok bounded into his mounts’ saddle and cleared his throat again apologetically. Hanste’kosh traded his scowl for a dark glare, big brow furrowed, and his companion swallowed nervously.

But the big orc merely yanked the reins of his mount, redirecting the hog with his huge thighs to turn and head deeper into the woods. When his boss was a safe distance away, Bar’tok heaved a deep sigh of relief, glancing over his shoulder. He wondered if that sweet little butcher girl had any idea what kind of trouble she was getting into.

....

UPDATE: Part four HERE

[gerbiloftriumph]

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3) ~ 2/8 - Footprints

~*~*~

Alexander had met the villagers and royal knights, but Graham wanted more than ballroom politeness and hastily muttered, “yes, I’m fine, lovely to meet you”s. He wanted them to be comfortable with each other. His son and his citizens. He was eager to show Alexander all that Daventry had to offer. Almost as soon as Alexander was able, Graham started hovering and gently steering him toward walking the paths with him, to explore what was theirs together. To actually get to know each other.

Even in winter, Daventry glittered. Perhaps even more so in winter, what with the ice in the tree branches and the crunchy snow glimmering in the sunlight. The little waterfalls that cascaded over the rocks in the spring froze into twisted natural sculptures, shards sharp as goblin spears. The air was crisp and clear enough that you could hear a twig snap halfway through the forest.

Alexander dutifully pulled his scarf up higher around his ears and trooped behind his father, silent but observant. Graham chattered to fill the empty air between them, pointing out this place or that.

“Starberries grow here in the late autumn—it's like constellations in the trees. And you won’t believe how loud the frogs in that pond in spring are. You'll hear them from the castle on clear nights. Most of the birds have migrated, but wait until they come back. The sounds they make in the early summer mornings before that golden sun properly comes up over the hills…. Oh, and this path, this one leads to a gorgeous lookout. It’s icy now, but maybe in a couple days we might be able to try it, and you can see the whole valley. It’ll look like it’s been dipped in sugar now, and in the summer the lavender fields make the whole valley purple.”

He desperately tried to paint his kingdom in all its colors for his son. Like he could wrap up the whole thing up as a gift. His son listened and nodded and made occasional noises to let Graham know he was listening, and that was about it.

The first couple walks were the same. Graham babbled endlessly, pressing down his unease that he was being annoying and overbearing. At night, he confessed his apprehension to Valanice, and they talked long into the night together. She insisted that what he was doing was helpful. “He comes back with such a rosy blush in his cheeks.”

“It’s windchill,” Graham fretted, crumpling his cloak in his hands.

“He’s happy,” she said. “Well. Happier. I think. Don’t stop. It’s important for him to see and to hear. But don’t forget to give him space. I know how much you can talk about Daventry when you get started. I know how much you love it. But...give him room.”

The walks continued, and Graham kept himself quiet as much as he talked. Alexander, when he noticed the lengthy pauses, seemed all the more nervous, as though he was expected to fill the silences. And that made him jumpy. But Graham didn’t expect things, just cautiously helped move the conversation forward. It was a bit like trying to help one of the nervous courtiers speak, he decided. He might not know how to talk to a son, but he knew how to talk to his citizens, and while that might not be a long-term solution, at least at first, at least for now, it might help.

And it did.

Alexander, gently coaxed by Graham, started to talk. Not about the past, not yet. But about their present. Started to ask about where they were going. Wanted to risk the icy overlook to see the valley spread below them like a frosted painting. Wanted to know where people lived, what they did. As he talked, Graham realized how starved the boy was for information. He had spent his life locked in Manannan’s grasp, watching the world go by from a distance, and while he was clever and sharp, he simply didn’t know. So Graham showed him everything.

~*~*~*

“What do you think that is?” Alexander pointed down the path.

Graham leaned around a bend in the trail to see what Alexander had found. “Looks like a scarf.”

Alexander fidgeted with his own scarf. “I bet whoever dropped it is cold.”

Graham knelt to pick it up. It was well crafted, a bright green that positively glittered against the slushy path. It had snowed earlier (it seemed to be snowing more often this winter, each day bringing another flurry of flakes), and there were all sorts of tangled footprints crisscrossing each other. Graham hadn’t been paying them much mind before—it was a road, there were footprints in the snow. Not exactly something to write a fantasy novel about.

But now he looked a little more carefully, looked at the size of the tracks. Most were blurred, but he had an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. They almost looked like children’s footprints, but he remembered dark caves, ropes, salamanders, and a gut-punch sense of fear rippled down his spine for an instant. His head snapped up, searching the trees for any additional signs of the goblins he knew were out there.

In the distance, now that he was paying attention, he could hear something hammering, very faintly. The twenty-something, newly crowned king in the back of his head immediately decided the goblins were building cages to take the villagers again. The fifty-something established king told himself to stop exaggerating and assuming the worst. The twenty-something king muttered that inattentiveness was how they’d been captured in the first place. The fifty-something king didn’t actually have an answer to that.

Graham glanced at his son—but if there were goblins out there, and if they did mean harm, it wouldn’t be safe to send the prince back to the castle on his own. And Graham couldn’t leave the sound uninvestigated.

“Come with me, but quietly,” Graham said, motioning Alexander down the path, following the goblin tracks.

The hammering got louder. As they walked, though, Graham realized what it was. Not goblins, at least not in this exact instance. Someone was hammering signs into trees. Brightly colored sheets of paper lined the path. Wanted signs, for stolen socks. They rounded the corner and found the source of the hammering and the sheets.

“Aaah, Acorn,” Graham said, relief sparking through his tense shoulders. “Having trouble?”

“Someone raided my stock,” the knight growled, thumping his hammer against the nail in the tree, lodging the sign firmly. The tree had a ring of impact in it from the weight of the hammer. He had blue and green paint streaking his armor from painting the signs in an angry hurry. “Not so much as a single glove left behind.”

“I think I know who.”

“I knew it! That rival craft shop across the river, right? Knitwits or whatever they’re called? Buncha nitwits. I knew it. Mafia creeps. I’m gonna lodge a formal complaint with the royal guards. Trying to button in on my service area, how dare they?”

“No, not them,” Graham said, and offered the scarf. Acorn gently took it, brushing the dirt off it, looking all the more upset about its condition. “Goblins, I think,” Graham continued. “There’s a whole bunch of their tracks just up the lane.”

Acorn seemed taken aback. “No. Really? They haven’t caused trouble for decades. They’ve kept to themselves. Why would they be stirring up trouble again?”

“Good question,” Graham said. “I intend to find out. Something must have happened.”

Instinctively, both men turned and looked at Alexander. Alexander’s eyes widened and he shrank back, stepping into the shade of a tree and tripping over an upraised root hidden in the snow.

“Possibly,” Graham said, mostly to himself. “I wonder if an audience with the goblin king would be useful.” He realized what his mouth had gone off saying and froze, imagining himself down in the goblin tunnels again, those bleak roads he had once trekked as a prisoner, to keep that appointment. He shook his head, scaring the image away. “I’ll deal with that later. For now, we’ll notify the royal guards and let the rest of the villagers know. I’ll head back to town now.”

“Would you take this back to Amaya if you’re going that way?” Acorn asked, holding the hammer out. “I ran out of signs, but I’m gonna go look around, and I promised I’d get that back to her quick.”

Graham was about to protest, about to suggest it wasn’t safe, and then remembered who he was talking to. The strongest knight Daventry had to offer, and surprisingly deadly with a pair of knitting needles. “You be careful,” he said, grinning. “Don’t scare them too badly or anything if you find them. I’d hate to look bad in front of the goblin king.”

Acorn laughed, and then wandered further down the path into the forest, leaving Graham holding a surprisingly heavy hammer and Alexander shivering with wary uncertainty.

“Would you like to go into town with me?” Graham asked. “If you want to go back to the castle, we can do that too, and then I’ll go on to the town myself.”

“Do you...do you think I’m really...the cause of something?” Alexander asked, his voice hardly audible.

Graham was going to flippantly answer, but the look on his son’s face drew him up short. He put the hammer down—stars it was heavy, what did Amaya want it for—and stood beside Alexander. The cold wind had picked up again, and the threat of a storm was blowing in from the west (always from the west these days, so odd, when winter storms normally blew from the north over the mountains). They drew closer together as a screen from the chill.

“Truly, I don’t think it’s anything you did,” Graham said, after a pause. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or unwanted. Daventry has a long and unsettling history with the goblin kingdom, and we were thinking of that more than anything else.”

“Unsettling history?” Alexander asked. He still looked nervy, a deer startled and ready to run, but that eternal curiosity about everything, so delightful in the Cracker family, was roused.

“It’s...you might not want to hear it,” Graham said, uneasy as he looked ahead to where this conversation might go. “It’s a story about goblins...kidnapping all the villagers. And me. They took me. I don’t...it might...” It might trigger your own memories, were the unspoken words. It might ruin everything, to hear this story.

But Alexander perked his head up, looked toward his father with surprise. And maybe some respect. “What happened? Did you...escape? By yourself?”

“Not completely by myself,” Graham said. “I had help from the villagers. But, yes, we rescued ourselves.”

“I had to rescue myself, alone,” Alexander whispered, so softly Graham wondered if he had been meant to hear it or not. It was the first time Alexander had voluntarily offered any detail regarding what had happened to him. “I...” his voice faded to nothing, and then, in almost a normal volume, like he was trying to force himself to speak, “Would you tell me what happened? If...if you’re okay with that.”

With a kind smile, Graham said, “Yes, I can tell you what happened. Would you like to walk back to town with me while I do? We’ll keep a bit warmer if we move. It was a summer evening, then, but the rain was endless. You’ll get a sense for how monsoon season is in July.” And he unraveled the story about what had happened to him just a few short months after he’d been crowned. How he’d been ambushed by goblins, hauled underground, locked away, and what had happened next.

