#it’s just a thorn I wanted to extricate from my chest

[onioneyez]

Thinking about the GO kiss (of course) and how that strange versatility of the pairing in general extends also to this. The fandom’s grief is so universal because each person sees in it exactly what will hurt them the most.

To this aromantic, Crowley’s desperate gesture looks like: “is this what you want? Will this make us real to you? If I show you I love you in the right way, the human way, will I finally matter enough for you to stay with me?”

[septiembrre]

22 👀

Prompt: kissing someone’s cuts/bruises/scratches

Oh my god, Alex! I had so much fun writing this! It was a wild 5k ride these past 24 hours but here it is. I had never written hurt!comfort before, so this is my take on the classic Rio comes to Beth’s room late at night, bruised and bloody. 

I’m posting it here but it’s mad long. Feel free to check it out instead on AO3. 

I’ll Treat You Better (Than I Did Before)

It’s pitch dark in her bedroom and it takes Beth a minute to realize she’s awake. There’s a foggy, semi-intelligible lecture to Kenny swirling stubbornly in her thoughts. Was it even Kenny? Or maybe it was a pre-teen Annie of years ago...  It clings, insisting she pick up and finish the end of her rant if only to give her enough peace of mind to go back to sleep.

Earlier that day -- or Beth supposes it must be after midnight by now and the overly-rambunctious evening had all officially transpired in the past of the day before -- Kenny had come leaping down off a tree branch in the backyard. It was his latest attempt to “scare the bejeezus” out of his little sisters. He must have been up there for quite some time lying in wait for them to play below him. He had rappelled down like some sort of nightmarish, gangly monkey. Emma’s shriek had carried across the backyard to Beth as she sorted laundry in the mudroom, alerting her that there was mischief afoot. She could picture it in her mind’s eye, Emma levitating a foot off the ground. 

Meanwhile, her youngest, Jane, had sprung forward in instinctive defense of her more mild-mannered older sister, and tackled her pest of an older brother. Janey must have put all of her weight into it, too (and God, she would be great at football, if only there was a team that would take her) because she launched Kenny backward through the air to plop straight into a row of her beautiful, thorn-filled bushes.  

Beth had found herself sprinting barefoot across the yard, helicoptering in to extricate her thirteen-year-old son from his painful perch. After some careful maneuvering, her attempts had ended in a sniffling Kenny with blood dripping down his right arm from dozens of long, thin scratches. Luckily for Kenny (and Beth’s sanity), his mother kept her Neosporin stocked up in spades. Beth ended up sitting with him for the better part of the evening patching him up. 

At the cusp of his teenage years, Kenny is the spitting image of Dean, but damn, if he didn’t remind her of Annie at that age. Ballsy, sharp, plotting, and with little regard for self-preservation, teenage Kenny has really started to push her buttons. The same arguments come bubbling up from the years of yore, the same old patterns. Too quickly, she felt tears bead hotly at the corner of her eyes as she scolded Kenny to be sensical, to watch out for his siblings, to be safe. 

Then, when she was done, she had rounded on Jane. 

Beth’s thoughts continue mulling the evening over as she shifts under her covers. She comes further into consciousness, summoned by the underlying anxiety about the family history she worries could repeat, is repeating, in her children's lives. Beth considers the sheltered home-life she had carefully manufactured for her kids and wonders where she went wrong. Was this uptick in reckless behavior a product of the divorce?

She considers a quick Internet search — just to peek, get some reassurance. But, it’s just as likely she’ll come across something that will stress her out. Then she’ll really wake up and what she should do is go back to sleep, and leave the family pathologizing for the morning. 

Distantly, wrapped in the dark cocoon of her bed, Beth registers a robust rumble and the sound of rain— thunder? How long has it been raining? 

A bright flash of light peels through the curtains of the French doors and the windows of her bedroom, illuminating the ceiling above her. The answering thunder cracks loudly a few seconds later, and Beth, a grown adult, startles in her bed. 

Kenny and Jane certainly had too much of their aunt’s recklessness in them, but perhaps Beth and Emma (and sometimes Danny) were also too similar -- another thing to worry about. She wonders if her eldest daughter, her mini-me, is fated to a lifetime of boredom and self-effacement for the comfort of other people? Could this be the legacy Beth is passing on to her daughter? Oh my god. 

Beth squeezes her eyes shut, trying to shut out this unhelpful, midnight whorl of thoughts, and rolls over to check her phone. Three.

It’s too late, early, obscene for this particular spiral. But these are the kind of thoughts that take root in her mind, and come out in the middle of the night to make her second guess if she’s doing anything right in her life.

Beth takes a deep breath. She lets it out. Then, she burrows deeper in the covers, tries to settle back in her skin, and listens to the rain. 

It might have worked, too, except suddenly the French doors are jostled insistently from the outside. The handles smack sharply as they snap back into place, and Beth all but jumps a foot into the air. 

She’s suddenly awake, too awake, and pissed off. 

Beth has exactly one guess of who is out there. Who else could it be? 

Adrenaline pulses through her veins, as Beth leaps up to stalk to the double doors. She pulls back the gauze curtain and glowers at the shadowy figure outside. 

Lightning flashes again illuminating Rio’s glare that meets hers from the other side. He cants his jaw, raising a hand to rap impertinently at the glass. There’s blood on his face and his knuckles leave a red smear where he knocked on the window. 

Immediately, Beth unlocks the doors and steps back to let him in. The smell of wet earth floods her room, and abruptly, she and Rio are two shadowy figures in the darkness of her room. 

“You change the locks on me, ma?” Rio asks, playing wounded -- emotionally, that is. 

What a fucking night. 

“Yes.” Beth snips. She strides ahead of him to the ensuite and flicks on the lights to the bathroom. Her eyes squint as she adjusts to the brightness. “I didn’t want any more surprises.” Beth spins to face him. 

Rio has paused behind her, leaning against the frame of the bathroom. He brings up a palm to clutch the area of his chest over his heart. His knuckles are caked in blood, some of them still actively bleeding. Beth scans his face and registers the purple bruise blooming along one of his too-sharp, too-handsome cheekbones and there’s a dab of blood at his temple. His hoodie and pants are soaked from the rain and are dripping a puddle onto the bathroom tile floor. Her eyes drop down the length of him, and she notes that it’s the first time she’s seen his sneakers muddy. He must have tracked dirt all through her carpet. 

Worry coils knots between her shoulder blades. 

He looks like shit. 

But, still -- he finds the gall to drag his eyes suggestively down her body and she wonders what on earth he’s looking at. It’s the middle of the night, she’s not wearing any makeup, and her hair probably lies straight and limp from her pillow. Quickly her eyes flick sideways to the mirror to check that she doesn’t have drool flaking on her cheek. She doesn’t, but then her eyes catch on her frayed pajamas that in sleep have been pulled in an unflattering stretch across her body. She wonders if she could tug the fabric back into place without being too obvious, and her gaze rises to look at Rio surreptitiously in the mirror. In the seconds she’s looked away, his eyes have zeroed in on her chest and Beth is suddenly very aware that she is not wearing a bra. 

Quickly, the self-righteousness flares again. Once upon a time, she had thought it sexy-- okay, maybe a kernel of hers still thinks it’s a little sexy. But, now, after what happened between them, she never wants him to shed a drop of blood again. Beth wants to smack him, shake him… and draw him in, and warm him up, and kiss at the blood on his knuckles. The impulse beats warm, warm, warm in her chest. A clap of thunder sounds again, and like a flash she pictures his fingers illuminated in the dark of her bedroom, bloody and vibrant against the paleness of her skin. 

Somewhere low, her body throbs. 

Rio licks his lips. 

Beth swears at herself and tries to shake it off. “Get in here.” 

Blessedly, Rio doesn’t make any moves to touch her. Instead, they do a graceful pivot around each other, as he moves into her bathroom. She swears the air quivers with some spell of gravity or attraction manifesting itself between their bodies. Why-- Why is it like this? 

Beth bites her lower lip, exhausted, worried, and a little nervy. Rio tracks the movement of her teeth at her lip. 

Then, he shivers. 

It nudges her back to her senses. 

Beth lofts her nose in the air, prim. “Luckily for you, the Neosporin is already out.” She sighs, rolling her shoulders back. “It’s been a day.”

Rio nods along with her, his lips pressing together with the effort of suppressing a wry grin. “You’re tellin’ me.” 

She nods back at him. “I’m going to go get it.” 

“‘Kay.” 

Rio shivers again, and he looks disdainfully down at his wet clothes. 

“Don’t move.” Beth insists, exasperation and worry setting more firmly in. She wonders if she will find more blood under his clothes, knows she’ll see his scars again tonight, and prays he hasn’t added anything more to the collection. Beth tries to mask her concern. “I don’t want blood in my bedroom.” 

She starts to turn away, when Rio intones sardonic and somehow still with a thread of sincerity, “Thank you, darlin’.”

