#it makes it feel colder and the shadows on his face help obscure his mouth making him harder to read. okay

[sirenemale]

everything abt the httyd remake feels like such a deep insult to the first film. Insulting animation as an artform, insulting the texture and lighting work that still holds up so so well. Insulting everything they put in to make it such a tightly written and skillful film. Like what could you improve with this scene, the amount of character you get from toothless here and seeing his thought process, fhe mix of accepting his fate, weariness and curiosity, you're just sucking the life and intention out of it for what. To see the dirt in between toothless's scales? Guess what you can already see that in the first movie. To flatten the lighting, remove all mood so you can see how good they modeled his new scales? Show you how real the mulch looks. Whatever. They do this all the time but this is personal (autism) you're being shown up by a film from 2010. She is eating you ALIVE. Even the other httyd films couldn't quite re-capture what they did with toothless in this first one, they remodeled him ever so slightly and he lost that edge of intelligent Animal, and became a Slightly more condensed version of himself now that his personality was established.

[entity9silvergen]

Oblique- Chapter 1 (Sanders Sides Fanfiction)

Chapter 1 of 3. Full story and summary here. Also find it here on Ao3.

Story Info:

Summary: Unable to experience romantic attraction, Remus feels incomplete. Unable to feel sexual attraction, Roman feels less than. Maybe as the King, they decide, they will feel whole again. Their partners and friends, however, know this isn’t the solution and seek to help them realize there’s nothing broken about them before it’s too late.

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Characters: Logan, Patton, Roman, Virgil, Nate, Remy, Emile, Seth, Toby, Janus, Remus, Unnamed Orange Side, Romulus, Dragon Witch 

Relationships: Logan/ Patton, Virgil/ Roman, Janus/ Remus, Remy/ Emile, Toby/ Seth, Nate/ Orange Side

Other Tags: AroWriMo, Aromantic Remus, Asexual Roman, Spider Virgil, Snake Janus, Orange Side, 7th Side, Additional Sides, No OCs, Short Vid Characters

Author’s Note: This was written for AroWriMo 2021. I’ve actually had it planned since April of last year but never wrote it until now. I originally intended for it to go with the Week 3 Prompt (Hope and Mirror) but it kind of drifted. 

This fic takes place in Thomas’s mind and there are four of each kind of Side (light, dark, neutral). 

The Light Sides live upstairs. They are Logan (Logic), Patton (Morality), Roman (Creativity/ Fantasy), and Emile (Self-Esteem) as well as Virgil (Anxiety) who left the Dark Sides to be with the Light Sides.

The Neutrals live on the main floor we see in videos. They are Nate (Patience/ Procrastination), Remy (Self-Care/ Sleep), Seth (Adaptability), and Toby (Courage).

The Dark Sides live downstairs. They are Janus (Deceit), Remus (Dark Creativity/ Intrusive Thoughts), and OJ (Spite). As mentioned, Virgil was previously a Dark Side.

None of these characters are OCs. Emile is Emile Picani from Cartoon Therapy, Nate is Nathan Christopher/ Slo-Mo Guy/ Procrastination from the short vids, Remy is Sleep from the short vids, Seth is Seth Ember/ September from the short vids, Toby is October from the shirt vids, and OJ is the currently unnamed 7th side (We call him orange juice on the Sanders Sides subreddit so OJ is an allusion to that).

Dark Sides also have animal attributes in this story. Janus is a snake, Remus is an octopus, Virgil is a spider, and OJ is a badger.

Warnings for this chapter: Fighting

=============

It was dark. Darker than it normally was.

There was a hum in the air. Eerie, mysterious. Almost like static. Something neither of them were used to but it was familiar deep down.

It was telling them they shouldn’t be here. Not right now.

They ignored it.

The lighter figure stumbled down the stairs, seeming almost surprised to see a darker shape slinking up from the basement, almost mirroring him. They stared at each other for a few moments but neither drew their weapons. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time and hadn’t been at peace for even longer but a mutual understanding ran between them.

Eyes watched them and the room seemed to listen. It made them uneasy, filling them with the need to leave or cower away. But they were more afraid of what would happen if they turned away and too curious to listen to the signs warning them away. The same thing was on each of their minds and it was almost too late to turn away.

Both were visibly upset but the shadows obscured any tear tracks and the static hid any sobs. Still, they could sense the distress within each other. And they knew how to make it stop.

There was hesitance on both sides. They knew what they were doing, what they had to do, and yet they held back. There were a million questions in the air and the answers to none.

It wasn’t until the lighter figure offered a hand that they reached a decision.

That he reached a decision.

=========================== 

Logan’s attention was drawn from his book by a loud crash.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, living with so many others in the mind palace and all. Roman was always slashing things with his sword, OJ often swatted cups off tables out of passive aggression or just plain boredom, Toby and Remus were always wrestling, Nate was terrible at catching things and Seth never failed to forget, and Patton was just clumsy in general. Emile usually kept them calm and Virgil’s dislike for loud noises was often enough to keep the mind palace in one piece but the other Sides were always an endless distraction for Logan and his work.

Today, however, was not one of those times the noise seized quickly. 

In fact, it only seemed to get worse.

It got to the point that Logan had to get up and go downstairs to see what was making the racket, something he rarely did. Where was Patton? Or Emile? Keeping the others from destroying their home was their job, not his.

He expected to see Remus riding a roomba. Or Nate trying to steal Remy’s coffee. Or Toby and Roman jousting with mops instead of cleaning. He did not expect to see Janus and Virgil, fangs and arachnid legs out, full on brawling in the living room.

Shockingly, Patton and Emile weren’t trying to stop them. From Logan’s observation, Patton seemed quite distressed at the sight of Virgil in his spider form and Emile was trying to distract him. Logan’s colder side wanted to shake them and tell them to ignore their feelings to focus on what was important but his more human side could understand. Virgil was truly terrifying when he was like this: thick, hairy legs sprouted from his back, his eyes seemed to glow with something primal, and his mouth morphed into something truly grotesque to look at.  Janus too. His transformation was less extreme but his sharpened scales were still strange to look at. Eyes gleaming with yellow and hunger and movements faster and more serpentine, his presence was a bit disturbing. As much as Logan wanted to, he couldn’t blame them from keeping out of the fight.

He at least expected one of the others to step in. Not all of them weren’t fighters but they were at least more prepared than Patton and Emile. None of the neturals seemed concerned though. Actually, it looked like Nate, Seth, Remy, and Toby were taking bets. Logan would have scolded them if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand.

Logan looked around for Roman and Remus but the twins were nowhere to be seen so his gaze fell on OJ. The Side seemed disinterested from where he was seated casually on the staircase leading to the basement but his eyes betrayed him. The disinterest was a facade, his eyes were sharp with interest.

Logan met the Dark Side’s gaze, trying to convey his alarm and confusion. OJ simply shrugged and gestured loosely at the fight. Janus had his back pressed to the floor and his feet against Virgil’s chest, keeping him from punching or snapping at his face but the anxious side’s long spider legs were still free to batter his foe.

Janus was just starting to wrestle Virgil off him when Logan decided to step in. “Enough!”

Logan knew his voice could be enough to offset anyone if he wanted it to. He’d shouted enough falsehoods to know it was a tactic that would likely be successful. And it was this time as well. Virgil and Janus looked up, startled, and stopped long enough for Toby and Nate to step in and grab them by the shoulders, pulling them away from each other.

Both were still glaring and hissing. Logan put up a hand to silence them. “Can you breathe in for four seconds?”

“We don’t need to do breathing exercises, Logan,” Virgil snapped, voice distorted, as he wretched free from Toby’s grip. Thankfully, he didn’t move to attack Janus. “We know what we’re doing.”

“Then why were you fighting?” Logan asked. “Dark and Light Sides don’t usually come to the Neutral Zone at the same time.”

Janus’s face flashed with guilt while OJ feigned innocence. It wasn’t a set rule but Light and Dark Sides generally avoided mutual space if there were others there. If everyone was in a good mood, there were times they would share the space but it was rare. 

“Roman’s missing,” Virgil said, glaring at Janus and OJ. His arachnid qualities were receding but he still looked angry. “I’ve been looking for days. There’s no reason he’d disappear unless the Dark Sides did something.”

“And I’m telling you Remus is missing,” Janus responded. Nate let go of him and the snake crossed his arms. He still looked tense. “Why would we take Roman? We have better things to worry about. Quit blaming us for stuff and back off.”

Logan silently cursed himself for not being more observant. He hadn’t even noticed Roman and Remus were missing. Well, he wouldn’t have noticed Remus’s absence, being a Dark Side and all, but he would’ve noticed if Roman was gone. Should have noticed. How long had it been? What had he been doing?

“Oh this is what this is about?” Remy piped up, taking a long sip of his ever-present coffee before continuing. “They met up here a few days ago and went off to the dreamspace together.”

“...What?” Janus and Virgil said in unison, giving the recalcitrant Side hard stares.

“Um, yeah, gurls. It was, like, the middle of the night and they talked for a bit before going off,” Remy said, shrugging. “No need to get all hissy about it. They’re fine.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Virgil exploded but at least now he wasn’t trying to attack anyone. “We’ve been looking for days!”

“Chill, gurl. You never mentioned it. I thought you knew. Normally they tell you before they come to my domain.”

“Well, they didn’t tell us,” Janus said, sounding annoyed yet distracted. His face was wrinkled in thought and it took Logan a moment to catch on.

“Should we be concerned then?” Logan asked. The other Sides turned to look at him. As per usual, Logan felt pride well up in him knowing the others were listening but he tried to ignore it. “They left without warning, which normally wouldn’t be alarming but there has been no sign of them for days. Wouldn’t that imply something happened to them? Perhaps they went to Remy’s dreamspace to fight and rendered each other unable to continue.”

“Oh no! My poor kiddos!” Patton wailed, startling Logan. He’d almost forgotten the other Sides were there.

“Chances are they’re fine. Roman and Remus know how to avoid getting hurt and Remy didn’t say they sounded angry,” Emile pointed out. He was still frowning though. “But maybe we should send someone to check on them?”

“We should just leave them to duke it out. They’ll be fine,” OJ said, inspecting his fingernails boredly. He pointed in Patton’s direction, not even looking up to see the father figure’s excited expression. “No pun intended, daddio.” 

Logan ignored them and looked to Remy expectantly. The Side rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll take some of you to the dreamspace. Hissyfits, Lo-bitch, come on.”

Janus and Virgil looked a bit peeved by the nicknames but followed Remy without question. Logan sighed and spared the remaining Sides a glance. “Will one of you retrieve us if the twins return while we’re gone?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Toby responded, ignoring OJ. “Don’t stress it, man.”

Satisfied, Logan nodded and turned away, following Remy into the place of Thomas’s dreams.

==================

“Do you guys think Roman and Remus are getting along again?”

Patton’s voice sliced through the silence, drawing everyone’s attention. After Remy and the others left, the rest remained in the living room rather than returning to their rooms. They largely ignored each other but unspoken worry hovered among them. They would wait this out here.

“I didn’t see anything,” Seth spoke up, the other Neutral Sides humming their agreement. “Remy’s got a weird sleep schedule. He sees all kinds of stuff we don’t but I think he’d mention it if anything changed with the twins.”

“It’s probably a coincidence,” OJ added. “Janus and Remus were screwing that night. I doubt Remus would go to his brother after that. Weird.”

“How do you know that?”

“What is sc-”

“I think Roman and Virgil were just having a quiet night,” Emile interrupted before Patton could finish his question or OJ could respond to Seth. He really didn’t want to know. “I don’t really know what those two do but it’s unusual Roman would come downstairs in the middle of the night, isn’t it? Wouldn’t he stay with Virgil? Or return to his room?”

“I don’t think there’s much use thinking about it,” Toby said, pulling a device from his pocket. “Now, I’m going to play some Pokemon. We can ask Roman and Remus what’s up when they get back.”

The other Sides didn’t look satisfied but no one argued. The others would be back soon. They could figure it out then. Right?

=======================

Remy usually didn’t take people to the dreamspace.

It was his domain. Sure, Roman and Remus contributed a lot but they had their own spaces. They were in charge of Thomas’s imagination. Everything about sleep was Remy’s and no one else's. Logan and Patton had memories, Virgil and Toby patrolled the place of Thomas’s fears, each Side had their own thing. And Remy loved his. It was weird to have someone intrude on his space.

He understood the necessity though. Still, couldn’t the others be a bit nicer?

Janus and Virgil were bickering since the moment they entered and Logan wasn’t even trying to stop them. How rude.

“Hush up, gurls,” Remy said after a while. “You don’t want to be too loud here.”

“And why is that?”

A loud roar cut through the terrain.

“Because of that.”

Virgil, Janus, and Logan peered at the horizon, not seeing anything. The dreamspace looked very much like the Imagination or the real world but it had this fake, fuzzy quality that only the things of dreams could have. It was similar to reality and recognizable enough but it was different enough that it could be jarring to those who weren’t used to it. That was the only reason Remy was forgiving when the other Sides failed to see the approaching Dragon Witch until it was practically on top of them.

The beast screamed and plunged out of the sky, making the ground shake like an earthquake when she landed. A clean thirty feet tall, she towered over the Sides. Remy opened up his mouth to try to reason with her but a malicious glint in her eye told him that she wasn’t in a talking mood today.

Wings beat the air as claws scored the earth. Virgil’s spider form took over and he used his long spider legs to vault himself and the others to safety. “What the fuck is that?!”

“The Dragon Witch,” Remy responded as he slipped out of Virgil’s grip and began scrambling away. “She’s normally not like this!”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Janus snarked. His scales grew more prominent and his eyes became sharper as he prepared to fight. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Virgil, try to climb up her neck and onto her face. Blind her, at least partially,” Logan instructed, taking charge easily. “Janus, draw her attention and see if you can get some of your venom in her.”

Janus eyed the Dragon Witch’s scales dubiously. “I am not breaking my teeth on that thing.”

“Just fight, Deceit,” Virgil snapped as he launched himself into the air and grappled his way onto the Dragon Witch’s shoulder. She didn’t even notice his presence, allowing him to climb up her neck with no obstacles thrown his way.

Remy ducked behind a rock, dragging Logan with him, as Janus coiled around the dragon’s blows and tried to snake his way to her soft underbelly. Out of the four present Sides, Virgil and Janus were most suited for battle but even they didn’t have much of a chance against such a creature. The Dragon Witch was powerful, both as a dragon and a witch. Together, her two halves made her a formidable foe. 

“Is this a common occurrence?” Logan asked as he grabbed a small, sharp rock in his fist. Remy didn’t know what he planned to do with that but whatever made him feel better. “Do you frequently run into this, eh, Dragon Witch?”

Remy shook his head. “She’s one of Roman’s creations. Most of the time she keeps to herself or at least stays peaceful. I can’t remember the last time she got like this. I have no idea what’s got her so worked up.”

Logan looked like he wanted to comment but chose not to and refocused on the fight. The other Sides seemed to be doing well. As much as they hissed and spat at each other, they worked like a well oiled machine. Virgil was using his spiderlegs to jab the Dragon Witch in the eye, distracting her long enough to let Janus coil up her leg. He wasn’t doing much damage at the moment but soon he would have access to the vulnerable parts of her massive form.

It looked to be going well until it wasn’t.

Remy knew he should have expected that. The Sides were more than human but they were still far from equals to a mystical beast like a Dragon Witch. For all their efforts, they only seemed to be agitating her further and soon she grew too tired of them to bother any longer.

The Dragon Witch roared and bellowed before slapping her thick, scaly tail against the ground. A wave of magic radiated from her form and knocked the two Sides clean off her.

It hit Logan and Remy as well, shattering the rock they were hiding behind. Remy yelped as he was thrown back, shielding his face from stone shrapnel, and hit the ground roughly. Both his and Logan’s glasses were knocked from their faces. Logan flailed for them the moment, unable to see without them, while Remy just laid there, stunned, and blinked rapidly until his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. His eyes unused to being uncovered but he could survive without his sunglasses. He quickly scrambled up to try to see what happened to Janus and Virgil.

Janus and Virgil were on the ground, floored and disoriented. The Dragon Witch was looming over them, snarling and angry. Remy tried to get up and shout a warning but his voice broke and came out dry and hoarse. It surprised him, somewhat, but the shock from the blast was still ringing in his head too much for him to dwell on it.

A spike of fear pumped through Remy’s veins as the Dragon Witch lifted a paw, primed to strike. He got to his feet, mind and body screaming for him to get his friends to safety, but he knew he was too slow. The Dragon Witch was going to crush them.

Then, a battle cry sounded.

A human battle cry.

Remy looked up to see a figure standing on a cliff overlooking the battlefield. Momentarily blinded by the sun behind him, Remy couldn't quite make out any distinguishable features.  Without his sunglasses, he could really only see the flowing cape draped over his shoulders.

The man- it was definitely a man, Remy knew that much- drew a weapon in each hand and flung himself off the cliff. Remy wanted to scream but the man seemed to know what he was doing and landed flat on the Dragon Witch’s face.

The Dragon Witch roared and the man matched it. Remy watched them for a moment before his mind caught up with his body and he remembered his friends. He tore his gaze away and sprinted across the landscape. He reached Janus first, grabbing him by the back of the coat, and dragged him until he managed to get a grip on Virgil’s hoodie as well.

“Gurls, why are you so heavy?” Remy grunted as he tried his best to pull the two Sides to safety. They seemed dazed from the fall and Remy really hoped they weren’t concussed. He really didn’t want to deal with that right now. At least he had Logan here if they were but Logan could be concussed for all he knew.

“Roman,” Virgil groaned, head lolling a bit as Remy jostled him.

“Yeah, I know, gurl. We’ll find Roman soon.”

“No, I need to help him.” 

Remy didn’t pause to figure out what he meant by that until he’d reached Logan. The logical Side was sitting up and had his glasses back on, looking overall okay. Remy swiftly dropped Virgil and Janus beside them, making them both yelp, and turned back to the battlefield to confirm his suspicions. 

The man was tall and broad. Sturdier and better built than Remy or any of the other Sides on the ground around him. Maybe even more so than Roman and Remus. His clothes were a deep grey, an unusual color to see on someone in the mindscape, and he wielded both a sword and a morningstar. That made Remy uneasy. He didn’t quite know why but it felt wrong.

“Remus!” Janus called out, sitting up as the man ran across the beast’s snout to slam his morningstar into her eye. Remy opened his mouth to tell him that the man wasn’t Remus but the words died on his tongue. Who knew who he was? It could very well be the stinky Side for all he knew.

The man was fast and quite skilled. He scaled the dragon’s giant form and slammed down hard at various points on his way down. Remy didn’t know if Dragon Witches had pressure points but the man’s attacks seemed to be doing a fair amount of damage, judging by her roars. Remy really believed he might win this.

The Dragon Witch put up a fair fight, of course. She snarled and swiped but the man seemed to be holding on pretty well. It was only when she reared back and began swinging her wings that he lost his balance. Still, he managed to hold his own pretty well. Unlike Janus and Virgil, the fall didn’t seem to faze him. Maybe it was because he’d already managed to weaken the Dragon Witch so much.

Janus, Virgil, and Logan were on their feet by the time the newcomer managed to bring the Dragon Witch to his level. She was still fighting but she didn’t quite stand as tall anymore and Remy was pretty sure she knew she was losing.

Then the newcomer stopped.

He wasn’t giving up. No, that was clear. He was still in a fighting stance. But he didn’t seem to be fighting anymore? At least not with his weapons. He was just… looking at the Dragon Witch really intensely. And she was too. It was like they knew something the other Sides didn’t.

Reality seemed to ripple around them and the Dragon Witch suddenly vanished.

Remy sensed Janus and Virgil exchanging a confused glance behind him but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure. Now alone on the former battlefield, Remy could see him much more clearly but he still couldn’t make out who he was. Was it Roman, with his sword? Or Remus, with his morningstar? It had to be one of them. Right?

“You need to be more careful,” a steady voice boomed as the figure turned around. Remy heard Logan gasp behind him but it took a moment for Remy to realize why. “You never know what you’ll run into here.”

The man began walking towards them and a feeling of recognition and dread flashed between the four Sides. It was only when the broad, bearded figure was standing right in front of them that any of them were able to stutter out his name.

“R-Romulus.” 

The King had returned. 

================

Author’s Note: This has multiple chapters. I planned to write and post them all this week but that didn’t happen so I will just be posting chapter 1 this week. Next chapter and the following one will focus more on the prompt and aspec themes.

Next Chapter

[stillness-in-green]

Spinaraki Week Level 2, Day Three: Folklore | Memory

For the folklore prompt, a yokai AU.  For the memory prompt...  Well, let’s just say that this is probably not going to make much sense if you haven’t seen Sarazanmai.

Spinner dies, but he doesn’t.  He’s empty, but he isn’t. He wants to connect, but he mustn’t.

(With apologies to Sakaki Deidoro, who probably didn’t deserve to be turned into a kappa zombie anymore than the ones in the show did.)

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

“Sure I know him,” the man in the bird mask slurs, leaning back from them with a loose shrug.  “Think there’d be a guy in this uniform who doesn’t?”  

The air stinks of booze; there’s an open bottle in the man’s hand as he lifts it, a pointing finger drawing figure eights in the air, wobbling between Shigaraki and Spinner.  Spinner to Shigaraki, back and forth, Shigaraki to Spinner.  An invisible line of connection.

“Who’s askin’, that’s the real question.”  The man giggles, then hiccups at the end of it.

Spinner can’t feel it much in this form, but you don’t get involved in the sorts of things this would-be tengu is involved in if there isn’t something you want, or someone you love. He doesn’t even need to glance at Shigaraki to know this is their next target.

“No beginning, no ending, no connection,” he pronounces.

“We’ll open a door,” Shigaraki echoes, and sluggish alarm registers in bird-mask’s slackening mouth as Spinner pulls out the gun.

“Is it desire?” Shigaraki asks.  Around them, the humming of the machines changes pitch.  Bird-mask glances around wildly, hearing them for the first time.

“Or is it love?” Spinner asks, the word tasting like the flesh of an overripe plum on his tongue, cloying, too sweet.

“Let’s extract it and find out.”

The lights from the extraction chamber rise—focus—flash.

The sound of drumming drowns out the gunshot.

-

“How was it?” Toga asks, floating down from above to coil her arms around Shigaraki’s shoulders when they make it back to the hideout.

Shigaraki huffs.  “Just another one for the machine, same as always.”

“Usso…” The pout is audible in her voice.  Then she looks back over her shoulder at Spinner, her eyes glowing yellow as Shigaraki walks them both into the shadows. White fangs flash in her grin.  “Did you have fun today?”

He can’t not hear a mocking edge.  He tells himself it’s just how otters are, even their criminals.

“Like Shigaraki said,” he grunts.  “It was the same as always.”

She sighs, wistful as a fading flower.  “I’m sure we’ll find a lover someday.  Maybe that one’s boss?  Oh, I’m sure he’ll be otterly delicious.”

Shigaraki just snorts again, and in Spinner’s chest, his hollow heart aches.  Again.

-

“I’ve never met a kappa with such an empty heart,” the otter in the white lab coat says the first time Spinner wakes up on his table.  “How otterly fascinating.”

Spinner looks up at him, vaguely surprised that he survived the fall of the kingdom, but somehow not at all surprised that, having survived, his luck has landed him here.

“I am Chief Science Otticer Ujiko,” the otter introduces himself, and extends one fat paw towards him. “And I think there’s someone you should meet.  Someone who can help you understand.”

“Understand what?” Spinner whispers.  The lights above him are so bright, electric white and so much colder than any lamp or lantern from home.

“That those connections you kappa prize so dearly—are poison.  Usso…”

-

Shigaraki plays video games when they’re not out hunting for desire energy.  He’s unreasonably good at them, hands flying over controllers he never does more than glance at, instead staring fixedly at the TV screen.  He doesn’t seem to care what it reflects back at him, as long there’s some goal he can point his avatar at instead.  Preferably a bloody one.

Before the empire found him, Spinner had never touched a video game—or, really, much of any kind of human tech.  A stray talking children’s toy lost in the tall grass of a riverbank.  A drowned radio carried downstream by the currents until it wedged up against a rock in the riverbed and sat there leaking acrid mercury from its battery compartment into the water around it.

Shigaraki doesn’t comment when he comes back from an appointment with Ujiko and finds Spinner fumbling through an early level on one of his games, though the sound of the door opening startles Spinner badly enough to send the character onscreen careening into a bottomless pit.

Instead, he just takes the controller out of Spinner’s hands, navigates the jump for him when the character regenerates, and hands the controller back.  Then he drops onto the other end of the ragged couch and watches Spinner play.

“…Man, you really suck at this.”

-

They dance, ballroom-style, a thing Spinner only ever saw from a distance, frozen in human art.  He should be terrible at it, and maybe he is, but the music seems to guide his feet all the same.  Or maybe it’s Shigaraki, the emptiness at the bottom of his heart so very, very easy to follow.

-

“Why do you do this?” Spinner asks Shigaraki, not long after their first meeting.  “You aren’t one of them, are you?”

They’re staking out a local yakuza spot from a few buildings over, watching cars come and go.  In the dark, Shigaraki’s eyes could pass for normal.

“Why do you this?” Shigaraki echoes, not even looking at him.  “You aren’t one of them.”