They hadn’t gotten far into the story by the time they reached the town. Graham had told this tale many times, and it always seemed to get a bit longer with each telling. Real life details fuzzed into something with more defined story structure, tugging wrinkles into out into a proper narrative’s smoothness, with highs and lows that seemed effortless to tell. Privately, though, he knew the raw edge of fear occasionally jangled and caught him off guard at unexpected moments, especially on certain lightning-struck nights when he was feeling tired and edgy. Sort of like catching his arm on a jagged nail in the dark.

But now, in the weak sunlight and the sparkling snow and the crisp air, it was light and easy to tell. He was just explaining about the cure-all potion he would need to restore Bramble’s fading health when they walked through the town gates and found Bramble herself shoveling snow off her front step.

“Ahh, Majesties,” she chirped, sweeping low into a bow, shovel held at attention and dripping slush back onto her stoop. “Lovely day for the moment, though I think you should go inside if that storm keeps heading our way.” She thumbed meaningfully at the clouds racing toward them, chasing the last scraps of sunlight away. “Always a joy to see you in town. Anything in particular you’re up to?”

“Bramble, you haven’t noticed anything strange lately, have you?” Graham asked, ignoring pleasantries.

She hesitated, a little put off by his haste. She wrapped her gloved fingers in her snow-crusted apron strings, considering. “Noticed anything? Acorn went off in a huff this morning, but I’m afraid he’s often in a huff in the mornings. Rather a knight owl. But...no, I can’t say that I’ve noticed anything strange, no more particularly than usual. Is there something I ought to be watching for?”

Graham glanced at the roof—goblins had crowded it once, pounced him flat. It was empty now, except for the snow. It was building up pretty high. He wondered if he should order the royal guards down to help clear the rooftops. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for the shingles to crack under the strain, especially when winter was only getting started. With more snow on the way some of these older structures might warrant a little extra care this year.

He couldn’t dance around the issue. “Bramble, I’m afraid there might be an upsurge in goblin activity.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth, abandoned shovel falling into a snow-covered shrubbery. Of all the villagers, she had been most affected by what had happened, had been very pregnant and very sick for most of her captivity. “You can’t be serious, Majesty.”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, but I have some pretty solid suspicions. I don’t think they’ll do anything. The treaties are still being upheld as far as I know, and Manny is...apparently indisposed.” He glanced at Alexander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, although he was playing with his scarf uneasily, too. “I don’t want to cause alarm. I only want everyone to be a little careful. Maybe don’t walk through the forests alone right now, not until we straighten this out.”

“Of course. Did you tell everyone else?”

“Acorn knows, but I haven’t seen anyone else yet. I’m being proactive. They hurt the town first, last time.” He looked at the worry cracking her normally sunny features and smiled warmly, reaching out and taking her hands. “It isn’t something to worry too much about, yet. They like causing mayhem, remember? Stealing scarves seems like just the sort of trouble they would love. I would recommend caution, of course, but don’t panic. We’ll take care of it before it gets dangerous.”

Relief softened her face. “Come inside, then, lad, let’s get you warmed up. King Graham, something hot to drink?”

“You know you don’t have to call me king,” he said, gently, for the thousandth time.

“I know, Majesty. Still. Cocoa?”

“Let me get this to Amaya first,” he said, hoisting the hammer in his hand to show it off, almost losing his balance as he misjudged its weight. “I’ll stop by after.”

Alexander made to follow Graham, but Graham gently shooed him toward the bakery with Bramble. Overhead, the garlands the villagers had used to decorate the town for the season swayed in the increasing wind.

Amaya’s shop always smelled of hot metal and oil, a tangy greasy feeling in the air that felt like sparks were going to crackle off his arms. Graham rapped his knuckles against the counter’s scraped and battered wood until Amaya shouted from her workroom, “In a minute, hold on to your crown!”

Bemused, he leaned back on his elbows, examining the array of weapons nailed to the walls. She eventually came out a side door, wiping her hands on a rag tucked into her skirt. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked.

“No one else knocks that pattern. Sounds like a song, the way you do it. Ridiculous, dreamy. Like a dopey lullaby. What’s up?”

“Got your hammer.” He dropped it onto the counter with a thump. He winced, having added yet another dent to the rest, but Amaya scooped it up as though it weighed nothing. “Acorn said you needed it back quick. What are you working on?”

“Something for Rosella,” Amaya said.

“Um. Something I should know about?” He still remembered the flaming poisoning raging sword of doom fiasco.

“New game board. Faster version of the home game Battle of Wits—the arrows hurt if they hit the players, ha! Adds some extra tension to rounds. Gotta hammer the board together, and the weight on this hammer in particular is perfect. Wanted to get it to her today if I could. I think she plans on teaching her brother how to play. Speaking of, he here?” She had pulled out said game while talking, hammering the top pieces with wild, ear-ringing abandon.

Graham flinched back from the clanging blows. “He’s with the Feys.”

“That hot chocolate’s gonna fatten him up. Good. Kid needs it.”

“There was something else, Amaya,” Graham said, trying to get a word in edgewise as she delivered a series of ringing whacks to the pieces.

“Has to do with Acorn, I bet. He was in a temper this morning. I mean, he’s always in a temper in the mornings. But he’s usually good at calming down. That bull training or whatever. Not this morning.” Amaya put down the hammer and looked expectant.

“I’m worried the goblins are stirring up trouble again,” he said.

“Ah.” She crossed her arms. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

“I have reason to believe they were in town,” he said, glancing at the shop windows—crusted with snow, hard to see through. Unless you were pressed right against it you wouldn’t see anyone outside. “They stole Acorn’s winter stock. All his scarves and gloves and socks.”

“That might explain why my order of icepicks and chisels has inexplicably gone walking.”

“They’re not arming themselves, do you think?” Graham asked. He could remember spearheads jabbed against his shoulders, could remember the wooden handles slamming against the back of his knees to bring him to their level before they yanked the ropes around his wrists.

“With a chisel? Unless they’re carving some lovely ice swans and bringing them to life with some black magic to attack us, I doubt it. The picks, maybe, but they’ve still got their spears as far as I know, so they don’t need my stuff. This might just be petty thievery. They like that. I never did get my bed back.”

“You didn’t want it back. I did offer to ask.”

“Not worth the effort.” Or the memories. “Still. I’ll keep an eye out. We started barring the gates again this year—this winter is colder, have you noticed? It's driving the wedzels into town, looking for warmer hearths to sleep against. If I catch one by my forge there will be hell to pay. But we’ll be more diligent. I’m not sure if the gates were closed last night or not. I assume I can expect a visit from Number One about patrol schedules?”

“As always. Number One likes to keep you involved.”

“Whisper thinks he’s flirting with me.”

“Whisper thinks everyone’s flirting with you.”

Amaya scowled. “Ridiculous. Still. We’ll be watchful. We’ve dealt with this before, and we’ll take care of it now. Don’t worry, Graham.”

“I’m supposed to be telling you not to worry, not the other way around,” Graham said.

Amaya laughed, handed Graham the completed board game (which weighed considerably more than the hammer had) and pushed him out the door. The light had a distinct gray quality to it, now, the clouds pushing into place. After the forge-warmed shop, the incoming storm’s biting chill nipped Graham’s cheeks, and he shrugged deeper into his cowl, shifting it up around his ears while trying not to lose his grip on Rosella’s order. It would be best to head back to the castle now, to get the royal guards involved, before the storm hit. The villagers would warn each other about the possible threat, and Number One and the other guards would soon have the place safely under patrol.

Wente and Bramble were crammed around a table with Alexander when Graham pushed through the door. A couple of early snowflakes also entered with him, though they melted the moment they hit the hot air. Everything tasted like cinnamon and sugar dust, and Wente had lit a large number of candles to keep the darkness at bay.

“It’s not at all like it was under Edward,” Wente was saying cheerfully, dunking a cookie in hot chocolate and getting crumbs all over the tabletop. “Your father is really doing some delightful expansion work. Used to be we’d lose half the lavender crop to rain. The irrigation system he implemented? That alone has done wonders for Daventry.”

“Oh, King Graham, let me get you a cup of something,” Bramble said, pushing to her feet. “Cider? Cocoa? Something a bit stronger? Your nose is five shades redder than usual.”

“The storm is on its way,” Graham said, shifting the board game but looking longingly at the sweet cider tap.

“Yes, but Daventry Castle is no more than ten minutes up the road. Come on, sit. We’ll get you warmed up before you head out. No goblins will want to move in weather like this, so don’t worry about raising alarm yet.”

“They’re armed with winter caps now, though,” Graham said, trying to spin it into a joke. “I’ve seen them in grass skirts—I'll bet they look ridiculous in scarves.”

“Wrapped around their helmets!” Wente accidentally dropped the last of his cookie in his cup and his mustache drooped as he looked forlornly at the soggy remnants.

“Mistletoe on their spears,” Bramble said.

“Wearing bright green gloves,” Alexander offered, quiet, with what might have been the trace of a smile.

They didn’t stay long—the storm truly was impending, and it made Graham anxious to get back home, but they stayed long enough to drain their mugs, to tell some awful jokes about snowmen, and to speculate about what the goblins might actually be up to. Nothing at all was decided, other than perhaps they’d sensed the oncoming worse winter and had decided to prepare in the only way they knew how: thievery.

By the end of their brief ten-minute chat, Bramble didn’t seem nearly as frightened as she had before, and Wente remembered he had a cupcake he wanted to send up with Graham for Royal Guard Number Two’s birthday (it smelled a little bit like syrup). Alexander had to carry the little paper box, as Graham was still struggling with the board game. He wouldn’t tell Alexander what it was, sure Rosella meant it to be a surprise, and mumbled something about it being for dull castle business.

Acorn stomped in right before the royalty left, shaking snowflakes from his cloak and demanding a frosted bear claw—Alexander looked horrified and confused before Wente handed over a specific type of pastry. He told Graham that the royal guards knew about the goblins now. Acorn had run into Numbers One and Two making a loose patrol loop through the forest, and No1 wanted to see him as soon as possible to confirm their strategy.