Beth throws him a quick glare and then tip-toes out of her bedroom to the kitchen. She takes the opportunity to adjust the set of her pajamas and combs her fingers through her hair. Then, mindful of not making more noise that would wake the kids, she quietly gathers the first aid supplies she had used earlier to tend to Kenny. There’s a quick moment of consideration, then she shoves the handle of bourbon under her arm. She makes her way back through the semi-darkness of the house, periodic flashes from the storm outside illuminating her way. 

Beth returns to her bedroom, the light from the ensuite beckoning her forward. Inside, Rio has settled on the edge of the tub. He’s pulled the hoodie off and it lies discarded in a sodden pile behind him in the tub. He’s left wearing a damp black t-shirt and soaked black denim. 

Beth sets the supplies on the vanity and then snaps her fingers, gesturing at him insistently. “Take it all off.”

“‘Scuse me?” Rio’s eyebrows raise in disbelief and amusement.

“Take off your clothes.”

Rio’s hands go to grasp the edge of his t-shirt.  “So it’s that kind of healin’, huh?”

Beth makes a dismissive sound and gestures impatiently at him to take off his shirt. Rio peels it off and drops it with the hoodie. 

His tattoos and the scars dance before her in the bright bathroom light like a mirage. Then, Rio drops his big, bloody hands to unbutton his fly. His thumb pauses, fondling the button as his grin spreads Cheshire-like across his face. Quickly, Beth grabs her towel off the rack and pushes it at his chest. Then she turns around and stares through the doorway into the darkness of her bedroom, to give him privacy. 

The night thunderstorm continues on, noisy and beautiful when she really comes to focus on it. Beth wonders if her children might have woken up with the thunder, but she hasn’t heard their footsteps. They could never successfully sneak around Beth, her ears tuned to their movements. Her eyes drift to the doorway of her bedroom and she sends a brief plea that they sleep through the storm. She doesn’t want Janey or Emma coming down to creep into her bed, while her crime boss is bleeding in her bathroom.

There’s a loud thud of soppy denim landing in the tub, and it brings her back to exactly what Rio is doing behind her.

She can hear the smirk in his voice when he calls, “You gonna kiss it and make it better now, Elizabeth?”

Beth shuts her eyes in a surge of pique. Why does she like him again?

But, hadn’t those same thoughts already flashed through her head? Of kissing his pain away?

She tries to get herself under control. “Are you decent?”

“Mmhm.”

Beth turns and finds Rio with her towel slung low around his hips, seated again on the edge of the tub. He’s dry now -- or drier. There are little beads of water that he missed lined under an ear, along a bicep. His blood stands out dabbed across his hands and at his brow. It doesn’t look like there’s any other damage to him. 

The tattoos look stark against his skin in the light, the scars starker but her eyes still have to skip past those. She wants to lick at the wings of his neck, to pin him underneath her, and suck at them in her bed. And god, he doesn’t look his best tonight. He’s not the sure-fire and graceful version of him prowling from his stupid, luxury car, or sitting incorrectly in whatever chair is around, or taunting her with his one-upmanship and wide smiles. But, want blooms wild at the sight of so much of him at once and she has a brief thought that the thunderstorm could work to their advantage. 

Rio shifts and stretches his legs out long in front of him. Then he slants his jaw at her in a manner that can only be described as cocky, daring her to ignore him, and her towel, and his probable nakedness. His eyes dance with mirth.

Quickly, regroups by Beth clamping her eyes shut again to dispel the image, the reality in front of her.

Does she still have any of Dean’s clothes? Damn, she knows she meticulously packed them all away for him to head off any possible excuse--  A loose shirt maybe? Or perhaps a spare bedsheet they could drape around him? No. That’s dangerous territory—

What was he going to wear out of here?

Well… she could always go grab more towels from the linen closet in a bit. Throw his clothes in the dryer. That was a start. 

Beth opens her eyes, and extends him her hand, “Let me see.”

“I can handle it, ma,” Rio says affectionately, seemingly sparing her in a rare show of grace. “It’s my mess.”

Ah, yes. His creed. 

“Why are you here then?” 

“‘Cause it’s pouring out and I was nearby.” 

She stares at him, trying to connect the dots. 

“...And you thought you could show up like this and I would— what? Be your hot pack?”

Rio scoffs a short laugh. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You knocked on my bedroom door at three in the morning,” she hisses. 

Rio shrugs, not giving a quarter. 

“Is this supposed to be a—” Beth lowers her voice to an affronted whisper. “—booty call?”

He stares at her, his mouth falling open. Then he shakes his head in what Beth thinks is disbelief. “Pass me the kit.” 

Beth doesn’t move. Instead, she crosses her arms and stares down at him seated below her. “What happened?” 

Rio grits his jaw.

Their scowls meet in a stalemate. 

Thunder crashes again outside, loud as ever. Beth jumps at the sound, it loosens her stance as Rio gives another shiver from the residual chill on his skin. His gaze softens on her, and she relents -- for now.  

Beth grabs the kit, flips down the lid of the toilet and perches on the commode next to him. She holds out her palms again. “Let me see.” 

This time, Rio extends his hands. 

Beth can’t help a small grin at the victory. She cranes over his fingers, turning them around in her palms. Despite getting caught in the downpour, his hands are warm, strong as always and eclipsing hers. For the most part, the bleeding at his knuckles has stopped, and she feels her worry unknot itself. In reward for his rare compliance, she passes him the bottle of bourbon.

He wrinkles an eyebrow in surprise. “You okay with me taking a swig from the bottle?”

Beth considers it for a beat. Then she leans over and plucks the old sippy cup she keeps in the bathroom for brushing her teeth and offers it to him. He chuckles and opens the handle. He fills the sippy cup half way with bourbon and now it’s Beth’s turn to give Rio a look of surprise. He takes a drink. 

“For sharing.”  He grins at her over the rim of the cup, too charming for the middle of the night. 

Remotely, Beth can feel the tiredness pulling at her bones from the eventful evening caring to three of her four children and the subsequent interrupted sleep. But more pressingly -- the heat throbs low in her core again. 

She pulls the cup out Rio’s grasp, and takes a sip. The smell of the bourbon is sharp in her nose as it goes down her throat, settling warm in her belly. She hands back the cup and returns to her self-appointed task. 

She absolutely doesn’t think of the finally-healed bullet scars in her face. Or the expanse of brown skin exposed in front of her. Or his eyes resting warm on her face, occasionally drifting to follow the careful movement of her hands. 

Beth focuses on the cuts. 

First, she grabs the peroxide. For an eternity, or what really is just a few minutes, the only sound is the rain falling steadily outside and their soft breathing. The smell of the peroxide makes Beth's nose wrinkle and Rio gives a quiet laugh. His fingers twitch as she irrigates the wounds but otherwise he takes it well. 

For the millionth time, she wonders if Rio boxes. He must, right?

After she’s done with the hydrogen peroxide, they both take another swig of bourbon, polishing off the sippy cup. Then, Beth moves on to dabbing Rio’s knuckles with alcohol. 

Halfway through the first hand, there’s another loud clap of thunder. Beth’s hands tense and she presses too firmly into one of the cuts. Rio flinches and looks at her with a question on his face.

“You scared of thunder?”

“No.” 

He smiles at her, not seeming to believe her words. 

“I’m just tired.” --and overstimulated, and are you even wearing boxers underneath that towel?

Beth pivots. “So what happened?”

Rio’s smile wanes and he looks at her with that old guarded look-- that I’m a tough crime boss and I don’t talk easy look. She rolls her eyes and continues cleaning his knuckles. 

“I was out on business--” 

She looks up from his knuckles to search his face. 

“Not our business.” Rio clarifies, but Beth only has more questions as he continues, “And I got into a fight with some dumb motherfucker who didn’t do as he was told.”

“What was the problem?” Her mind spirals. She’s responsible for a sizable part of his wealth now but so much of his business is still elusive. But, the question comes out inelegant, too direct. 

Rio looks at her with reproach, pursing his lips. 

“Didn’t respect the pecking order.” 

Honestly, she doesn’t have enough context to be sure she knows what that means. But, she’s certainly had enough of those kinds of disputes with Rio herself. She knows it’s serious -- hence the blood -- and she decides not to press. It’s three, now three-thirty, in the morning and Beth doesn’t have the energy to work on their communication at this hour. 

She returns her focus to his hands, but the rest of him, the exposed length of him catches her eye from the periphery of her vision.

She recognizes that particular musky smell of him, of his skin, as their bodies lean close together.

She tries her previous question again. “And how did you end up here?”

Her gaze darts up to look at him through her lashes. She finds him staring solemnly back at her. 

Then, he shrugs.

“You were closer”

Beth bites her lip.

It was just two months ago that they had slept with each other at Paper Porcupine. It had been the first time since before and it just happened, late one night at a private drop between them. It had been electric, furious, and everything she had fantasized about alone in her bed. They had gone a few rounds despite the lack of comfortable surfaces. 