“Because—”  Spinner can’t finish the sentence.  Shigaraki may not be an otter, but that doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be consequences for saying, Because of you.

“Connections,” Shigaraki says, “are bullshit.”  

His white hair stirs on the breeze from the open window.  

In the distance, Spinner can smell the river.

-

All For One strokes back Shigaraki’s hair, his grin a pale crescent against the black nimbus obscuring the rest of his features.  Shigaraki’s head twitches to the side but he doesn’t otherwise move, neither to lean in nor pull away when the Emperor of Darkness bows his head to whisper into his ward’s ear.

Whispering poison, maybe.

Spinner, waiting at the other end of the basement with Toga, watches the two of them, and wonders.

The otters want to destroy the circle, or so Shigaraki and Ujiko say.  Spinner doesn’t know why—the otters use desire energy just like kappa do, and destroying the circle of all will make it just as inaccessible to them as it would become to kappa.

There must be something they aren’t saying, not that anyone’s going to tell him what that might be.

He watches Shigaraki and All For One, and he thinks about pyramids.

-

Shigaraki hates.  He hates humans, hates kappa, hates otters, hates the circle.  He breathes it, swims in it like it's his own river of life.  It drips off his words, flows through his veins, powers his heart like a turbine.  When they dance, Shigaraki’s eyes never leave his, gaze boring straight through Spinner, as if he’s trying to dig his way into Spinner’s skull with his stare alone, the two of them carried fully by the intensity of his emotions.

Shigaraki leads—across the factory floor, up the escalator, out onto the broad balcony that overlooks the city, the thousands of city lights that shape themselves to the curves of the river.  He leads until the very end, where he pulls himself in close, guides Spinner’s hand to his chest, and splays himself out over Spinner’s arm as Spinner’s claws slip beneath his skin to pull his heart out of his thin white chest.

Spinner draws the organ—ember-red, ember-hot—to his mouth, breathing in the energy of it in shuddering gasps. Ujiko’s implant in Spinner’s chest gives an answering tremble and groans back to life, an uneven pulse that isn’t quite a heartbeat.

And so he’s ready to go for another however-long before they do this again.  A few days, maybe a bit over a week.  He could go longer without, probably, but the machines are always hungry.

Spinner is too.  Laying limp and lax in his hold, Shigaraki’s eyes flutter, his cheeks flushed, a thin whine audible beneath his breathing. Still, his lips are pulled up in a small, tight, fierce grin.

Spinner’s teeth itch. If he sank them into the hot lump of flesh clutched in his taut fingers, would he know why Shigaraki can smile like that?  How he can feel things so strongly and still want to throw it away?

I want to connect, whispers a dangerous, treacherous voice in his mind as he eases Shigaraki’s heart back into place, averting his eyes.  But I’m afraid.

-

Where Shigaraki came from. How he fell in with the otters.  Why he wants to destroy the circle—the sarazanmai could tell him.  The sarazanmai reveals everything.

There are a thousand problems with that, starting with the fact that Spinner is pretty sure that you can’t even perform sarazanmai with a human, and, whatever All For One and Ujiko have done to him over the years, it doesn’t change the fact that Shigaraki is a human.

Spinner turns over in his bed, limbs splaying out every which way.  It’s stiflingly hot in the hideout, both because it’s summer and because of the concentration of desire energy below the building.  He sits abruptly, tank top clinging to his skin, then gets up to open a window.  

Air moves over his face, a laggard breeze that still draws out a soft sigh of relief.  He looks out over the city, breathing in the smoke and the exhaust, the taint of sweaty humanity clinging to every corner of the place.  Beneath it all, he can still smell the river.

…The prince could turn Shigaraki into a kappa.  He’s done it before, or so the stories go, in very desperate times.  He’d have no reason to grant a wish like that anyway, not for a bedraggled, unconnected outcast like Spinner; he’d probably cough up a thousand brass plates before he’d even think about it.

Not that it matters anyway. The prince is dead, lost when the kingdom fell.  Shigaraki’s human, and human he’ll stay, brimming with the kind of raw emotional potency that has drawn youkai towards humans since before humans had even developed a word for connection.

There’s the shirikodama.  The thought arrives in his head so perfectly formed that Spinner looks over his shoulder, suddenly paranoid that Ujiko or Toga appeared to plant it there.  But Toga’s off running around with Twice tonight, and Ujiko never leaves the bowels of the processing plant.

Spinner shivers.

He has never swallowed a human’s desire, not even to hold it in his gullet long enough to deliver it to the prince like the noble delicacy it is.  He could, though.  The city is built on water; they cross streams and rills and offshoots multiple times every day.  It would be so easy to pull Shigaraki into one and let it carry them to the river, let its cool waters soothe away the fever of his hatred, if only for a little while.

Spinner would rest their foreheads together, pull Shigaraki close, and—and extract his desire, drink it down there in the river of life, and with no prince to surrender it to, it would just be his, only his.  All of Shigaraki’s memories, all of his emotions, the very soul of him, made one with Spinner forever.

And maybe he’d be safe there, safe and connected, no matter what becomes of the circle...

…He’s gotten hard.  Fuck.

Spinner makes his way back to bed, but it’s a long while before he gets to sleep.

-

In the morning, there’s a second game controller sitting on the floor, green next to the usual red, their cords winding around each other in a loose spiral.  Spinner stares down at it, then lets his eyes track up to the sound of the low laugh from the rafters.  Shigaraki looks back down at him, his form limned in red light.

“Spinner, I thought of another way for us to connect.”  The delivery is a bit too high, but the voice is Shigaraki’s.  The cajoling lilt of the cadence, though, is otter through and through.

“Knock it off, Toga,” he grits out past clenched teeth.

If the red glow didn’t give her away, the way her eyes flash gold would.  She winks at him, waves, and disappears, laugh lingering behind her.

The real Shigaraki comes out of his room a minute later, still half-asleep, and almost walks into Spinner before he catches himself.  Unselfconscious, he elbows Spinner out of the way and looks down at the—gift? Test?  Spinner hasn’t decided yet.

“Toga?” he asks, voice rough.

Spinner swallows and nods, hyper-aware of Shigaraki’s warmth, and stutter of his own heartbeat, and the grumble of bio-engine below.

Shigaraki exhales, a sharp gust that ruffles his bangs.  “Figures.”

“I can return it,” Spinner offers, which is stupid, really.  It’s not like he knows where Toga got it.  It might not have even come from a regular store; she sees Ujiko just as often as the rest of them, and he always has some new project he’s wanting to test.

But Shigaraki’s already wandering off towards the kitchen.

It’s another day, and there’s plenty of desire waiting to be found.

[mango-forest]

more than survive (part 1)

part 2, part 3, part 4

Marinette lays on her bedroom floor, hair loose around her head and dull eyes looking at the ceiling. She sighs and turns her head to the laptop next to her. ”I don't know, Dami. What am I doing wrong?” she asks in English.

She can see Damian glance at her through the screen, obscured chest down by the desk. Damian hums and places his pencil down. “I think you’re going about this the wrong way, Angel. Have you ever thought that the class is the one in the wrong?”

Marinette huffs and turns over to her stomach, resting her chin on her arms. “They’re wrong to believe Lila, but maybe I'm just not putting enough effort into being friendly?” she wonders.

Damian scoffs and taps his screen. “Angel, you literally tried making them all cookies,” he says in French. “And then the bitch claimed she was allergic.”

“Dami!” Marinette covers her face. “You can't just cuss someone out!”

“Mm,” he hums unconvincingly. “Say, didn’t you have something coming up.”

Marinette squints her eyes at the boy on the other side of the screen. “I see what you're doing. But yes, I do. It’s supposed to be a big trip or something.”

“And it’s soon?” he asks, resuming his work.

“Mmhm.”

“And you don't know what it is exactly?”

“Yep,” Marinette huffs out. For a moment, she just presses her face against her carpet and closes her eyes. “I wish we could meet,” she says, not really registering what's coming out of her mouth. “Video call and texting is nice but being in person could be colder. Cooler.”

Damian is silent and Marinette opens her eyes to see him biting his lip and staring hard at his desk. “Dami?”

“Hm?” Damian jerks and looks at her. “What? Is something wrong?”

Marinette raises her eyebrows. “Everything okay in Gotham?”

Damian nods. “Yeah, why?”

She motions to her own neck. “There’s a bruise on your jaw.”

“Oh uh,” Damian flounders. “It’s a. . . hickey?” he says unsurely.

Marinette stares at him for a moment, a grin growing on her face. She ignores the weird ache in her chest as she says, “A hickey. Really? From who?” The last part is partly teasing and mocking, and partly curious.

Damian scoffs. “Plenty of people would want to give me a hickey, unfortunately.”

“Do you even know what a hickey is?” It's official. Damian’s face is too hilarious. Marinette bursts out laughing, and says, “Your face! You are scowling so much!”

The scowl disappears as Marinette keeps howling, curling on her side, still pressing against the carpet.

"Wait-Wait, for real? Like, you, Damian, actually got one? Or did you get into a fight?" Marinette asks, after wiping at her eyes. "And tell me the honest answer, Damian."

Damian huffs and stays silent for a few moments before he says, "I may have gotten into a fight."

"Damian!"

Damian is quick to reassure her. "It's okay though! Angel, honestly, I'm fine."

Marinette sighs and rolls over back to her stomach, squinting to who she considers her best friend. "Did you tell your dad?" Damian never really talks about his family. She knows more about animals from him than his actual family.

Damian grins at her, and she distantly notes that her friend is fairly attractive. "Yes, Father knows. My brothers are being annoying though."

"Brothers?" Those are new. Marinette doesn't remember Damian ever mentioning them before. Then again, she never asks. She understands not wanting to talk about certain things.

Damian's hand runs through his short black hair. Marinette likes how Damian is comfortable enough around her to not have it styled. Damian mentioned once or twice in passing how he always has it styled in public. "Yes. Unfortunately they feel the need to bother me 24/7. Wait, isn't it late in Paris?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Well, not really, but I am trying to get more control of my sleep schedule." That isn't exactly a lie. Marinette hates straight out lying. Even more after Lie-la.

"I suppose this is goodbye, Angel?" Damian says with a soft smile. Marinette always feels her face heat up a bit when he does that.

"Uh. . . yeah. Yeah, goodnight Dami," she says, distracted by his kind expression.

"Goodnight, Angel." The video call ends and Marinette stares at the screen a bit longer before turning her laptop off and burying her face in her arms.

"Tikki? Do you think Damian has a romantic partner?"

Her kwami looks up from her cookie, sitting on the desk, out of the computer's view. Stuffing the rest in her mouth, she zips over to her Chosen. "I'm sure he doesn't," Tikki says. "I would think he'd mention if he does."

"God, why am I even thinking about this Tikki," Marinette groans. Sure, she gets uncomfortable whenever she thinks about him having a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or anything like that. But she's just his friend! She has no reason to think about his life like this.

"Let's just do patrol before I start burying myself in the ground. Tikki, spots on!" After she transforms, she grabs a jacket she has been using more and more often. It's a heavy black hoodie with a red inside and her symbol on the back. The red circle with five black dots stand out and makes her more identifiable.

It's getting colder and colder, maybe a few weeks from now, she'll have to wear leggings or something. Opening the window lets in the cold air, and Ladybug shivers. The hoodie may help, but the cold still makes her feel sleepy and slow.

She blames that fact later when she doesn't know she has company until a hand grabs her wrist. Letting out a yelp, she twists around and flips the other person, backing up a few feet when she sees the black leather.

"Hello, M'Lady," he says, and Ladybug stiffens. "You've gotten stronger."

She cocks out a hip, and says, "You would maybe know that if you show up to akuma fights. Also, don't touch me."

Chat Noir's face screws up for a second before smoothing out again. "Well, you didn't seem to need me. And also, not touch you? So no hugs?" He spreads out his arms and steps forward, smile still on his face.

Ladybug just scowls. Hers has gotten better since she first started talking with Damian. "I said don't touch me, Chat Noir," she hisses.

Chat Noir huffs and drops his arms, looking at her with a condescending expression. "I don't know why you're being like this, Bugaboo. Maybe we can talk about this over ice cream?" He winks at the end of his sentence.

Ladybug suppresses a scoff of revulsion and shakes her head. "Stay away from me, Chat Noir." She starts to swing away.

Thankfully, Chat Noir stays behind and doesn't chase her. But Ladybug still hears him call out. "I don't know why you're fighting this, M'Lady! We're destined to be together! You'll see eventually!"

When Ladybug gets home, she locks the skylight and detransforms in her room. When she's in her sleepwear and Tikki's out of sight, finishing off her pastries, Marinette settles on her chaise and opens her laptop. All the lights are turned off, so her face is illuminated by the screen glow.

Marinette wonders if Damian will answer if she calls. Then, curled around a pillow, she sends out a video call request. For a few seconds she wonders if he won't answer. But then the screen is filled with Damian and Marinette cracks a relieved smile.

"Angel, I thought you went to sleep hours ago?" Damian asks, voice full of worry.

"Turns out I can't really fall asleep," Marinette whispers. It's true. She still feels icky from her encounter with her former partner. "Maybe you can tell me about those Gotham--" She's cut off by knocking coming from her skylight.

She freezes and, judging by the narrowing of Damian's eyes, the boy on the other side of the screen catches the movement. "I'm sure it's nothing," she tries to say. The knocking continues more harshly at the end of her sentence, and she winces. “I’ll actually be right back,” she whispers, and she ends the video call before Damian can protest.

Marinette makes her way to the skylight and taps it, reluctantly opening it after she sees the shadow move. She climbs out and shivers at the cold night air, wishing she grabbed a jacket instead of going out there in a thin strapped top and shorts. Chat Noir’s leaning against the balcony railing, tail flicking behind him.

“What’s with all the banging? I was trying to sleep,” Marinette says.

“Weren't on your bed,” Chat Noir replies.

“I was on my chaise. What do you want?”

“Me-ouch, Princess. Just needed someone to rant to.”

Marinette knows she won't get out of this, so she curls up on the lawn chair while the black cat themed boy perched on the railings. When he launches into a rant, she drifts in and out of focus.

“I saw her in the rooftops--”

Blink.

“--only wanted to--”

Blink.

“--flips me, which is kinda hot--”

Blink.

“--and then she blames me, really--”

Blink.

“--and she yelled at me, Princess!”

Marinette makes sure to nod at the end, tacking on a quiet, “Oof.”

Chat Noir stands up, maybe trying to show off how he can stand on a railing with no problem, and stretches. “Sorry to take up your time, princess. I’ll see you later?” Without waiting for a response, he shoots away, gone by the time Marinette gets past the sickness in her stomach.

Marinette climbs back into her room and nearly falls asleep right then and there when she got to the chaise and got a blanket around her. She turns on her laptop, again, and this time Damian automatically picks up, a worried frown on his face. “Angel, who was--”

“Dami, can we please not talk about it,” Marinette interrupts.

“Angel--”

“He didn't even do anything, okay,” she continues, not noticing her mistake.

“He? Angel, why was a guy kno--”

“He just talked to me!” Marinette tries to reassure.

“Angel, you looked terrified--”

“IT DOESN'T MATTER OKAY, DAMI?” Marinette shouts into her pillow. “I don't want to talk about that. Can't we just forget it? I just want to learn more about Gotham’s superheroes or something until I fall asleep.”

A pause, then, “Well, they're more like vigilantes. . .”

@maribat-archive @ozmav

[dcnatural]

Summer Heat

Word Count: 1806

Pairing: Sister!Reader x Dean

Rating: Explicit

Synopsis:  It's a beautiful summer day and all you wanted was to read, but your brother, Dean, has other plans.

It was a hot summer day and your legs sticked to the plastic of the cheap chaise lounge where you laid reading a romance you had borrowed in the towns library. The shadow provided by the umbrella did little to keep the heat away and you felt like you would melt, even thought you were wearing just a tiny bikini. The water of the swimming pool shimmered with the sunlight, and despite its oily appearance, you were getting more and more tempted to just jump in. 

Suddenly, the book was pulled from your hands by your older brother. You squinted your eyes and pouted, not in the mood for his little games. “Give it back, Dean!”, you yelled at him, stretching out your arm to try to reach the novel. You fingertips barely brushed the dusted cover before he raised his arm so he could hold the book above his head. 

“Seriously, Dean, stop being a prick”, you groaned as you stood up. You gave a pathetic jump, attempting to take back your novel, but your brother towered above you by a few inches, and you knew there was nothing you could do. But at the same time, you were afraid he would glimpse inside and see what exactly you had been reading about. The blush crept into your face only from thinking about it.

“Come on, sis”, he teased, waving the book. “Don’t you want it back?”

You stamped your feet on the ground and fought the urge to throw him into the pool.

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like you, know, babysit our sick young brother?”, you asked, looking back towards the room you were sharing with him, Sam and your father. Not that John actually set a foot on the room… You hadn’t seen him since he dropped the three of you in the motel to wait while he hunted a ghost. 

“Nah, he’s sleeping. And there’s nothing better than spending time with my little sister,” he teased, leaning closer.

You crossed your arms and fell back into your chair. “Dean, just leave me alone.”

“But where would be the fun in that?”, he replied, flashing a mischievous grin.

You let out a heavy sigh. “Please, Dean, just let me finish reading”, you pleaded once more. 

“Alright, let me read for you, like I used to do when you were little”, he said, sitting by your feet and opening the book on his lap. 

“No!”, you exclaimed, lunging forward once more, trying to stop him from reading it. But he was stronger than you, and held you back with just one arm, while he flipped the pages of the book with the other. 

Dean cleared his throat and began the narration. “‘It felt so odd to be kissed while lying naked in his arms… and not right’,” he paused and raised and eyebrow, “Oh my, what kind of book are you reading?”, he asked teasingly.

You could feel yourself turning as red as a tomato. You just wanted to stand up and run away from him, but yet, you were curious to see where this was going. “Stop it, okay?”, you muttered, so low he almost didn’t hear it. He mimicked a thin, girly voice as he began narrating the next paragraph.

“ ‘“Stop,” I whispered fearfully, feeling the male part of him grow hard against me’. You know, normal people just watch porn online . ”

“That’s not porn! It’s literature”, you stated defensively, reaching once more for the book. This time, though, his grip on it had loosened and you took it away easily. “Yes!”, you shouted, standing up in triumph.

 “Now I want to know how it ends”, Dean said, already coming for you. You rolled your eyes and ignored him, hugging the book close to your chest. “Are you gonna leave me curious, Camila?”

You kept walking away, heading to your shared room. You closed the door behind you and glance through the window to check on whether your brother had followed you or not. Dean still standing near the swimming pool, now talking with some pretty blonde girl in a red bikini. You couldn’t help but flinch at the sight. 

* * *

It was late in the night, in fact, the clock hanging above the door marked midnight, when you woke up to the noise of the toilet flushing. You blinked, your eyes getting used to the pale light coming from the lamp. The bathroom door creaked open, and out came your brother. Dean wore just a gray pair of briefs exposing his well toned chest and, in one hand, he held your borrowed copy of Flowers in the Attic. 

Your eyes went wide, and you jumped out of bed, right in front of him. “Dean!”, you hissed. 

He smiled. “Quite a interesting piece of literature you have there”, he joked.

“I can’t believe you went through my things!”, you had made sure to hide the book beneath piles of clothes, following the events of that afternoon.

He stepped forward, close enough you could feel the heat emanating from his body, and opened the novel in a page he had previously marked by folding the corner of the page. “ ‘He dared to kiss the nipple. I jumped, startled, wondering why that should feel so strange, and so extraordinarily thrilling.’”

You took a step back, your heart beating faster than before. How much of it had he read? The room felt colder than before, and you shivered under your satin and lace nightgown. 

“But not only are these two very filthy, but, as I found out”, he flipped the book to show you the back cover, “they are also siblings.”

Your whole body shook with fear and tears threatened to fall from your eyes. Would Dean hate you now? You could say it was just a book, that you picked it randomly. Just because you were reading about incest, it didn’t mean you had incestous feelings towards your brother. Right, he knows nothing, you reassured yourself. 

“So, nothing to say, sister?”, Dean asked, eyes glistening with humor.

Your throat felt dry and you couldn’t quite find the words to speak. He moved closer to you, trapping your body between his and the wooden bed frame. To your left, Sammy slept deeply and soundly, lost in his dreams. 

You faced Dean’s handsome face. Droplets of sweat formed in his forehead, and his lips were slightly parted. His pupils almost obscured the green of his eyes. You couldn’t help but think of how gorgeous he looked. Dean wrapped his arms around you, his hands resting on your back, and leaned in to whisper directly in your ear. 

“You know”, he began, “there’s some very interesting passages in this book.” Behind you, he flipped through the pages once more, searching for another of his marked pages. “Oh, here it is, ‘ I shouldn’t have worn skimpy little see-through garments around a brother who had all a man’s strong physical needs, and a brother who was always so frustrated by everything, and everyone.’”, he dropped the book into the floor, causing a heavy thud . 

“You didn’t learn anything with Cathy, did you?”, he muttered, his hands lowering in your back, passing by the soft curve of your ass and finally finding the lace trimmed edge of your nightgown. He played with the soft tissue, before slipping his hand underneath it and grabbing directly into the bare skin of your ass.

You couldn’t move, it all felt like a dream. You thought that any moment you would wake up in your bed, all alone.

“Dean”, you moaned.

“Yes, Camila?”

“Kiss me”, you commanded. And so he did. His mouth clashing into yours, kissing you with a passion you never knew he had. You collapsed into your bed, taking Dean with you. His weight crushed you, but it felt so good you couldn’t complain. You explored his mouth with your tongue, and his body with your hands.

 You broke the kiss, gasping for air, and he took the opportunity to begin to undress you. You raised your hips, making it easier for him to remove your soaked white panties, which he tossed aside like they were nothing. Your nightgown followed, and soon you laid naked on the white sheets, your hair spread around you like a halo. He leaned in, kissing and sucking one nipple, while his hand played with the other. A loud moan escaped your throat, and for a moment you wondered whether you had awoken Sam.

“Dean, Dean,” you called, making him stop what he was doing and look up, his eyes locking into yours. “Stop, we might wake Sam.”

He giggled. “Relax, if you had seen how tired he was, you would know that nothing in this world would wake him up.”

“You sure?”, you asked doubtfully. You glanced worried at your baby brother, but Dean was, right: Sam was as still as a rock.

“Relax, Camila”, he said, caressing your inner thighs. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, giving him all the permission he needed to continue. He trailed soft kisses in your belly, his lips barely even touching the skin, moving closer and closer to where your slender legs joined. He nudged your legs apart, opening you for his pleasure.

“You are beautiful, sis”, he told you, wonderstruck with your beauty. You could feel the adoration and desire in his gaze, in that moment, you were his everything.

He dived into you, licking your folds and soaking them even more. Propping yourself up in your elbows, you watched him with intensity. His lips found their way to your clit and he sucked hardly, flicking his tongue against it. 

You gripped tightly the sheets, suppressing your urge to scream. Your muscles tensed as one finger probed your entrance, but you forced yourself to relax. He curled his finger into you, searching for your g-spot and teasing your inner walls. He kept on until you were seeing stars. Your back arched and you felt like you might explode, not being able to hold back anymore, you screamed his name.

“Dean”, you panted. “Dean…”

“I’m right here, baby”, he answered, letting go of your legs and crawling to your side.

You kissed him, tasting yourself in is mouth. “Let me take care of you”, you cooed into his ear, your hand grasping his covered hard-on. 

He laughed. “No need for that. Tonight was about you”, he whispered back, caressing the soft flesh of your breasts. You smiled softly, placing another kiss in his lips. “Now, go to sleep, it’s late”, he told you, before getting up, turning the lights off and going back to the bed he shared with Sam. 

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but all you could think about was Dean, and how good it felt being with him.

[stormtrooper-in-clogs]

Roger Taylor, Monster Hunter

I wrote this for @dtfrogertaylor​‘s HalloQueen event for @allthe-queens-men​. Hope you like it!

Summary: A simple walk through the woods turns into so much more.

Pairing: Roger Taylor/Female Reader

Word count: ~3000

Warnings: violence, gore, angst, smut (fingering, handjob, oral (f&m receiving), implied continuation) 

A/N: It took me a solid week to come up with an idea for this, and it ended up being longer than anticipated!

***

You knew you shouldn’t be out after dark.

You knew you shouldn’t cut through the woods.

You knew there was a full moon tonight.

You knew.

But it’s the quickest way to get home.

But it’s just this once.

But all those stories can’t really be true… can they?

These thoughts and countless others swirled through your head as you wandered through the darkness.   Every snap of a twig under your foot and each falling leaf making you jump and second-guess your chosen route.  You wrapped your jacket even tighter around yourself as the bitter October wind sent chills through your entire body.  You tried to brush your fears aside and just focus on getting away from the dimly lit path through the forest.  Just get out of the trees.  Get somewhere well-lit.  Get away from the darkness.   

You were quickly pulled out of your own head by an animalistic snarl as a pair of bright yellow eyes appeared before you.  You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling a scream.  Instinct took over as you tried to escape, the only clear thought in your mind was getting as far away from this creature as possible.  You turned on your heel and ran blindly through the forest, not knowing where you were going, only that you had to get there now.  