“Absolutely, on the way,” Graham said, and waved farewell to his friends and his citizens. Bramble and Wente both gave Alexander warm goodbyes, Wente offering a huge goodbye hug and Alexander gently refusing (although he openly smiled when he refused, definitely the first true smile Graham had seen). Acorn sprayed crumbs everywhere but still managed to cough out a dry “see ya,” and then the king and the prince walked back toward the castle, glowing with the contentment of companionship.

[ask-de-writer]

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN . . . : MLP Fan Fiction

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IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN . . .

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

1612 words

© 2016 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 10/06/16

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

It should have been a dark and stormy night!  Just to be perverse, it was calm, clear and well lit by a nearly full, waning gibbous moon.  

Rory was laying in wait! Nightmare Night was his favorite!  He was lurking in the brush, not far from the cemetery wall.  His costume totally hid his head and cutie mark, making it all the more fun to jump out at the passing foals.  

When he waived that old scythe at them they ran like rabbits!  Dropped their loot bags, as often as not!  Fun all around!  For him.

Pity that he swung wrong, that one time.  Grazed one of the escort ponies.  Nothing serious, but you know, if he got caught the authorities would be like it was the crime of the century!

It added spice to the game!

The slightly wounded mare ran straight for Twilight Sparkle's Golden Oak Library!  Breathless, she panted, “Twilight!  We have to do something!  Look at my neck! There is a big earth pony jumping out of the brush to scare foals into dropping their loot bags!  He waves this big scythe!  He hit me!”

Twilight paused in handing out small books and candies to her Nightmare Night visitors.  Turning, she saw Spike at the ready, quill and parchment in hand.  

“Take a note, Spike!   Dear Princesses Celestia and Luna:  We have a problem here in Ponyville.” In a few words, she described the unpleasant situation.  Spike breathed fire on the note and the smoke streaked away!

Celestia and Luna were presiding over a masquerade dance party of nobles.  It was about as boring as a Nightmare Night celebration could be.  Luna had just observed, “Trust the nobility to make something so fun into a soporific!”

Celestia was giggling agreement when the wisp of smoke sailed in and became a note.  She scanned it and promptly magicked it over to Luna.

“I think that this one is for you, Luna!  Have the fun I am not going to have!”

Reading, Luna began to grin. Fangs showed.  Ghastly pustules appeared in her magic, in lieu of stars.  Her forehooves became claws.  From her normal dark blue, she became utterly black.  She answered Celestia, “I will!  I have not spoken to Swift Feather in a long time.”

Dryly Celestia observed, “Being dead for 3000 years does tend to cut off the conversation!”

Luna said in a soft voice, “There is a loophole in that.  I rule the Dream.  The Dream can cross time.”  She stalked out of the hall.  Her condition upon leaving was noted by the Herald.

“Your Highness, what has so upset Princess Luna on this festive night in her honor?”

“It was not this festivity, however boring it may be.  We had word of an evil thing in Ponyville. She is going to take care of it.  She will return soon, I am reasonably sure.”

~~ ~~

Swift Feather lay in her sleeping stall in Fortress Canterlot.  She hated garrison duty.  She wanted to FLY.  To carry out the good orders of her Princesses, so recently crowned.

Sleep came at last.  With it came a dream.  She saw her Princess Luna.  She looked the same as the Princess that she knew except that somehow she seemed older, more experienced.

In her Dream, her Princess gave her the most welcome of orders.  “Kit up, Swift Feather.  Full battle gear.  We have a wrong to put to rights.”

With the speed of dream, Swift Feather was ready.  “Where are we going?  What is it that we need to do, my Princess?”

The Dark Princess replied, “Follow me.  It is not far by dream, though the distance is greater than mere leagues.

“Your wise leadership has secured us a great and mostly peaceful kingdom.  We are going to stop one who would spoil the simple fun of many foals.”

Their wings spread, they flew through the mighty stone walls of the Fortress of Canterlot.  Swift Feather saw in wonder, the very land beneath their wings change.  The flying years beneath them saw forests grow and die.  Fields planted and harvested in the blink of an eye, the stroke of a wing.

A town grew suddenly beneath them and Luna spiraled down, Swift Feather following.  Luna pointed silently to a small herd of foals in outlandish costumes.  They gathered at the door of a home and sang, “Nightmare Night!  What a fright!  Give us something sweet to bite!”

The smiling householder, also in costume, hoofed around a bowl of treats.  The young ones eagerly took some, placing them into bags.

Luna directed, “Go and join them.  Take with you this bag for your sweets.  I promise that your skills will be needed soon.”

Puzzled, Swift Feather did as asked by her Princess.  Settling her weapons properly for parade, she stepped out of the darkness and joined the foals.

They looked at her light aerial battle armor, with its bracers protecting her legs and wing joints. Her chanfron battle helmet, chain armor for her guts and steel for her flight muscles, spine and back.

One of them, in a sort of goblin costume, asked in wonder, “Wow!  You look like a warrior from Fortress Canterlot!  Who are you dressed as?”

Catching the mood, Swift Feather replied, “Good guess!  I am Swift Feather, Flight Leader and Wing Commander to the Princesses Celestia and Luna of Fortress Canterlot!”

A little witch costumed filly commented, “Your outfit looks like real armor and weapons!  Could I look at your shield and spear?”

Swift Feather nodded indulgently and held out her small targe and carefully unslung her air combat spear with its fins to guide its fall if it was used against a ground target.

Emboldened, the foals crowded about to examine her war gear.  One bold colt tapped her breastplate. Awed, he said, “That is real steel.  My dad is a smith.  This is a totally awesome costume!  It would be right at home in a museum!”

As Swift Feather replaced her spear and and small targe-sheild she understood what Princess Luna meant by a distance of more than mere leagues.  Remembering the rest of her instruction, she thoughtfully settled her weapons for instant use.

She joined the happy chant of the foals and was given her fair share of the treats as well as many compliments on her costume.  

Soon the group started up a street with brush and a stone wall on one side.  

Remembering that she was to right a wrong and that there was one who would try to spoil the foal's fun, she cautioned, “Let me lead you.  This place does not look safe to me.  It could be an ambush.”

The foals, thinking it a game, did fall in behind her.

Rory lunged out, swinging his scythe!  The foals screamed and fell back.  

Swift Feather's targe caught Rory's deadly blade and deflected it up past her head!  She dove in close, using her spear shaft to block Rory from pulling his scythe back!

Enraged at the failure of his trick, Rory tried to spin about so that he could continue what was now a real attack!  When the vicious swing was just starting, Swift Feather stabbed!  The combination of his spin and her thrust drove the spear deep into his shoulder!

The scythe clattered safely away across the cobbles!  Shocked, Rory screamed his agony!  He was down and kicking frantically!

The astounded foals watched the combat in utter amazement!  Not one dropped a loot bag!  Swift Feather pulled back, her targe at the ready, a short, pointed stabbing sword at the guard in her skilled hoof.

Assured that the enemy was down and safe, she directed in her best military manner, “One of you get a constable!  The rest search those bushes!  He has stolen other foal's treats!  We must see if they can be returned to their proper foals!”

The youngsters, responding to her air of total authority, sprang to follow her orders!  The smith's colt sprinted up the street for help!  The others found the loot bags in Rory's hidden ambush place.

The situation now under control, Swift Feather heard the voice of Dream, of Princess Luna, speaking in mind, “You have done very well, this night, Swift Feather!  Fly back with me across the ages to your well earned rest.”

She took off in a thunder of wings.  A watching filly said admiringly, “Look how well she can fly with all of that armor!”

Together, Swift Feather and Luna flew across ages back to Fortress Canterlot and through its stout stone walls.  Swift Feather saw her sleeping self and faded into her body.  Lips curled into a smile for her good dream of righting a wrong.

When she awoke, she found a bag with treats in it under her pillow.

~~ ~~

In Ponyville, the Constable Crager was trying to make sense of the scene.  The foals were the only witnesses and they would not budge from their story.  “It was Flight Leader Swift Feather from Fortress Canterlot!  She said so herself!”

Looking at the antique design of the aerial battle spear in Rory's shoulder and then at the big scythe laying in the street, Constable Crager could almost believe it.  The Ambulance Ponies were getting Rory stabilized for removal to Ponyville General Horspital.

One commented, “We are going to have to get that spear out of his shoulder to get him into the ambulance!”

The blacksmith's colt pointed to the spear and said, “No you don't.  Look, Swift Feather is taking it back to Fortress Canterlot!”

The solid seeming spear lodged in Rory's shoulder quietly faded away like a dream upon awakening. The wound that it left behind, however, failed to fade at all.

~THE END~

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[katerinawinters]

The Witcher: No Turning Back Chapter 6

"The life of a witcher cannot and will not be stationary one."

 That was what Geralt told her the day he announced they were leaving their quaint cottage.

 "What?! We're leaving our home," she stared at him in shock, the wooden sword she was holding sagging in her hands.

 Giving her a meaningful look towards her sword he commanded her without words to lift it back into the proper position. "Mmmm," he murmured in that frustratingly deep voice as he took a few steps towards her with his own wooden sword held ready. "We need supplies, you need experience in battle beyond my teachings, and I…I need to move freely lest I lose my mind."

 Dodging his blow, Ciri tumbled to her left and struck out with her sword at his shins. Not surprisingly Geralt's wooden sword met hers perfectly stopping the assault.

 Standing up, Ciri wiped sweat from her brow and gave him a narrowed look of frustration. "What of the Nilfgaard army? What if we are spotted?"

 Twirling his sword with a skilled playfulness that still suggested at a note of deadliness, Geralt gave her a taunting smirk. "And what if the mountain we sleep under each night succumbs to the constant rain we have been getting and crushes us in our sleep?" Holding the sword in that peculiar way he was so fond of, more like a dagger rather than a sword, Geralt approached her slowly. His eyes alert but playful while his steps were cautious and purposeful. "What if someone had spotted us on our way here and went back to report to the Nilfgaard general where exactly we are, what then?"