She tries never to think about it. But, it ends up filling all of her day-dreams. 

He had gotten on the table next to the printing press, and he had dropped to his knees and eaten her out. The look in his eyes while he had-- Afterwards, he pulled out a stack from the drop money and seemed to pretend-swat her ass with it. They had ended up spilling the bag out and they fucked on fresh stacks of cash. 

Then there was kissing, a literal bathroom break. Then, Rio, bossy, ridiculous, had led her over to a work table. He had pulled up her blouse, pulled down her bra, and bent her over the edge. His hand firm at her back, he had pushed her chest into a tin of setting pulp. God.  She had moaned around the thick fingers that he had curled into her mouth, impossibly turned on and feeling the… sluttiest she had ever felt. Rio had murmured dirty encouragement in her ear, egging her over to the edge again and again.

Not one to let him get the last word, Beth had insistently pushed off the table just before he came and pulled him out. Rio had watched in a fevered daze, groaning as she had sunk to her knees, sucking him off, tasting herself with a triumphant glint in her eye. Beth had let his come spill, joining the mess smeared across her throat and breasts.

Afterward, they laid together, sticky, sprawled out on the floor, and came back to earth. Eventually, she had tugged open the buttons of his shirt. He had let her. And Beth had cried — quietly, restrained — as she kissed the scars she had given him. Rio had eyed her steadily, carefully as Beth’s world tilted completely off its axis. 

They fucked again a week later at the hot tub store, in the water with strategic use of one of the jets. And a few days after that in his car, and then in the back of hers. Then, Paper Porcupine again and that was the last time. Beth had just managed to get him dressed and out the front door as Annie and Ruby had come through the back rallying for printing night. Beth had feigned ignorance as they had asked increasingly pointed questions about the eye-sore of a Mercedes that had just been parked outside of the store and reality came crashing down.

After that, Beth had kept her distance. And Rio… was never one to meet her more than halfway.

But, he continued to drop in on her -- more than ever. She is clearly on his schedule, penciled into the spare hours of the day. 

And still, she continues to resist it — the pull. 

She could admit they had their fun. Is that what people call the best sex they’ve ever had in their life?

But, she doesn’t know if she’s ready for something so unsteady, something that makes her feel so messy -- too alive. If she ever will be ready. But, she thinks of Rio bleeding somewhere out there and other nights where he won’t come to her, thinks of the night where she left him bleeding out, and her mouth twists in a grimace. 

Rio brings the hand she isn’t working on to squeeze reassuringly at her thigh. 

It feels really nice. 

Beth has to clear her throat and blink away a few tears. 

After she’s done with the alcohol swabs, she motions for Rio to follow her to the sink.  

As they both crowd around her vanity, Beth realizes she didn’t quite need to follow him as he rinses his knuckles out with water. But, she reminds herself, it’s the middle of the night and she’s tired. The cuts and scrapes haven’t been serious — but there’s been too much blood in the past few hours. 

She uncaps the Neosporin. It’s something for her to do with her empty, searching hands.

“Nah.” Rio shakes his head and turns off the water. “I don’t need that.”

Beth levels him with the look she gave Kenny earlier, brokering no arguments. 

“You want me to get it all over your bed?”

“Excuse me?” 

He blinks back at her. Then in affected shock, he continues, “You take my clothes, you ply me with booze and now you want me to drive across Detroit while it’s still pourin’ rain?” He tsks. “Damn, mama. That’s cold.”

Beth rolls her eyes — and she’s tired, and if he keeps his hands to himself and she keeps her hands to herself… what’s a couple of hours of shut-eye next to the lean, naked length of him? He would have to be naked. She wasn’t going to let him get into her sheets with wet boxers, even if he surprised her and they were somehow on underneath that towel.

Well, she’ll tackle it when they get there. For now, she abandons the Neosporin on the counter, passes over the bandaids and bandages she knows he won’t take, and grabs the hand towel to raise to his temple. He dodges away, playful but somewhat serious.

“I’m good. I promise.”

That’s not enough to stop Beth from zeroing in on the bruise at his cheek. She brings her fingertips up to prod at it gingerly. It’s swollen and hot. Rio winces beneath her touch, bringing his hands up to snatch hers. He lowers her hands to his lips instead, and he presses his mouth to her fingertips. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs hotly against her hand, effectively distracting her from doing anything else.

Beth gulps, as a spark kindles. Her skin burns where Rio’s mouth presses warm on her skin and shoots down her core. It coils in her belly and has her shifting in her stance. She’s still aware of where he touched her thigh just now and she craves more of his touch, the pleasure of his undivided attention.

Beth is flooded by thoughts of him, back in her bed. She thinks of him wrapped up in her sheets. She thinks of it now in the safety of darkness, with the rain still pattering down on the house. And she yearns.

She’s never felt like this before — not even when she was a teenager, young and hormonal. She had been too laden with responsibilities and a fumbling boyfriend who would become a boorish husband. Before crime, she had always accepted what had been handed to her without a complaint. But now... 

When she’s with Rio, Beth feels fire in her and it’s impossible to back away, to back down. 

She wants to chase him, be desired by him, bring him to her bed and into her life and never let him go. 

She blinks up from his mouth to look him in the eye. That look suspends between them heady, rife— 

It’s three-thirty in the morning and so what?

She licks her lips and lets herself loose. 

Beth pulls her hands away from his mouth and wraps them around his palms pulling them to her body instead. Goosebumps rise up along Rio’s arms.

She thinks, What’s one more time?

She thinks, I want to be the one who warms him up. 

She thinks, I want this. 

Beth brings his knuckles to her mouth, Rio’s hands weighty in hers. The musk of him fills her nose and it makes her light-headed, wet. She kisses them tenderly, her lips dragging against where his skin is unbroken. Her attention is trained on his hands, but she registers the wings fluttering again at his throat, as he swallows hard.

When Beth is done kissing each cut, she brings one hand to rest on her hip and the other’s fingertips to her mouth instead. She takes the tip of an index finger in her mouth and she bites firm at the pad.

When he groans, she feels deep in her cunt. 

She’s achingly empty, burning and she wants him. She can’t think of anything else.

But, Rio hovers a breath away. He’s never needed much convincing before.

And she thinks, Right. We’re here again.

Her bed.

So, she rises up onto her toes, her lips landing softly on his bruised cheek. As she lingers in what increasingly feels like their natural orbit — kissing distance — she brings Rio's hand under her shirt to squeeze at the warm, rounded weight of her breast. It’s her turn to moan as he cups her, his hand reaching up to roll her nipple between his fingers.

Rio presses his forehead to hers, panting open-mouthed against her lips. The tips of their noses brush. She feels his cock hard against her stomach, through the stupid towel.

She wants to devour him.

Beth pulls at the drawstring of her pants and pushes them down. She brings Rio’s hand that has moved to clutch her ass, to perch between her legs instead so he can feel how wet she is.

Rio groans and murmurs, “This for me, Elizabeth?”

His fingers give a perfect, exploratory swirl around her clit. Beth rocks back, scooting her butt to rest on the vanity. She spreads her legs so Rio can dip his fingertips to tease her cunt with a hint of what it’ll be like to be full.

“Always for you.”

It’s unclear who initiates the kiss. It doesn’t matter. It all devolves quickly after that.

[quinnswritings]

There‘s no one else you can rely on but yourself.