It was no use though, no matter how far or fast you ran, this creature was right behind you.  Just get to the clearing.  The clearing will be safe.  It won’t follow you there.  Logically, you knew that was ridiculous, but you wanted to hold onto any possibility that you could successfully flee whatever was chasing you.  

You were almost there.  Running with renewed strength as the clearing came into view.  You were almost on the edge of the light when your foot got caught on a root that protruded from one of the ancient oak trees.  You tripped, headbutting the thick trunk on the way down.  

The second you hit the ground, the monster descended on you.  His razor-sharp claws pierced the flesh of your leg, fracturing the bone with a sickening crunch,  and pushed you further into the dirt as he went for your neck.  You screamed with everything you had, hoping in vain that someone would hear and come to your rescue before you became this beast’s dinner.  His pointed teeth gleamed in the light of the full moon and his breath was hot against your skin.  The metallic tang of blood filled your nostrils, suggesting that you weren’t his first victim tonight.

Right when his massive jaws were a mere hairsbreadth away from tearing open your throat, a loud explosion sounded from somewhere in the darkness.  The creature then collapsed on top of you, dead.  You quickly scrambled out from underneath your lifeless attacker.  This monster that not ten seconds ago was about to devour you, was now just a corpse.  You looked around in an attempt to locate your savior, but the blood from where your forehead hit the tree was obscuring your vision.

A figure wearing a black cloak stepped out from the shadows and knelt down to examine your injuries.  His piercing blue eyes widened in horror when he saw your leg.  He took off his scarf and tied it tightly above the gash to stop the bleeding.  Then he gently scooped you up off of the forest floor and carried you to safety.

***

The next thing you remembered was waking up in a strange bed in what appeared to be a small cabin.  You had no idea where you were or how long you had been unconscious.  You tried to get up, but you were stopped by the inability to move your left leg.  You threw back the covers to reveal a thick cast that enveloped nearly the entire limb.  Cautiously, you reached up to touch your forehead, feeling the smooth bandages.  

“Hey, you’re up!” came a surprised voice from across the room.

You turned your head in the direction of the voice and were met by the same blue eyes from the other night.  

“So it wasn’t a dream,” you muttered, trying to piece together the broken memories of the attack.  “How long was I out?”

“Almost two days,” he replied.  “I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it after you fainted.  You lost a lot of blood,”

You still had a lot of questions about what happened that night.  Slowly, your mysterious savior helped fill in the gaps.  He was a hunter who happened to be in the area when he heard you scream.  After he found you, he brought you back to his cabin.  He stitched up your forehead and set your broken leg.  He changed your bandages every 12 hours while he waited for you to wake up.  As he spoke, you caught yourself staring at him with a sort of curious fascination.  Sure, he was handsome, with those intense baby blues and sharp features topped off by a mop of messy, blond hair.  But there was something else at work there.  Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.  Something… magnetic.  It was almost as if you were somehow drawn to him.  But there was still something important weighing on your mind.

“What was that thing that attacked me?” you inquired, finally daring to ask your most burning question.

“Werewolf,” 

“Werewolves are real?!?”

“Yes. What were you doing in the woods during a full moon anyway?”

“It was the quickest way home,”

“Well, you got lucky.  I didn’t find any teeth marks, so I don’t think it bit you,”

Luck.  Luck was the only thing that prevented you from a grizzly death or a gruesome transformation.  Well, that and your new friend.  But it could have been luck that brought him to you.  Or you to him.  Call it luck, fate, maybe even destiny.  Either way, some strange force had brought the two of you together.  But why?

“I have a phone if you need to call someone,” he stated, interrupting your train of thought.  “A roommate maybe.  Let them know you’re okay?”

You shook your head.  “I live alone,”

He nodded understandingly.  “You’ll need to stay here until that leg heals anyway,”

You quickly glanced around the cabin and noticed that there was only one bed.  “Where will you sleep?” you asked.  “This place doesn’t exactly look like it was designed for guests”

“It wasn’t, but I’ll be fine,” he gestured to the ratty armchair by the fireplace.

“I’m Y/N by the way,”

“Roger,”

***

Staying with Roger confirmed your suspicion that living in the forest required a lot of supplies, as he was often out chopping wood, hunting, or doing an array of other chores that made his lifestyle possible.  And since he was gone so much, you had a lot of alone time without much to do but think.  Your mind kept drifting back to that night.  He said the werewolf hadn’t bitten you, but what if he was wrong?  What if he missed something while examining you?  What if the only thing stopping you from becoming the beast that nearly took your life was the current phase of the moon?

“I’m back!” Roger called as the door of the cabin swung open, snapping you back to reality.

It had taken some time for him to get used to having to announce his presence each time he entered his own home.  How long had he lived alone you wondered.  How long had it been since he had even seen another person?  

When you didn’t acknowledge his entrance, he came over to see if you were awake.  “What’s wrong, Y/N?” he implored, his face matching your thoughtful expression.  

“It’s just…” you paused, not knowing how to approach the subject.  “What if the werewolf did bite me? Or if it’s saliva somehow entered my bloodstream? What if I turn into one of them during the next full moon?” your mouth was running a mile a minute as all of your fears poured out as fast as they entered your mind.

“Hey, it’s okay.  I’m almost certain you weren’t bitten,” he reassured you.  “And in the event that I’m wrong… well…” he trailed off, turning his head toward the cupboard where he kept his hunting equipment.

You swallowed thickly as you understood what he was implying.  If you turned he was going to shoot you.   That would stop you from hurting others, and you understood that, but it was a prospect that filled you with dread.  He was going to put you down like a rabid animal, but it was the only way.  Should it come to that, you prayed his aim would be true.

***

As the weeks went on, the nights got colder and colder.  Not that the cabin wasn’t adequate shelter, with the fire that Roger kept burning at all times.  But still, more often than not, you shivered in your bed.  Why did Roger insist on sleeping in that tattered old chair every night?  It can’t be good for his back, and even though he said he was warm enough by the fire, you still caught him shuddering whenever a cold wind blew through the house.  You couldn’t help but think that you would both be so much more comfortable in the bed.  After all, it was certainly big enough for two.

A few days later, a terrible storm swept through the forest.  A brief rain shower here and there wasn't uncommon, but this was something else entirely.  Freezing rain and sleet fell for days on end, making the small cabin miserably cold and damp.  To make matters worse, the firewood was completely soaked.

“Fuckin’ rain,” Roger grumbled as he tried in vain to ignite the waterlogged wood.  “We’re gonna freeze in here.  Unless…” he turned to you with a sudden realization.

“Unless what?” you looked at him from where you lay under the pile of blankets that wasn’t necessarily doing its job keeping you warm.

“Body heat,” he stated

Your heartbeat raced as you understood what he was proposing.  He intended for the two of you to keep each other warm tonight.  You eagerly moved over, making room for him.

“Erm, this’ll work better if you’re ah…” he hesitated as his eyes darted from the bed to you and back again.  “That is, we’ll both warm up faster if we...”

You raised your eyebrows at him, urging the man to spit it out.

He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Our body heat will be best conserved if we aren’t wearing clothes,”

You inhaled sharply at his suggestion.  One of the most attractive men you’d ever seen wanted to lay next to you, naked.  Deep down you knew that it would only be to avoid freezing to death, but still.  

Taking your lack of verbal consent as a sign of discomfort, he tried to retract it, saying that you would probably be fine if you’d rather keep your clothes on.  

“No, if it’s the best way for us to stay warm, then I think we should do it,” you told him.

He nodded and began unburdening himself.  You did the same, needing some help getting your pants over the cast.  

“These too?” you asked, teasing the hem of your panties.

“Everything,” he confirmed, his eyes darkening slightly as he watched you take them off.  

Soon you stood before him, both of you naked as the day you were born, gazing at each other’s bodies in the dim twilight.  For a few seconds, you didn’t even feel the chill, you were too caught up in the intimacy of the moment.  Then the howling wind shook the whole building, bringing you back to reality.  

Ever the gentleman, Roger helped you back onto the bed, quickly scrambling in after.  Seconds later, you were under the covers together, holding each other as close as possible in an attempt to chase away the bitter cold.  You were almost completely buried beneath the thick quilts, your face pressed into Roger’s bare chest as his icy hands melted against your back.  

The two of you lay there, intertwined, for what felt like the better part of an hour, but it still wasn’t enough to stop either of you from shivering.

“M’still cold,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Me too,” he whispered.  

“You’re the ‘survival expert’.” you shifted to look up at him.  “Any other ideas?”

“Well, a nice, sweaty wank usually warms me right up.  We could try that,” he suggested, only half-joking.

Heat rose in your cheeks at his words.  Little did he know that you’d spent a good deal of time thinking about just that.  

“If it’ll keep us from becoming icicles.” you shrugged, trying to contain your excitement at the prospect.

“Seriously? You’d want to?”

You nodded, smiling.

He returned your grin and told you to let him know if you wanted him to stop.

He cupped your face and brought you in for a kiss.  His lips were softer than you imagined, and you hoped yours weren’t badly chapped.  The kiss was warm, and it quickly grew desperate as you explored each other’s bodies.  His hand soon found your ass, slipping his tongue into your mouth as you gasped.  

You unconsciously spread your legs a little as his free hand gradually moved down toward your clit, slowly circling the sensitive nub.  He dipped a finger into your entrance, eliciting a small moan as he teased your wetness.  He then added a second finger, curling them against your front wall in an attempt to find your G-spot.  You could feel his cock hardening as he fingered you.  You reached for it, not wanting him to feel left out.  

Breaking the kiss, he nestled his head against your neck as you began pumping him.  The hand that was on your ass worked its way back up to your chest, grabbing your breast as he began leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.  

All at once, everything stopped, and you whined as he withdrew his fingers.  His solid length slipped from your grasp as he shifted his position so he was lying flat against the mattress.  He then helped you maneuver your body so you were straddling his face, being careful not to put too much weight on your leg.  Almost as soon as you got somewhat comfortable, his mouth met your dripping entrance.  You collapsed against his stomach as he expertly ate you out.  For a few blissful moments, you were so lost in pleasure that you completely forgot about him.  Then he cleared his throat, sending vibrations up through your core.  You quickly resumed your strokes, leaning down to take it in your mouth as precum began leaking from the tip.  You hummed contently at the salty taste, swallowing him down as much as you could.  

“Gonna cum,” he whined.

That was all the warning you received before he climaxed, emptying himself down the back of your throat.  You eagerly swallowed it all for him, your own orgasm approaching.

As you felt the heat building in your stomach, he entered his fingers into your heat.  Again, he curled them against your G-spot, causing you to moan in ecstasy and try to grind your hips against his mouth and hand.  Seconds later, you cried out his name and came all over his face.

For a few minutes, you lay panting on top of him while you both came down from your highs.  Once Roger had recovered enough to move uninhibited, he helped guide you back under the covers and wrapped his arms around you, hugging you to his chest.  Admittedly, you were considerably warmer than before, and for the first time in several days, you felt like you could actually fall asleep.

A little while later you felt Roger’s cock probing your backside.

“M’still cold,”

***

As much as you wished that your days with Roger didn’t have to come to an end, the day of reckoning finally arrived.  Tonight was the full moon.  You were about to find out if your werewolf attacker had turned you.  Roger assured you over and over again that the chances were pretty small, but you both agreed that it would be better to be prepared.  So he grabbed his silver bullets and led you out into the clearing as the sun began to set.

It was the same clearing where he had found you that night.  You supposed there was something poetic about that.  Your story would be ending almost exactly how it began; with a dead werewolf and you lying in a pool of blood.  Only this time he would be ending your life instead of saving it.  

Arms shaking, he raised his gun as the moon shone in the night, praying to any deity who might listen that he wouldn’t have to do this.  

You looked up at the bright orb above you and took a deep breath, ready to accept your fate, whatever it may be.  Your eyes closed as the moonlight enveloped you, bathing you in its lunar glow.  The anticipation of your possible transformation was making your heart race.

You stood there.

You waited.

You held your breath.

And.

.

.

.

Nothing.

Nothing happened.  You were still human!  You wanted to run straight to Roger, but your leg was still immobilized.  Instead, he dropped his gun and swept you up in his arms.  A cold breeze on your face made you realize you were crying.  The absolute joy of being alive was overwhelming.  At that moment, you felt invincible.

You knew you shouldn’t have been out after dark. 

You knew you shouldn’t have cut through the woods.

You knew there was a full moon that night.

You knew.

But on that night you found your home.

And once was all it took.

Because all those stories about what lurks in the darkness are true.

So if anyone dares to wander through the forest under the light of a full moon, they had best hope that a certain blue-eyed hunter isn’t far away.

[anotherhawk]

5 Times Crowley Died Carelessly (And 1 Time Aziraphale Insisted on Caring) Ch1 - Good Omens Fanfiction

Summary: The fire in the bookshop was the first time Crowley had ever experienced the horror and loss of suddenly and violently being the only occult/celestial being on Earth. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has had plenty of chances to get used to that feeling over the previous 6000 years. Spoiler alert: he hasn't got used to it. Not even a little bit.

Warning for repeated temporary character death and an exceptionally loose and inaccurate account of the Book of Genesis

This should be 6 chapters. You can read it on AO3 here or click the read more below.

He wasn't sure just why he had followed Cain out into the east. If anyone asked he'd probably say that the first murderer seemed an ideal figure to hang around, what with his general remit being to cause trouble and everything. Truthfully he just hadn't really known what else to do. He couldn't have stayed - there. The grief of Eve and Adam had been too much for him to bear.

Most of the time he stayed in his snake form, slithering along in Cain's shadow, unseen or at least unacknowledged, keeping the worst of the weather and the wild animals away from the human and, discreetly bringing him food and water on those occasions when Cain spent more than a day or so lying under a tree, staring dry-eyed at his hands.

Every time he thought about showing himself – saying something. But he couldn’t imagine what he could say that could possibly make any of this better, and he could easily imagine plenty of things he could say which would make it worse. No, the thing of it was, he didn’t understand what had happened. Not really. He didn’t understand and he was pretty sure he was the one responsible.

Eventually Cain cried less and walked more, finally coming to a beach where he built himself a little hut out of assorted tree bits woven together and took up fishing. It wasn’t much of a life, all told, but then no one had much of a life really. There should be more than this, shouldn’t there? What was any of this supposed to accomplish?

As always his questions went unanswered.

With an uncomfortable pang he left Cain behind and spread his wings to fly across the ocean. From there he sort of just kept going – flying, walking, slithering , whatever it took to keep moving and not have to stop and think. Days, turned to nights, turned to days again, and the weather got colder until eventually the rains fell frozen from the sky and gathered in heaps so white they reminded him of Heaven and he hated it. They burned too, in a way that fire didn’t, and at the foot of a mountain range he stuck his hand deep into a drift, wondering if this was holy. It wasn't, he eventually decided. It was just cold.

He gazed up at the clouds obscuring the mountain top. Maybe the view would be clearer from the top. Maybe he'd be able to look across the world and understand what it was all for. Maybe, if he was that high up, She wouldn’t be able to ignore him anymore.1

He decided to climb the mountain on his own two feet, or at least the feet he was currently manifesting. Felt like it was the sort of experience you should work for, and the burn of the ice on his feet distracted him from everything inside his head.

It quickly became apparent that this was more of a struggle than he’d been expecting. In spite of his stern words to the contrary his corporation keep insisting that it needed more and better air to breathe than was available. As a sort of revenge he stopped breathing at all, but developed a splitting headache after an hour or two. And the cold just got worse, the wind biting right through his robes until he couldn’t feel his fingers or toes at all, and his body just wouldn’t stop shaking.

Staring vaguely at the white blotches covering his fingers, he sat down heavily on a miraculously handy rock outcrop, sticking out of the snow field. Just a few moments rest and then he'd either carry on or head back down.

The snow was falling thicker again. He tilted his head back and looked up. “What iss thiss all about?” he asked, scowling as his tongue felt more clumsy in his mouth than usual. Really this body was more trouble than it was worth. “Was it my fault?” he wondered forlornly, and he could pretend he was talking to the uncaring sky, rather than an uncaring anyone else.

He'd spent time with both Cain and Abel as they'd been growing up. Keeping an eye on them, enjoying the day to day family drama. He'd been fascinated when instead of joining his parents in foraging in the forest Cain had started collecting seeds and planting them, letting food grow on the first family's doorstep instead of having to go off and find it. He'd taken to following Cain around his fields and orchards, asking what he was doing and offering suggestions until finally Cain had shoved a couple of stick tools at him and told him to help.

Well, helping wasn't the sort of thing he was supposed to do, but he figured that any way of getting close to the humans was probably alright. 2 So sometimes he and Cain would sit and talk in the fields at the end of the day, watching the sunset. And sometimes Cain would complain about his brother, about being overlooked, and about favouritism and, well, he had never been anyone's favourite anything, and so he sympathised, he really did.

 He sympathised. And he was supposed to stir up trouble. And he'd been bored. So yes, he'd egged Cain on a bit. He'd wanted some fireworks, metaphorically speaking. A bit of a barney, a good old-fashioned family argument with everyone drawn in and taking sides.

 He'd never imagined what could happen. He'd never seen it coming.

 Of course he knew about mortality, there had been plenty of animal deaths by this point. If it came to that he'd seen angels die in the War, and even more die in the Fall. But this had been different. He'd watched Cain and Abel grow up. He'd seen them running and playing together, seen Abel cry in sympathy when Cain fell and bloodied his knee, and he'd seen Cain give up his last few figs to share with his brother. He'd thought they loved each other. He'd thought he understood that at least. But he'd seen Abel lying there on the ground, his face frozen in eternal surprise, and he'd seen Cain standing over him, the rock in his hand, and he'd realised he didn't understand  anything.

 It was only a few words. Only a little temptation. “They are made in your image though, aren't they?” he shouted into the storm. “I suppose overreacting is part of the design!” He stood up dramatically, arms thrown wide and immediately got buffeted off his perch by the wind and swept a little way down the mountain.4 He picked himself up and trudged doggedly back up the mountain. “Where was I?” he asked blearily, trying and failing to find his rock. At least he wasn't shivering now. Small mercies and all that. Actually he didn't even feel that cold anymore. Clearly he was getting the hang of this corporation lark. He looked up towards the top of the mountain. Might as well press on then, really.

 He wished he'd said something else to Cain. Wished he'd said something afterwards. Eve's scream echoed through his mind.

 Cain had been cast out. Cursed. So this couldn't have been part of the divine plan, could it? All of this, all of the little family's suffering, this wasn't by Heaven's design. He had seen the shock and horror on Aziraphale's face, had been certain it was mirrored on his own. Not Heaven's design, and it couldn't be Hell's because  he  was Hell's agent and he hadn't  meant  to. It had just been a few words... But that left it being something Cain had chosen to do himself, and that couldn't be right, could it? He'd loved his brother, hadn't he? If it was a choice, why make  that  one?

 Snow was falling on his face. The ice was hot against his back. He'd just lie here for a minutes more then he'd get up and be on his way. He'd just -

  1Actually if we accept that She is omnipotent we must accept that She is capable of ignoring anything She chooses to. However if we accept that She is omniscient then we must accept that She is also constantly aware of everything that She is actively ignoring. In this way, as in many others, we should probably accept that the demon-who-will-be-known-as-Crowley is something of a headache for all concerned.

2This was the same logic that he had earlier used to justify being Eve's first choice of babysitter on date nights. His angelic counterpart3 kept a dignified distance. Crowley invented peek-a-boo, claiming he was taunting the babies for not understanding object permanence.

3Aziraphale.

4It's possible this could be considered a minor form of divine smiting as a punishment for insolence. It's more probable that it was simply weather. It may even be possible that were we to suppose divine influence in this moment that it was intended as a message along the lines of 'Get off the blessed mountain you bloody idiot, you're literally a snake, you're sitting in a blizzard, and you're not even wearing shoes.'

 It had been the first truly harsh winter and Aziraphale had been kept busy. Eve was expecting again and now.... now the boys were gone the little family had struggled to survive. He'd started off trying to be circumspect about his miracles but in the end he'd just made sure that the fields yielded a full harvest whether anyone was tending them or not, and even then as winter wore on far too long he'd resorted to miracling the food stores full again.

 It was perfectly legitimate, he told himself. The humans were struggling because of demonic action. Angelic intervention was necessary to keep them going.

 It had been demonic action, hadn't it? He'd seen the demon, Crawly, talking to Cain not long before the murder, and Gabriel had certainly been satisfied with that as an explanation. Only Aziraphale had also seen the look on the demon's face afterwards, and that hadn't been satisfaction at a job well done or even enjoyment. That had been bewilderment and grief.

 He would have liked to have had a chance to maybe talk to the demon about if after – get the other side's perspective, so to speak. But he'd been far too busy trying to help the poor parents, and by the time he'd thought about it again Crawly had gone and he hadn't come back.

 Which was fine by him, really. It stood to reason that his job would be much easier if his demonic counterpart decided not to bother doing his.

 Still, it had been a long hard winter and it wasn't surprising that he felt a little odd, he considered, as he watched the sun rising over the hillside. It was only the nature of the oddity that struck him as peculiar. 5 He felt alone, which was strange, since he'd been the only angel permanently stationed on Earth since the Garden. So that shouldn't be a new feeling at all. He'd noticed when the others left, or at the very least he'd felt their absence which was sort of the same thing. So why was it hitting him harder today? Perhaps he should check in with Heaven? He didn't have anything in particular to report, there had been nothing significant since Abel's death, and after the way Gabriel had spoken to him then, he wasn't exactly in a hurry to repeat the experience...but perhaps he should? Perhaps he was lonely. Angels  were  supposed to be social creatures after all.

 But that wasn't exactly what this felt like. It wasn't coming from him, it was coming from the world. As though some vital piece had been ripped out, leaving nothing but a jagged hole. Something was missing. Let's see, he was here, and the humans, and...oh. Oh, dear. That was about it, apart from the expected assortment of God's creatures. Just him and the humans and a jagged hole where his demonic counterpart should be.

 This was the sort of thing he should investigate, wasn't it? Heaven would surely expect a report on demonic activity. And if he focused he thought he could sense where Crawly had last been – where he'd died presumably. Or discorporated, rather? This was all so new.

 He made absolutely sure that the humans would be fine on their own for a while and set out, flying across the world in a matter of days. He could have done it faster, of course, but then someone might have noticed and he'd really rather not have to explain what he was doing every time he turned around.

 Eventually he found himself flying up the side of the tallest mountain in the world. He was well above the snow line and good gracious it was cold. He shivered and automatically performed a minor miracle to keep the air immediately surrounding him at a comfortable temperature.

 He found the remains of the demon fairly easily, thawing the ice around the sad little lump so he could dig it out of the snow. There was no sign of violence or injury. It looked as though Crawly had just laid down and died.

“What in the world were you doing up here?” he asked, knowing that he was talking to nothing but a husk of flesh, the demon himself long since departed. “And why didn't you just miracle yourself warm for heaven's sake?”

 In death the demon didn't look especially intimidating.6 In fact, if it wasn't for the pale skin and those snake eyes, Aziraphale could easily have mistaken the body for human. Remembering how Adam and Eve had acted he reached out to close the eyes over only to find that in his transition between snake and human Crawly apparently hadn't bothered to install eyelids. He clicked his tongue and smoothed out the frown lines from the brow instead. Evil was apparently troubling even to its instigators. He didn't know how to feel about that.

 There didn't seem to be anything for him to do here. This wasn't any hellish scheme, Crawly had simply got too cold and discorporated. Probably he was down in hell right now, doing whatever it was demons did on their own time. No doubt either he or another demon would be back sometime soon and the status quo would resume. In the meantime he should get back to the humans, no point in lingering here.

 He lingered there, staring down at the red curls strewn across Crawly's face. Enemy or not, empty husk or not, just leaving him here didn't feel quite proper. The remains of a demon shouldn't just be left lying around, should they? That had to be some kind of hazard. The humans might come here at some point and it might be dangerous.

 Justifications firmly in place, Aziraphale carried Crawly down the mountain and buried him beneath an apple tree.

5Not that he had much to compare it to.

6Aziraphale had never been especially intimidated by him in life either.

[michaelburnhamfanclub]

For the thing about them loving and supporting Michael; Spock

@stormtrooperinstillettos

spoilers for this week’s episode below!

(ao3)

He was running before he had the rationality to tell himself tostop, and once he started running, he was in a dead sprint for the transporterroom that nothing—not logic, not emotion, not a single intervening law of theuniverse—could stop.

“Michael,” he said, skidding to a clumsy stop at the foot ofthe transporter pad. Michael was swaying dangerously forward, one arm wrappedaround her torso, the other hanging limply at her side. “Michael,” he saidagain, too frantic to truly hear the crack in his voice.

Michael glanced up at him, eyes glassy and confused. “Where—” Shefrowned. Her voice was thick with tears. “What are you—why—” and then she saggedforward, and Spock barely thought before lunging to catch her so that shewouldn’t hit the ground.

“Are you—” he began but cut himself off, watching in horror asMichael turned her pinched face away from him, trying to hide the abject miserywritten in her features. He knew the answer to the question he’d begun to ask.Michael was not okay. She was hurt, her friend was dead, and their previousconversation hung about the ship like a particularly sadistic ghost.

He hardly had the presence of mind to even acknowledge Nhan,breathing harshly as she watched them from a few feet away with her judging,damning eyes.