 Annoyed, all Ciri wanted to do was throw a rock at the man's head but she knew he was doing this on purpose. Geralt was not a cruel man, she knew that firsthand. A cruel man would not hold her each night as he had been doing for a week now, using his warmth and silent strength to shield her from her dreams and comfort her through her unwanted memories.

 Knowing that there were only a handful of attacks he could perform from his current position Ciri readied herself as he approached. She watched as the muscles in his exposed forearm flex as he begun to spin the sword.

 Now.  

 Tossing her sword to her left hand she caught it midair as she took two running leaps, one foot landing on his left thigh just as her sword hand blocked his and her to her foot landing higher near his right hip taking her higher until she could lift both legs in one leap. Geralt's mild look of surprise was the last thing she clearly saw from his face as she locked her thighs on either side of his head pushing him backward onto the ground with a mighty thud. The move almost toppled her off as well but she held on, pivoting her weight backward as she rode him down. With his face buried between her legs, she held a wooden dagger she secretly crafted the day before over the spot between his eyes.

 Triumphant she cheered with unbridled glee. "By the old gods, I did not know if that would actually work but it did!"

 Grabbing her knees Geralt pried them apart just enough to free his face. His amber eyes were practically alight with raw intensity. But he made no movements of reprisal, he just sat there still gripping the tops of her knees looking up at her from between her legs.

 Self-conscious of her position, her instincts told her to move immediately but she did not. Staying where she was, she tilted her head, pushing back a few locks of her hair, and gave the witcher beneath her a questioning look. "Will we come back?"

 As if he was completely fine with the position, he let his hands continue to rest on the curve of her bent knees and shrugged slightly, causing her whole body to move under the gesture. "If we can. If this place is still here for the taking."

 "But if we can and if it is?" she stressed. "We will come back to stay." Ciri did not want to leave their little cottage. It was like a hidden realm untouched by war and death, a place where she could finally breathe.

 "Only for a short time," his tone was deep and final but she could see a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "Once we can bypass the Nilfgaard army safely, we continue onward."

 "Onward to continue my training as a witcher, right?" she pressed.

 "Yes." His eyes drifted down from hers and settled back on the juncture between her legs as if he was casually taking stock of the position, they still sat in. Curving his hands over the rounds of her knees he let them slide up the tops of her thighs until they rested at her hips.

 Ciri's sex clenched at the feeling reminding her yet again she should move from this completley improper position. Not just yet, she thought, willing herself to ignore the building heat in her core as his eyes slowly dragged from the seam between her legs to her eyes again.

 "And once I am a full-fledged witcher," she whispered, "what then? Will you leave me to go back to journeying alone?"

 His gaze dropped from hers and his grip on her hips tightened. Lifting her up, he sat upright placing her back down until she sat astride his muscular thighs. Nearly chest to chest they say together staring at one another before he finally answered. "I will say this only once Ciri. Unless there comes a point in time where you decide to go your own way, I will never abandon you."

 Placing her hands on his chest, Ciri gave him a determined look. "I will never want that."

 Geralt smirked. "Then there is nothing else to discuss."

 #

 "I told you to behead it," Geralt's infuriating 'I told you so' tone rumbled next to her.

  Holding both arms outward Ciri grimaced as she looked down her chest to the rest of her gunk covered body. Black sludge and viscera covered her practically everywhere. Pursing her lips together so none of the disgusting sludge would get in her mouth, Ciri pulled her shirt outward and wiped her mouth with the inside of the material. Looking down at the eviscerated goblin Ciri stepped carefully away from the felled creature trying her best to pick a spot not covered in sludgey black organs to step on.

 "You still need the head," the deep bored tone of the witcher reminded her from somewhere behind her.

 Ciri stopped and stiffened, not even daring to look at the white-haired man. She knew without the need to look he was clean from the disgusting gunk and most likely giving her that knowing smirk she knew all too well. Annoyed with him and herself Ciri pulled her silver dagger from her belt and poked the creature. A technique which was considered cheating by the witcher academy but one Geralt taught her nonetheless. "Technically you should know if a creature is fully dead by the killing blow you delivered, but I cannot tell you how many near misses I have had and the needless deaths others have had because a creature they thought was dead turned out to be still quite alive." Seeing no reaction from the creature by the touch of her sanctified blade, Ciri re-sheathed the dagger and grabbed the goblin by its grotesque head and began cleaving it from its neck with her sword.

 With head in hand she turned back to see Geralt standing with Roach, both taking in the state of her.

 "Luckily for you there is a river nearby," he said, turning and leading Roach to follow.

 "Yes well, aren't I just so lucky," she mumbled trudging along behind them.

 Grabbing a sack from Roach's pack she bagged the noxious head and tied it to the saddle. Grabbing a clean strip of cloth, she began wiping her sword. Both of her weapons were gifts from the witcher. He had given them to her on the second week into their journey, having them both made in a small-town blacksmith he seemed to use in the past judging by the friendly familiar greetings he shared with the smithy. When she realized what he was having made and why, Ciri nearly cried, it took all of her willpower to hold back the tears as he handed her the new blades. She knew they had cost a lot; she had watched Geralt hand the man a large sack of coins and another smaller sack of silver to use for her dagger. Money, where once in her life had no real meaning was now a dominating factor in her life. Meticulously wiping the blade down, she promised herself that tonight before she fell asleep by the fire and next to Geralt's side that she would clean and care for the blade more in depth by the light of the fire.

 After a while of walking she could hear the sound of water as they approached and finally stopped at the river's edge. It was more like a stream in her opinion. A river should be a swelling strip of water with a steady current, rich with life and depth. Not a measly trickling thing such as this. With no real choice, she approached the water's edge and bent down testing the water with her hand.

 Pulling back with a hiss, she turned her head and glared at the man who was now leaning against a tree. "It's absolutely freezing," she informed him with every bit of blame she could muster in her voice.

 Arching one brow he gave her a deadpan stare. "It's winter, Princess."

 Tsking underneath her breath Ciri turned back to the water and stood up straight. Having grabbed her change of clothes from Roach's pack beforehand she set them down near her. Knowing Geralt had no intention of leaving the area, Ciri began to discreetly undress. Kneeling down by the water she dipped her cloth in the frigid water and began to wipe herself down while her mind wandered to the sweet daydream of the time, they had their very own bathtub. Just thinking of the nice warm tub and their cozy little cottage, that was most likely plundered by roaming savages by now, made her want to throw something.

 "Now tell me what you did wrong," Geralt ordered.

 Suppressing the urge to sigh heavily, Ciri continued washing off the grime. With her top completely off, she began to strip off her pants. When she first did this, weeks ago now, she was shaking like a leaf. Getting undressed in front of Geralt seemed impossible, but the witcher gave her very little options. She could either bathe with his protection or she could go to bed covered in monster guts.

 Sitting on a big lumpy rock near the water's edge she sat down completely naked as she quickly and discreetly washed between her legs. Down and loose from the bun she usually kept it in, her ashen colored hair created a curtain around her back and shoulders giving her a modicum of privacy.

 "I know where I went wrong," she admitted, recalling the fight with the oversized goblin. "When I had the opportunity to take its head, I hesitated forcing me to bring my blade up at my flank from his belly to his chin." Its engorged belly full of sickeningly black guts, she thought with a lurch to her stomach.

 Using her bar of soap that had a faint scent of lavender, a purchase she made recently in the last town of Subik they visited, Ciri began scrubbing her hair.

 "And why did you hesitate?" Geralt pressed, his voice still coming from his spot near the tree line behind her.

 Cupping handfuls of freezing water, Ciri rinsed her hair thoroughly. By now she was practically frozen to the bone, but she was clean, she thought with satisfaction. Ignoring her dripping wet hair, she quickly dressed in her clean clothes, washed her soiled clothes, and stood up casting a furtive glance to the witcher.

 Amber eyes caught her immediately. As usual there was nothing there, no flush of desire, no awareness of her as a woman, nothing to register that he recently had full view of a naked young woman--just cool indifference.

 Dropping her gaze from his, Ciri walked past him to the area of their camp for the night.

 "I didn't think I could do it," she admitted.

 "Explain," he said darkly.

 Dropping her supplies near the base of a large tree she picked up her soaked clothes and began hanging them to dry on nearby branches. Pausing in her movements, she thought of how to answer.

 "I didn't think I could physically cut it off," she said, embarrassment and shame coursing through her. "I felt that the blade would have just gone partway through and…"

 "And what?" the sudden sound of his gravelly voice directly behind her made her jump a little.

 Quickly hanging the sodden top over the branch, she turned to see his wide chest inches from her face. Wearing his black shirt and black fitted pants and boots, the outfit made the white of his hair and gold of his eyes stand out somehow even more so. Hanging in one of his hands was a strip of dry cloth. Silently he lifted the material and wrapped it around her neck, wordlessly commanding her to dry her hair.

 The simple action made her skin tighten with goosebumps and her eyelids grow heavy. She wanted to step forward and bury her head into his chest. Ciri wanted to nuzzle the V shaped opening at his collar that exposed the hair on his massive chest beneath. She wanted his touch, but she knew she could never have it.

 Taking the cloth into her grip she began rubbing her hair before answering. "And I didn't want you to see me fail at something so simple."

 Her words seemed to echo briefly in the air between them before slowly fading away into the silence. The witcher said nothing. Seconds ticked by and Ciri could not seem to pull her gaze away from his chest and meet his. Why wasn't he saying anything?

 Finally, Geralt moved stepping back to turn around. Walking to Roach he began to rifle through his bag, a slight chuckle carrying on the breeze.

 Pain hollowed her stomach at the sound.

 "Honestly, I fully expected that to happen," he turned back to her with a grin before taking a drink from his canteen.