(𝐭𝐰: assault, harassment, violence) ⠀ 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆‘𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 ⠀ 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏 ⠀ 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 When loneliness hit, she liked to turn to liquor. It had been a stressful week. She had a lot on her plate with her masteral, and then there had been a family drama. On her father’s side, he finally decided to join politics and run for senator. Being part of that world, their family was under the public’s scrutiny. Things were heated. It destroyed the peace she had in her life. Her existence as a bastard child came to light, and certain people were harassing her. Some journalists wanted a ‘scoop’ and tried to dig some dirt about her family through her. But of course, she didn’t want anything to do with it. She knew better than to get entangled with them. She never felt affinity towards her father, and she wasn’t a fan of her family; however, she’d never get to the point where she’d sell them out. As strained as things were, they were still her kin. Whatever would happen on her mother or her father’s side, it would ricochet to her. And whatever would happen to her, it would affect her daughter. She didn’t want her child to have a messy upbringing. “What’s up, girlie?” She snapped out of her reverie when she heard someone speak in her ear. She was too immersed in her thoughts to even notice anyone coming and sitting beside her. The distance between them was too close to her liking. She found it uncomfortable. “Kindly keep a considerable distance,” she retorted, downing her drink in one gulp. Ignoring the guy beside her, she asked for a refill. She didn’t even bother looking at his face. “Playing hard to get now, I see,” he said, whistling tauntingly. “No, I’m playing ‘I don’t want you.’”. She felt his hand on her thigh, and it caused her to bristle. “Now, I’m really getting uncomfortable.” She turned to glare at him. “No means no. If I wanted you, I would’ve flirted back. But no, I didn’t.” She had her frisky moods, but tonight wasn’t one of them. “Do you know who I am? Anyone would kill to be in your position. I’m giving you the attention, and yet you’re playing hard to get.” There was a thorn and arrogance in his voice. She reckoned that this man came from money. Probably from power, too. The sense of entitlement and ego said a lot. “So? I don’t care.” He moved to press his body to hers, and her temper flared. Smiling at him sweetly but sarcastically, she rested her hand on his chest, and with all the force she could muster, pushed him away, causing him to fall off the stool. “Oops, my hand slipped.” A look of anger crossed his face. He stood up, and four men, all in a black suit, rushed his side. His bodyguards, she assumed. She arched her brow, and crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t scared if he came from power. Damn, men like that needed to be put in their place. “Now you’re really asking for it.” He lunged at her, and slapped her cheek. She scoffed in annoyance. She should’ve been scared with the situation, but she wasn’t. There was five of them, and one of her. It was daunting, but she wasn’t going to back down. “Anything that I’ll do now is considered self-defense,” she said, rubbing her face. Tempest knew that much. There was the CCTV to prove that he hit first, and then there was the bartender as a witness, too. She’d just have to secure the evidence, and make sure that the bartender would be on her side later. “I’m wearing a really nice dress, and a Louboutin, but now it’s going to get ruined.” Two men came to her side, and held either of her arms, depriving her movements. She would’ve been at a disadvantage, but she knew what to do. She bent her legs, and kneed one of the the bodyguard’s crotch, prompting him to loosen his grip. She took the opportunity to move away, and elbowed the other one on the face. “You bitch!” the entitled asshole screamed, and then he pointed at her accusingly. “You’re really getting on my nerves. You’ll pay for this.” “No, you’ll pay for this,” she mocked, and then she readied her body in a fighting stance. She was outnumbered, and it was going to be quite the fight. Someone pulled at her hair, and she winced. In retaliation, she extended her arms, and clawed at their face. Freed from their grasp, she threw herself forward, and punched a goon in the face. As hard as she could, and most likely enough for them to pass out. Another one came at her, and wrapped an arm around her neck. She almost lost her breath, but she was quick to think on her feet. She pushed herself backward, putting all her body weight, and the two of them fall on the floor. Extricating herself from him, she stood up quickly, and pressed her heels on his stomach, eliciting a groan from him. Four down, one to go. “Go easy on this bitch,” she screamed, lunged herself at the last one, and kicked his face. And then she turned her attention back to the creep, who was cowering in fear, and was about to fight him. But then, there was a commotion, and men in uniform, the cops, arrived. “The help came late,” she said satirically. “As if there’s a need for help,” she heard one of them say. There was the declaration of her being under arrest, and an officer cuffed her hands. Ah, so much for peace.

[shardweavers]

Chapter 11 - Tense Negotiations

Emet-Selch awoke with a start, sweat on his brow, his golden eyes flashing open--and quickly recognized the room in the Pendants, felt the cooling pulse of his blood.

'Just a dream, then,' he thought to himself...perhaps it was silly to be relieved, but he felt so nonetheless. A quick glance downward confirmed for the Paragon that Shoto was still asleep in his arms...he let himself breathe out a soft sigh, his formerly racing heart returning to a normal and steady rhythm. He was glad, too, that his nightmare hadn't woken her, he found.

'...For convenience's sake, of course. She'd fuss if I woke her with a nightmare, and I'd grumble, and I'd be right to. Such things are beneath me.'

...The moment he thought it, he recognized that line of thought as complete rationalization. Convenience's sake, his foot. If anyone else had said something like that to him, he'd have laughed in their face, told them straightforwardly that they were deep in denial. The only grain of truth there was that he did resent the nightmare, because it was beneath him.

But he was glad he hadn't woken her because of the peaceful smile on her face, and the soft warmth of her body against his (her temperature had leveled out! It was nearly back to normal), and the desire to protect those things, to protect her , which was worming its way into his long-empty heart like a particularly pernicious flowering vine.

...He wanted to ask why. Shoto wasn't...

Hythlodaeus saw the color. So do you, his traitor mind whispered to him.

That didn't mean anything! Colors could be very similar, especially when one dealt with souls!

You started talking to her about the Bond of Eternity what, five minutes after your reunion?

It had been closer to three bells! And she'd asked! What was the harm in answering mortal questions?

You tell me, brilliant Angel of Truth.

Hades closed his eyes and growled wordlessly at himself to be silent--

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!!

The Ascian blinked in surprise.

'I didn't say anything! Or--'

The door made another helpful repetition of the sound of impact, accentuated by the sound of splintering and the glint of a blade piercing through the door. Ah. So this wasn't an errant accident of sorcery, or some problem presented by his newly sundered, newly limited form. No, this was because the door was under attack.

Now Shoto was stirring, although this was fairly natural given the circumstances. He gave the door a positively venomous glare as he began to extricate himself from the sleeping embrace he'd ended up in with her...

'Very well then, my old friend. You promised I could still make nations tremble,' he thought in Elidibus' general direction, a cruel smirk creasing his lips. 'Let's see how true that is.'

* * * Ice had tried the doorknob exactly once. It was locked and not willing to budge, which only contributed to his state of fury. After that, he decided not to bother with the door. He'd apologize to Shoto later. He'd even craft her a new door, a better door. This one had to go.

He slammed his axe into the door's latch mechanism, bringing it down like the knob and the lock were a gremlin in desperate need of smiting. The lock shuddered at the first several strikes, and then gave way completely--but the latch was still stuck. Snarling, Ice grit his teeth and violently slammed his foot into the door; the door creaked in protest, and he heard wood snapping.

With one more mighty blow of his axe, the door was shattered in two pieces, and Ice leapt into the room, his voice a roar. "EMET-SELCH!!! FACE ME, YOU COWARD!!!"

The object of his challenge... looked up from the bed, where he was bent like a vampire over Shoto's slowly stirring form. Like he'd...!!

Ice's anger hit a new fever pitch, one he hadn't known existed. Nothing could hold him back now. "Holmgang! " he invoked, the command word seething with magical power--golden chains, lined with an aura of fire, wrapped around Emet-Selch's arms, binding the Ascian in place, keeping him away from Ice's friend, though he was still far too close...

Ice could split the difference. He invoked the rite of Nascent Flash, his aether surging through the earth to flash a bright green, vaguely dome-like envelope of energy over Shoto's form momentarily. That'd protect her; now he could focus on Emet-Selch...!! His axe sparking along the floor, he charged.

Hades' eyes narrowed and flared with energy as his own aether surged with power; his dark lips moved, impossible words spilling from his lips, the ancient incantation finding form as tendrils of shadow that blasted outwards in a cone, slamming into the axe and stopping its mighty swing cold, several fulms from the Ascian's body. He cracked his neck and the golden chains snapped.

"I might've known it'd be you, little Warrior," the Paragon drawled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Careless, hotheaded, eager to please your accursed Mother. Tch. Perhaps you might try cooling your heels? Using your words?"

"SHUT UP!" Ice snarled. "I'll kill you all over again for what you've done to her...for how you used him...!!" He brought back the axe and an aura of aetheric power flared around his blade as he struck from another angle; the Ascian snapped his fingers, and sparks flew from the impact point as it met a barrier of violet shadows.

"Or, I suppose, you could spout nonsense at me, and we could be reduced to barbarism," Emet-Selch sighed, rolling his eyes. "I've done nothing to anyone, fool."

"LIAR!!!"

The aether around the axe-blade flared to a brilliant blue zenith, seared like a white-hot flame as it released in a single, violent cleaving motion that tore through the barrier of shadow; the swing had lost its momentum, though, and only nicked Emet-Selch's cheek, bringing a bright red line of blood from the Ascian's skin, dripping down his face.

The teeth of the Paragon ground together.

"...But if you are going to insist on being a violent cur," he hissed, "I'll gladly discipline you."

Shadows swam around the Ascian, and for a moment his form seemed massive, inhuman, horrifying--then they solidified around his right arm, burning black and red, forming the mighty claw of his Elder Form. With an effortless swipe, he slashed across Ice's chest, shearing through the thick leather, and sending the Warrior flying into the wall with an enormous crash. Bowls and plates left on a nearby table tumbled to the ground.

Ice's vision swam, and he coughed. His ears were ringing--he heard someone calling his name. Had to get up.

Shoto's awakening, if it could be called that, was both rude and violent, but it was also slow. She recognized the sounds of a fight before she was fully awake--it made her ears back and her hair stand on end. As her eyes opened, blinked through the cobwebs of sleep, she was already trying to scramble out of bed, fighting the covers...her mind spun as she tried to orient herself, figure out where she was and what was happening more fully.