“Spock, please don’t,” Michael whispered, voice choked, but hedidn’t know what she didn’t want him to do.

The med team swarmed into the room all at once, and Spock foundhimself carefully lifting Michael off the transporter pad and laying her gentlyon the ready stretcher. Michael’s gaze only flickered towards him once beforeshe was out of sight, and her expression wrenched all the insides out of him.

Spock slowly sank to sit down on the floor. He put his head inhis hands. He did not move for a long time.

“She’ll be okay,” Doctor Pollard said in a whisper. Spockhovered professionally at the edge of sick bay, eyes glued to Michael, sleepingfor now. “Her hand was a mess, but wewere able to restructure the bones to the best of our ability. She’ll probablyhave less motor control, but it won’t be debilitating. She also broke a fewribs and has a minor concussion. We’re keeping her under supervision until we’resure she’ll be okay. You have nothing to worry about.” Her eyes weresympathetic, and Spock turned his back on her and the sickbay.

“My interest is purely professional. Michael’s aid inresearching the red angel is instrumental to the future of the galaxy. Pleaseinform me when she is capable of performing her duties.”

“Al-riiiight,” Doctor Pollard muttered under her breath as heretreated down the hall.

“I don’t know what you did or said to her, but you should beashamed of yourself,” Commander Saru said, voice colder than Spock had everheard.

He straightened from his workstation, eyes narrowed. “Do notpresume to understand matters to which you have no connection.”

“I have plentyconnection,” he said, raising his chin. “You may not want Michael to be yoursister, and that is none of my concern,but Michael is like a sister to me,and that means that when you hurt her, you hurt me as well.” He took a singlestep closer, and Spock aggressively smothered the illogical urge to flinchback. “So, let me make something perfectly clear, Lieutenant.” He lowered hisvoice. “Do not hurt her again.”

When Saru left, Spock allowed himself a moment to sag forward,tapping his forehead against the wall. His chest ached.

“Lieutenant Spock,” Michael said, voice rough, back ramrodstraight, hands clasped out of sight, eyes focused just to the left of hishead. “I apologize for the delay. I am prepared to assist now.”

Internally, Spock floundered. Michael had been many things tohim throughout their lives. She’d been loving and teasing and cruel and unfairand devoted beyond rationality, but she had never been cold. Even her distanceswere filled with unbearable warmth, and that was what made them so unjust intheir isolation. Now, though, Spock felt like the air between them should fillwith freezing, obscuring fog. He did not understand how to deal with Michaellike this. He had never considered the idea that Michael would manage to be so…impersonal.

Although he’d said they were not family, he’d never questionedthe assumption that Michael would always be in his life, somehow, whetherphysically or as a shadow. He swallowed roughly, feeling the chasm open betweenthem.

And they were children again, and Michael had said the exactlymost destructive words possible, and Spock had shut down. Here, now, Michaelstared forward with the same forced coldness that Spock had struggled toestablish all those years ago, and wasn’t this supposed to be what he wanted?For Michael to feel the same way hehad?

Except it wasn’t right. None of this felt right.

“Michael,” Spock began, voice sounding hollow and defeated tohis own ears.

“Ariam seemed to believe that this entire situation hadsomething to do with me, so I believe we need to consider the possibility thatthe red angel has a special interest in both of us,” she said quickly, thepicture of professionalism. “I assume you’ve already realized that theartificial life possessing Ariam likely has the same source as the beings thatwill destroy all sentient life.”

“Yes,” Spock said after a pause, mouth dry. He didn’t know whatto say. He didn’t know what to say.

“We can start from there.” She stepped forward and called upher own screen of research. She still hadn’t looked at him. He watched numblyas a muscle in her jaw jumped. She typed with her right hand only, keeping herleft pinned behind her back. Spock wondered how badly it was damaged.

“Michael,” he said again, helplessly. She paused in typing butdid not otherwise react, frozen with her head bowed to the table. “I mustapologize for my behavior over the past week.”

She finally looked at him, the gesture sharp. Her eyes weredangerous, alight with pain and fury and a sharp, sharp hurt that would cutthem both if unleashed. “Don’t,” shesaid, tone low.

“I am sorry, Michael.” He looked away, down at the floor,avoiding her damning gaze. “I have been needlessly cruel to us both, and Iregret… many of the things that I have said.”

Michael’s expression was unreadable, entirely closed off in a waythat Spock had never been able to replicate. She said nothing.

“I want to fix it,” he said, sounding horrifically childish.

Michael slowly placed both of her hands flat on the tablebefore her, and Spock saw the stiff way that her fingers moved on her lefthand. She breathed deeply but still did not respond.

A little bit desperate, Spock inhaled sharply and said, “Youare my sister, and I love you. I do not wish to inflict any more damage beyondwhat I have already done. I was too foolish, too childish to see what you haddiscovered decades ago.”

“Why are you saying this?” Michael demanded softly, voicelayered with something miserable that made Spock feel like physically wilting.

“I am trying to make amends. I am trying to be better. I amtrying to help you.”

Michael shook her head, wordless, and didn’t stop. “No,” she whispered.“You can’t—”

“Michael, you are not okay,” Spock cut in, rounding the tablebetween them to place a hand on her shoulder, internally praying for her toface him. She did not. “Let me apologize for my part in making you so…” he trailedoff, at a loss for the proper term.

“Sad?” Michael finished, sounding small.

“A mildly adequate label for a complex emotional state,” Spockacknowledged, feeling relieved when he saw the tiny upward twitch of Michael’s lips.

“Okay,” Michael said after an eternity, turning to him. “Okay.I’m sorry.”

She looked so human in that moment, and Spock, for the first time,noticed how much taller he was compared to her. It felt wrong. Michael had beenlarger than life from the day they’d met. Without thinking, he reached for her,grabbing her in an instinctive hug. Michael crumpled into the embrace, and herealized they were both shaking.

Spock knocked his temple against Michael’s, an old gesture they’dpracticed as children to glean surface emotions from one another. Spockprojected his relief, his fear, his love for his sister, and in turn feltMichael’s devastation, her grief, and a frail clawing hope that suffocated themboth.

It was a start.

[the-house-of-the-nine]

The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 1

  ] Greetings friends and followers.  The return of one of our founding authors and writers is poised to return to our collective group.   Keeping with the canonized theme; Lazarius takes this time to meet with the council one by one, going consecutively through his trusted advisors to weigh in on the dilemma he now faces.  Thank you to Poeta’s Mun who helped to write this scene.  Everyone please enjoy! and Thank you for the support! [

“The younger students have developed a little rhyme about you… it seems they realize that the further they stretch down this hall the colder, darker and more terrifying it feels…. “Fear the darkness, cry and cower … Avoid the halls of Magus De’Mour.” I find it…charming.”.

[ L.K ]   Lazarius calmly trudged down the long since abandoned halls of the great chamber within their sanctum. The crystalline decor and magnificent tapestries were long since neglected since both the Grand Magus and Blood Magus who both used them were missing. More the later had vanished completely.

As he recalled latent memories and past events he would come to the magnificent double doors. A ward had thusly been put across it just Incase any of the wandering students or members of the order would be curious about what was in here. Lazarius placed his hand across the translucent energy barrier and began to scribe insignia after insignia, and before long it was deactivated.

“You’re a fool Kashebahl. You trust that woman, look what we’ve become, look what she has done to you.. stop pretending and do something about it.”.

Lazarius peered around the huge sanitarium that was once the home of one of the most powerful magi to ever live and certainly the most dangerous to ever grace these halls, save for her predecessors. Lazarius looked over the room and recounted once more on the various levels of interaction that took place here.

Fond memories accompanied by a hurtful scorn that was a constant reminder of not only his failure as a leader, but as a companion. To the writing desk with a pile of books; unmoved and unshaken since the former resident had pulled them.

“Mind sheering: Volume six… Developing A Ghost Image…. what is that you were working on… Time Reversal and Dangers therein. Interesting stuff…”.

Lazarius thumbed his deep violet wrapped digit across the spine of the text. His own jet black eyes would dart back across the table top and notice the smudge where the oils from a hand once rested. It was so intense on the fatigued wood of the desk that the dust that had formed around it appeared to give it a ghostly visage. Nothing had moved since it was haunted many years ago. 

As he made his way to the swirling clock like gizmo in the center of the sanctum he would notice how it was frozen. The wheels badly needing tuning and oil, the winding device locked firmly in place. How odd that on the greater scale of things; the planets that were revolving around the large star had actually lined up in the same galactic waypoints that point Azeroth toward its run in with Argus and the Legion. Perhaps the Nathrezim knew all along?

He was glad they had abolished that creature. Hopefully it felt pain even in death within the Nether. Lazarius would turn and begin making his way toward the various cabinets, cupboards and shelves with concoctions. She was a busy little bee, stockpiling whatever she could. So many nights they had spent tirelessly researching and creating.

The final memory to flood his mind was that night he and Pyravari went to her manor in the Ghostlands. They’d purged the demon, freed the mind of their former ally and she vowed to return one day. Lazarius smiled thinking about it. Despite what had transpired from then to now, at least; if she was still alive, she was free and not a slave to that curse any longer. Such a brilliant mind deserved it’s own will.

He plucked a text from the table top, just the one he was looking for. Something to do a bit of light research on his newest plot. Combustion Magic’s we’re not easily ready within the order, he would need some knowledge. And thus he would stand there for a brief moment alone, in the silence of the dead quarters of the once illustrious Grand Magus.

[ P.D ]   As if sensing the authoritative presence of Lazarius Kash’ebahl, the tainted, intoxicating shadows of the sanctum wafted forwards, enveloping his frame in a warm embrace. Almost as if this long-abandoned chamber was crying out for a soul to occupy its walls once again.

An echo lingered beside the towering bookcase not too far off from Lazarius, where a silver scepter had clattered down upon the cold, stone floor. An effigy spirit slowly materialized, roused from a prolonged slumber, but, do not fret! The spirit was merely a fragment of a memory attached to the fallen scepter. This remnant began to pace back and forth, circling the same dusty, limping desk over and over again.

The spirit retained a vacant stare, offering no acknowledgement towards the Kash’ebahl, but despite the air of silence, was there a clue to be offered? The slanted desk of the once-great Magus offered an array of tomes and parchments scattered across its surface.

Upon closer examination one may see: The Liturgy of Death, The Journey of the Perished, A Harvester’s Perspective on Immortality, and Conceptions of the Soul: The Realm of Shadows. A torn, wine-stained parchment was delicately draped over one of the books and contained the scattered notes of the Magus De’Mour—But, the chaotic handwriting was nearly indecipherable, only a few phrases were able to be read:

“…build the bridge to immorta-… shattered pieces of another’s s-… The Nine . . . to eternity…”

Click-Clack. Abruptly, there was a faint tapping that echoed throughout the chamber. The memorable sounds of the Lady De’Mour’s typical shoe preference… heels? Or was that the sound of a faint… knocking? In the far corner of the chamber an obscure light pulsated gently from the dust-covered, glass surface gracing the wall. Click-Clack. Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK – The impatience is… palpable.

[ L.K ]   The spirit like ether would cause the dark eyed man to slowly rouse his attention from the book and it’s contents. My how he had recalled all of her little Knick knacks and enchantments. The spiders that would carry little messages. A brilliant wicked mind. But as he followed the spirit like mist toward the writings and texts he could not help but peruse them. Yes of course. He remembered.

“Oh Poeta… I knew we would find it eventually…we worked so hard.”.

Immortality. The last true hunt they had gone on. The two were not obsessed with it by any means. But they were interested and highly motivated to seek a means and way to do so. As his wrapped finger tip began to flip through the contents he would be reminded of the night they obliterated those two bottles of Cindervine Red, laughing and channeling their magnificent minds to find an answer. Sadly they had never gotten close.

Click-Clack

He was far too focused on the writings, even locating a few penned notes of his own, mostly just little things.

Click-Clack, Click-Clack. CLICK-CLACK.

Lazarius broke from his attentive gathering of his past and followed the sound. His perked ears twitching; the pair of Shal’dorei sterling ear covers twitching as well and the soft clack of the marching hoops in his ears resonated around the clacking of the noise. The mirror.

Lazarius calmly began padding his way toward the decorative accessory, the black eyes fully focused on it. A lofted brow would raise as he got closer. He thought for a moment that it may have been another memory latched to the room. The activity and his overall presence here may have been enough to rouse the decaying thoughts here.

As he grew closer; several meters away, his fingers raised and he would flick them aside. A pair of voided claw like tendrils lurched from the shadows and yanked cloth covering from the preserved, unkept mirror. And in the silence and shadows, the black eyed inquisitor looked on.

[ P.D ]   “Hello…”

The whisper of an alluring voice danced among the shadows of the Sanctum.

“I see you…”

Another inviting whisper licked the ear of Lazarius.  Such a voice would have been unforgettable. Peering into the cracked mirror one would see nothing be a shadowed figure, however the silhouette pounced forwards like a vindictive ghost or ravenous lioness.

“Do you see me…”

A pair of fel-misted eyes nearly filled the whole expanse of the scrying glass.

“Oh, Kash’ebahl…” The voice flickered faintly, a hint of grief enveloped the spoken name… “Won’t you let me in?” She cooed, “Just a flick of those slender digits… It’ll be like the good old days.”

[ L.K ]   The hairs on the back of his neck feathered outward like quills ready to protect the flesh. The sight of something within the mirror was not exactly something he expected but was not something to alarm him either; the mystic arts were not anything new .

“Lady De’Mour.”.

He sang back in the same draw, his tongue slowly pressing against the roof of his mouth and back of his teeth as he sneered. As if just the simple speaking of the name reacted like a bad taste of something eaten.

“Letting you in would certainly be a favorable choice.”.

He crept ever closer, at this point the shadowed appendages were gone and he slowly leaned forward to gauge her reaction when he went to go touch the mirror but stopped well short of any shenanigans.

“But… since reworking the defenses of our sanctum … the mere presence of you standing here would instantaneously vaporize you. The Bastille truly hates unwanted pests boring holes in its walls and scurrying about where they are unwanted.”

[ P.D ]   “Psssshaa, you’re always no fun.”

An indecipherable phrase was gently spoken, and the listless frame of the once-great Magus came into view. The tiny, petite frame of the Lady Poeta Idril De’Mour… and her usual duplicitous grin to match.

The bewitching creature slipped a velvet glove from her hand and ran her fingers along the glass barrier between them. Snow-white locks fell from the loose bun atop her head, draping gently over her pale shoulders.

“I even have our old favorite…” with a snap of her fingers a bottle materialized in her grasp… Cindervine Red.

“I have something you may wish to know…” The Lady De’Mour sung the words like a sultry tune. “You wouldn’t pass up a chance at …immortality, would you?”

[ L.K ]   His jet black, shark like eyes rolled over white when he heard her sing song voice tempt him with olden days, wine and the topping on the cake; immortality.

When he looked back toward the mirror, the eyes of the dark lord were yet again stone cold and black as night, like a creepy doll peering back.

“It pains me to say this but in my naivety of youth, more than likely would have lunged at the chance to sample such a veritable buffet of goodness droplets. But…”. He waved the coiled, void wrapped fingers as if neglecting the invitation. “You see, I have found a way to bypass that. Amazing thing really.”

As he spoke, his other hand was calmly twitching and crawling back and forth. A small wisp of violet energy poised at the tip, leaving a faint trail behind it as it motioned about.

[ P.D ]   The elven woman slumped back upon a velvet sofa, exhaling a heavy, playful sigh. Unfurling her arm from its folded place at her chest, she reached a pale hand towards the bottle of red wine. “

I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by your reaction, I suppose it’s quite understandable—having been a few years and all. But I was hoping you’d be more… pleased, about my studies.”

The dark contents of the bottle were slowly poured into a wine glass…or two, with her free hand resting upon her red-stained lips. Deep in thought the tiny illusionist appeared to be, her calculating, fel-green gaze was dancing with an array of emotions far too difficult to pin down.

[ L.K ]   “Given what I know about your experimentation’s. I can only gather that this is some sort of gateway. Or a time loop?”. As his hand rose, he would suddenly begin to scribble energy into the air between them. A series of Shath’yari written notes holding there like a suspended chalk board.

[ P.D ]  “You know, I miss the beginning. I miss the ways things used to be before it got so… muddied. It was hard to try and be a part of a cause when the disdain was so. . evident.”

But, with the wave of a dismissive hand the guise of such vulnerability quickly evaporated. Playfully wiggling her fingers at the surface of the mirror, shadows of minuscule spiders began to accumulate against the cracked plane.

[ L.K ]   “Analysis doesn’t show a curse. Not a possession either So what is it? A doorway through time to a specific version of yourself locked in there? If I was going to be sure I was well preserved I would do it that way, that is for certain. Freeze a version of myself in a suspended animation… wait for the right person and use them to free me after my death… leave little bread crumbs to my former self and my notes… walla… instant resurrection and retaining knowledge.”.

Lazarius suddenly waved his hand through the image of his notes and peered back toward the mirror.

[ P.D ]    “And No. No, time loop.” She stated, as the minuscule spiders faded into shadows.

“Although, curious little idea you’ve proposed I’ll admit.” A devilish smirk lightly tugged upon the sides of her striking features.

[ L.K ]   “Well into two years now, if you are the current, real, living De’Mour, you know well enough that I cannot trust a word you say, especially not cryptic invitations and plays on my greed for power. What is it YOU really want Image.”

[ P.D ] “Lazarius…” The enticing voice fell to a whisper once more, “Haven’t you missed me?” she purred. “You restored my mind. I told you I’d return to you… and the Nine…But, I never said -when-. I had to do some…soul-searching.”

The final two words dripped off her tongue with a curious amount of amusement, even a little giggle escaped her petite frame—an inside joke? Perhaps.

“I met those that named themselves the perished—an organization devoted to walking the shadowlands, step in step with death like a fantastic dance. . .” Her tongue dipped out from between red-stained lips with a playful flick. “I could tell you more… But you hardly seem receptive to my presence…”

The Lady De’Mour leaned back within her velvet couch, a pale leg having darted out from beneath golden silk and was delicately crossed over her lap.

[ L.K ]   So many things to reflect on during that amount of her talking and trying to communicate through the mirror. As she was dressed to the hilt, the lord of the keep was hardly looking any more than half as smashing. He wore a plain white tunic, tucked lightly into a pair of silken black slacks. The sleeves were cut short about mid bicep and from his elbow down, a pair of violet ethereal bands coiled around his flesh. Some sort of magical makeshift bandage.

“Gods only know that you are correct on so many levels De’Mour. About the past, about the world we live in. I’ve seen so much and we’ve all toiled through so many tests of our resolve. Yet the Nine stands firm, full, and if I must say… stronger than ever.”

His hand stretched outward and a large shadowed appendage shot forth and lurched across the room. It would grab a large cushioned chair and drag it across the room; a job for easier two men. And plopped it down in front of the mirror. He would collapse into it and calmly crossed his leg over the knee of its mate and peered back at her.

The sunken in black eyes were reflected beautifully against his ghostly pale face and spider black veins around the sockets and lips. “Receptive…”. He would say with a sigh.

“My apologies Poeta. You , and I… well you should understand that it is nothing personal. I would think that the preservation of your sanctum here and all you stood for remaining in tact should at least be a testament to my devotion and hope that you would one day return as you were before you lost your will. You were; after all next to my sister, my most devote and trustworthy advisor. Even after your slip and fall backward… you were never once thought to have been a lost cause.”.

His hand rose upward and just gently massaged his brow. “I mean nothing by it in the offensive… just most unsure of you… I hope you’ve found what you need? Gotten back to yourself?”

[ P.D ]   The fel-green gaze of the Magus had metaphorical stars in them as she regarded the Kash’bahl’s change of demeanor. The devilish grin shifted into a small smile, lighting up the Sin’dorei woman’s face. The golden silk of her gown pooled around her and she playfully kicked off her long black heels, allowing them to fall noisily upon the ground.

“I knew you couldn’t be -so- cold for -so- long,” she murmured, “I’ve made many mistakes, but I’ve vowed to set them right—you saved me from a lost mind, Kash’ebahl… I needed time to fully recover and to find myself again, so I engrossed myself in studies pertaining to a topic that would benefit us all… And I’m much better for it.”

She pounced upon her delicate, bare feet with a sly wink towards the sitting Lazarius. Twisting and turning on her toes, her feet traced about in a playful dance, long golden silk shimmering about her frame. Red-stained lips parted for a teasing whisper as she leaned closer into the mirror.

“Can you still deny me?” Biting softly upon her lower lip, she fluttered her long lashes, “Into the Bastille, I do mean. Don’t get -too- excited.” Her laugh echoed throughout the Sanctum, and she lazily plopped back into her velvet couch.

“I do appreciate you having preserved my sanctum, so don’t think I haven’t noticed. Furthermore, I do have the best intentions at heart… I wouldn’t have come knocking otherwise. What I have learned isn’t perfect, but you’re the only person who could match my ideas—or even out-smart them. You and the Nine were my greatest allies…my only allies to be honest.”

She cocked her head to a side, snow-white locks falling gracefully over her exposed, bare shoulder. Her inquisitive gaze lingered over his form, noting the magical make-shift bandage.

“What can I do to persuade you?” She queried, “And why do you appear…injured?”

To be continued in… The Damned Never Die: Haunted, Part 2

[ladylynse]

For Ectober 2018, Day 13: Help (AO3 | FFnet)

When a ghost attacks while Star’s stuck in detention with Fenton, she’s sure they need help—but he’s not acting like the scared loser she’s used to.

Star didn’t deserve the detention she’d gotten. She wasn’t the one who’d planted the whoopee cushion on Lancer’s chair. She didn’t even know who’d done it. She’d just been the one unfortunate enough to still be snickering when Lancer stood up again to survey the class.

Protests about her innocence had fallen on deaf ears, and no one—not even Paulina—had backed her up.

Which is how she’d wound up in detention with Fenton, who’d dashed into class halfway through Lancer’s lecture on respect.

They were supposed to be writing an essay on the subject—something Lancer said he’d use for extra credit, which Fenton needed more than she did—except she was too angry and embarrassed to think straight, and Fenton was beginning to nod off. She’d been staring at a blank page for at least ten minutes, her pen shaking in her too-tight grip as she tried to figure out who had set her up to take this fall—and if she’d even been the intended target of Lancer’s wrath.

Fenton’s sharp gasp came about the same time as the crash down the hall. Lancer sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “You two stay here.”

Even from across the room, Star could see Fenton’s wide eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Lancer.”

“Mr. Fenton, I do appreciate your concern, but—”

“Can I at least go to the bathroom first?”

“No, Mr. Fenton, you may not. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and then you can go.”

“I don’t know if I can hold it.”

“And I don’t believe you wouldn’t have said something five minutes ago if that were truly the case. You may go when I come back,” Lancer repeated, cutting off Fenton’s protests.

The classroom door closed behind him. Star expected Fenton to slump in his seat, but instead he sprang to his feet and walked to the windows. He obviously didn’t find whatever he was looking for, because he spun on his heels and dashed to the door.

He seemed surprised when it didn’t open.

“What, you think Lancer trusts you after how many times you’ve cut class on the excuse that you had to go to the bathroom?” Star muttered under her breath.

Fenton heard her. “He wouldn’t have locked it,” he countered. “It’d be a safety hazard. And he’s never locked me in before.”

She was bored, which was the only reason she was having this conversation with him. “So? Things change.”

Fenton was shaking his head. “This is a ghost.”

A ghost. Of course. Maybe he was his parents’ son after all. “Just because this is Amity Park, doesn’t mean every inconvenience is ghost-related.”

“I wish,” mumbled Fenton. Then, louder, “I never heard the lock turn. Did you?”

Star rolled her eyes and got to her feet. “Then it’s stuck and you’re just too weak to open it.” Sure enough, the handle turned under her grip. She pulled, already turning to look back at Fenton and berate him for being such a weakling, but the door didn’t move. She frowned and pulled harder.

Nothing.

“What kind of ghost locks you in?” She couldn’t quite keep the panic out of her voice now. It was stupid. Being caught in a ghost attack wasn’t new. She was used to that. But she wasn’t usually locked in.

“Someone new.”

The grimness in Fenton’s voice caught her off guard, but Star latched onto it. “You have some of your parents’ weapons, then?”

Fenton shook his head. “Everything I have is in my locker.”

“That’s not going to do us any good!”

“Don’t panic yet. We’re on the ground floor. See if the windows open.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Listen.”

Listen? What the heck was that supposed to mean? But arguing wouldn’t get them anywhere, and checking the windows wasn’t a completely stupid idea even if she had a feeling it was futile. If a ghost could lock a door on them, it could lock a window, too.

When Star reached the windows, however, she didn’t even need to try them to know they wouldn’t open. Even as she got closer to them, she could feel the cold. “They’re frosted over, Fenton,” she said. Ice grew on them even as she watched, thickening to the point that the intricate frost patterns became completely obscured. “The door’s probably frozen shut, too.”

“Good.”

“Good? How is that good?”

Fenton shot her an apologetic smile. “It means whoever it is probably isn’t after Lancer.”

“Wait—”

“Hide. It’ll want me, not you.”

“Where the heck am I supposed to hide? Under my desk? It’ll see me.”

“You might be small enough to squeeze into one of the cupboards in the back. Just move the books.”

She stared at him.