 Giving him an incredulous stare. "You did?!"

 "If you were able to cleave the head off that goblin in your first try, I would have seriously spent the night tending to my wounded pride," looking at her confused expression he let out a deep bark of a laugh. "Every young witcher in training, hell anyone in training whether they be warrior or knight has to develop the strength and skill to wield a weapon, especially to take off a creature's head in one fell swing."

 "Then why didn't you just tell me that in the beginning?!" she stomped.

 Settling down against the large tree she previously put her stuff next to, Geralt leaned against it with a slight groan. "Because princess, you need to learn that failure is a reality in life."

 "It never seems to be for you," she mumbled taking her designated spot next to him, a routine they have done every night since they met.

 "You have no idea," his dry chuckle seemed more for himself, as if he was briefly lost in a memory.  "Now sleep."

 Preparing to lay down on her bedroll she paused. "You're not going to bathe?"

 "I rather not bathe in the dead of winter in a freezing river when we will be in town by sundown tomorrow. There, I will take a nice warm bath maybe even with some paid company."

 "Fine!" she huffed, immediately angry at his illicit intentions. Though he had threatened to enjoy evenings with paid whores before, he never actually done it, at least not with her. Ciri wasn't fool enough to believe this man has not indulged in such activities in the past she just rather hoped he was just teasing her. The thought of him spending the night with someone felt like a knife to her back. Giving him one last scowl, she settled into her bedroll before mumbling. "Continue to smell like a horse's ass."

 She knew without looking that the evil man was smirking and she tried her best to calm down and focus on going to sleep. Snuggling deeper under her wool blanket she waited for the familiar pressure she had grown accustom to.

 The sound of the winter breeze whipping through the trees was all she could hear as she waited--and waited. Ciri's stomach tightened in rejection as her mind began to race with worry. Why wasn't he doing it? He did it every night? It was something she looked forward to, needed even. When he first did it, on the first night after leaving their cottage she gave him a questioning look. He told her even witchers need to sleep and told her it was for her safety that no matter what happened he would know the moment something happened to her. So why wasn't he doing it now, she screamed in her head!

 The sudden heavy weight of his hand settling on the curve of her hip nearly made her wilt in relief. Immediately, her body relaxed as she soaked in the heady heat his hand radiated. Closing her eyes Ciri slept.

 #

 Dismounting from Roach Geralt walked ahead of her and stopped to talk to a portly man standing next to the large double doors. With his arms folded and his expression tired, if not a little worn he spoke to Geralt in a low tone Ciri could not quite hear from where she stood with Roach. It was dusk when they entered the bustling town. When Geralt mentioned the town off-handedly earlier she imagined it to be a small village or maybe a clone of that depressing little village they saw nearly months ago just before they were attacked by those fleders. No, this town was not like that at all. It was easy to tell that whoever the mayor was of this town, they kept it in somewhat decent order. The streets, although while being dirt and still caked with mud from the never-ending drizzle of rain, had boards running down the middle that allowed people to walk on and avoid the thick piles of mud. Guards were stationed sporadically around the town and patrolled the streets regularly, keeping a silent air of order as people walked to and from, some smiling and some looking determined as if late for work despite the time of night. Like everyone she had seen thus far this rotund man was obviously of the merchant class from the greased stained canvas apron that hung from his hips, his disheveled hair, and overall wearied demeanor.  The man looked the sort that got up before the sun each day and got to work until well after sundown.

 Ending his conversation with the man, Geralt walked back towards her and grabbed Roach's reigns. Located at the corner of town near the large bordering stone wall that encircled the town, the barn in which Geralt started walking towards sat next to a large two-story house. Like all the building's in town, the house seemed to be made of partly stone and wood. Large dark boulders stacked tightly on top of one another framed the whole bottom half of the house, reaching to what Ciri could only assume was the second floor before changing into the wood-framing of the house. She wondered if it was built that way in case a fire broke out. Fires were one of the biggest fears when living in a village made mostly of wood. One fire could easily breakout and destroy a whole town by nightfall, killing many and undoubtedly leaving scores of people without a home. But if the houses were stone or at least partly stone the damage wouldn't be so bad.

 Leading the horse across the muddy strip of road that curved in front of the house and barn, Geralt stopped just inside. Cold and musty, the barn was dark and dank. She could hear at least two other horses inside snuffling and shifting around in their stalls.

 "Wait here," Geralt said, looking beyond her head at the stall behind her. "Put Roach in the stall near the back on the left."

 She opened her mouth to ask him where he was going, but Ciri stopped herself. She already knew, didn't she? He told her last night what he intended, so why ask him now. She didn't want to hear him say it, she wasn't sure she could stand to hear the words spoken again. Jealousy burned bitterly in her throat as she simply nodded. Securing his sword, he turned and walked out the stable door.

 Heaving a heavy sigh, Ciri looked to Roach's large glossy eye. "Come on, let's at least get you settled."

 Walking him to the stall Geralt indicated, Ciri backed the obedient horse into the stall. She left his saddle on, just in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Looking around she spotted a small pile of hay near another stall, thankfully the loft hatch door above was left open allowing a little moonlight from outside to filter inside. Grabbing two big handfuls of hay she walked over to Roach who was giving her a much more eager look now.

 "Oh, I see someone is perky," she whispered as she held out the dry hay for him to munch on.

 Despite her still lingering jealousy over Geralt "activities" for the evening she couldn't help but smile at the feeling of Roach's mouth gently rubbing at her palms as he dined on his hay.

 Looking to her right, further into the dark crevices of the barn, she let out another heavy exhale as she held her hands steady for the horse. "Mmm you think I should try and find somewhere to lay down in here for the night, Roach?"

 "Why would you do that?"

 The sound of Geralt's rumbling voice made her jump in surprise. Whirling around she was beyond shocked to see the giant white-haired warrior only standing a few feet away from her. Pulling in a deep breath, anything to try and calm her racing heart, she let her eyes drop to the large sack in his hand and her eyebrows furrowed in question.

 "Grab my pack from the saddle and come on," he gestured past her to where Roach stared at them curiously in his stall.

 Doing as she was told; she ran to catch up with him as he left the stables and turned towards the side door of the large house from which the grease stained man from earlier went into. Stepping through the doorway, Ciri nearly sighed at the warmth and the delicious smell of warm bread filling the small hallway. Down the hallway she could see a set of narrow stairs leading up while on the other end was a doorway leading beyond to what she assumed was the greater living space and another that led to the kitchen where she could see movement.

 The man from earlier stepped out from the doorway to their right, both of his thumbs were hooked into the band of his apron and he gave them a narrowed look. "Upstairs, fourth door on the right," he instructed before sternly adding. "And just for one night, you hear, witcher. We are even after this."

 Geralt gave the man a silent look. It wasn't menacing nor was it friendly, just a stoic look from his naturally aggressive face that held just a bit too long, enough to make the man squirm. And just when the man opened his mouth to say something Geralt finally gave him a nod.

 "Consider this full repayment."

 Geralt turned to walk up the stairs.

 "Wait," Thomas cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to grab something from an older lady who peered worriedly over his shoulder before slinking back into the kitchen beyond sight. Turning back to them with a large basket in his hand he thrusted it to Geralt. "It's just a bit of food."

 Looking at the basket, he still held high in his hands as if inspecting a foreign item Geralt eventually lowered it and nodded to the man. "Many thanks."

 Going up the narrowed stairs they came up to a dark landing. There wasn't even a candle lit, just a window at the end of the hall that let in so little nocturnal light that it was almost useless. Geralt however had no issues managing the dark hall, walking past by many shut doors he easily found the door they were instructed to and walked in. She so needed enhanced night vision, she thought with a pout as she followed him inside. A few mutant modifications to her person, sure, it would be well worth it, she figured.

 The room was much larger than she imagined, and far cleaner too. The furnishings were simple: a few bedside tables, a large lumpy looking feather mattress on a simple wooden frame, a fireplace, two worn area rugs that had seen better days, and the absolute pinnacle of the room--the focal point where both her and Geralt stared at with near lust--a huge wooden tub.

 "Ar..are we…?" she stammered with disbelief in her voice.

 "Yes," he grumbled with pure satisfaction. "A little over a year ago I stepped in and killed a vampire who had taken it upon himself to use Thomas's inn here as his personal layer. Thomas couldn't repay me at the time but I told him I would most likely travel this way in the future and here we are," he explained.

 Setting his heavy leather saddle pack near the bed she flopped onto the floor, not wanting to dirty the bed linens with her mud stained clothes.

 Setting the basket and sack cloth on the floor in front of her, Geralt lowered himself to the floor as well letting out a deep tired groan. Delving into the sack he produced two large bottles encased in a form fitting wicker weave and a few meat pies wrapped in thin muslin. Handing her the still warm pie, Ciri couldn't stop herself from taking a greedy bite as she watched in gleeful excitement as he pulled even more delicious goodies from the basket. Sinking her teeth into the meat pie, Ciri shut her eyes in pure pleasure as the rich flavors of the seasoned meat and toasted pie crust came together in her mouth. They had been eating good on their journey, wild vegetables and freshly killed game each night but this--this was far different. Bread and spices mixed with meat, was simply a savory treat she hadn't experienced in what felt like forever.

 Leaning against the bed's frame Geralt pulled one knee upward while letting his other stretch outward as he tore off a hunk of bread. Using a knife, he pulled from his boot, he used it to spread a generous amount of butter he found wrapped in waxed paper before handing her the slathered piece.

 Ciri paused for a second and looked up to him. His amber eyes glowed warmly as he stared back at her with an air of amused patience, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.  Grasping the crusty edges of the bread, she was surprised to find it soft and still warm.

 "Thank you," her voice was so low it was nearly a whispered.

 He said nothing. Slathering his own piece of bread, he took a large bite out of it while grabbing a roast leg of duck.