It was the exchange of words between Emet-Selch and Ice that jogged her groggy memory--she'd overdone it, collapsed, fallen asleep against the Ascian; her face flushed at the realization, but adrenaline overpowered embarrassment or her emotional turmoil. She had no idea how Ice had gotten in here, but that wasn't important right now; scrambling to leave the bed, she made it instead to the floor, on one knee; raising her hands, she looked between Ice and the Ascian to try and calm the situation down.

"H-Hold! Both of you--Ice! Please, just listen--"

"Run, Shoto. Get away from this monster... I'll keep him occupied!"

The Warrior was too dazed and far too angry to turn his attention away from Emet-Selch; being thrown into the wall and the table had only solidified and redoubled his fury. He shook his head to clear it, then used his axe to stand up once more; his expression hardened with resolve. Emet-Selch had proven himself just as dangerous as he ever was, and Ice meant to answer him in kind.

"That's not..." Shoto began, but Ice charged forwards once again; a red, aetheric aura swirling around him as his eyes flickered red; he brought down his greataxe in a wide curve, merciless, towards Hades.

The Ascian sneered and snapped his fingers. A shield of dark violet energies, seething and hissing, met the greataxe's blade like a wall. Emet-Selch wasn't done; whipping up his other hand, he gestured sharply with two fingers, his dark-tinted aether surging around him as ornate circles of Amaurotine glyphs formed in mid-air...

Bolts of dark violet, almost crystallized energy were loosed from each circle like missiles, flying at Ice; they struck with explosive force when they hit, driving the Warrior back once more and turning the already damaged table and chairs into confetti. Shoto's ears were ringing, and her vision swam.

It was into this melee that Angel was thrust when he arrived, breathless and shaking; his husband's charge and the destruction of Shoto's door had drawn the attention of half the Pendants, and Angel had been forced to push past several valid, groggy inquiries from their neighbors. But like Ice, Angel's focus was razor-sharp; the White Mage had broken into a sprint when he saw the destroyed door, and he nearly tumbled over the threshold...his eyes snapped to his husband before he even registered Shoto or spoke a word. Before he could, however, Emet-Selch snapped his hand across in a savage chop, and a wall of shadowy projectiles seemed to form, thrumming in mid-air.

"Angel...No! GET DOWN!!" Ice shouted; leaping between Angel and the incoming bolts, he concentrated his aether into a sphere of crimson energy, golden thorns seeming to encircle him and crackle off his form as Hades' shadowy energy blasts slammed home. They hurt, especially now that he was taking the full force of the assault, but far less than they might have; he could simply shake this damage off. 

"Ice...! I-I've, I've got you!" Angel managed; with a gesture, his cane was in his hand, and magical words of healing left his lips, the soft blue light of his White Magic seeming to gently wash away Ice's wounds. The Warrior cracked his neck and gave a confident smirk to their opponent, whose eyes only narrowed in scorn.

Shoto coughed from the floor and struggled her way to a standing position, trying to wave away dust. She opened her mouth to demand they lis--

The glowing form of an Emerald Carbuncle soared through the room towards the Ascian's face, its tiny claws swiping across his cheek before the Paragon could counter, leaving him to stumble back and send a blind lash of shadowy power in its general direction. The nimble familiar dodged, weaved, and leapt back to the side of Yuki, the Summoner already unfurling her grimoire as she stepped through the ruined doorway; her violet-haired Dragoon compatriot rushed in after her, calling his spear out of the aether as his armor clicked into proper place.

"Not every day a nemesis comes back from the dead," the Viera quipped under her breath to Sumire, before her attentions were consumed with calling ruinous energies into her fingertips, her hand weaving arcanima patterns; a massive burst of the energies screamed towards Emet-Selch, who barely managed to stop it with a swipe of his left hand. His glare had shifted from scornful to murderous....

And as they watched, his lips curled into a cruel grin.

"Fine. All of you, then," the Ascian purred. 

He raised his right hand and languidly circled his wrist three times, cracking his neck. And then he snapped his fingers, sharply.

Panels of dark crystal, perfectly cut into squares, formed at his command, like doors in reality. A moonlight glow built in them all as they arranged themselves into a lethal array. Shoto's eyes went wide and she built her voice to scream, this was too much, they had to stop, everyone had to--

The array fired, beams of shadow screaming towards the assembled Warriors of Light and Darkness, save Shoto, and would've torn through armor and flesh had it not been for a brilliant sky-blue barrier of burning energy, a sanctuary amidst the storm, emanating from Angel's aether and the shining, beacon-like zenith of his cane, his White Magic redoubling to keep his companions safe from harm, though it only kept safe about a fulm's length all around them.

The bench to Angel's left hadn't been so lucky, the beams having carved it neatly into two pieces. Nor had Shoto's armoire--the same dresser that Shoto had fetched her sheets from and Emet-Selch's current attire was now full of smoldering holes. Nothing in the entryway was in decent shape by any stretch of the imagination, and the fight didn't seem to show many signs of letting up; indeed, Hades, his amber eyes glowing and a soft, almost soundless chuckle coming from his lips, had raised his fingers and snapped again.

Another array of arcane projectiles, forged from those same ornate gates of shadow in the air, beckoned to his call. Despite the sounds of armored boots in the hallway, and shouts of "Wicked White!" and "in the name of the Exarch!", Hades didn't stop--even as Crystarium guards piled into the room, he let the arcane arrows fly, leaving terrible wakes of violet destruction as they screamed down.

Angel squeaked and winced visibly in terror, but though his fear was evident, his willingness to stand fast and the magical asylum he was providing with his shield of light only redoubled, the field widening; he knew the only real course of action was to make sure the shield encompassed everyone and stayed solid, and though it meant he couldn't move, though he was staring death in the face, he didn't falter. Ice swung his axe to deflect an incoming bolt, and Sumire leapt into action, three of the projectiles ricocheting off his spinning spear as he moved acrobatically. Even the little carbuncle contributed, leaping up to deflect one of the arcane projectiles with a shield of its own, so that once more the primary casualty was Shoto's apartment, as the damaged armoire was now turned into a mess of wood splinters and cloth, and a ricochet nearly took off the headboard of the bed.

But what triumph they had was short-lived. Hades' fingers snapped again, and another volley cracked Angel's shield; the energies wavered. The White Mage's concentration held it in place, but he was clearly struggling; there was no way the barrier would survive another round of attacks. Ice bit his lip as he looked over his shoulder at his husband, then his gaze flicked back to Emet-Selch--there was no opening to attack the Ascian just yet, a fact he could tell Sumire was grimly aware of too. Yuki was tracing arcanima patterns to call a large burst of ruinous power from her hands, but the Ascian had noticed this well enough, and looked to be calling his shadowy aetheric shield back into form...

Shoto's voice, after the cavalcade of interruptions, finally rang out through the conflict. "STOP THIS!" she cried out, standing up shakily and on unsteady legs, her eyes pleading with Emet-Selch, begging him to listen. Surprisingly, the Paragon's attention turned to her, wavered--

In a misjudgment worthy of the Azure Dragoon himself, Sumire took the brief opening, leaping and diving for the Ascian's position; indeed, he'd been so quick to leap, that the Scholar hadn't had time to register that he'd even moved. 

But his weapon didn't strike true. Hades swung up his hand and focused the shield of darkness around the driving lance-point, his eyes filled with cold aggravation as they locked with Sumire; the hapless Dragoon tried to drive his weapon through the Ascian's dark shield, to no avail. The Paragon's other arm shot up as he directed dark tendrils from the ground, and the Dragoon tried to propel himself back, but only ended up taking the shadow-tendril square to the chest. Yuki growled loudly at the sight, then quickly fired her gathered blast of energy as her carbuncle jumped forwards and spun to slash the Ascian. The blast was swatted aside by the tendrils, into the privacy screen by the door, which was now more a series of privacy splinters, while the carbuncle herself was knocked into Angel's barrier with a surprised squeak.

Angel's barrier shattered on impact, and the carbuncle hit him in the chest. He fell back onto the broken bench, which couldn't catch him properly. The White Mage landed on his knees with the carbuncle in front of him.

"Angel!?" Ice turned, forgetting the Ascian for a moment, to check on his husband. Angel was out of breath as he knelt on the ground. Ice lowered his axe, put a hand on the White Mage's shoulder, and felt him shaking a bit from having maintained that barrier longer than he should have. "Are you alright...?!"

Angel's ears pinned back against his head with his eyes shut. He shook his head in response, "No... No more... stop." His voice was barely a whisper. 

The guards were trying not to panic; one of them fired a crossbow bolt at Emet-Selch, which was cast aside by another tendril of shadow as the Angel of Truth closed his eyes in grim concentration, calling his dark arrows to him again. Sumire was standing up, painfully, Yuki's carbuncle covering him as the Summoner ran forwards and tugged Shoto back, trying to get her away from the zone of destruction that was rapidly enveloping the entire room.