He didn’t seem to realize how ridiculous he sounded.

“Why would the ghost want you? Aren’t you the one who normally runs and hides whenever there’s a ghost attack?”

Fenton scowled. “I don’t always…. Look. You guys trusted me before, right? When Youngblood and Ember brainwashed all the adults? I helped you then and I can help you now. I can do this.”

She frowned. “How do you remember their names?”

“That’s what you’re—?” He broke off, and she blinked. Had she just seen his breath? Sure, it was getting colder in here by the minute, but it wasn’t that cold, not yet. “Hide,” he hissed.

Normally, she’d love to hide, but normally, there was someone other than Danny Fenton who could help her get out of a situation like this. “I don’t—”

With a crack, ice crystals burst from the ceiling, jutting down towards them like razor-sharp stalactites. Star screamed and dove under the nearest desk, not remotely convinced that would help. When she looked back, Danny was in a crouch, still in the open, head swivelling as if he fully expected he’d be able to see a ghost that could make itself invisible.

He’d already said he didn’t have any of his parents’ tech with him, so why play at being the hero now?

“You’re crazy,” Star hissed. “Just call your parents for help.”

“I don’t know if this is someone they can handle,” he said quietly. His matter-of-fact tone unnerved her. Why did he make it sound like he could take more than they could? They were professionals. He was…. He was Dash’s loser punching bag, and she could count the number of times she’d seen him fight ghosts on one hand.

Before she could figure out how to respond, the temperature in the room plummeted and she heard a deep voice say, “You’re weak when you wear that skin, halfa.”

She huddled, trying to make herself smaller and not breathe too loudly. The shadows in the top corner of the room by the door coalesced into a bluish white monster of fur and ice. There was no mistaking its fangs and claws, and ghost or not, Star was suddenly, horribly convinced that it could kill her in an instant if it wanted to.

Fenton’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You do not deserve the title my brother gave you,” the ghost continued.

Star officially had no idea what was going on. Fenton swallowed, but his eyes narrowed and he stood up straight. As if he could face down a ghost!

“You’re Frostbite’s brother,” he said slowly. It wasn’t a question. “So he got to be the leader of the Far Frozen and you got to skulk in the frozen wastelands until you found a portal? Sounds about right. Even Klemper wouldn’t waste his time befriending you.”

Star couldn’t remember who Klemper was, either, though the name sounded familiar. She wondered wildly why Fenton was on a first name basis with so many ghosts, even considering who his parents were; it wasn’t like ghosts would befriend the son of ghost hunters, right?

The snow ghost snarled. It raised a hand—paw?—and ice shot towards Fenton. He dodged with a grace he never showed in gym class, rolling out of the way and springing back to his feet. “You got brain freeze or something? You’re a little slow.”

Stop taunting it! You’re just going to make this worse! But she didn’t dare say anything now. If Fenton was somehow managing to hold his own, she couldn’t be the one to distract him. Not now. They just had to hold on until Phantom showed up. Or the Red Huntress. Or the Fentons, assuming Mr. Lancer was able to get off a call to them.

“You’re an abomination.” The ghost’s feet hit the floor, and ice shot out. Star shivered and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. Fenton didn’t seem nearly as affected by the cold, probably because he kept moving, but the ice had to make it more difficult to keep his footing. “You don’t deserve to know the secrets of our people.”

Fenton pulled a face. “Okay, I don’t like that nickname any better than the one Frostbite gave me, but you? I’m pretty sure you have no say in who learns what. Frostbite agreed to teach me. To help me. As payment for what I did and as a gesture of friendship. So even if he’s the reason you’re acting like Frosty the Snow Monster, I’m kinda more inclined to side with him on this.”

“My name is Icebreaker!”

“Funny, you didn’t really start this conversation with a good one.”

Icebreaker roared. Ice formed at his summons, sharpened spear points of shards, and he flew at Fenton in a rage.

Star flinched.

Fenton held his ground until the last second before diving sideways. He hit a patch of ice and skidded into a desk. She shrieked in spite of herself, and Icebreaker turned his gaze to her.

Fear clawed at her insides, gripping so tightly she couldn’t find her breath.

“Foolish little human,” Icebreaker jeered, “caught up in a world you’re never meant to understand. You’ll have to die for that, just like the halfa.”

There was that name again. He meant Fenton, but what—?

“No!” Fenton shouted, and he was in between them so fast it looked like he’d flown. “If you’re mad at me, don’t involve her!”

Icebreaker bared his teeth, and Star felt the ice forming around her. She scrambled out of her hiding spot, clutching the desks to keep her footing. Fenton—Danny—couldn’t protect her. Not when he didn’t have any weapons. Why wasn’t Phantom here yet? He was never this late.

Danny’s fists were clenched. “Leave her alone,” he growled.

Icebreaker just laughed and flew over his head. Star backed up, bumping into Danny. “We’re going to die,” she whispered. Even in Amity Park, even when it got bad, there had always been someone to protect them. The Fentons had their Fenton Ghost Shield, the Red Huntress could definitely hold her own in a fight, and Phantom…. Phantom stopped every ghost that dared to cross him.

But now none of them were here, and she couldn’t do anything.

“No, you won’t,” Danny murmured. “Just trust me.”

She looked at him. His eyes burned bright blue with a fierceness she didn’t associate with him. The tips of his hair were turning white with frost, and he was cold—colder than she was. Determination alone wouldn’t let him last much longer, even though she couldn’t see him shaking with the cold like she was. Whatever adrenaline rush he was on wouldn’t last forever, and with this cold, he’d crash sooner rather than later. “We need help,” she repeated.

He shoved her to the floor in answer as more ice shot where they’d been standing. “Trust me,” he repeated as he got off of her. “I can help.” He put his hand on her back and pushed her again.

Instead of being held against the ice, she fell through the floor and landed on a stack of empty boxes (possibly stashed there by the Box Ghost). She was too shocked to be in pain. Her heart beat a wild tattoo in her chest as she gulped in warm air. “What…what just happened?”

This time, she didn’t get an answer.

Continued for Day 15: Explain

(see more fics)

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs Chapter 5: The Cell

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

Belle is thrown in a dungeon and thinks about the deal she just made 

Read on AO3

Belle’s last sight of her old life was the men’s shocked faces as the Dark One transported her away. Her father, her uncle, and her betrothed all seemed just about to run, to reach out for her, to pull her away from the deal she had made and the monster she had made it with. But then they were obscured by a wall of wine-red smoke and Belle couldn’t see them. She would never see them again.

The smoke lasted only for a moment, but that moment lasted for an eternity. Belle floated in the magic cloud, no ground under her feet. She heard nothing but the blood pounding in her ears. She saw only the smoke and felt only the piercing grasp of the creature next to her. He had her by the arm, his black claws digging into her pale flesh. In that strange moment of transportation, the pain of his touch was the only sensation that felt real.

She had been so sure, in her father’s study. She had so blinded by the rightness of her cause, the necessity of her deal, that she hadn’t considered the consequences. She had known what the price was, but she hadn’t understood how it would feel. She had gotten the help they needed, and had told herself that was all that mattered. And it was true. It did matter. But she hadn’t realized that she would still be afraid.

When the red smoke cleared, Belle stood with the Dark One in a room made of stone. There were doors on either end of the room, both of them flanked by gray marble columns. On either side of one door was a staircase, going up to different parts of the building. Belle realized that she was in a much grander castle than she had ever been in before. In her home, the great hall had dominated the central building as the first entry point for visitors. But here that position had been taken by this room, what fashionable people were calling a foyer.

Looking down, Belle could see her reflection in the polished stone floor. In the center of the room was a round table that held nothing more than a vase of dead flowers. Suits of armor lurked in the corners--were they ornaments or guards?

It was a cold space, but rich. At home it would be wasteful to have such a fine room sit unoccupied. As a first impression, the foyer seemed built to impress, rather than intimidate. Home had been a fortress before it was anything else, rough and utilitarian. But this place was smooth and polished and empty. Belle looked around, gawking at her first sight of a palace.

“Welcome home!” The Dark One spread his arms and smiled widely. He pointed at the door behind Belle. “That’s the way out, you won’t be using it. Follow me.”  The other door opened as he approached it.

“Wait, stop,” Belle didn’t move. “Please, you have to take me back!”

He turned around to look at her. “Cold feet already, dearie?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’ll pay my price, but I have to say good-bye first! My ladies think I’m still in the castle, they think I’ll be coming back to help them tend the wounded. They don’t know what happened to me!”

She was trying not to cry. It was so unfair. The men in her life knew what she had done, but the women she loved had no way of knowing. Who would ever tell them the truth? What would they imagine and fear had become of her? Her cousins, her friends--she would never see them again! She hadn’t even gotten a chance to bid them farewell.

The Dark One’s steps echoed as he slowly descended the short flight of stairs and went back to Belle. “Do you want them to know what happened to you?” He faced her, standing up straight while she hunched over and held her arms over her stomach. “Do you want to tell your women what’s going to become of your virtue? To your body? Do you want them to know the depravity I’m going to demand of you?”

If she gave into her fear now she would never stop being afraid. Belle forced herself to straighten her spine, to look this monster in the eye. “I want them to know I’m safe.”

“Oh ho ho!” His mouth formed an O shape as he pretended to laugh. “But that would be making a promise you can’t keep, dearie. You don’t know that you’re safe and telling people that would a grave falsehood.” He shook his head and tutted. “Besides, I’m sure all your peasants will soon know the means by which their lives were spared. A story like that will start spreading right away.” He chuckled at that thought, smug and self-satisfied.

Belle swallowed what was left of her tears, letting anger fill her up until no other feelings could remain.

“I should have told them myself,” she said with some dignity. “Then they would at least know what I know. My family deserves facts, not stories. I should have been given that chance.”

“Then you should have made it part of your deal, dearie!” The Dark One walked backwards to the steps. “I would have waited for a tearful good-bye, I would have found it delightful! But you didn’t ask, so I didn’t give. Let that be a lesson for you.”

Belle stayed by the table and scowled at him, saying nothing.

The Dark One stood by the door and waited for her to join him. When she didn’t, he went over to her again, and stood in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was different. “Those people you love are no longer your concern, child. They are safe. They are saved. You did that. Separation from you is their part of the price.”

Belle sighed and released her anger.  “I just wish--”

“There is no wishing in my home, dearie.” He cut off her words with a gesture. “All magic comes at a price and wishes only lead to trouble. Now, will you follow me?”

He strode up the steps through the doors that opened themselves. Resigned to her fate, Belle followed him through the door.

The door led into a sumptuous dining room. Belle’s head swiveled as she tried to take everything in. Indiscernible objects sat atop pillars, displayed as though they were trophies. A spinning wheel sat in a corner. There was one long wooden table and one chair at the head of it. The room was lit by a blazing fire. In front of the hearth an overstuffed armchair sat on top of a thick carpet.

Glass-fronted cabinets lined one wall, full of books and papers and more strange objects. Out of habit, Belle craned her neck to look at the books and read the titles, but the Dark One was already leading her out another door.

“Hurry up!” he said without looking behind him and Belle rushed to catch up.

“Does anyone else live here?” she asked. “Servants or--”

“Magic serves my needs,” he said brusquely. “Magic, and now you.”

So he was alone here. And she would be alone, except for him. She would have no one to talk to, for the rest of her life.

From the dining room he led her through a maze of hallways and corridors. They took several stairways and he always went down. As they went on, the castle grew meaner and less luxurious. The plush carpets on the floor became woven rugs, then rushes, then rough stone. It was colder down here. Torches smoked on the wall but gave off no heat and only enough light to cast shadows.

“Where are you taking me?”

The Dark One turned on his heel to face her as he walked backwards. “Let’s just call it… your room.”

He spun back around and Belle was mystified by his movements. How was it possible to saunter quickly? The Dark One moved as though he were blown by a gentle breeze that always took him exactly where he wanted to go. Every step was like a dance to music only he could hear.

In the shadowy torchlight, Belle saw scales glinting on his coat. It seemed to be made of the hide of some terrible lizard, perhaps even a dragon. She could imagine how heavy such a garment would be, but the Dark One wore it lightly. He was unencumbered by his wardrobe, as he was uninhibited by locked doors and unafraid of cold steel.

He seemed ephemeral, Belle thought as she walked behind him. It was as though he wasn’t real. Even as she looked at him, she couldn’t swear that he was any more substantial than a shadow. His very presence might be an illusion, a trick of the light--or, more aptly, a trick of the darkness.

She had focused her attention on the Dark One so she wouldn’t have to think about where he was leading her. They walked along a corridor lined with heavy wooden doors. Every door had a grate at the top, a peephole for an observer to look in at the occupant. There were sconces here, but no torches to burn in them. This was the darkest, dampest, most miserable part of the castle. She knew where she was even before the Dark One stopped at the last door in the hallway.

“My room?” Belle’s stomach dropped as he opened the door with a wave of his hand.

“Doesn’t that sound nicer than calling it a dungeon?” His rotten smile mocked her discomfort.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. Stone-faced, and of her own volition, Belle crossed the threshold into a prison cell and let the Dark One slam the door behind her.

“Rest up, dearie!” He called in through the grate. ”We’ll be consummating our deal very soon!” He giggled and Belle could hear the sound echoing through the halls.

She kept her eyes closed until the laughter faded away. Only then did Belle move and begin to look around at her new home. Her room. Her cell.

All four walls were made of stone, but not the polished marble of the foyer. The stone was rough and actually reminded her of her castle. But at home they covered the walls with brightly-colored tapestries, to keep the rooms warm and cheery. Their walls were only bare in places where no one was expected to be--or places where the fact of being there was a punishment.

Glassless, narrow windows lined one wall just below the ceiling. Iron bars let in the fading light and the evening chill. There was no fireplace in this cell. If it was cold in autumn, it would be icy in the winter.

There was a bucket in one corner--empty for now. There was a wooden bench built into the wall, long enough for someone as small as her to lie down on. She would probably be expected to sleep there, when she wasn’t warming the Dark One’s bed, serving his needs.

Belle had that thought, and put it away. It was too terrible to dwell on just now. She kept her mind on the reality in front of her.

The door behind her was so old the wood had aged into something more like iron. Belle was too short to properly look through the grate. She jumped up and down to try to catch a glimpse of the outside, but the corridor was dark and empty. There was nothing to see.

Outside, the sun was setting. She stood on the bench to peer out the windows, but the only view she had through the bars was an expanse of mud. An outer wall stood some distance away. So even if a prisoner escaped from the cell, they wouldn’t be out of the castle. There was no getting out of this place.

Belle turned from the window and sank onto the bench. She made herself comfortable in her new home under the ground. Her hand went up to her neck, feeling for the pendant of her mother’s necklace. How lucky it was that she had been wearing it when the Dark One took her away. She had nothing from home except the clothes on her back. If she had nothing else to remember her old life by, at least she had the necklace.

She ran the bit of unicorn horn back and forth through the gold chain, just like her mother used to when she was nervous. Belle didn’t remember ever learning to copy her mother in that. She hadn’t noticed she was doing it at the funeral until Ermentrude had told her, gently, to stop it.

Her mother’s funeral had been one of so many that summer. It was a rushed and slapdash affair, scheduled between a war parade and the meeting with Gaston’s father finalizing her engagement. Under any other circumstances Lady Collette’s funeral should have been a full week of public mourning. King Midas should have come--or at least sent an envoy to pay the royal respects. Her death should have been all anyone thought of for months. It was the end of the world, after all--they should have acted like it.

Would losing her mean as much, Belle wondered. What would her father tell everyone had happened to her? Would her people count her as the last casualty of the Ogre War? Would they honor her memory? Or would they never speak of her again? Did they already know that she was as good as dead?

Belle shook her head against those awful thoughts. She wasn’t going to die here. What the Dark One had planned for her was a fate worse than death. Actually killing her was probably superfluous.

That thought made it hard to breathe. Her formal corset was constricting under the best of circumstances, and now her fear and panic choked at her until she was sure she would faint. She leaned back against the stone wall and tried to calm herself, tried to sort through her terror. What, exactly, was she afraid of?

She had been living with fear for months. That morning she had awoken certain that she wouldn’t live to go to bed. She had been so sure that the ogres would attack the castle and eat her. She had been afraid of that, but also determined to do something about it. So she had called the Dark One.

He wasn’t going to kill her. That was a better deal than she would have gotten from the orges. Her friends and family were alive. Her home was safe. The wounded were healed. They would have food enough to survive the winter. Everything she had been afraid of when she woke up was no longer a possibility.

So now all Belle had to fear was paying the price for her miracles.

He would take her. He would hurt her. He would deprive her. Those were the terms they had agreed to. How long would it be until it started, until he came back here to consummate the deal?

What a deliberate, spiteful word to use, consummate. It was the same word people used to talk about marriage, about wedding nights. He was mocking it, mocking her, and the future she had always thought would be hers. He was mocking her for being a maiden, a virgin, for saving her virtue for whatever man she would end up marrying. What a waste! If she had let some boy tumble her in a hayloft would she now be spared the Dark One’s attentions? If she were not a virgin would she be below his notice?

If she were not a virgin would he have helped them at all?

That was what it all came back to. She had something that the Dark One wanted, and he had paid her to get it. If she hadn’t been what he had wanted, her people would be suffering far more than she was now. She would have to do this, have to give him what he wanted. She would have to let him take her and hurt her and deny her any comfort. She would have to serve his needs, and serve him well.

She stood up off the bench and felt the dampness from the wall clinging to her dress. It was ruined now, she thought. Her wedding dress, her armor, this precious, ludicrous gown that had brought her so much joy only a few hours ago when she had worn it for Alix--it was ruined now.

Alix. Belle didn’t want to think about them now. Jeanne. Not now while she was waiting to be defiled. Mathilde. They had been with her since she was a girl. Ermentrude. She would never see them again. Little Claude. They would never understand what had happened to her. Madame Nanette. Would they ever believe that she had made a deal to sell her body to the most evil creature in the world?

“I did it for you,” she whispered out loud. “If only I could tell you that.”

Save them, her mother had said. Help us, the wounded had moaned. And then there was the Dark One, offering, Give me. So she did. She gave, and she helped, and she saved them all. The facts were so simple, but facing the reality was hard.

They were safe, she reminded herself. They would live, no matter what happened to her. They would mourn her as they had mourned all the other dead--as they would mourn Andre and Uncle Pierre and a hundred others--and then they would move on.

They would have futures. Madame Nanette would help the village women until she died peacefully in her sleep. Mathilde and Jeanne would marry whatever eligible men could be found and they would start on having their own families. Ermentrude would attach herself to whichever one of their households needed the most supervision, bringing up the children and teaching them how to be ladies and gentlemen. Little Claude would grow up and perhaps she wouldn’t even remember the attacks. She was young enough, this whole thing could one day become nothing more than a childish nightmare. She might even forget about Belle.

What about the village women? What would their futures be? Would Sir Maurice think to arrange for a home for the widows and orphans, a force to help them rebuild their lives? Even if the wounded men were all healed, so many fathers and husbands had already died. So many houses and farms had been destroyed. If Belle were the head of the castle, she could give positions to as many women as possible, or have them learn trades so they could support themselves. There could be female brewsters and leatherworkers, why not? Belle herself could teach a class on reading and ledgering so some could become scribes or money-counters.

Would Alix like to learn how to read? She was clever and curious, but those were not always easy traits for a girl to have. What would happen to her? Her father was gone. What would her mother do to support them? If Belle were there, she could hire the woman to work in the castle, and take Alix as her serving maid--easy, indoor work that paid well and included room and board for both of them.

Even if she were still forced to marry Gaston, Belle could have taken Alix with her to the Duke’s castle. She could sneak minutes away with the girl, talk to her and treat her kindly. In a perfect world, Belle could teach her to read and they could talk about their favorite stories.

If I grow up, I want to be like you. Alix would grow up. But would she still want to be like Belle now? What would Lady Collette think of what had become of her daughter? What would any of them think of the deal she had made?

It was too much. Belle laid on the bench--her bed--and curled into as much of a ball as she could. She had saved her loved ones, but she had lost them. As the Dark One had said, that was part of the price. She could do nothing more for them. They were alive. They would all have futures. But she wouldn’t be a part of those futures.

And surely once the Dark One had taken the rest of his price, they wouldn’t want her to be a part of their lives anyway.

[rosebennett28]

The one with the zombies - Part 1

Pairings: Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: Y/N takes the opportunity to run from the Hydra facility she was being kept at when all hell breaks loose. Y/N does not only run from Hydra but also the undead. AU Zombie Apocalypse.

A/N: I just wanted to cross the Avengers universe with Bucky still being in Winter Soldier mode with a zombie apocalypse. I don´t know how many chapters there will be yet, but I really enjoy writing this one and I think there will be quite a few. 

You ran until it felt like your lungs would collapse. You had been running for what had felt like an eternity in the merciless winter wearing nothing but scrubs. For miles it had been only woodland. Your hopes for rescue vanished as quickly as your fear of being found grew.

It all happened so quickly you couldn't even fully comprehend what had happened, unsure if it may be a dream, or rather a nightmare. It must have been about a month ago according to your estimation, that you had been abducted by a man in a mask and had been brought to a facility that was presumably part of hell on earth. In the very same scrubs you were wearing right now you had been in either a horrid cell that was so cold you thought your teeth were going to break  from clattering so hard or in a medical facility were you had been experimented on. These experiments seemed quite arbitrary to you as you were either injected with some obscure substances or went through severly traumatizing electro-shock therapy.

In the time you spent in your cell you tried to figure out what you could have possibly done to deserve this kind of punishment.

Every now and then you would notice a figure in the shadows of the vault but decided for yourself that you were in fact losing your mind, because as soon as you noticed the figure seemingly watching you, it would disappear.  

Never in a thousand years did you believe you'd ever survive this situation much less expect the particular way you would escape. The base you were being kept at descended into chaos one night when you were strapped to a chair, being electrocuted as per usual.

Creatures that apparantly used to be living breathing human beings, now horrifyingly decaying and snarling were terrorizing the building. The doctor that was working on you wanted to abandon you strapped to that godforsaken chair when one of the undead creatures entered the room but was fatally bit and disfigured. A loud bloodcurdling screaming rang in your ears and you only realized it had been you all this time when your throat started protesting.

There was no way to escape. You were going to die, you were sure of it. Your life was going to end in this place and you weren't sad about it, you weren't going to shed more tears. You were merely petrified of the way you were going to be mauled by these creatures and it already was so close you could almost feel it on your skin. Its eyes were glueing you to your spot, that look you would never ever be able to erase from your memory.

Closing your eyes you awaited your death. But the rumble ceased and you heard a thud. You recognized the figure standing in front of you from the night you were taken. It was the man with the mask, a knife in one hand, covered in blood and a gun in the other. It must have had been him that had killed the creature. Alarms were blaring and you tried to gather yourself and grasp the occurances while the mysterious man freed you of your confines. On unsteady legs you were standing in front of him as he offered you his knife that you reluctantly took. You just didn't have any hope of surviving what seemed to be the end of the world. But your instincts acted for you by taking the knife and telling you to run. Why would you trust the man that had brought you into this building in the first place? That he was helping you now didn't mean anything. Another creature entered the room and the man was busy killing it when you took your chance and ran.

The hallways were pure horror, the walls were covered in blood and the floors lined in bodies. You were running, trying to find the exit with the alarm disorienting and deafening you. Just when you were about to give up you saw the light. It was all white. It took you a while to realize that the whole outside world was covered in snow. You must have been in there longer than you remembered.

You ran into the woods as it seemed to be the only way you could possibly run. As much as you feared being followed you couldn't and wouldn't possibly turn around. Grasping onto the knife in your hand firmly you ran into the unrelenting winter dusk.

With your legs and lungs refusing to cooperate with you any further you grew more and more exhausted and the slower you got the colder you felt. After a while you realized that you weren't wearing any shoes and marvelled at the fact that your feet had not yet fallen off.

The feeling of being followed never let up but you had to keep going. It was almost pitch-dark and freezing, you were scared and erratic. You had no idea what you were supposed to do or where you were supposed to go. If it wasn't the undead or your kidnappers that found you, you would die of hypothermia or starvation. Either way it didn't look good for you.

Leaning against a tree you looked up into the night sky. Gazing at the stars you accepted you were most likely not going to make it and you could have sworn your life was going to flash before your eyes if it wasn't for the mysterious man that suddenly stood before you. You wanted to scream but he covered your mouth before you could even make a sound. After a moment of shock you remembered your knife and he must have read it in your eyes because he used his free hand to pry it from you. Of course you struggled to get out of his grasp but he wouldn't budge. It was pointless.

It sounded like the man was saying something but you couldn't decipher it due to the fact that his voice and the ringing in your ears were blending into one as you fell unconcious and everything went dark for you once again.

You woke up briefly feeling sick. It was too dark to see anything but by the temperature and wind you could tell you were still outside and you were being carried. You were way too drained to say anything much less struggle out of the persons grasp. So you lay there, in the arms of the stranger,  being bobbed up and down with every step he took. You couldn't even be bothered to find out who he was or where he was carrying you. Listening to his calm and rhythmical breaths you dozed off.