 Silence passed between them for a few moments, just the sounds of the fire crackling in front of them and the occasional sound of people hollering and talking from outside as they passed through the streets.

 Uncorking one of the bottles Geralt poured two cups and handed her one. "Tell me," he began, handing her a cup with an obviously less amount than his own. "Why did you think I would leave you in the stables tonight?"

 The piece of bread she was attempting to swallow got caught in her throat. Grasping for her cup at her side she took a big swallow of the mildly sweet wine. Coughing she looked up at him in tears. The mild look of amusement in his eyes didn't helps her pride.

 "I…I thought you said you would be enjoying other…activities…tonight," she struggled with the awkward words, unable to meet his gaze.

 Geralt let out a short bark of laughter before shaking his head. "I was joking Ciri, witchers may not be considered human but trust me when I say I do have the rare capabilities to attempt humor."

 Feeling her face heat in embarrassment, she nodded as she focused on her the honeyed pastry in her hand.

 Slowly the silence that descended on them once more, gradually changed into a comfortable one once again. Wrapping the remainder of the uneaten food and packing it into their satchel Geralt looked to the giant empty tub and back to her.

 "We only get to fill it up once," he said, his expression serious.

 Ciri let the full implications of his words settle in before her eyes widened in realization. Nodding her head slowly she looked at the gigantic tub. "I see," she said with forced calmness.

 It made sense she thought, as Geralt turned on the spigot that stuck out from the brick in front of the wooden tub. The spigot was connected to a pipe that most likely ran to a cistern that sat on the roof. Heated by coals, the cistern would only have a very limited supply of hot water. Two large baths were just not feasible.

 Standing up, Ciri grabbed her bag from the pack and walked to the far corner of the room. As the water filled the tub, she began to undress. Fishing out a long piece of clean cloth, they kept for potential injuries that may need to be wrapped, she used it to wrap around her breasts while leaving on her underwear.

 "Clever," he said from across the room.

 Still crouched, Ciri peered over her shoulder at him. He was shirtless wearing only his trousers which were untied in the front leaving them to flap partially open, giving her the barest hint of dark hair just below his pants. Whipping her head back around, she stared at the wall in front of her as her heart thrashed against her breastbone.

 Behind her there were sounds of water splashing and shifting.

 "It will be a tight fit, but the water is hot," he informed her, his silent encouragement to hurry was not lost on her.

 Taking a deep breath to steady the nervousness in her stomach, Ciri stood up straight. He has seen you completely naked, she told herself, there was no real difference now. Stepping up to the tub, Ciri forced herself not to peer through the water's depths at the rest of the witcher's body hidden beneath. Although, she thought as she stepped in and lowered herself into the wonderfully hot water, he had seen her naked nearly a dozen times now it would be only fair if she saw him in return. No, she told herself, she would resist looking and just be content with what she did allow herself to look at with absolutely no shame and no limit--his bare chest. With her knees drawn up to her chest, for modesty's sake and as well as to allow the huge witcher plenty of room she laid her cheek against her knees as she watched contently as he soaped himself. It was such a massive chest, she thought. The type of chest her grandmother would have lustfully called a barrel-chested sort. Broad and covered in hair, his chest was thick and solid setting the tone for the rest of the man's extremities. Like his arms, his chest bulged with muscles with each movement. In Cintra, Ciri had seen countless knights, warriors and secret lovers pass through the halls and fight on display and had witnessed her fair share of men's naked chest. But she could never remember any that matched this man's body. Instead of a soft belly that told a story of the man's diet, Geralt's was flat and rippled with muscles down to his tapered waist--it was highly unusual for a man his age and highly distracting.

 "Stretch out your legs," His deep voice cut through her thoughts forcing her to tune back into the present.

 Looking up at him she shook her head. "I'm sorry what?" she said, wanting him to repeat whatever it was he just said.

 "Stretch out your legs, relax," he repeated. "Here, give me your left foot." Holding his hand out just below the water's surface he waited for her to abide the softly given command.

 Slowly she stretched out one leg, her toes pointed out straight, until it settled into the warm cradle of his hand. Positioning her leg over his own until it laid partially over his right thigh Geralt silently called for her other leg. Lowering her knee and obliging, Ciri left herself exposed with only the now translucent material of her makeshift top to cover herself in the ever-lapping hot water that surrounded them both. Placing her leg in the space below his bent left knee, Ciri let out a nearly inaudible exhale of contentment at the new position.

 No words were spoken as contentment settled through them both. The now milky, soapy waters were slowly cooling as they both lounged with their arms outstretched and their heads back. Ciri hardly stirred when she felt Geralt's firm but gentle grip on her leg, picking it up and readjusting it to a new spot. Lackadaisically, she heard the sound of water cascading down and felt Geralt get up from their tub leaving it noticeably empty, but Ciri could not muster the strength to open her eyes instead she found herself falling deeper and deeper into an all-consuming sleep.

 Nuzzling deeper into the soft fabric beneath her Ciri turned towards the source of radiating source of heat next to her. Hot bare skin seared wonderfully against her face as she let out a small sleepy sigh of contentment. The silken skin of her legs glided against each other, sending muted signals of alert into her subconscious mind. Her hand reached out and met a wall of heat, unmoving and searing to the touch. A deep rumbling groan vibrated around her in response.

 Ciri opened her eyes and her heart froze. Laying shirtless on his back next to her, Geralt had one arm extended out which she was currently using as her pillow. Becoming more and more aware of every breath, movement, and twitch of muscle as the seconds ticked by Ciri could feel the thick bicep under her head with perfect clarity. She was surprised by the comfort the immense knot of muscle had given her as she slept--but not now, not anymore. Now, she was aware and too stiff to do anything other than focus on all the heart-stopping facts namely the fact that she was naked. Taking a shaky breath, she amended that thought, not naked just practically naked. Wearing a long shirt, one she was positive belonged to Geralt judging by the deep woodsy male scent of the fabric, she knew by the pressing feel of the fabric against her naked breasts that she wore nothing underneath.

 Shifting stiffly next to him, she risked a glance upwards to his face and froze. Amber eyes stared at her through the dim light of the room. The blazing fire she had watched dance in the hearth earlier was small and pitiful now, barely lighting the dark room. But Ciri could see Geralt clearly. There was just enough trickling moonlight coming from the window to illuminate the hard-rising planes of his chest and the golden hue of his eyes. Geralt said nothing as he let his gaze linger on hers, his stare not harsh but certainly not placid. There was something there, something pooling in those amber eyes that made her want to turn away, to run, but at the same time wrap her arms around his neck and whisper all the shameful things she wanted him to do. Her breath came out in shorter more rapid bursts of air as she lost herself in his eyes while desperately searching for the right words to say.

 A deep feminine torment lit within her eyes as her body began to react to his presence. Anxious and restless all at once, she did her best not to fidget against him while praying she could somehow make some space between them. Although he had yet to utter a sound and made no movement besides blinking, she felt as if everything around her was growing too unbearable to stand. The sheets beneath and around her were too hot, his muscled arm under her head was too hard, his large body next to her was too overwhelming. Even her own body was beginning to betray her. Her breasts felt heavier as his fiery amber gaze lowered to her lip that she held between her teeth. Tingling and hot, her sex reacted to this bold perusal making her want to shift in discomfort. There was something cruel and wonderous about his slow-moving gaze over her features that made her want to growl and sigh at the same time. Ciri had to get up. She had to leave this bed or she was going to implode-- or worse, do something incredibly stupid.

 Making to move backward, Ciri began to slide herself away when she felt Geralt shift suddenly. The brief confusion in her eyes turned to shock as she felt his other hand glide underneath the covering and settle on her naked hip. The shirt she wore had risen above her hips in her movement baring her from the waist down beneath the covers. Geralt's expression remained unchanged as he gripped her hip and kept his gaze locked with hers.

 "Wha…" Her words were lost on her lips as her sex turned to liquid heat by his next action.

 Curving his hand purposly along the rounded flesh of her ass, causing her to shiver, he let his large callused hands dip down until he was able to grab her thigh and lift her leg, parting her. Withheld breath, she watched him with her eyes wide and mouth agape as he fitted his muscled thigh between her legs. Shifting until both hands were now placed on each of her hips and her head now laid against the pillow, Geralt gave her hard look.

 "Go to sleep, Ciri,"

 Ciri's mouth just hung open as she barely took a breath. Here she was completely naked from the waist down with his trouser clad leg shoved between her legs, how in all the gods' names could she ever sleep?!

 Seeing her unspoken answer to his ludicrous command, he gave her look that said she would regret it.

 Tightening his hands at her hips, he forced her hips backwards, forcing the delicate folds of her now moist sex to glide across the rough material of his trousers.

 Ciri let out an audible gasp at the feeling. Balling her fists, Ciri attempted to push him away or at the very least push herself out of his grip but before she could he was pulling her forward until her hips nearly touched his. This time the moan she tried to fight back before broke from her throat. Back and forth her sawed her aching sex across his covered thigh watching her as she weakly succumbed to the exquisite torture. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the firm rounded flesh as she rode his leg. Adding to the torture the feel of his hands moving to grip the fatty flesh of her ass made her moans grow louder. Somewhere deep in her mind she wondered at the image she presented right now, moaning and begging in this witcher's arms as he forced her to find pleasure against him.

 "Geralt please," she panted. "I want… I want us both to…"

 His brow furrowed in concentration. Geralt looked from her to her lips as if he was warring with himself to kiss her or not, all the while his movement of her hips became frantic. "Ciri," he interrupted her with a harsh growl ordering her full attention. "Come now."

 The fine thread that held her sanity together and that had worn away with each movement of his hands snapped. Ciri let out a small cry as her world burned away under the power of her release.

 Boneless and exhausted, Ciri laid there panting against the pillow as Geralt slowly slid his leg from beneath her, smirking at her for the first time as she let out an involuntary moan at the movement against her still aching and sensitive clit. Pulling her shirt down around her waist until it properly covered her again, he draped an arm over her, pulling her closer to his heat.