Anubis growled in Angel's head, begging the White Mage to let him try and settle this.

《 Angel! Please! I know I might not win... but you know I can give enough time to turn the tide in our favor! 》

"S-Stop... please," Angel begged quietly, as he clenched his eyes tighter. 

At the same time, Shoto spoke the same words; desperate and loud. Ice stood and turned towards the Ascian, snarling; and once more, the Ascian snapped his fingers, volleys of destruction shearing down. The Warrior deflected a few more arrows that had been aimed towards the guards beside him; which completely disintegrated the bench nearby them and the couch behind them. 

The White Mage's ears flicked at a soft ringing within them; a sound he'd long-since associated with Anubis... along with the itchy feeling around his neck. He didn't want to set the room ablaze, nor try to freeze someone into a block of ice. Those desires and impulses weren't his, they couldn't be...

Anubis growled louder in frustration, then snapped sharply and loudly in Angel's head. 

《 Let me fight this battle for you! 》

Angel took a sharp breath in at those words, and it caught in his throat; his eyes suddenly flew open. Another arcane spear clipped his cheek as it suddenly flew past him; he should have dodged in fear, but he knelt there frozen and wide-eyed.

Words instantly came to mind, the name 'Asopus' was whispered into his ears. Another word bubbled up... A name he felt he hadn't said in a long time, yet did not recall naming any of his strays such...

《 Angel! Answer me!! 》

"A..."

The White Mage hesitated, but his husband flew past him once more, back towards the wall, slapped by one of the shadowy tendrils Emet-Selch was wielding, as the Paragon simply focused his shield of darkness against the full-strength cleave that Ice had brought down. The Warrior angrily got right back up, but he paused as he looked over to Angel. 

One word was cried out, echoing over the fighting in a scared and desperate voice. 

"Ambrosia!!"

In the midst of calling his mirrors forth again, Emet-Selch paused, blinking, distracted for the second time this fight. His thoughts of vengeance, the high of reveling in his own power, were cut off...that name. He knew that name. How...?

A quick, chimed bell echoed; it was similar in sound to a carbuncle or a faerie when they were summoned, but... the tone was more unique. In front of Angel landed the glowing, orange cat that Ice had recognized last night as Tora. Sumire and Yuki had stopped short as well, since it looked like the phantom cat that had led them to Angel last night. Shoto's own voice was stopped as she noticed the glowing, orange cat in front of Angel... who had confessed to strange creatures appearing around him.

Sharp bells followed the creature's swift leaps; the first was from in front of the visibly stunned Angel, directly at Ice.

The Warrior had every intention to return to the fight, but the ghost cat tackled him in the chest and knocked him back onto his ass; he landed on the remnants of the couch. He reached up to rub at his chest; that had felt pretty solid to be a "ghost"...

The creature's next two leaps were from Ice to the floor, then tackled the Ascian right in the upper chest. It had tried to hit his throat, judging by its angle. Emet-Selch had been distracted enough to take the full, rolling tackle, and bounced onto the damaged bed; which broke it completely. Between Ice and Emet-Selch, the cat seemed to gain two new tails. Its final leap was to keep one of the younger guards from taking advantage of the Ascian's stun and attacking him with a sword strike; and it seemed to gain some fluff upon impact.

The creature then landed between the others and a silent, stunned Angel; a lean, fluffy, orange creature with three tails and tiny paws. On its head was a golden triangle that faded into the orange by the time it hit the back. The creature's eyes were glowing a bright gold. It twitched rhythmically, echoing a carbuncle... but it was not one itself. Soft, soothing bells rang gently as it looked to Angel and moved its mouth, who seemed to hear something.

Tears fell, unbidden, from the Miqo'te's emerald eyes; he still knelt there stunned, and wide-eyed. After a moment's pause, Angel nodded once; the creature bounded over to him, then leapt as if to tackle again.

"Ang--" Ice started, but his husband held out his arms to catch it. It moved swiftly, but Angel somehow did just that. The mage felt the creature happily nuzzle under his chin before it disappeared into a burst of soft bells. His breath hitched as he forced himself not to burst into tears. He didn't understand why he felt this way, nor what exactly had just happened. Ice hurried back to his side, and put an arm over his back.

Emet-Selch stood up and recovered from the tackle. He moved to seize the moment, but immediately felt Shoto's arms wrap around his waist from beside him. When had she moved over to him? He was unsure... but there were tears on her face, and her voice threatened to break as she looked up to him. 

...He was suddenly aware that, now that he wasn't indulging in the power of his arcana...he felt...very tired. That had been...That had been all he could do, right now, like this.

"Stop it..." She couldn't watch him harm her friends; this was entirely her fault. She dropped her forehead against his chest as she held on. She tried to hide her tears, her voice quieted to a whisper " ...please. "

Sumire looked to Yuki, who was focused on the Ascian, and growling; neither of them knew what to do. Angel was still trying to deal with the sudden, strange, new feelings and emotions he couldn't place, with Ice's support. The guards, of course, were terrified, confused, and understandably on the defensive.

There was a moment of silence and stillness after Shoto's plea... then the tendrils and aura of darkness died down and faded away, the shadows around him melting like they'd never been there. His touch was gentle and unexpected; fingers moved under her chin to get her to look up at him. His thumb then moved across her cheek to wipe away some of her tears; his voice quiet, and barely audible, even a little brittle. "There's no need to cry, hero."

Immediately after his defenses were gone, another word was sharply called from behind the Crystarium guards.

"Break!"

Emet-Selch hitched as his body's movement was severely slowed. Violet and black swirls of energy clung to his legs. Immediately after, a sharp clang of metal against tile bound the Ascian's wrists together with blue crystal. Shoto stumbled back away from the Paragon. Angel jumped at the sudden spell. The guards turned, then stepped aside for the Crystal Exarch.

His guard captain, Lyna, followed him, the Viis blinking at the devastation that had been wrought on Shoto's corner of the Pendants. She whispered a quiet, surprised "Wicked White" to the scene.

The Crystal Exarch focused solely on Emet-Selch despite the work to keep him controlled. His face was quite cold; his ruby eyes glared piercingly through the Ascian as he stood powerfully before him. He stood between this threat and his friends as well as the people of the Crystarium. Everything in his stance showed this without a word spoken.

Angel looked up, focused on G'raha. Ice gently hugged him, and he leaned into his husband's protective hold, but felt like he needed to watch his friend standing before them.

"Is all of this really necessary, dearest Exarch?" Hades tried for bravado, but found his own voice felt surprisingly...petulant, given the situation.

"Pray forgive the abundance of caution," the Exarch's face was still stern, but a slight growl underlaid the rest of his sentence. "But you shot me in the back once before, and I thought it best to make sure history did not repeat itself."

Ice felt his husband jerk against him with a hitched breath and a squeak at the mention. Angel clearly recalled seeing G'raha drop in front of him, and he remembered feeling suddenly very cold... and he knew he'd called out his name, but... he remembered nothing else. Ice; and the others; however would remember the momentary image of a Sin Eater that flickered over the White Mage's features. It hadn't been brought up again since it happened... The Warrior hugged the mage against him protectively, and whispered that it was okay. They weren't all on the edge of bursting with Primordial Light anymore, but Angel had just summoned a strange creature and could probably summon something else. Anubis would likely be very willing to set fire to the room; neither outcome was desirable at the moment. Ice tried to help calm him down while the Exarch dealt with the Ascian.

"...... Fair point," Emet-Selch replied flatly, after a moment's thought. He shrugged in an attempt to play it off a bit. He felt the exhaustion from pushing a bit too far with his powers at the moment--yet, he dare not show them any weakness in this moment.

Shoto spoke next, "This is my fault, Exarch," she turned to face him, "I never meant for things to spiral out of control like this." The female Miqo'te took a step forward, but faltered, and began to fall as she was still quite drained. 

Emet-Selch fought against his bindings in an attempt to catch her, but to no avail. Instead, the violet-haired Miqo'te, the Dragoon, managed to swiftly catch her before she could hit the ground.

"Careful, Shoto," Sumire said, his tone worried.

"Perhaps you should...erm...Yes, you should definitely sit down, Shoto," Yuki closed her grimoire, as her carbuncle moved to stand beside her. "You don't seem to be in any condition to argue," the Viera added sternly. 

Shoto frowned, but let Sumire help her stand for now. She stubbornly refused to sit on the only piece of furniture that seemed untouched; the desk chair.

"I would really, truly like to understand what in the actual Hells happened this morning," the Exarch looked over his friends as he sighed, bringing his crystalline arm up to rub his temples, and ignored the fact that his frustration had slipped through. He also forced himself to ignore that the door, and large portions of the room, were so completely destroyed they'd need to commission every Facet in the Crystalline Mean to repair the place.

It was enough that those he treasured were...alright. For a given value of alright.