The next time you woke up it was morbidly light and warm. So much so that it confused you even more than you already were. A twinge at your hand alerted you to the fact that a needle that lead to an IV-bag was attached to you. Slowly you caught onto your surroundings. You were laying on a heap of blankets on a couch in front of a fireplace. In front of the couch a thin blanket was spread with a pillow forming its head-section. The pillow was parallel to yours. Whoever it belonged to must have been watching you.

The clicking sound of a gas oven being ignited was what snapped you out of your haze. As quitely as possible you tried to unwrap yourself from the blankets, your peek on the shadow that came out of the room that was most likely a kitchen. Looking around in the living room you sought out the entry door. You couldn't get to the door without crossing the strangers way. Still your impulsive mind told you to panic and you tried to get up as inconspicuously as possibly but got caught on the makeshift IV-pole. You prevented any loud sounds by grabbing the pole and haphazardly pulling out your transfusion. It was only when you tried to take a step that you didn't only notice your legs were giving in but also you were wearing insanely oversized clothes, a black turtleneck and black cargo pants.

You slowly but surely approached the doorframe of the kitchen. Your heart was beating out of your chest in fear of the man possibly seeing you. Peeking in you saw his back turned to you. You weren't sure if it was the man that followed you in the woods, the same man that had abducted you. You couldn't recognize him, you had never seen his face but he was roughly the same height you remembered, his hair longer and lighter-coloured than you recollected. But standing there in front of the oven stirring a pot he looked weirdly domestic. If you didn't suspect him as being part of the organization that tortured you, you would have trusted him to help you.

With a last deep breath you decided it was now or never, you were just about to take a leap to the door when you heard him.

"Do you really believe you'll be safer out there?", a bizzarly soothing and calm voice asked. His voice sounded familiar, like you had known him all your life but he was a stranger to you.

Peeking into the kitchen again you noticed he still hadn't turned around.

"You nearly froze to death and if it wasn't for the saline solution you would have died of dehydration, not to forget our undead friends out there.", he gestured to a window with his wisk.

"Why do you care?", your voice sounded so small you didn't even recognize it.

His shoulders slumped forward and he hesitated before he eventually turned around. He wasn't wearing his maks and you hated yourself for thinking what you were thinking. But he was very handsome, with a lost look in his bright blue eyes that captivated you in the worst way possible.

What went unnoticed by you was how he opened his mouth to speak and closed it again before turning around to tend to his now simmering pot.

"If you decide to sleep for three days straight again, I could protect you better than you could protect yourself. You don't even have a weapon or shoes.", unfortunately he was right. " If you decide to leave regardless, you can keep the clothes I put on you, I wasn't sure if it would be okay for you that I changed your clothes but I couldn't leave you in your... scrubs."

Something in you that was apparantly asleep for three days snapped.

"You weren't sure if that was okay for me?", your voice became louder as you spoke and soon enough you couldn't keep yourself from screaming at the man that was facing you again, his brows furrowed, "Are you fucking kidding me? You're the fucking asshole piece of shit degenerate bastard that took me from my own home in the middle of the night and had me incarcerated and tortured and just because you saved me from these creatures and abducted me again you think I'm safe with you? You can't be that fucking stupid can you ? I'd rather die out there because of them than stay here with you. They are still more human than you."

You don't remember ever having been this angry in your life. Neither had you ever screamed at someone like that, but tears of pure hatred streamed down your face as you tried to stop yourself from hyperventilating. You just couldn't understand what was happening. It was too much.

You looked at the man whose mouth was slightly open in disbelief a last time before you turned towards the door. The second you opend it you noticed that it was pitch-black, you had no light, no shoes and no weapon. The clothes on you didn't seem to want to stay on you as you had to hold up the pants by its waistband.

It was so cold you instantly missed the warmth of the house. Despite the circumstances in which you were brought there, it had at least been a shelter. Your melancholia was cut short as you heard a snarling in front of you. You were so stupid, what were you thinking?

Trying to run backwards seemed to be the worst decision of your life as you immediately tripped and fell, the creature coming closer and closer.

[scurvgirl]

The Princess Ventured Into the Dark Forest

Fairy Tale AU

Part One, Two, Three, Four

Meanwhile Part One, Part Two

Worldbuilding

Serahlin Art

Past the waterfall, the forest changes. Sunlight becomes sparse as the canopy of leaves overhead thicken. The trees here are old growth and Serahlin can feel the eyes of a dozen tiny spirits watching her as she follows Huirin.

She must remain strong. Adannar is hidden away here, somewhere, and he could need her. This is a terrible place to go missing, deep in the dark part of the forest with no one but peeping spirits to watch the tragedy. She cannot just leave him be, not while she can ride after him and help him. It is the least she can do after he has done so much for her.

“How much farther, Huirin?” She asks. The mechanical deer turns its head to her. Its usual whirring noise pauses to click twice, two metal eyelids roll over reflective eye sockets. It is some sort of communication, but not one she can discern. It turns its attention back to whatever trail it’s following to Adannar, the whirring kicking up once again.

Velini snorts but follows the strange deer. It is not long until they start to noticeably ascend what must be a small mountain. The path is surprisingly sure, however, and Velini does not struggle with his footing. The trees curve over the path, only a few having roots that disrupt the packed earth and…stones? Who would lay a stone path this deep in the woods?

They come to a fork in the path, one leading up, another down. Sunlight spills down, illuminating the path that leads up, while casting the path leading down in dark shadow. Huirin, of course, heads down. Serahlin swallows and steels herself before urging Velini to continue to follow Huirin.

Thick shadows envelope them as they descend, and the forest visibly changes. She is reminded of the great tree Adannar showed her, the one housing a spirit of Content. These trees feel…they feel like that. Magical. Aware. Watching.

The leaves begin to take on iridescent and glowing hues, mushrooms even appear to be larger and brighter. And an air of tingling magic surrounds them all. The little hairs on Serahlin’s arms and the back of her neck rise at the magic. Her concern morphs into a near panic. Adannar likes to harvest alchemical ingredients – they’re for his creatures and for potions he likes to dabble in. He laughed once, saying he was no alchemist, but he can concoct some poultices and potions that are helpful. He gave her one, once, to help sore muscles. She cannot be certain, but she suspects these mushrooms and other plants are likely subjects for alchemical harvesting. He could have fallen, hit his head! Or twisted his ankle, broken his leg, his arm…the list goes on.

She keeps fighting the urge to ask Huirin if it knows anything. It could, it very well could, but that doesn’t mean she will understand what it says. Or blinks, or whirrs. She should have asked Adannar to teach her how to communicate with his creatures, that way in case something like this happened she would be able to find him more quickly. It’s no matter now, but when she finds him, she is going to sit him down and have him teach her. After he gets better, of course. If she doesn’t kill him herself, after scaring her like this.

Huirin keeps the same walking pace, and it feels terribly slow. They started the search hours ago! And still no sign of Adannar. Where is he? Heavens, she hopes he isn’t dead, that…that would be the worst.In the short amount of time they have spent together, she has come to care for him, more than she ever thought possible. Before, she had resigned herself to a loveless marriage – to a good man, but still loveless. She never dreamed that when she ran she would ever find someone like Adannar. She did not know that such kindness could lurk in such unexpected places.

Now she must return the favor. It’s the right thing to do and besides she…cares for him. Deeply. So much so that the thought of fulfilling her duty to marry Dirthamen or someone else fills her with a sour taste in her mouth and dread in her heart.

She cannot in good conscious marry someone while she feels this way for Adannar. It isn’t right. Even if it is simply political, a marriage is a marriage. She would still be connected to Dirthamen and longing for someone else.

At least hiding out in the woods means she doesn’t have to marry anyone she does not desire.

Feeling like for Adannar is exactly why she needs to find him. And why if he turns up dead or hurt, she’ll kill him for scaring her so. She’ll kiss him, then kill him. Or maybe she’ll just kiss him. Really, she just needs to find him.

They descend ever further into the darkened forest, now illuminated by glowing mushrooms and other plants she doesn’t know. Adannar had been teaching her some of the more mundane plants, focusing on the herbs and foliage that could help her. None of the plants here could be defined as mundane. Some of them even come across as hostile. Before, she would never have believed a plant could be hostile, but nothing makes as much sense as it did. Or perhaps she just sees more.

Huirin makes a clicking noise and Velini stops, dragging Serahlin out of her thoughts. The air is colder and the glow from the mushrooms darken. Some of the mushrooms even shrink back as a shadow slinks through the trees.

Velini shakes and steps back. She tries to comfort him but he is inconsolable as the shadow draws nearer. Huirin’s clicking noise grows louder before it leaps at the shadow, a light emanating from its head. The shadow shrinks back in haste, and the mushrooms grow back, lighting the pathway once more.

“What was that?” She asks, breathless and more than a little disturbed. Huirin turns to her, plates on its head reforming to the face she is familiar with. It makes a low whining noise then shakes. Right. It’s…whatever that was.

Serahlin reaches down and pats Velini’s neck, reassuring the horse even while she needs reassuring herself. That shadow is only one beast that occupies this forest, she reminds herself. Just because she has been fortunate in the forest does not mean that her experience is representative of the nature of the forest. A dragon lurks here, as do many other creatures that would see her harmed. Or worse.

Huirin chirps at them and Serahlin encourages her horse to follow it. Remember Adannar, remember that he could need her and Velini.

The path winds down but it remains a path. To where, she can only guess a terrible pit filled with bodies. Maybe this path was made by beasts that would haul their kills off to a deep part of the forest and perform dark rituals furthering their beastliness.

She has got to find Adannar if only to stop these ridiculous thoughts from polluting her mind.

Huirin turns around a bend and Serahlin follows – to see the mouth of a large cave. Long dark moss dangles, nearly obscuring the soft light emanating from the cave. Light, from a cave. It is a magical forest, she reminds herself. Huirin ducks into the cave, the moss trailing over its smooth metal body. Its pace remains that same, undeterred by the cave and moss. It is likely safe, then, or as safe as it can be.

Deep breaths, she can do this. Be brave, be brave.

She urges Velini forward and braces herself for the moss. It is soft, but in her face and not unlike unwanted touches in a ballroom. Thankfully, it is over in a heartbeat and she is free to ride tall and unhindered after Huirin.

As she crosses the threshold, a wave of magic comes over her and she gasps at the rush of it. Magic back home always felt cool and powerful, and tame compared to the wild swirling gusts of it in the forest. Here, magic is like its own entity, moving and shifting. And powerful.

It makes sense that the magic in the forest, and so deep into it, would have a lot of magic. Spirits form out of massive emotion and magic, if one is not present, then the spirit cannot form. Its why spirits are not common back home, and why they almost take on bodies as soon as they can. Without a well of magic present, maintaining their spirit forms is not only difficult, it’s risky. Spirits who do not wish to take on bodies back home risk shrinking into nothing or shattering from the strain to stay alive.

She knew that it wasn’t like that everywhere, but it was shocking to see so many spirits in the wood. Adannar had explained that he was the rarity. Most spirits in the wood opt to refrain from a corporeal form.

If that is so, she wonders why Adannar took on a body.

Her thoughts settle as the magic flurries away from her, allowing her to gaze in stunned awe at the cave around her. No, not a cave, a…she has no proper word for this! The walls are shined stone, swirling with blues, greens, greys, and browns. Just past the mouth of the cave, the walls turn from rounded to actual walls. The ceiling is high, and not just palace high but so high that she cannot quite make out where the ceiling is. Only that it is there.

Huirin is undeterred, but perhaps it cannot experience the incredible magnitude of this place. The magic, the obvious care that has been taken to create a palatial home…cave. Enchanted sconces light up as they walk by, blue tinted light illuminating the smooth walls.

Velini’s hoofbeats echo in the hallway, filling the otherwise silent room with a steady beat.

What is this place? Who made this?

Is this some entrance to the dwarven empire? She thought those were heavily guarded and sealed off while the surface nations battled the dragons. Perhaps they forgot about this entrance? Or maybe the age of the place marks it as different? Maybe it was abandoned ages ago due to the magical fluctuations in the forest.

Huirin stops at the end of the hallway and turns to her, its eyes mimic blinking and it makes a whistling noise at her.

“I am still following,” she asserts. It would make some sense if this was an entrance to the dwarven empire. They have crafting abilities that would fascinate Adannar considering his hobby of creating these automatons.

Huirin turns to the right, down a set of stairs, activating more lights with its descent. Serahlin dismounts and hitches Velini to a sconce holding a stone. She follows Huirin on foot, down the stairs, feeling dread creep into her. She is not that strong, if she needs to pick him up…how will she?

The stairs end and another hallway stretches before the, but now piled with stuff. There are boxes upon boxes upon dresses and cabinets and satchels…just so much stuff.

“What is all of this?!” She says, mostly to herself but Huirin takes it upon itself to make a few chirps then a low honking noise, not unlike a goose.

“Don’t take that tone with me, this is a lot of stuff…and why is fine tableware next to not so fine linens? And is that a…lamp? That’s from Veharan, across the gulf, isn’t it? Oh, and those are silks from Pah’naar! What in the world was Adannar doing down here?” She’s beginning to suspect he found this place and has gotten enveloped in snooping through all of this stuff! Where did it come from? Who collected all this?

Some of these things are seriously beautiful, and they are just…wasting away in this cave. As nice as cave it is, it is still sequestered away from everything.

Huirin chirps at her, making her realize she has stopped moving. Serahlin snaps out of her awe for everything around her and steps quickly after the mechanical deer.

The hallway curves and there are gaps in the piles of stuff. In those gaps are gigantic doors – one set of doors is open and inside is just another pile of things. Light reflects off the shinier and more valuable items, while others remain in crates and satchels. She pauses when her eye catches the light glinting off what must be a cascade of golden coins. Or a mountain of them.

All this wealth, all these things, stored away. What is this place?

Serahlin resumes following Huirin, coming to another large door that is cracked open. Huirin nods its head toward the door, then moves behind Serahlin and all but shoves her through the door.

“Excuse me!” She says, but follows his instructions and goes inside. Huirin does not follow and a heavy dread worms its way through Serahlin’s body. Whatever is in here is deterring even Huirin. Should she even be in here? The lights are dimmer and the stones in the sconces are not lighting as she walks carefully through the room.

The piles in here are much more specific, either pillows or blankets or other soft creations, making the space almost like a large bed.

A gigantic bed. For something as equally massive.

No, no, no. She has to get out of here, if Adannar truly wandered down here…he is not getting back out. A broken sob leaves her, the sound filling the space. She clamps a hand over her mouth in horror just as something massive moves in the shadows. A low rumbling echoes from the shadows making her eyes widen in terror.

Adannar deserves to be buried, deserves better than to die at the jaws of a cruel beast. And there is nothing she can do. She is unarmed, unarmored, and it has been more than a century since she has lifted a sword. And if she is not quick, she will only join her darling Adannar in his demise.

Oh Adannar, Serahlin mourns for a second before turning on her heel and running. She runs from the room and back down the hallway, past all the piles of stuff. Behind her, she hears the beast moving after her. Its breathing is loud, filling the hallway with a rumbling timbre that spurs her to go faster.

“Serahlin?” Her voice echoes through the space and horror fills her. It knows her name? How?! Heavens above, let her escape this treacherous place!

She runs up the stairs, her legs burning with protest. But she ignores it, she has to. The rumbling grows closer but she rounds the top of the stairs and rapidly unhitches Velini. She mounts her horse and spurs him into a run.

Velini charges down the hallway and out of the cave, and they are heading up the path when the earth shakes and she feels the wind at her back. It is a pushing motion followed by a pull – like when a bird takes off.

She tries to urge Velini to go faster, but they are on an incline and the horse can only go so fast. Goodness knows that he was never trained to outrun a dragon.

They reach the top of the hill when the air snaps with a sudden chill. The shadows from before surge forward, lead by a screeching white spirit with outstretched gnarled hands. Serahlin screams as the hands tear her clothes and sink into her body, causing pain to lance deep. Her vision blanks out and she only realizes Velini is throwing her too late.

He bucks wildly, throwing Serahlin, vision blurry and screaming down the hill. Her body slams into the earth and rolls. She tries to shield herself from the blows by the demon and the tumbling in equal measure.

The pain! She cannot see and as she falls, her heart races faster and faster and the demon grows stronger – sinking deeper into her.

She flails her arms back in a desperate attempt to grab hold of…something! Her hand comes up with a root that she snatches quickly, wrenching her arm and halting her suddenly. The sudden cessation of movement temporarily dislodges the demon and she gasps in relief, only for it to return with vengeance. It tears into her, forcing her to turn into herself, releasing the root. She does not move but she screams and writhes in pain.

The ground shakes and the demon hisses, its movements halting but it remains atop her. Serahlin doesn’t dare look up, only hoping for a reprieve, just…something to stop it. Stop it all. How does this keep happening? Running from monster to monster right to another monster. Is this world just so plagued that this is her fate? To be hounded and harmed and thrown to death time and time again? What a cruel fate, to never know lasting peace, to never have happiness be a constant fixture in her life. The pain of that is enough to make her sob, physical and spiritual pain surrounding her in a bubble that makes the demon screech in delight.

The dragon roars in retaliation, the sound deafening. Sudden heat fills the air and the demon is wrenched away from her. Serahlin gasps in pain of the removal of the claws but oh the relief! The pressure and pain ease, making her eyes snap open –

To see the dragon, the great and terrible dragon of the forest, pinning the demon, much larger and more solid seeming now, to the ground. It pulls its head back, golden mane moving almost beautifully with it. Its maw opens and from it spews a geyser of steam. The demon screams and shatters into a dozen dark shards.

It…killed the demon.

The dragon lifts a clawed hand and waves it over the shards. Magic fills the air as light blasts from the dragon’s palm. When it rests the hand, the shards are no longer dark but filled with soft light. It…not only killed the demon but managed to somehow purify shards? She has never heard of such a thing

Maybe…maybe it has forgotten she is here. The demon was very distracting as was the magic. Maybe, just maybe she can just…sneak away.

But when Serahlin tries to move away, she collapses against the ground, pain blooming anew in her chest. Her ribs…something is wrong.

The dragon’s head snaps towards her and the last thing she sees are its yellow eyes that are somehow vaguely familiar.

I’m so sorry, Adannar…I failed.

**

This is not how Adannar wanted Serahlin to discover his nature. And now she is injured on the forest floor, after witnessing him killing. He should have taken care of Torment years ago, he knows, and now she is paying for his inability to act.

A sound of torment escapes him, and he fears it just sounds…beastly. But she is unconscious now, limp and most likely internally bleeding after falling so far.

With ever so much care, Adannar picks her prone body up and murmurs a healing spell over her. It will keep her until he can heal her properly back in his home. He takes to the sky after some of the worst of the bleeding is resolved and hopes to everything good in this world that she will recover. He would not be able to handle her not, truly.

He takes her to a guest room that he has managed to clean in the recent months of knowing her. He had hoped he would one day bring her here, that she would sleep in this bed, surrounded by all the beautiful things he has collected throughout the years. He wanted to show her all of the beautiful things, to tell her stories of the people who once came to see him.

But now…she is alive, but hurt. She is surrounded by the beautiful things but all he cares about now is making sure that she is alright.

He spends the next two days laboring over her healing. He wishes she was stable enough for him to take her to Selene, but he does not even know if Selene would tolerate having someone like Serahlin in the Glass Tower. After all that she has been through…after her self-imposed isolation, he doubts it.

The first day is the worst. She has several broken ribs and one of her lungs ended up collapsing after he repaired the ribs. She lost a lot of blood to the demon and he has to replenish it somehow. He generally dislikes using spirit shards for anything other than helping birth new spirits, but he is filled with enough anger at Torment that he uses its shards to power himself to heal her. All of the shards, filling her so much with magical healing energy that it makes her hair grow even longer and her skin glow faintly.

He remembers when Torment was Composure. Brought into existence by a group of dignitaries from Veharan. But it had corrupted after the long years of isolation and the general lack of composure of everything around it. Now it will serve to bring the woman who had so exemplified its former self back to life.

The second day, Adannar cries. A poet once wrote that the reason rivers existed because dragons would cry atop mountains and the sadness had to flow somewhere. Oceans were of sorrow and sadness, of joyous triumph. It was a beautiful sentiment, incorrect but beautiful. But he does take care to cry into the river that runs under his lair, flowing from his home waterfall.

She brought so much light to this dark place. She made him feel joy again, made him feel more like himself than he has in hundreds of years. And he had only ever wanted to make her feel the same. He wants her to know the joy she has made him feel, he wants her to be surrounded by love and light and everything good. And instead, tragedy strikes.

He returns to her side, shifted into his elf form. He can feel her healing aura even down in the cellar and he worries he will shock her too badly if he remains in his true form. It is not much trouble to ensure she is comfortable. But if she asks…he will not lie. He cannot lie to her anymore, it is wrong, and she…she deserves to walk away if she wishes. He would not blame her if she did, not after…all this.

Adannar watches over her through the night, trying not to fall asleep. Sleeping in too late is what got them all into this mess. He had been resting so wonderfully, so deeply and perfectly, that he had not realized that he had not woken at the appropriate time to see her. He does not know why she decided to come looking for him, is it too much to hope that she had searched for him out of worry? And what a terrible fright to find his lair, finding him yes, but also finding something she had been taught to fear.

On the third day, Serahlin wakes. It is slow and Adannar must restrain himself from fussing too much over her.

“Memae…?” She murmurs, lifting her hand in his direction. He takes it gently between his and settles next to her.

“No, darling, it’s me, Adannar,” he tells her, smoothing hair away from her face. Serahlin blinks her eyes open, not only pink but faintly glowing with magic. And oh when she smiles it is like being bathed in holy light.

“Sweet Adannar,” she says, reaching up to his face, “if this is death, then it cannot be so bad if I am with you.”

His heart aches at the sentiment and he lets her pull him down to her, kissing her long and slow. She is warm and pliant so full of life. When he pulls back, he cups her face and regards her with the softest expression he can.

“As beautiful a sentiment that is, my dear, you are not dead, and neither am I.” Her brow scrunches in confusion and she shakes her head.

“How?”

“I healed your injuries with the shards of the demon,” he explains but her confusion remains.

“That does not make any sense. Huirin lead me into the dragon’s lair when I asked him to take me to you.” It is only then that she looks around and recognition dawns on her face. He is leaning back as she sits up, fear and shock bleeding off her.

“I…” she stops then turns to him, her once soft gaze now knowing and fearful, “you?”

He nods slowly, “I did not know how to tell you.”

“You…you…you lied to me?” She accuses, and he flinches. She is right, he lied and he has no recourse.

“I was afraid,” he says, unsure of how else to explain.

“You? You were afraid? You are a dragon!” She says, horror creeping into her voice. “You could have killed me!”

“I would never hurt you,” he says quickly.

“I don’t know that!” She responds just as quickly. He cannot meet her gaze, all he feels is shame for letting it go on for this long.

“Once, when the times were different, and my kind were not hunted or turned into storybook villains, I would have not hidden it. I was…afraid that you would know and refuse to know me, refuse any help I have to offer. It was wrong of me, selfish and wrong and I am so, so sorry.”

She draws her blanket around herself and moves into the corner of the bed as far away from him as she can get.

“You were never in any danger from me,” he says softly, “please, I…was afraid if you knew you would inform knights or someone.”

“So you lied?!”

“I did not mean for it to go on as long as it did. But I also did not expect to become so enamored with you, either, and I couldn’t…I was wrong.”

She is quiet for a long time, staring at him with the same horrified expression. He cannot tell what the worse crime is – being a dragon or lying about not being a dragon. But he knows that he never wanted this, and that his concealment has only made everything worse.

“So it is my fault that you fell in love with me and you couldn’t tell me the truth?” Her voice is low and sharp and it cuts him to down to size.

“No! It is my fault, I place none of the blame at your feet. I am…I was so wrong, and I have no preconceptions of your forgiveness.”

“I…can leave? I am not your prisoner?” She asks and that hurts too, to think that she ever thought he would be capable of such a horrid thing. He nods slowly.

“If it is your wish to leave, then I will not stop you, and neither will any of my creations. I will ensure your safety out of the forest even. You should not have to pay for my mistakes.”

She falls silent and he can see her thinking, coming to a conclusion that will hurt, but one he will respect.

“That is what I wish,” she murmurs. He nods and steps back.

“Very well. You may dress and then either I or Huirin can take you to your horse,” he says, keeping as much emotion from his voice as possible.

“I would prefer Huirin,” she replies and he nods again.

“It will be arranged. I hope you find all the happiness and joy your heart desires,” he says, leaving the room. He wants the last word to be kind and good and he cannot stand the thought of anything else. If she leaves, he wants her to remember as fondly as possible under the circumstances.

Adannar leaves her room and finds Huirin. He gives the deer instructions to wait for Serahlin then to take her to Velini. The horse had suffered some minor injuries but those had been easily healed. He has primarily rested and eaten in the past few days, and now he can take his rider back…to wherever she wishes to go.

Melancholy and heartache fill him so intensely, he must retreat to his rooms. But a restlessness takes hold, as well as a greediness to see her one last time. He moves from his rooms to the atrium, it is up higher into the mountain, with a great lift that allows him to rise quickly to the top of the mountain if he does not wish to don his true form. The glass ceiling opens like a flower and he steps out onto a small balcony, just in time to watch her ride out of his lair and into the forest.

Even now, his magic reaches out to her, surrounds her in a protective shield from whatever may threaten her in the forest. She will be protected in this place, even as she runs from it. And he will love her, even as she scorns him.