 "Now sleep."

[lady-of-nightmares-and-heartache]

Dark Angel: Chapter 1

Summary: Hiding from Imperials, Aria accidentally discovers that Moff Gideon is alive. Just when she thinks her life is over, an unlikely hero arrives. 

Rated PG: Mentions of violence

Word Count: 2.247k

Aria had lived on Nevarro for the past couple of years and did her best to stay under the radar. She had fled Coruscant after Imperials made it one of their stronghold planets. Her parents worked their way up the ranks as Imperial officers, and just being in their proximity didn’t sit right with her. When she was eighteen, she left. Her parents knew that she didn’t agree with their ideals, and when they found out she ran away, they informed the entire Empire that she was to be returned unharmed. They wanted to… persuade her to join the cause. Besides, having a daughter that was considered a rebel wasn’t good for their image. 

Aria had to lay low and bounced from planet to planet every couple of months. Eventually she settled on Nevarro. Attention was never something a girl on a planet full of less than stellar characters wanted. Nevarro was full of bounty hunters (who thankfully were uninterested in working with the Empire), and more recently, stormtroopers and other Imperials have had a heavy presence on the planet. Imperials always meant bad news. Aria stayed anyway, making sure no attention was drawn to her. That all changed when word spread of a former rebel shocktrooper, a hunting droid, the infamous Mandalorian, the leader of the bounty hunters Guild and a baby taking on Moff Gideon and an entire company of stormtroopers. She was smart and stayed inside her small apartment when all the action was happening. Somehow the small group of… vigilantes, for lack of a better word, made it out alive. Some stormtroopers started to hunt for the offenders when it was announced that Moff Gideon had perished in a TIE fighter crash. Life returned to normal, although the remaining stormtroopers continued to try and assert their dominance over the citizens of Nevarro. Aria was no fighter by any means, but she was a decent shot with a blaster. 

Long story short, Moff Gideon was still alive and Aria had found out the hard way. Walking to the market, a few weeks after the showdown, she could’ve sworn she was being followed. Not willing to chance anything, she switched up her route, cutting through an alley. That was her first mistake. She tensed as a distinctive hum echoed in the tight space. Turning around slowly, her eyes widened as she saw Moff Gideon standing there, with a black lightsaber pointed at her. Aria was too stunned to speak, but Gideon had a reputation for his tendency to talk.

“It’s Aria if I’m not mistaken. Your parents were wondering what became of you.” Gideon broke the silence. Aria’s heart raced. How the hell did he find her? “You’re probably wondering why I picked you of all people, for this task.”

She swallowed. “Picked me for what?”

Gideon smiled. “You’re going to tell me where the Mandalorian is, or I’m bringing you back to Coruscant.”

Aria tilted her head, nervousness replaced by genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? The one with the bounty on him? I don’t know where he is, and I’ve never even met the guy.”

The false pleasantness Gideon had displayed melted away quickly. “That won’t be an issue. You’re going to seek him out. He’ll never expect some random girl from Coruscant to be hunting him.”

“He’ll never expect it, because it’s not happening.” Aria gave a sardonic grin. “Why in the galaxy would you think I’d help you? Not only are you Imperial, you took everything from so many people. The least I can do is to take something from you.” She glared at the Moff. “You’ll have to find the Mandalorian on your own. Am I free to go? Because I promise you, I’ll die before I go back to Coruscant.”

Moff Gideon hid his surprise well, shock distorting his facial features for a fraction of a second. Any boldness that she had moments before melted away instantly. Gideon raised an eyebrow and then smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He repositioned his hands on the lightsaber.

“So be it,” Gideon said darkly.

Gideon swung the weapon back and Aria closed her eyes and flinched, anticipating what was sure to be a fatal blow. Time stood still. Figuring she should’ve been dead by now; she cracked an eye open. She straightened up when it appeared that Gideon was stuck. He was definitely trying to swing the weapon forward, but his arm just wouldn’t move. Whatever had a hold on him didn’t last long. As he swung down in a perfect arc, a cable wrapped around Aria’s wrist and yanked her backwards. Aria screamed, the hot blade just missing her chest. Barely regaining her balance, the cord retracted from her arm, and a shiny figure pulled her back, and stepped in front of her.

Moff Gideon adjusted himself and looked smugly at the Mandalorian.

“Din Djarin, just the man we were looking for! So nice of you to stop by. My friend here was just about to help me.”

The Mandalorian turned his head the slightest fraction as if he wanted to look at you. Gideon laughed and the Mandalorian went rigid.

“I see the little asset is doing well.”

At the mention of another being, Aria glanced to the side and saw the cutest little green goblin that she had ever seen, standing on a small stack of wooden crates left in the alley. The man in front of her and Gideon had exchanged more words that she didn’t quite catch. The Mandalorian aimed his pulse-rifle at Gideon, and the baby made grabby hands in her direction. Carefully, she took a few steps over and picked up the little green bean, who cooed adorably.

“I don’t think you want to do that Djarin,” Gideon warned. “You know now that I am in the possession of the Darksaber. Anything that you fire at me will deflect right back at the rest of you.” Gideon looked so smug, that the Mandalorian wanted to put a hole in his head right here and now.

The Mandalorian didn’t waver once. Calmly he angled his head back to Aria, keeping his eyes trained on Moff Gideon.

“Take the kid and go to the Razor Crest. If you can’t find it, get Greef Karga or Cara Dune. They’ll help.”

Not in a position to question the guy that just saved her life, Aria gave a quick nod in acknowledgement and took off in the direction that the Mandalorian had come from, the kid secured tightly in her arms.

The Razor Crest wasn’t difficult to find. The kid lit up in excitement when he saw a ship, so she figured that had to be the one. Aria found a little panel that opened and closed with a blanket in it, so she placed the kid there and shut the panel. She had a bad feeling and did a quick sweep of the rest of the ship. She came across a mini armory stocked with weapons of every kind. Grabbing a small blaster, Aria went down the ramp to check the outside of the ship. Beyond thankful for trusting her gut, she removed a tracker that she found on the underside of the ship’s ramp. She dropped it on the ground, stepped back and shot it twice. Maybe a little over dramatic, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

Her head snapped up when the unmistakable sound of blaster fire in the distance reached her ears. Scrambling back up the ramp she tried to spot the Mandalorian in the sudden sea of white. When she didn’t see the shiny flash of silver, her stomach twisted into knots. It just occurred to her that she had no idea how to fly this ship. Before she could dwell on the fact that both she and the child were going to be taken by stormtroopers, the Mandalorian literally dropped out of the sky and onto the ground a few feet in front of the ramp. Aria jumped up and had a mini-heart attack at his surprise appearance. Quickly recovering from being startled, she started shooting at the rapidly approaching stormtroopers. The Mandalorian fired off a few shots himself, before slowly backing up the ramp.

“Get in, I’ll cover you!” Aria shouted. The Mandalorian turned around and reached the interior of his ship. He slammed the panel on the wall and the ramp slowly started to close. She kept firing, hoping to keep the rest of the troopers advances at bay. One stray bolt shot from outside slipped through the crack of the almost fully shut door. The Mandalorian was only a foot away when he shot his arm out in front of Aria’s neck. A small grunt slipped through his modulator. 

The bolt was absorbed by whatever material his vambrace was made out of.  Aria was breathless and looked at the Mandalorian with wide eyes. The Mandalorian said nothing and disappeared into the cockpit. Aria found something to hold on to as she could feel the Razor Crest ascend from Nevarro. Her mind was racing, but her heart was racing faster. She had almost died twice today. The most recent time, a blaster bolt was literally less than an inch away from burning a hole in her throat. Too many close calls. Then she thought of the Mandalorian. There’s no mistaking that he is the one that’s got a bounty on him. 

Based on Gideon calling the little green baby an asset, that had to be right. The first time he saved her life, she swore he was her knight in shining armor- literally. The second time, well, no knight that Aria had ever heard of would be able to predict where such a precise shot was aimed and react quick enough to block it. He was more like a guardian angel. Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the Mandalorian exit the cockpit and enter the cargo hold. The Mandalorian announced his presence simply by clearing his throat. Aria snapped back to reality and turned to face him. The silence was more than uncomfortable. The Mandalorian held out his hand, palm up, as if he were expecting something. Aria looked down and realized that she still had one of his guns in her hand. Oops.

“How do you know it isn’t my own?” Aria asked defensively.

“You would have grabbed it out of your waistband in the alley.” The vocoder distorted his voice slightly giving it a mechanical crackle.

Ah. Yeah that made sense. He is a bounty hunter and a Mandalorian so he probably trained to notice little things like that. She gave the weapon back to its rightful owner. He placed the blaster back in the armory, and headed back up to the cockpit. Not entirely sure what was safe to do, Aria checked in on the baby and saw that he was awake. Scooping the kid up, she climbed the ladder and followed the Mandalorian.

Aria would never get tired of how stunning hyperspace looked. Eyes shining in awe, she silently sat in the co-pilot’s seat. The kid saw the Mandalorian sitting just in front of them and squealed, clambering out of Aria’s arms and into Mando’s.

“I guess I should thank you for saving my life twice back there. I appreciate it.” Mando swung his chair around and cocked his head to the side. Aria could swear that she felt him staring. “I’m Aria, by the way.”

Mando dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Gideon?” she realized she never found out what happened back there.

A sigh slipped through the Mandalorian’s helmet.

“Escaped.”

Aria wanted to blink out of existence. “Damn it,” she muttered.

“What were you doing with the Moff anyway?”

Aria told the truth. “He followed me through town. Asked me to tell him where you were. I had no idea, obviously and then he said that I’m supposed to find where you were and let him know immediately.”

She noticed his shoulders tense as she spoke. Putting both hands up in mock-surrender, she had to reassure the bounty hunter. “Hey Mando, relax. I told him that I’d rather die than help him. I’m not about to start playing ball for the Imperials now.”