Yuki and Sumire seemed okay, just a bit worn out from fighting. Ice looked injured, but no more so than from a normal battle. Shoto looked like she'd completely exhausted herself, but he had no idea why. The Exarch paused as he looked to Angel, who seemed almost completely frazzled just since yesterday.

"My lord," Lyna paused as she leaned a little towards the Exarch. Her voice was concerned, "I do believe we should continue this conversation elsewhere."

"I agree." He looked to Emet-Selch. "Lyna," she saluted at her name, "Take the prisoner into custody."

"Right away." The Viis gestured to two guards. Each guard moved to take hold of the bound Ascian's arms; she followed closely behind. Emet-Selch once more glanced over to Shoto in an attempt to observe the state of her condition. Their eyes met for but a moment; there was untold sorrow when she looked at him. Clearly, the Scholar truly blamed herself for this. He shook his head and simply smirked; for now, he would leave it up to her friends to care for her. 

The Crystal Exarch watched the Crystarium guards leave the room, then looked back to his friends. His voice softened a little, still clearly concerned. "Pray take your time to settle from all of this... but... there's much to discuss. I would have you all reconvene in the Ocular when you're ready. Our... guest shan't be going anywhere, if I have anything to say about it."

He waited just long enough for them to give a reply, then left to deal with the mess from this morning.

* * * It took a full bell before the whole group was settled into the Ocular. Most of them were now more alert and awake; Yuki and Sumire, specifically, had taken the time to get dressed, and now both sported their traveling attire. The Dragoon rubbed tiredly at his right eye as he stood beside the Summoner. Yuki's carbuncle bounced happily at Sumire's feet then moved over to Angel. 

The black-haired Keeper sat on the floor by the wall for the moment. The carbuncle hopped into his lap without pause, and Angel petted her gently. Ice stood beside Angel, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall. Shoto sat nearby on the floor of the Ocular trying to preserve her strength. After a few moments, the Crystal Exarch entered from the Umbilicus, then the door closed behind him. His staff was on his back, and he looked more thoughtful than usual as he moved over to his usual position before the mirror.

"I'm glad to see everyone is safe," he began. The Allagan Miqo'te flicked his ears as he once more looked over his friends; then sighed softly. "It is certainly unnecessary to speak of this morning's events. What I am puzzled about is the fact that a certain individual; slain only weeks ago by all of you; is now alive and well once more."

Nearly all eyes were suddenly on Shoto; she had loudly apologized and said this was her fault... but how was she going to explain this? The Scholar opened her mouth, but words wouldn't form. Instead, her mind was stuck on the Ascian; Emet-Selch. That same guilt gnawed at her, like a bile that wanted to come up into her throat. She'd chosen to heal his wounds, which had caused this whole situation. Emet-Selch had saved her, and he was now paying the price for her choice. Instead of continuing to fight the others, he stopped when she had pleaded and grabbed him. 

She looked around the Ocular, then words finally formed on her tongue, "...Wh-Where is... Emet-Selch...?"

The Crystal Exarch blinked at her question, taken aback. He actually looked to the others, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her question correctly. Yuki frowned, as did Ice, neither of them were pleased about her first question. Sumire looked over to Angel, who was still half curled up with the carbuncle on his lap; he hadn't once looked up to the others since they settled in. The Exarch turned to look back to Shoto, but before he or any of the others could respond, the Scholar stood and used the wall to steady herself.

"I think it would be best if he were present for this, so we can all talk." She kept herself steady; her expression was serious.

The red-haired Miqo'te looked at her for a moment, as if he were still trying to gauge her or her request.

He sighed softly, then gave in, "Very well," He turned to look over to the Viis that stood guard over their meeting to make sure no one entered uninvited. "Lyna, if you would, please have your guards escort the prisoner here." Shoto visibly cringed a bit at the word 'prisoner', but the captain simply saluted, then left to give the orders. 

* * * Half a bell later, Lyna returned with Emet-Selch in tow. The Ascian gave no resistance; in fact, he walked almost casually behind her. Ice stood up straight, visibly tense, beside his husband--it took something of an effort not to call forth his axe, but he managed, focusing his gaze back to Angel and looking worried once more. The mage had been silent the whole time, and just petted the curled up carbuncle on his lap. 

The Angel of Truth, with an air of lofty dignity, ignored Ice--he ignored everyone in the room, for that matter--save for Shoto. His eyes looked directly to the Scholar; once his eyes fell upon her, he seemed clearly relieved, understanding at a glance that her condition was now much more stable. His smirk became genuinely softened for a moment, and some of the harshness went out of his demeanor.

The Exarch noted the exchange with interest, but he refrained from making a comment for the moment.

"That will be all, Lyna. Thank you." He nodded to the guard captain, who gave him a slight bow in response.

"Yes, my lord." The Viis turned, then stepped outside the Ocular to keep guard. Shoto eyed the restraints, still on his wrists; they looked to be some kind of enchantment. She frowned, then looked to the Exach in a silent plea for him to allow an exception in here. It seemed like the Crystal Exarch didn't understand her look at first. She looked back to the Ascian, almost apologetically.

G'raha grit his teeth, then tapped his cane on the ground, and the restraints around his wrists disappeared. Without looking back to the Ascian, the Exarch focused on Shoto, and spoke calmly and succinctly.

"Now, Shoto, pray, tell us what happened."

Shoto looked to her friends before her, then briefly wondered where she should even begin. "I guess... I should start... w-with the aftermath of our... struggle in the Tempest, at the Dying Gasp," she frowned, as she glanced to the Ascian. She looked immediately back to her friends as she took a breath, "Ever since then... I've felt... an emptiness; a guilt."

The Ascian raised an eyebrow at her words, sparing a glance to the Scholar. 

Guilt...? For my sake...? He then shifted quietly in his spot where he stood, and continued to listen; acting as if her comment hadn't piqued his interest.

Shoto turned to more properly face her friends and the Exarch. She ended up taking a few steps towards the Ascian before she continued, "Last night, I brought a badly injured shoebill back to my room to heal him so he could fly again... and--"

"That bird was an Ascian in disguise?" Yuki frowned, as she looked to Emet-Selch. He gestured nonchalantly with his hand, as Shoto just nodded in reply. Sumire looked over to Shoto, then reached up to rub at his right eye again; the tip of his tail flicked against Yuki's coat beside him. He seemed to find it hard to look over in that general direction.

"If you recall, both Angel and I noted how badly injured the bird was," she glanced over to Angel. Though he still hadn't looked up, he nodded once when she paused. "His injuries were just as bad, even in this form." Shoto looked up to Emet-Selch, then paused before she continued, "He was in a lot of pain, and... a-and I," she looked away from him, to the floor, "I couldn't sit back... and just watch someone else die in front of me."

Angel's breath caught in his throat as he winced at those words. He closed his eyes tightly and hugged the carbuncle against him. She wriggled a little at the sudden hug, then nuzzled under his chin.

G'raha noticed Angel's flinch, and frowned sadly. He briefly recalled all the times he had found Angel curled up on blankets in the corner of the library tent of Saint Coinach's Find... reading books about Allag. How many times he'd sat and shared his own stories and knowledge with him. The Exarch's expression softened, and he thought about how vulnerable the mage looked right now; curled up and hugging a carbuncle. He hadn't noticed it before... because he hadn't taken the time to look; hadn't allowed himself that moment of vulnerability.

For Ice's part, he was completely focused on Emet-Selch at the moment; he hadn't heard anything to draw his attention to his husband beside him on the floor. His sudden voice drew everyone's focus back to the present. 

"I'm a bit confused, though," he pointed at the Ascian as his eyes narrowed, suspicious, "How were you so injured that Shoto thought you'd die if she didn't heal you?"

Shoto just blinked at his question; she hadn't thought to ask that last night, she'd just acted instinctively. The Scholar looked to Emet-Selch with a curious expression. He looked back to her, then sighed and gestured languidly, dismissively, with his hand once more.

"All of you did work very hard to put a rather large hole directly through the core of my body, if you'll recall, dear little Warrior. The kind of hole that kills people."

"But... that injury was already a scar when I healed you," Shoto replied, quietly.

The Exarch frowned, then returned his attention to the Ascian. "If that was the damage they had sensed, then we all would have known it was you when you fell from the rafters yesterday." His ruby eyes narrowed a little, "And I most certainly wouldn't have let you leave."

The Ascian gave a cold look to the Exarch, his gold eyes flashing, though he didn't engage the taunt. After a thoughtful moment, he gave a dismissive sigh, "If you must know, Elidibus and I had a bit of a... shall we say... spirited discussion before I arrived in your fair city, dearest Exarch." The Crystal Exarch remained silent in response.

Ice still felt suspicious; he growled a little, then crossed his arms over his chest, "So you expect us to believe that you and Elidibus are no longer on good terms...?" 

The Ascian gave him another sort of shrug, "You asked how I was injured, hero, I merely answered your query."