[alcordraws]

Optical Shift

I can’t believe I never posted this here. Anyways, remember back when Mark was playing fnac 3 and was talking about his nightmares? this was inspired by that

Jack’s chilling at Mark’s house, on a visit from Ireland for a rare opportunity to hang out. It's late and they're hanging on the couch, some lame (and oddly hilarious) SYFY channel horror movie playing on the tv, the screeching violins of the soundtrack and the screams of the actors filling an otherwise comfortable silence.

Mark’s curled up on one end of the couch, occasionally giggling when the cgi “cobradile” pops up and calls out who he bets is going to die next. Chica takes up the rest of the couch, paws tucked under her golden head and feathery tail wagging gently by Mark’s hip. Jack’s made himself comfortable on the smaller couch, legs stretched out to the armrest and a cold beer Mark isn't allowed to touch sits half finished on the floor by his dangling arm.

It's cozy and warm and Jack begins to feel drowsy by the time the heroine of the movie sacrifices herself by throwing herself into the monster’s mouth with dynamite strapped to her slender waist and blowing it up from the inside. It looks like the movie’s entire budget went into that last explosion and Jack chuckles along with Mark over how bad it was.

As the credits begin to roll, the temperature in the room dips, for just a second. Jack’s eyes catch on Mark, who shivers violently, figure literally flickering between gray, red, and blue before settling back to normal. Mark catches his eye and gives him a wan smile, his earlier cheerfulness fading.

“Sorry”, he says, apologetic, “ that was just Dark returning to his host body.”

Mark’s attempt at reassurance is belied by the sudden pallor in his complexion and the tightness around his eyes. Jack can't hold back his curiosity and before he can stop himself, he blurts,

“How did you meet him?”

The haunted look that enters Mark’s eyes makes Jack’s stomach clench and he immediately regrets asking. Chica, sensing the discomfort in the air, whines until Mark buries a hand on the thick fur of her neck.

“I suspect he'd been following me quite a while,” he begins, “but the first time I met him, I was fourteen.”

Mark’s eyes snap open, the images of his nightmare lingering on his eyelids, flashing at him whenever he tries to go back to sleep. There are shadows squirming on his ceiling and his need for sleep creeps away to be replaced with an acute feeling of unease. He slips out of bed and into the puddle of moonlight that emanates from his window, pads on silent, bare feet to his door and escapes into the hallway.

It's silent and dark, unsurprising for the dead of night at the Fischbach home, though it doesn't help abate his growing anxiety. Mark creeps his way to the stairs, feeling both dazed and awake as he drifts to the last step. He settles at the bottom, a notebook and pen he'd snatched from his room before he left sitting on his lap. He glances up and his eyes catch on the thick, looming shadow in the archway that obscures his view of the next room. His heart beats just a little faster, but oddly enough, he does not feel afraid.

Time slithers by, but he doesn’t feel it, frozen on the bottom step, eyes glued to the shadow in the archway, pen idly scratching on the notebook on his lap. His breathing comes in even intervals as if he were asleep, but Mark is keenly aware that he is awake and dreams are the farthest thing from his mind. Mark’s eyes droop to his notebook and the lazy scrawl of his pen and feels his heart crawl into his throat.

It’s the shadow in the archway, form vaguely humanoid, a pair of circular, white eyes boring into his own brown ones from the confines of the lined paper. Mark doesn’t remember seeing eyes on the shadow. His sleepy trance melts away and his heart begins to titter like a rabbit in his chest. He tries to scramble back upstairs, maybe sneak into his brother’s room, but he freezes just as he stands.

The world around him bleeds into blacks and grays, objects highlighted with red and blue-green like some sort of bizarre 3-D movie that Mark wants no part of. His own hands look a pale shade of silver and lack the 3-D effect that engulfs the rest of the room. He isn’t sure how much that should comfort him. Mark looks up when something darker than the shadows falls over him and finds himself eye to chest with the shadow from the archway. It’s more humanoid now, tall and looming. The shadows melt away to reveal a man, silver-skinned and radiating the red-blue of the rest of the strange world. He looks familiar, with his mother’s eyes (a dark, cool red rather than her warm brown), her sharp cheekbones, but his father’s nose and jawline, a light shade of stubble keeping his face from looking too soft. His hair is short and shiny and black, falling in a feathery coal-black curtain over one of his eyes.

He’s wearing a suit, fancy-looking and gray, like heavy storm clouds. Everything about him seems to scream refined and Mark suddenly feels very out of place in his large, old red shirt and black shorts. He tries to swallow back the lump in his throat to speak, wincing when his voice squeaks anyways.

“Who are you?”

The man regards him with disdainful eyes, as if he’d just noticed an insect squished on the the bottom of his shoe, his pale lips tightening into a sneer. Mark has too look away, unable to hold such an intense, cold stare. He feels too much like a specimen in a glass jar.

“You may call me Dark. I’ve been waiting a long to meet you”, he says and though his voice his silk soft and almost reassuring, it still reverberates through the room, like a distant roll of thunder that Mark can feel in his own chest. The man, Dark, clasps his long-fingered hands behind his back, leaving himself open, like he holds no secrets from Mark.

“What do you want?” Mark whispers, sounding even tinier in comparison to Dark’s overwhelming presence.

Dark steps closer, puts an elegant hand on Mark’s thin shoulder. He looks less dismissive now, might even look warm, if not for the seemingly perpetual ice of his deep red eyes.

“I can make the nightmares go away”, Dark murmurs, his thunder-like voice gentle. “You just have to let me in.”

Mark’s breath catches in his throat and his mind wanders to the nightmare he’d had the other night, his brother disappearing into the woods, the other horrid dreams that had plagued his nights for as long as he remembered. He can’t think clearly, there’s too much static in his head. Dark’s eyes soften, just an ounce, and Mark, scared and hopeful and naive, stupidly ( stupidly ) agrees. He reaches out and Dark takes his hand (and though at fourteen Mark isn’t exactly small, his hand is easily swallowed by Dark’s). His eyes are still soft, but his grip is anything but.

His hand is very, very cold. His smile is even colder.

Mark feels an ominous shiver crawl up his spine.

He should have known it was a lie.

Jack doesn’t know what to say when Mark finishes his story. Mark is staring at the hand buried in Chica’s fur, eyes distant, a murky shade of brown that doesn’t befit him at all.

“I’m… sorry”, Jack says quietly, though it’s not quite what he wants to say and he’s frustrated that he can’t form the words to express his sentiment.

Mark smiles, faint but more reassuring than the first one.

“It’s no big deal, not anymore at least. You get… used to it, I guess.”

Silence reigns once more, but it’s not awkward. It’s the same comfortable quietness from earlier. In their lapse of attention, the next movie had started, the scene displaying a lackluster cgi werewolf(?) munching on what could be a leg. They chuckle at it and the atmosphere lightens, the conversation slowly slipping away.

Mark’s shadows flickers, though no one sees it, before settling back into a normal solid gray.

[broodmother]

fill for @kyluxcantina ; a writing warm up that got out of hand. ~4000 words, sfw, modern au, warning for mild horror. ao3 link.

Our family tree has some twisted roots. 

It was raining outside, the sort of lukewarm squall you could only get in summer storms when the air felt so thick you could almost scoop it up in your hands. The persistent thrum of fat-bellied raindrops on the open window was oddly comforting, a white noise that blanketed everything but the clinking of porcelain as Hux unwrapped coffee cups from sheets of old newspaper and put them away, and the breeze that came in with it was just cool enough to wick away the worst of the humidity.

Hux stopped, leaned against the sink with a half-wrapped cup in hand. He thumbed the chipped lip of it as he looked out of the window, watching the sea of spanish oaks that stretched out for acres in front of the house bob and sway gently. It was secluded, moreso than Hux would have liked, but it was beautiful even in the thin yellow light of the storm - he could only imagine what it would be like in the fall. He smiled to himself; he hoped this would be good for them.

“Penny for your thoughts,” came a voice in his ear and strong arms snaked around his waist. His smile widened as he leaned back against Ben’s chest.

“It’s nice here,” he said.

“Anywhere’s better than that apartment,” Ben said as he hooked his chin over his shoulder, and Hux hummed in agreement. He was silent for a moment, and they swayed together like the trees, “I’ve not been here since I was a kid. It feels weird to be back, especially since it's been lying empty for so long.”

Hux turned around in Ben’s arms, still holding the cup. He smiled up at him, “We’ll make it feel like a home soon enough.”

“Home’s wherever you’re with me,” Ben said as he leaned down to ghost his lips against Hux’s; Hux turned his head to the side with a laugh and nudged his chest.

“Calm down, Nicholas Sparks - home’s going to be wherever these boxes get unpacked. I do hope you’re not expecting me to do it all?” he said. Ben wrinkled his nose but untangled himself from Hux anyway, “That’s what I thought. The plates are still out in the hallway, go earn those kisses.”

--

It took days to unpack all the boxes, especially since having a place of their own - a real place, not some shitty studio apartment with a reeking garbage disposal unit and a leaky shower - had put Ben in some kind of mood. A good mood, mostly, a playful one, but sometimes a little more withdrawn than usual. One moment they’d bickering over which side of the room to put the sofa on, then they’d move to abandoning it right in the middle in favour of fooling around on it a little - and then just as suddenly, Ben would get up and walk out like someone had called his name. He could disappear for hours. Hux knew better than to go looking for him.

It had been his grandfather’s house, so Hux supposed moving into it after a surprise inheritance had him feeling thoughtful. Besides, he’d always been prone to his funny moods - that was just a fact of life when it came to loving Ben. He just wished he would help a little more with the unpacking. It felt like it took twice as long as it should have. He could never figure out where to put what, especially since they had so much space to fill, and Hux kept getting confused about what he’d unpacked already, no matter how methodically he did it - he’d put away the towels in the linen closet, then go back to the bedroom to find them neatly stacked on the bed right where they’d started out.

--

Ben kissed the side of his neck, following a line up to his ear; he drew the lobe into his mouth, bit gently in that way that made Hux shiver every time. He was standing like he had been on the first day, at the kitchen sink with Ben’s arms around him, cup in hand - one that he was washing, this time, not putting away.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Hux said, even as he turned his head to the side to offer more of himself to Ben. He kept his eyes fixed on a spot on the tree-obscured horizon.

“When it stops raining,” Ben said, the words slurred by his skin. It had been raining for days. Home-making was good for the soul but Hux wanted to get out, wanted to feel any fresh air but the breeze that crept in through the open window. He gripped the edge of the sink.

“A drive?”

“Sure,” Ben said. Hands found his hips, pulled him flush against him, “When it stops raining.”

--

It was an old house - an old, old house - though Ben couldn’t say exactly how old. He just knew it had been in his family for generations, and frankly, it showed. The hardwood flooring had warped all throughout the house, the doors and window frames too. Some were jammed open, some were jammed shut; there were whole rooms he couldn’t get into because the door wouldn’t budge no matter how hard Hux rattled the handle.

Combined with the fact that so much of the house had been extended over the years - wings added, rooms spliced into rooms, staircases built and then blocked off - it was like a damn maze. There were even occasions when Hux would open the door to a room and find himself somewhere completely unexpected, even weeks after he was certain he had memorised the floor plan. He was sure the bathroom had been second on the right. Third on the right? No, it was first on the left - but since when?

“You’re just not used to a big old place like this yet,” Ben had told him when he brought it up, bright and faux-breezy over dinner one night, “You’ll be turned around for a while, don’t worry about it.”

Hux rolled the stem of one of the few wine glasses to survive the moving process between his fingers with a mild hum. He didn’t remind him he’d grown up in a house even bigger than this one, and he’d never once lost an entire floor before.

--

The kitchen was by far Hux’s favourite room in the house. It was huge, nearly the size of the entire apartment they had shared before moving. It had old, cracked terracotta tiles and sprawling gas range with blackened cast iron pots hung all in a row above it. Hux had never been much of a cook but he was willing to learn now he had such a playground to work with.

There was also a pleasant atmosphere to the room, something warm and almost airy, which was a nice respite from the rest of the house. He had an office somewhere upstairs but he still ended up working in the kitchen more often than not.

“What’s in there?” Hux asked one afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table, pen in hand; Ben was getting a beer out of the fridge. He glanced over at where Hux was looking: a door on the far side of the room, set back slightly in an alcove of its own. It was neatly - but thoroughly - boarded up. It wasn’t the only room in the house like that, so he hadn’t been too curious about it at first, but he spent so much of his day sitting facing it that he was beginning to wonder.

Ben twisted the cap off his beer and looked away; he shut the fridge door hard enough to make the bottles inside clink, “Basement.”

“Why is it boarded up?” Hux pressed.

“Black mold, I think,” Ben said, and Hux turned in his seat to look at him in disgust.

“Black mold? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” he said sharply, his brow dipping, “We’ll need to get someone out, we can’t have black mold right under the kitchen. I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t,” Ben said with a forcefulness that took Hux by surprise, “I mean-- don’t waste your time, it's not that serious. It’s been boarded up since before I was born, I think it was more of a precaution than anything else. If it was dangerous, grandpa would have sorted it out before-- well, before.”

Hux held Ben’s gaze for a second, then nodded and turned back to his work, his lips thinned in displeasure. Ben didn’t speak of his grandfather often, but he seemed to have had a great influence over his life. He knew he was practically an intruder in his house, or at least that’s what he felt like at times. He didn’t want to provoke Ben further, but he still didn’t care to be snapped at.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ben said, giving Hux’s shoulder a squeeze, “But do me a favour - don’t go down there, okay? It’s not worth the risk.”

Hux only grunted in response, wanting the conversation to be over already. Ben squeezed harder, forcing him to look up. He had a strange expression on his face, something hard behind his eyes that made Hux want to shrivel up.

“I mean it. Promise me you won’t go down to the basement.”

“I promise,” Hux said through clenched teeth. Ben smiled and immediately let him go. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his head like nothing had happened and left the room, beer in hand.

Hux stared holes through the basement door, his shoulder aching. The kitchen felt colder than it had before.

--

It was raining again. In fact, it seemed like it had not stopped in the weeks and months since they had moved there. What had been comforting white noise had became an incessant, irritating drone. He was so sure if it didn’t stop any time soon, the house would be washed right into the forest and down the valley; he wasn’t convinced that would be a bad thing.

Hux lay in bed, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling. He hadn’t slept well in days; Ben tossed fitfully beside him, but then again he had never been an easy sleeper.

“You awake?” he asked, voice thick with sleep as he reached out for Hux, “What’s wrong?”

“What did your grandfather do?” Hux asked.

Ben knuckled his eyes and blinked in the darkness, “Uh, doctor, I think. Something like that.”

What use was a doctor forty, fifty miles out in the middle of nowhere?

“What happened to him?”

The silence that followed was weighty. Hux turned his head to look at Ben, even if he couldn’t see him.

“I don’t know,” Ben said.

“What happened to your parents?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said again.

Hux looked away. Ben eventually fell back asleep, but he didn’t. He just lay there and listened to the rain.

--

Hux began opening all the doors he could in the house. Every corridor he walked down, every room he passed through. Airing it out, he told Ben when he pried. Trying to get rid of that damp smell.

He looked at Hux like he was crazy when he asked why they were always all closed again come morning. He learned to stop asking, but he never shut a door behind himself again.

--

“Where do you go?” Hux asked.

Ben didn’t respond at first, just went on unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed it at the laundry basket and missed; Hux knew he’d be the one to pick it up later, “What do you mean?”

“When you’re gone, you’re gone for hours,” Hux said. He should have been getting undressed for bed too, “Where do you go?”

“For a walk,” Ben said, not missing a beat this time, “To clear my head.”

Hux watched him as he wandered into the en suite bathroom. He left the door open as he turned on the tap and began to brush his teeth. Hux wanted to get up and slam the door, to call him a liar, to smash their alarm clock they never set against the wall. He wanted to take the car keys and leave. He wanted to swallow down the wave of nausea that rose up in his throat.

“You’re never wet,” he said. Ben looked at him with a questioning grunt, like he hadn’t heard him right, “When you come back. You’re never wet.”

Ben frowned, then laughed around his toothbrush, “It’s not always raining.”

“It is. It is always raining, it never stops fucking raining here,” Hux said through his teeth. Ben’s smile slipped.

“What is it you’re accusing me of, exactly?”

“Where do you go?”

Hands curled into fists. Ben spat into the sink and shook his head like he was going to drop it, but he couldn’t. He turned, braced himself against the doorframe and leaned into the bedroom, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to stop this. You need to stop doing this.”

“Why won’t you answer the question,” Hux said. There was a quiver in his voice that he hated; his breath felt so thin and insubstantial as it caught in his throat. Ben took a step towards him but he didn’t flinch, just lifted his chin, kept his gaze hard and steady even if his hands shook.

Ben’s shoulders dropped. He threw his hands up in disgust and turned away from Hux, “I’m sleeping on the sofa tonight. Sort your head out.”

--

It was warm, warmer than he thought it would be, almost like being in a shower just before the hot water ran out. Hux closed his eyes and tilted his head back, turned his palms to the sky, let the rain soak through him in seconds. The ground beneath his bare feet wasn’t sodden like it should have been, but the grass was soft and sweet-smelling.

“Hux!”

He walked towards to the treeline; the shining wet leaves nodded in the breeze, calling him closer like beckoning hands.

“Hux, get back here!”

He turned to look over his shoulder at Ben, standing in the frame of the back door, the kitchen light behind his head. He was wearing the same hard expression as before. Hux didn’t saying anything.

“It’s raining, you’re going to get sick.”

He glanced back at the trees. There was a tightness in his stomach that he couldn’t explain, a lead weight on his chest; he had the strangest urge to start running. He could make it to the treeline before Ben caught him, he knew he could, and then he’d be lost to the forest.

“Hux, come back inside,” Ben urged again. There was something slanting and desperate in the fringes of his voice, “You’re not wearing any shoes.”

The feeling - the instinct, primal and sharp-toothed - stretched out, taut like a bow-string until it snapped, guttered and died. The moment to escape passed and Hux began to walk towards the house. Ben was waiting for him with dark eyes and warm, dry hands. He brushed away the water that clung to Hux’s lashes, brushed his lips across his closed mouth. He took him by the arm and led him upstairs where he pulled him out of his wet clothes and laid him on the bed, and fucked him like he loved him. Like he was worried about him.

Ben cupped Hux’s face in his hands when he kissed him again and made him promise not to leave the house again. Hux couldn’t remember what he said.

--

Hux closed the lid of Ben’s toolbox and tested the weight on the hammer in one hand. Satisfied, though he didn’t know by what parameters, he climbed up onto the edge of the kitchen table and smashed the lightbulb hanging above it with a single sure-armed swing. He didn’t flinch away from the powdery shards of glass, but he was careful to avoid the worst of it as he climbed back down, hammer still in hand.

He stared up at the empty light fixture and wondered if he should do the the rest of the lights downstairs, but he decided against it. He wasn’t sure if  he had the time; Ben had disappeared nearly an hour ago and he didn’t know when he would be back, so he turned his attention to the basement door.

The nails were surprisingly easy to pry out of the planks, like they were loose. He put each one in his pocket so he could replace them without losing any. Too many nooks and crannies in an old house for a dropped nail to roll into and get lost, and then where would Hux be if Ben noticed? He would notice, of course. He always did.

Hux pried off the last few boards with his hands and dumped them in a pile behind him. He considered doing the same with the hammer too, but didn’t. He didn’t know if he needed it but its reassuring heft made him feel better. The door didn’t creak when he pulled it open, nor did the top step when he tested his weight on it. The thin light from the kitchen barely penetrated the heavy, close darkness; beyond the first three or four steps, it was very nearly pitch black.

The air was stale and still as it rose up to meet him. There was something rank in it, something rotten that the damp and the dust couldn’t hide. Hux desperately wanted to turn heel and close the door behind him, to board it up and be done with it - but he had to know. There was something wrong with the house, and he had to know what. It had resisted his every effort to make it a home, and he had to know why.

His knees felt weak as he descended the staircase, but he steeled himself. He tightened his grip on the hammer, and held his phone as a makeshift flashlight in the other. The light swept across the packed earth floor, the featureless stone walls as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He turned, and there in the middle of the room was a table.

It was old, wooden, heavily varnished, unremarkable aside from leather straps at either end. The stench of rot was stronger as Hux approached, and he found himself rooted in place. The light wavered as his hands began to tremble. It wasn’t varnish - it was blood. Blood, blackish and flaky, caked every surface of the table. It had ran down the legs in rivulets, soaked into the dirt; it had stained the soft underside of the the leather straps, left them stiff with gore.

He pressed his mouth to his wrist in an effort to stop himself from retching as he circled the table, unable to look away until his foot hit something. He pointed the light down: it was a metal lock box, blue and rusted. Hux stared at it, willing it to disappearing, willing the soiled earth to open up and swallow it because god, he didn’t want to know what was inside it.

He crouched and picked it up, sat it on the table. It was lighter than he thought it would be; he hoped there wasn’t anything in it at all. The old padlock broke with one half-hearted knock from the hammer and Hux flipped the lid open before he could lose his nerve. Inside were photographs - dozens of them, maybe more. Some were old, black and white; others were more recent.

Most of them were of Ben. Ben as a child, grinning at the camera with a gap where his two front teeth should have been. Ben on a tire swing, bony knees smeared with dirt. Ben kneeling beside a young woman who was propped up against a tree, her hair covering her face as her head drooped to her chest. Ben - a youth now, maybe twelve or thirteen - standing at the basement door, his hands shiny and wet with something blackish as he held them out proudly. Ben, still so young, leaning against the very table Hux stood beside then, his hand resting on the bare, bruised ankle of someone not wholly in the picture. He was undoing the leather strap, or maybe tightening it.

Hux’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest as he fumbled his way to the most recent photo, unfaded, uncreased. Ben was a man in it: his hair was cut shorter than he liked to keep it normally. Hux remembered when he had cut it like that, just after they had moved into the apartment together. He remembered how he teased him, saying it made his ears look even bigger than usual. He had called them his love handles, and Ben has laughed even while he sulked.

He was laughing in the photograph too, the corners his dark eyes creased just the way Hux liked them. Oh god, he was still so beautiful even with a hunting rifle across his lap and a man at his feet, naked, face-down in the wet grass; he had his arm around an older man, slight and wispy haired, his face badly scarred. He was in the background of almost every photo in the box, right from the very oldest. Ben’s grandfather.

“You’re not supposed to be down here.”

Dread washed over Hux at that moment, and he turned his phone towards the stairs; he could just about make out Ben standing halfway down the stairs. He began to shake his head, unable to find the words.

“You promised me,” he said, taking another step down. His voice was choked, cracked, heavy with hurt, “You promised me you wouldn’t come down here.”

Hux had broken the light in the kitchen so he had an excuse to come to the basement, claiming to be looking for the fuse box. That wasn’t going to work, not after what he had really found.

“I didn’t see anything,” Hux said, trying to sound calm even though he was sure he would shake apart, “We can go back upstairs. We can-- we can board up the door again. I didn’t see anything.”

“He told me I was too soft on you. He told me you would let me down. This was your chance to prove him wrong, this was your test and you failed,” Ben said. The tears on his cheeks glinted dimly in the low light, and that scared Hux. He had never seen him cry before, not even in anger.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” he said. His voice was tight, trembling with the effort to keep his composure, “I’m sorry. We can pretend--”

“I loved you,” Ben said, “You were always my favourite. I loved you the most.”

Fear turned to ice in his veins; Hux tried to steel himself, tried to stuff down the bile rising in his throat.

“You don’t have to do this, Ben,” Hux tried, one last desperate appeal, “I love you too.”

Ben lurched towards him then, and Hux made a desperate grab for the hammer on the table; his fingers wrapped around the smooth hand just in time for Ben to grab his wrist and slam it against the table, causing him to drop it. In a panic, he swung his other hand at him blindly; he managed to smash him in the side of the head with the heel of his phone, but it did nothing. Less than nothing. It slipped from his fingers as Ben grappled him to the ground, the light guttering and dying. Hands curled around his neck - hands that he had held, hands that he had kissed and loved. Hands that had hurt. Hands that had killed. They began to squeeze.

[lotus0kid]

Happy 5th anniversary!!!! 🎆🎆🎉I have a prompt, Belle is pregnant and while out on a date( or just out of their house) with her husband Rumple, her water breaks.

OUaT: Anniversary Fic the 12th

((Thanks for prompting!  Hope this works for you.))

“Are you warm enough?”

 It must be the sixth time he’s asked, but Belle’s endlesspatience allows her to reply, “Perfectly.”

 Rumpel still peers over the top of her head at the smallspace heater placed on the back porch, where they sit beneath a blanket ofstars.  It’s growing colder at thebeginning of October, but he’ll do whatever it takes to allow Belle tocomfortably venture out into the open, breathe fresh air and feel the wideworld around her.  She’s been in far toomany cages.

Moderately assured that all is well, he settles beside her,curling his arm a little more firmly around her shoulders.  His other hand hovers near her hip.  Without even looking, she catches his wristand lays his hand over her round belly. An automatic smile lights Rumpel’s face, even as an undercurrent of fearcontinues to flow, whispering that this won’t last, it’s too wonderful, it’llget snatched away, he’ll ruin it, just wait and see.  He draws in and releases a deep breath, anddrowns the whispers in a bath of stars.