“Good.”

The duo sat in silence for a long time, sans the occasional coos and squeals of the child. Figuring that the Mandalorian was unlikely to start speaking, and she wasn’t likely to break the uncomfortable silence, Aria decided that she should go.

Aria stood up to leave, but she hesitated. She wasn’t sure where she planned to go. Before Aria made it to the ladder, she was graced with verbal communication from the Mandalorian.

“Second door on the left.”

Figuring that must be where he expected her to stay for the time being, she didn’t ask for clarification.

“Thanks.”

On her way down, she passed a thick stack of carbonite chambers, all full. Based on their facial expressions, their captor seemed ruthless. A shiver ran down Aria’s spine. Maybe he was darker than she had originally believed. Best to stay on his good side, just in case.

When she arrived at the second door on the left, she peeked in. Sleeping quarters. Shuffling into the small space, she plopped down on to the barren cot. She was absolutely exhausted.

Her head hit the pillow, and her eyes fought to stay open. She fell asleep wondering how her day had ended up with her traveling on a Mandalorian’s ship.

[undignifiend]

Idiots in a Tiny Kitchen

A scene I wrote forever ago about an ogre character inspired by the World of Darkness setting. Under the cut for the sake of the Dashboard.

+++++

Someone was in his apartment. Brock bit back the urge to growl, and focused on keeping his breath even. Let them think he was still asleep. Whoever it was, they were in the kitchen, opening cabinets and making no effort to keep quiet. Did they even know he was there? Granted, he probably just looked like an abnormally large pile of discarded sheets on the bare mattress in the corner of his tiny 'living room', but shouldn't a burglar be more thorough in scoping out an area before getting to business? Maybe it was an amateur? Carefully twisting out of the sheets, Brock slunk across the carpet, hiding under the kitchen bar. Every footstep and rustle of cloth seemed deafening to him - stealth wasn't his area of expertise, after all. But the intruder didn't seem to notice, obliviously waking the dead as they shuffled through pots, cans, and boxes of pasta. Brock entertained the idea of turning off his Mask. That would be fun. Stupid, but fun. He'd have to kill whoever saw him before rumors could spread, of course. Most humans didn't pay attention to urban legends and lunatics, but hunters did... Hiding the body, or rather the bones, would be a chore. In a pinch, human flesh was a treat, and money was tight enough to pinch pretty hard lately. Waste not, and all that... Serves 'em right for wandering into an ogre's lair. But he rolled his eyes as his more rational side spoke up. He'd already eaten two overconfident hunters since his return from Arcadia. If he ate this burglar, that would make three in three years. Not the best habit to form in a human-dominant territory. Someone would notice a pattern sooner or later. The Courts probably wouldn't care much, but it was something of a faux pas, and the Spring Court might hound him for it. Their whole point was to find ways to adjust to human life and to appreciate the finer things. It was a difficult philosophy to reconcile when one considered human flesh to be one of the finer things... Spring also put a lot of emphasis on aesthetics, and for Brock, that was dangerous. Like most ogres, Brock was a sucker for pretty people. But people were also delicious. He hoped this burglar wasn't attractive. That would be weird. He could just picture the unlucky individual partially tied to a chair while they both awkwardly shared a pot of coffee and sorted out this little mishap. Brock would be up all morning arguing with himself over whether to eat them or try to get their number. Decisions, decisions... Spring had a strong point, though. Most changelings he'd met were human once, including himself. This burglar wasn't doing him any real harm, and Brock was more sentimental than he cared to admit. He decided to let this one off with a warning. That's when he heard the telltale crinkle of a bag of chips, and the crinkling continued as the intruder began to rummage in earnest. They found his stash and most likely understood what it really was. His apartment was otherwise stark and unappealing to any enterprising thief. They knew what they found. Time for a big breakfast. Wisps of Brock's human visage peeled away in dark, airy tendrils and faded into nothing. His clothes, baggy even on his large frame, tightened to conform to his real size as he gained an extra couple feet in height. To anyone who could normally see through his Mask to what he really was, the change in size was all they'd notice. To anyone who couldn't, it was far more dramatic. Tendrils of illusion floated off him, revealing red hide and gold eyes; one in his left socket, and one in the center of his forehead. In his right socket was nothing but a shadow. A pair of horns flanked either side of the third eye, and rows of sharp white fangs peeked from behind his lips. Brock resisted the temptation to sigh and stretch. Taking the Mask off always felt like being freed from shackles, climbing out of a small box, and taking the first breath of fresh air he'd had in ages. He lunged into the kitchen, dominating what little space there was, and seized the intruder from behind, intending to crush the back of their neck in his jaws. But several things occurred to him at once, and he paused as he processed what he was seeing. This person was tiny. Granted, most people were tiny compared to him, but this one couldn't have been over four feet in height. They had been standing on the counter, and now their feet dangled in the air as his huge hands wrapped around their arms and torso. They were completely covered in clothes that were too big for them, save for a sparkling pink Hello Kitty jacket that seemed too tight. Their hood was up, and their sneakers were so comically massive it was a wonder they didn't slip off. Cold horror stabbed Brock in the gut. Was this a kid? Had he almost killed a kid? It was kind of awful, the look of his monstrous, claw-tipped hands juxtaposed with the innocent jacket. Brock never suffered any anxiety or shame over being an ogre, but realizing what he almost did made him queasy. "Close your eyes. Don't move unless I tell you to," Brock warned, his tone authoritative, belying the panic he felt. His Mask took hours to recharge, and now that he turned it off, how was he going to get the kid out of his apartment without being seen for what he really was? Someone might even try to check on him if the kid screamed at the sight of his face. "Ah, shove it," replied a nasally voice. A goblin glared at him from under the little pink hood, his gigantic ears folded within it, and his bushy mustache quivering with nervous outrage. "This is yer own damn fault," he scolded, waving a bag of chips as much as he could with one of his restrained arms. "Hoardin' like this. It's cheatin'." Brock dropped Cornchips the Whiner and staggered back, sagging against the fridge with a mix of irritation and profound relief. "Dammit, Chips! One of these days, I'm gonna eat you! You keep pulling stunts like this, and I can't guarantee it won't be an accident." The goblin dusted himself off and pushed back the hood, his gigantic, pointed ears regaining their natural shape once they had room. "Great. Perfect!" He folded his arms and eyed Brock reproachfully. "On top a' everythin' else, my big, dumbass chump partner tries t' kill me. I should've expected it. Everythin' looks breakable or edible t' yeh ogre types. I coulda kicked yeh awake, but I decided to be thoughtful and let yeh sleep while I cleaned up yer mess! And here's the thanks I get! Now what's the meanin' a' this?" He pointed a little claw up at the cabinet full of chip bags. Brock rolled his eyes. "Kinda hard to get a hold of you in an emergency, Chips. Sometimes that vending machine ritual takes too damn long. So I figure, why not have it prepped? All I gotta do now is this..." Brock snatched the bag of chips out of the goblin's hand, recited the sacred phrase "Shut up and help me, sir," and popped the bag open. Cornchips vanished with a fart, leaving nothing, and in the next instant, furious grumbling could be heard from inside the bag. "Speed-dial summoning," Brock explained smugly, looking into the bag. "Genius, eh?" "Yeh can't do that, yeh butt-wart!" Cornchips jumped out of the bag, defying physics by not ripping it open despite his size, and landing lightly on his huge feet. "That spell's not a damn toy! Every time you delay it, I get this itch! And you got bleedin' near seventeen a' them spells in that cabinet ready to go at any second! Everyone thinks I have fleas now! Yeh can't get a date when yeh got fleas! No one understands how hard my life is!" Brock's claw-tipped hands were too big, so he held the bag up and shook a few chips into his mouth, crunching on them as he listened. "So it didn't work out with that spider-girl, huh?" Cornchips groaned. "Esther's good wit' her hands, up until she slaps yeh. Wit' all of 'em. I never did anythin' to deserve it. She thought I was chattin' up some pixie, but I swear I was jus' askin' for directions." Brock grimaced. "You can't patronize me, either. It's your job to know your way around." "An' it's your job to make my job easier!" Cornchips pointed at the cabinet he couldn't reach. "Now get rid a' them things before I burn the place down, an' listen up! I didn' jus' come here t' set yeh straight. Yeh got a big job ahead. Orders from Naomi herself." The silence that followed weighed on Brock. He was grateful he didn't do something embarrassing like choke, but he still had trouble deciding how to take this news. "Herself? She didn't send no one?" "Did I stucking futter?" Cornchips demanded, fists on his hips. "Yeah! I'm important enough t' talk to!" Brock frowned. "What does she want us to do? Steal the Queen's purse?" "Naw..." How Cornchips managed to look so smug with that mustache, Brock could only guess. "Babysittin', more like." When he didn't elaborate, Brock's chest rumbled in an uncomfortable growl. "Out with it." "Let me savor this. I like watchin' yeh suffer." Brock dropped the bag and grabbed Chips by the front of his pink jacket, pulling him face to murderous face. "Okay, okay!" the goblin flailed. "Naomi rescued another one from Arcadia, alright? She can't trust the Courts wit' this - she's got too many enemies, even there. You gotta play mentor and bodyguard for this kid - jus' fer a while." "What makes her think they'll be safe with me?" Brock asked, gesturing with his free hand to the whole apartment. "You broke in without me noticing." "I'm the only other one who knows about this," Cornchips swore. "An' yer a lowly grunt, Brock. No one'll think t' connect you with someone as important as Naomi's own kid." Brock released Cornchips with nerveless fingers as a new, uncomfortable facet of the Universe fell into place in his mind. Landing on his feet seemed to help Cornchips recollect his composure, and his posture exuded a kind of sadistic delight. "Don't worry, buddy," the goblin grinned. "Naomi's one a' Winter's top assassins, after all. If yeh fuck this up, yeh won't have t' regret it fer long."