 A cloud sails by and slowly reveals a shining crescentmoon.  Beside him, Belle lets out a smallhum.

 “What are you thinking about?” he asks, filled withcuriosity.

 “Just an old story, from home.  About where stars come from.”

 “Yes?”

 “They’re the children of Umera, the goddess of night.  She places them in a cradle, which is thecrescent moon.  When the moon grows full,they go out into the sky, as stars.”

 “A child every month, that’s a large family.  Is there a father?”

 Belle smiles and dips her chin.  “Yes. Vinaos, the god of the day.” Belle turns to fix her eyes on Rumpel. “He brings light to Umera’s darkness.”

 Beneath Rumpel’s hand, he feels the tap of a tiny kickingfoot.  He grins, “I think the little onelikes that story.”

 Belle’s chuckle is full of warmth and love as she pressesher hand over Rumpel’s.  “Not long beforewe get to meet them.”

 “No, not long.”

 Belle rests her head on Rumpel’s shoulder, and they wait forthe future to arrive together.

 ---

 Rumor has it that Rumpelstiltskin is working on some new objectof terrible dark magic.  The shop hasn’tbeen open for days, though a brave soul snuck around back and peeked through awindow to see him bent over his arcane work. The spy could only say it seemed to be made of black fabric and that hewas sewing something into it with fierce concentration.  It was decided that no move would be madeagainst the sorcerer, not yet.

 Currently, said sorcerer is having a cup of tea and readinga book one evening when his wife returns from the library.  At this point in Belle’s pregnancy, Rumpel isready to beg her to stay home, but she simply promises not to do any heavylifting and goes her own way.  He mustadmit that the library is her first child, and she will care for it as long asshe’s able.

 She joins him on the couch and holds out a small rectangleof stiff paper.  “Look what Snow droppedoff today.”

 It’s an invitation to a Halloween party, Rumpel reads.  “Well,” he says, “I’m not sure why shethought you’d be interested in a party that late in the month.  Or that shewould, for that matter.”  Thequeen-turned-bandit-turned-teacher has already had one child and will soon bewelcoming her second, so she ought to know better.  She and Belle have actually bonded somewhatduring their nearly concurrent pregnancies. Rumpel and David have tried not to make much eye-contact with eachother.

 He looks at Belle, but doesn’t find the agreement heexpects.  “What if I am interested?” sheinquires.

 Feeling metaphorical tremors in the ground below his feet,he swiftly replies, “Then I’d say have a lovely time, dear.”

 It’s not the correct answer. Her face falls into a pout, “You wouldn’t come with me?”

 “I, well, that is...” Rumpel sputters, “No one’s ever beenhappy when I’ve turned up at a party.”

 “And they never will if you don’t try,” Belle counters,“We’re all in this together now, Rumpel, we need to make an effort to geton.  Besides that, Snow and David arefamily now, thanks to Henry.  Can I writeyou down as my guest?”

 Well, if nothing else, Belle’s looming due date must betaken into consideration.  He’ll likelybe a bundle of nerves, but he won’t leave his wife’s side.  “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

 Belle gives him a brilliant beam, only for it to quicklyfade.  “Hm, well, now I have to think ofa costume.  Gods, what would evenfit?”  She gestures at her ponderousabdomen.

 “Actually, about that... Hang on.”

 He climbs to his feet and heads for his office to fetch the gifthe luckily just finished today.  He’sspent hours upon hours fussing over it- it’s probably for the best he can giveit to her now.  He strides back to theliving room and sits down, presenting Belle’s gift with a flourish.

 Her mouth falls open as she carefully takes the black dressfrom him.  “Rumpel, this is amazing,” shebreathes as her fingertips explore the minutely detailed embroidery of acrescent moon that decorates the stomach area of the dress.  Every crater, mare, and rill is represented,until all fades into shadow.

 “I did what I could,” he replies humbly, “I liked your starstory too.”  He leans over to kissBelle’s cheek, only to find it wet with streaming tears.

 At his concerned hum, she gives him a wide if waterysmile.  “It’s so beautiful, Rumpel.  Thank you.” She leans in for a kiss he is happy to collect, despite the tang ofsalt.  Then she’s levering herself offthe sofa and marching away, tossing over her shoulder, “I’m trying it on rightnow.”

 Rumpel holds his breath until she returns, then lets it outin a sigh of relief as he sees the dress’s perfect fit, especially in thedecoration, which cradles the curve of Belle’s stomach on the lower right side.  “I love it!” she cries, spinning to make theskirt flare around her thighs.  Then shepauses and faces Rumpel.  “What aboutyour costume?  Vinaos might be a littleobscure.”

 “Not to worry,” he replies. A purple cloud bubbles up in his hands and dissolves to reveal anastronaut’s helmet, complete with a visor coated with opaque gold.  He puts it on and flicks the visor down,hiding his face.  “In case anyone getsannoying,” he explains.

 Belle giggles even as she shakes her head at him, then goes totake off her new costume and put it away until it’s needed.

 ---

 The final few weeks before Belle’s due date are even worsethan Rumpel imagined.  He hardly sleeps,which is more of a problem than he anticipated. Back home where the Dark Curse is strong it sustains his everyneed.  Out here amidst the imported magicof Storybrooke, he needs to help it along. But that’s becoming steadily more difficult as the days go by, and thevicious whispers command him to be on guard every second for someto-be-determined doom.

 Belle is restless as well, but in a surly, frustrated wayRumpel knows he can’t begin to understand. He does catch her whispering furiously at her stomach, “Get out, justget out, I know you’re ready, so get on with it!”

 By the time Snow and David’s Halloween party rolls around,Belle’s raring to go just to burn off excess energy.  Rumpel is too addled from lack of sleep to domore than trail after her in his astronaut helmet and a gray jumpsuit.

 They’re fashionably late mostly because of Belle’s two emergencybathroom visits.  When they reach theapartment building, she marches stolidly up the stairs, though she needs torest on Rumpel’s arm halfway up.

 “If you’re tired...” he begins, stopping when Belle giveshim a severe glare she belatedly twists into a smile.

 “I want to do this. Let’s go.”

 They make it to the landing, where Belle takes a long momentto collect herself before pushing the doorbell. The door soon swings open to reveal Snow White wearing a ring of brownfrills around her hips with her belly painted robin’s egg blue complete withspeckles on top.  Her jumper has a row offeathers down each arm and a construction paper bird’s beak is tied over hernose.  She smiles wide and cries, “Belle,you made it!  Come in!”  That smile shrinks as her gaze moves overBelle’s shoulder and lands on Rumpel.  “Oh,hello, Rumpelstiltskin.  Thank you forcoming.”

 As if she never locked him in a subterranean prison andthrew away the key.  As if he neverconspired with her greatest enemy to ruin her happy ending.  Life is a funny thing.  “Good evening,” he responds, and sidles inbehind Belle.

 “I love your costume,” Snow exclaims at Belle, “The moon,that’s so great, why didn’t I think of that?”

 Belle finds a true smile as she looks down at herdress.  “Rumpel made it.”

 “Oh,” Snow says, a shadow flickering over her face beforeshe brightens again, “Oh!  Okay, so that’s...  Anyway, this detail is amazing.  What kind of spell does that?”

 “My two hands, dearie,” Rumpel can’t help sniping, “You knowI can actually breathe without using magic, if I concentrate.”

 Snow shrinks back with wide eyes and a pinched mouth.  Belle gives him a very subtle jab in theribs.  “Rumpel, she’s being nice.”

 It’s always been his opinion that Snow being “nice” is halfher problem, but he clears his throat and says, “Indeed.  Apologies. And thank you.”

 “You’re welcome.  I,uh, I sewed this too.”  She plucks at abit of brown frills.

 He has to smile at the tiny gleam of hope in her eyes, anddeigns to look over her handiwork.  “Verynice,” he decides.

 Snow beams, “Thanks. So, anyway, we’re all in here, really informal, just family.  There’s snacks, and wine and beer, andsparking apple juice for the two of us...”

 She leads Belle and Rumpel toward the living room area,where the sofa and a few chairs are occupied by David, Emma, Regina, andBae.  Agonizing though it’s been, Rumpelhas given Bae total control over how much contact to have with him.  They see each other fairly regularly, thoughboth are naturally preoccupied with their unique fatherly duties.  It still feels like a miracle to see Bae turnto him and smile- not as warm and bright as before, but an unspeakably vastimprovement to the ragged hole he left in Rumpel’s life for so long.

 When Rumpel can expand his attention beyond Bae, he findssmiles of varying degrees of friendliness all around the room directed at himand Belle.  Wearing his own featheryjumper and bird beak, David says, “Hi, guys! Great costumes!”“Yes!” Snow chimes in, “Isn’t Belle’s great? With the black fabric and the sewing?”

 There’s a round of thoughtful nods Rumpel chooses not tointerpret.  Emma scoots closer to Reginato let Belle sit at the far end of the sofa. David sets a chair for Rumpel between Belle and Bae.

 “Thank you,” he says as he sits, and notices Bae eyeing himfrom beneath a Yankees cap.

 He twists the grip of a lowered baseball bat between hispalms and murmurs, “Please tell me you aren’t wearing a suit under there.”

 The fact that Bae knows how he customarily dresses is enoughto make Rumpel’s heart glow.  He gives hisson a smirk and quips, “Just a linen, very light.”

 Bae snorts into his chest and Rumpel feels like a hero.  It’s somewhat easier after that to sit andchat a bit, or just listen to the conversations floating around him.  Snow hands out ghost-shaped biscuits andpumpkin cupcakes.  Rumpel actuallyrelaxes a little, even finds his eyes drifting shut a bit.

 “Okay, everyone!” Snow’s cheery declaration startles him tofull awareness.  Belle shoots him anamused look as Snow continues, “I was thinking to wrap up our evening, we mightwatch a scary movie.  How’s that sound?”

 “Fine, as long as it isn’t Rosemary’s Baby,” Regina replies, painted cat’s whiskers curling asshe sneers in Belle’s direction.

 “As long as it isn’t TheWicker Man,” Emma retorts before Rumpel can take Regina’s head off with afireball.  She adjusts her cowboy hat andleans back so light glints on the silver star pinned to her plaid shirt.

 “I was gonna go with Jaws,”Snow pipes up.

 “That’s barely ahorror movie,” Regina says, “But it’s acceptable.”

 “Why thank you, Your Majesty,” David mutters on his way tothe television.

 Belle leans over to Rumpel and whispers, “Do I even want toknow?”

 “Ignore her, sweetheart,” he replies, lacing his fingerswith Belle’s firmly.

 “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

 He winces, remembering that while Snow and David haveapparently forgiven and forgotten Regina’s wide array of sins, neither of themlanguished as her prisoner for years on end. And Belle wouldn’t have, if you’dbothered to look for her.  Ah, that’sright.  Rumpel’s sins make Regina’s looklike the mischief of a playground bully. And yet Belle, the best person he knows, has willingly become his wife,and the mother of his child.  Life is sovery funny.

 While Sheriff Brody is attempting to save his picturesquetown from a killer shark, Rumpel feels Belle’s fingers tense sharply betweenhis.  He glances at her and sees she hasher other hand pressed to her stomach.  “Belle,are you all right?” he whispers.

 “I’m... fine.  I justneed to use the toilet.  Help me up?”

 He leaps to guide Belle off the sofa.

 “Excuse me, sorry,” she murmurs to the rest of the group asshe eases out and down the hall to the bathroom.

 Rumpel takes his seat, but watches her go with worrychurning his stomach.  Eventually hemanages to refocus on the film.  He’salmost comprehending dialogue again when Belle’s cry of “RUMPEL!” strikes hisbrain like a bolt of lightning.  He’s atthe bathroom in a literal flash.  “Belle,I’m here, open the door.”

 For an awful moment there’s nothing but a low, torturedmoan.  Then the door cracks open.  He pushes it open to see Belle hunched over,gripping the sink with a puddle of liquid between her feet.  She gives him a tremulous, agonized smile andsays, “Oops.”

 “Okay,” Rumpel breathes, attempting to force his paralyzedbrain into functioning.  “We need... toget to the car.”

 Dismay fills Belle’s face, “Oh, I don’t know if I can do thestairs ag- AH!”  Her body tenses hard andRumpel imagines if she were any stronger she’d tear chunks out of thesink.  All he can do is lay careful handson her arm and back and let her lean into him until it passes.

 “Belle, we need to be home,” he tries to explain, “That wasthe plan, wasn’t it?”  Quite honestly, atthis moment he has no idea what their plan was, despite the hours of work thatwent into it.  He holds up his hands andpurple smoke starts to swirl around them. “Can I just-?”

 “No magic!” she cries, “Not now, I don’t want to travel likethat, when I’m like this.  Please?”

 The smoke vanishes under her desperate gaze.  “Of course, but...  I just...” He glances around and notices the group of people standing four feetaway, staring like this is another scene in the film.

 Snow steps forward, slipping past Rumpel and moving toBelle’s side.  “I guess the baby isn’t afan of Richard Dreyfus, huh?” she remarks gently.

 “Who?” Belle asks, but another contraction steals Snow’sanswer as she moans louder than ever and doubles over.

 “Okay, it’s okay, just keep breathing...” Snow murmurs asshe rubs Belle’s back.  To Rumpel, shesays, “So, poofing her home is out and the stairs are a problem.  What does that leave us?”

 “How about the tub?” Emma suggests, peering over Rumpel’shead.  “Like a water birth.”

 The words snap Rumpel’s brain back into action.  “Yes! That was the plan.  Good.  Belle, w-?”

 “Let’s do that!”Belle wails.

 With a great sweep of his arm, Snow’s narrow tub is replacedby a wide, deep Jacuzzi filled up three-quarters with warm water.

 “Wow,” Snow briefly marvels, “Okay, yeah, great.  Belle, let’s get you, uh... Oh, hey, I thinkwe need a little privacy now, please?”

 To Rumpel’s surprise, Regina turns to the rest of the partyand declares in her most imperious tone, “All right, gawkers, back off. Rumpeland Snow only, let’s give them some space, come on.”  She herds Bae, Emma, and David back down thehall.

 Snow says to Belle, “We’ll get you in the tub soon,okay?  It’ll be nice and warm and you canrelax.  Let’s take off these shoes, andget out of the underwear- just lean on Rumpel, that’s fine...”

 While Snow does the necessaries, Belle’s head droops towardhis shoulder, only to bump against the bloody astronaut helmet he only just nowrealizes he’s still wearing.  “Sorry,sweetheart,” he mumbles, banishing the thing to oblivion where it belongs.  Belle presses her damp forehead into thecurve of his neck, and he smooths a hand over her hair.

 “Okay, we probably want to get that lovely dress offtoo.  Rumpel, if you could unzip theback?”

 They ease Belle out of her costume.  In a moment of whimsy, Rumpel sends it tohang over the curtain rod by the tub where she’ll be able to see the crescentmoon.  He also replaces Belle’s bra witha softer bikini top.  With one last wavehe replaces Snow’s costume with dark blue nurse’s scrubs.  She shoots him a startled look, but wiselysays nothing.  They don’t quite manage toget Belle into the tub before the next contraction hits, and she sags betweenhim and Snow with another bone-deep groan.

 “Almost there, Belle,” Snow croons, “A few more steps- canyou take a few more steps?”

 “I... okay...” she whimpers.

 “I’m here, love,” Rumpel says, “Come on, follow me.”

 They inch up a smooth ramp to the edge of the tub where itparts into a short stairwell.  Bellesighs as soon as her foot enters the water. Snow has her sit on the edge and part her legs so she can take a look atwhat’s going on.

 Holding Belle steady against his chest, Rumpel asks Snow, “Youdo have a fairly clear idea of what you’re doing, yes?”

 “Sure.  I’ve done thisbefore, albeit from Belle’s end, and anyway we’ve been sharing all ourbooks.  I knew she was leaning toward awater birth.  Really, they’re so natural,as long as there aren’t any complications my job’s basically just to standthere and catch.”

 “And if there are- complications?”  Even thinking the word sets off sirens in hishead.

 Snow looks him in the eye, “How about you go and call yourmidwife now, just in case?”

 Cursing himself for not thinking of that sooner, Rumpelgently shifts Belle into Snow’s waiting arms and steps away from the tub andout of the bathroom.  It takes a specialperson to even consider delivering the Dark One’s child, but Mistress Oggseemed downright cheerful about the idea when their paths crossed at thehospital.  She seems cheerful about mostthings, but Rumpel and Belle detected a core of iron in the old woman that wasencouraging enough to bring her on.

 Once he fumbles his way through phoning her, it takesseveral rings and a strange burst of static until a voice sings out, “Coo-eee,Rum, how are things?”  Mistress Ogg’svoice sounds a bit distant, perhaps he’s on speakerphone.  Mountain wind whistles down the line.

 “Belle’s in labor,” he replies shortly while Snow sneaks outaround him and walks down the hall.

 “Ah, a bit early but not bad.  How quick are the contractions coming then?”

 “I... I’ve no idea.” He curses himself once more for letting panic conquer him so completely.

 “To be expected,” Mistress Ogg says breezily.  “I’ll be on the road then.  Could be a little while though, I’ve a longway to go.  She’s in the water now?”

 Rumpel wonders just how far away she can be in Storybrooke,but regardless pokes his head into the bathroom to see Belle leaning back withher arms laid along the edge of the tub, eyes closed, face pale but calm.  “Yes, she is. And we’re not at home.  We’re ata... a friend’s place.”

 “Right, I see.  Bethere as quick as I can, love, not to fret.” She hangs up before Rumpel can give her Snow’s address.  He’s about to call again when a small cryfrom the bathroom has him stuffing his mobile into a pocket and rushing toBelle’s side.  She grips the edges of thetub with her face twisted into a grimace. Rumpel sits behind her and smooths his palms down her tense arms.  “Deep breaths, love,” he reminds her softly.

 Belle drags in and blows out air at a slow, even pace.  She relaxes as the contraction passes.

 “Mistress Ogg is on her way.”

 “Good.”

 “How are you?”

 “Better, now.”  She tiltsher head back and peers up at him to murmur, “Sorry about this.  I know we wanted to be at home.”

 Rumpel just smiles and cradles the back of Belle’s head inhis palm.  “This is perfectly fine, sweetheart.  We’re... we’re with family.”

 That wins him a smile. He dips a hand in the water to check its temperature, stirring in a bitmore heat.  Belle hums and takes a fewmore deep breaths.  Her gaze wanders tothe hanging dress and she inquires dreamily, “We still like the name Lucy,right?”

 They considered every option in the book, and in severalother books, and that was a particularly strong contender.  Though they opted not to learn the genderbeforehand, as her due date has neared Belle’s become thoroughly convincedshe’s having a girl.  “I like it if youdo.”

 “How about Estelle as a middle name?”

 A corner of Rumpel’s mouth curls up.  “Lucille Estelle.”

 “Our starlight.”

 He bends down to kiss the top of Belle’s head.  “Sounds perfect to me.”

 All that’s really left to do is wait.  As the contractions quicken, Snow returns tolift Belle back onto the edge of the tub and check her readiness.

 “I... I feel like I might need to push,” Belle whimpers,twisting clenched fists in Rumpel’s jumpsuit.

 “Well, I think that’s because you need to push,” Snowreplies, “I can see the head.”

 Belle lets out an anxious moan, “But Mistress Ogg isn’there- ah!  I have topush!”

 “Okay, come back in the water, here we go...”  Snow and Rumpel guide Belle into the tub andlet her position herself kneeling with her elbows braced on the edge.

 Snow crouches behind her in the tub while Rumpel comes toface Belle on the outside, letting her grab his hands in a vice grip.  “It’s too soon,” she whispers, “What ifsomething’s wrong?”

 Rumpel rests his forehead against hers.  “Then we’ll handle it.  Everything will be fine, Belle, Ipromise.”  In this moment, despite allevidence, he actually believes that.

 Belle manages a tiny smile before it contorts into a grimaceand her whole body strains.  After amoment, Snow announces, “The head is out! I don’t feel an umbilical cord. Let’s work on the shoulders now.”

 “It hurts...” Belle grits out.

 “I know, but keep going, you’ll get through it soon.”

 “You can do this, sweetheart,” Rumpel murmurs, “I’m righthere with you.  I love you.”

 Belle’s eyes lock on his and don’t break contact even as shegroans and pushes with all her strength. Somewhere far away, Snow says one shoulder is out.  Belle’s groan intensifies into a powerfulbellow.  “That’s it!” Snow cries just asthe bellow stops and Belle’s left panting and trembling, her head falling toRumpel’s shoulder.

 Rumpel looks in wonder as Snow gently lifts a tiny, wrinkly,squirming creature out of the water.  Shewipes at its nose and mouth, it wriggles a little more and releases a plaintivewail.  Belle’s whole body shudders at thesound and she lets out a sob.

 “It’s a girl, Rumpelstiltskin,” Snow says with a beam, “Aperfect little girl.”

 “She- she’s... okay?” he quavers, halfway to sobbinghimself.

 “Seems like it,” Snow replies, wincing a bit at anotherrather piercing cry from the baby, “Let’s have her meet Mom, huh?”

 Rumpel helps Belle carefully turn over.  She’s still shaking, but her arms are steadyas Snow places the baby in them.  Thewailing stops instantly as she snuggles into Belle’s chest.

 “She is perfect,” Rumpel whispers in awe, his chin onBelle’s shoulder.

 “Hello, Lucy,” Belle murmurs, “How nice to meet you.”

 “Our starlight.”

 Minutes or perhaps days later, someone bustles into thebathroom saying, “Cheer-o, ducks!  Lookslike the little mite beat me to the punch. Let’s see what’s left for me to do.” Mistress Ogg makes quick work of tying off and cutting the umbilicalcord.  “There now, how about we have thehappy da bundle up his girl while the afterbirth comes?”

 Rumpel has never wanted to do anything more, or been soafraid to do it.  Belle shifts Lucy intohis arms like she’s made of glass. Mistress Ogg pops off her boots and socks and climbs into the tub whileSnow lays out a clean, soft towel on the floor. Rumpel kneels down and lays Lucy on it, where she immediately frowns andsquirms against the cold.  “Don’t worry,dearest, I’m here,” he whispers while wrapping her up snugly, “There you are, safeand sound.”

 He picks her up and holds her to his chest before moving tosit on the closed toilet seat.  They gazeat each other with tired eyes.  When hersslip shut, he manages to tear his own away and notice Bae standing outside thebathroom, looking more like a nervous teenager than Rumpel would think possible.

 “Baelfire, would you like to meet your sister?”

 His eyebrows jump and he stuffs his hands into his pockets,but he pads into the room and hunches over to grin down at the baby.

 “This is Lucille Estelle Gold.  You can call her Lucy.”

 “Hey, Lucy.  I’m Bae.  Or Baelfire. Or Neal.  Or whatever.”  He and Rumpel chuckle quietly.  Lucy’s eyes crack open and blink a few timesbefore closing again.  “She’s beautiful,Papa.  I can’t believe I’m a bigbrother.”

 “Life is very, very funny, son.”

 Mistress Ogg has drained the tub, swathed Belle in a severaltowels, and delivered the afterbirth before she suggests Lucy try nursing.  Rumpel carries the baby to Belle, and eventhough she seemed quite deeply asleep, she latches on to her mother’s breastquickly.

 “Hungry one, isn’t she?” Mistress Ogg remarks, “That’sfine.  She doesn’t like wasting time, weknow that much.”

 After a while, Belle lets Rumpel perform some very gentlehealing magic so she can get out of the tub at last.  He transforms her bikini top into a looseblack dress that shimmers with silver and blue sparkles.  Her original dress gets bundled up and pushedinto a pocket of Rumpel’s jumpsuit.  Hekeeps one arm firmly wrapped around her waist as they leave the bathroom, Lucyheld close to Belle’s chest.  They findthe rest of the party sitting at the kitchen table, looking on curiously.

 A wide smile stretches across David’s face before he all butbounds over to them.  “What a night,huh?  Are you all okay?”

 “We’re fine,” Belle replies, “Lucy, this is Prince David,your...” Her gaze jumps to the ceiling as she puzzles out the family tree, “Nephew’sother grandfather.”  Emma and Regina havestood and come to flank David.  Belle’sgaze moves over them as she says, “And that’s Princess Emma, your nephew’smother.  And- Regina, his other mother.”

 Emma peers over David’s shoulder and smiles warmly, butdoesn’t seems too interested in getting closer. Regina gives Lucy a smile as well, this one more wistful thananything.  “What a sweet little girl,”she says, her voice softer than Rumpel’s ever heard it.

 “We’ll be going home now, I think,” Belle says, heading tothe door where Snow stands.  “Thank you,”she tells her, “I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

 “Anything you want is yours, Snow,” Rumpel says, “And I domean anything.”

 “Oh, no, please, it was the least I could do...” sheinstantly demurs, up until she bites her lip and mutters, “Can we keep thetub?”

 Rumpel snorts. “Yes.  And you can send me thewater bill.”

 “Deal.  Thanks forcoming to my little party, guys.”

 “We had a... an interesting time,” Belle saysdiplomatically.  Rumpel snickers, thenguides his wife and daughter through the door as Snow holds it open.  Mistress Ogg follows, coming along to helpthem settle in at home.  The small familyheads into the future together.