Ice opened his mouth to respond, but Shoto held her hands up to try to refocus the conversation once more. "What matters... here... is that I healed him yesterday," Shoto took a breath, "I had healed him just the point where he'd have to naturally mend the rest of the way with time." She looked over to Angel once more, "That was before Angel arrived with the medicine and food."

"So," Yuki looked rather unamused, "...at what point did we get to Ice waking up our side of the Pendants in a rage this morning?" The Viera looked between the five Miqo'te and the Ascian in front of her. Her attention was drawn to the White Mage when he drew himself further into a ball.

"Th-That.... w-was... m-my fault," Angel mumbled into the carbuncle's back. Ice blushed a bit in embarrassment at having woken up so many people, but he cleared his throat, then turned his head to look back to the Viera.

"Despite what he says, that was not his fault," Ice immediately defended, "My husband simply told me that an Ascian had spent the night in Shoto's room and I rushed there to save our friend."

"So," Sumire rubbed at his right temple a bit, "Last night... Angel left Emet-Selch alone with Shoto, then passed out in the hall by their room." Shoto blinked, then looked to Angel, who still had his face buried in the carbuncle he was hugging. G'raha looked a little surprised, then also turned to look back over to Angel, but the Scholar beat him to speaking.

"Angel," Shoto's tone was very worried, "what do they mean you passed out in the hall?"

"I-I don't," he shifted the carbuncle so he could look up to Ice, then over to Shoto. The mage also noticed G'raha's worried look and felt even more apologetic. Ice turned to look down to his husband for a moment, then looked back to Shoto.

"He told me that he had a vision from the Echo in your room last night. It seemed to be a pretty intense one. On his way back, he just sat down to rest in the hall, and fell asleep." Ice sounded slightly defensive, then looked coldly at Emet-Selch, "What I didn't understand what had happened to trigger something bad enough to give him night--"

"I-Ice, please," Angel reached up to grasp Ice's hand; to interrupt his husband.

Shoto looked worriedly at her friend. G'raha's eyes widened a bit. Yuki closed her eyes with a frown, and Sumire frowned worriedly. Context had given them all a good idea what the word was that Angel had interrupted.

"Sh-Shoto, continue, i-if you don't mind...?" The White Mage gave them a weak smile when he looked over to the Scholar.

Shoto gave him a very concerned frown, but nodded and continued to explain. "After... After Angel got to the room, we had a conversation on the balcony. We started talking about the strange things we've both been noticing around us... and... about how we sort of felt stronger... ever since that fight," she paused, then glanced to Emet-Selch. "Well... we.... didn't have any other ideas... so," she looked back to her friends, "So we decided to ask him about the things we'd started to notice."

Ice looked back down to Angel. The mage nodded silently, then looked back down to Yuki's carbuncle. The Warrior finally understood what had brought up the topics Angel wanted to talk to him about last night... the topics that seemed to give him night terrors that he hadn't had in a long time.

Ice felt like now he knew why he'd had them... the Ascian that had caused him so much pain. The Warrior grit his teeth, but he felt his husband squeeze his hand more insistently in an attempt to calm him a bit.

Shoto noticed his expression. "Ice...?"

"So... what... did he say?" Ice asked; he barely kept himself from growling. He pointedly avoided asking Emet-Selch anything directly for the moment, and focused on Shoto. He felt the anger burning within once more. Shoto flicked her ears, worried about how Ice seemed ready to restart the fight that had happened earlier. 

"That... our souls... had gained... another shard... since that fight," she tilted her head a little, "probably during that fight." She gave Ice a small smile, "Do you remember during our talks afterward? When we all admitted we'd each seen one of the Warriors of Light from the First back then...?" She trailed slightly.

Angel then spoke up to try to help keep the conversation going. He still held Ice's hand, and could feel how tense the Warrior was. "Wh-When they... lent us... theirrr strrrength... to... surrrrvive," he looked down to the carbuncle in his arm, "i-it's possible... they werrre... o-ourrrr soul sharrrds... h-herrre... on the Firrrst." Shoto nodded immediately.

The Exarch blinked, then looked to each of his friends at that; they had told him about the phantom Ardbert that followed Shoto, but hadn't previously mentioned the other four Warriors of Light. Yet... these suggestions made a lot of sense. If their souls were fragmented the same as the worlds, then it stood to reason that fragments of them would exist on those worlds. He found that he didn't question any of it with everything he knew to be true. The Allagan Miqo'te looked down to the design on the floor of the Ocular, depicting the Source and its reflections.

Emet-Selch once more raised his eyebrow at their conversation. This was a bit more direct than they'd mentioned last night, and his suspicions felt validated. Those Warriors of the First must have been their soul fragments, that was the only explanation for what he saw before him at the moment: five glowing souls, eight times rejoined, without a Calamity on the Source. There was no longer any doubt; there was, however, concern.

Yuki wrinkled her nose a bit at the explanation, "Is that something he told you two?" She now also sounded more suspicious of the Ascian across from her.

The Paragon straightened his posture, then turned to face everyone else; he felt the attention in the room turn on him. Sumire once more looked over to Shoto and Emet-Selch, then made a face as he immediately rubbed at his eye again. Yuki finally turned to face him this time. 

"Are you quite alright, Sumire? You've been doing that since last night." Her question drew everyone's attention; everyone but Emet-Selch and Ice. The Warrior and the Ascian seemed to be staring at each other for the moment.

"I-It's fine, Yuki," Sumire moved his hand, then frowned at her, "My eye just needs time to adjust to the First's aether... It's just... acting up a little."

"Can you still see okay?" Yuki reached up to move his hair a bit so she could see his white eye. Shoto and Angel watched as Yuki aggressively doted on the Dragoon. 

"I can still see fine, I promise." Sumire reached up to gently push her hand away, "It'll settle by tonight, like always. It's just that everything seems oddly... brighter than usual."

"What are you doing to them?" Ice's deep, growled voice asked Emet-Selch. The Ascian cocked an eyebrow as he continued to look at the Warrior, rolling his eyes

"Not that you seem inclined to believe anything I say," he drawled, "but I meant what I said, and I said what I meant, my axe-wielding friend. I haven't done a thing to you or any of your friends outside of the lovely little skirmish--"

"You're the only thing different since yesterday." Ice replied as he stepped forward; his hand pulled free of his husband's grasp.

"You chopped down the door of the room I was sleeping in and attacked me. Like a primitive. I merely defended myself," the Ascian countered.

"You were-"

"Enough," the Exarch snapped sharply as his ears pinned back.

The Warrior and the Ascian both looked away from each other; Ice growled loudly in frustration, while Emet-Selch huffed almost primly. Angel stood up carefully and released Yuki's carbuncle. He then hugged his husband to try and calm him down.

The Allagan Miqo'te rubbed his forehead, then looked back to the Scholar. "Pray continue, Shoto..."

The female Seeker nodded, "Where was...? O-Oh right... Knowing... all of that, it's," Shoto paused for a moment, "it's likely that one added shard could have awakened some long-forgotten abilities in our souls," she gestured to herself, then Angel, "which explains the strange things we kept noticing around us." 

The Crystal Exarch brought a hand to his chin in thought, "In any other circumstance, I might be disinclined to believe you," he lowered his crystal hand, then looked at it for a moment. "But I find that I don't question anything you've said thus far. Perhaps it's a result of everything we've been trying to accomplish since..." He stopped, not wanting to say much more in front of the Ascian that he still wasn't sure what to do about. Aside from the fight he stopped this morning, he hadn't made any further efforts to cause trouble nor run off. Emet-Selch found himself being stared at by the Exarch, and just cocked an eyebrow in response.

Angel flicked his ears, then looked back to his friends after the silence. "I-I'm starting to worry... that i-it's just... m-me and... Shoto," he frowned, then looked to Sumire, then Yuki, then finally up to his husband that he still held onto, "Has... a-anyone else... noticed... a-anything?"

Ice looked over to Angel, then relaxed slightly as he hugged him back. "Sorry, love," he shook his head a little, "but aside from last night, nothing else has seemed odd. Just sort of feeling generally stronger, as I've answered you before." He looked back to Sumire and Yuki, wondering about their responses.

Yuki shook her head, "Nothing has been weird. Just noticing Shoto's moping about, mostly."

"H-Hey!" Shoto pouted, "I don't... mope." The Scholar argued the term, but it wasn't entirely inaccurate. She'd had days when the guilt and sadness just hit her like a load of bricks... she could see how that might have come across as moping to someone else. Yuki just made a face at her. It was sort of hard to read, but it felt worried to Shoto.

"Sumire...?" Ice asked, as he gently hugged Angel again, reassuringly. The Dragoon looked over to him in silence for a moment, then shook his head a little.

"I've felt... tired." He shrugged a bit, "Maybe a bit more than I used to, but it's probably nothing. I've tried to train harder, I'm probably just overdoing it."

"You overslept yesterday and were exhausted by the time we were finished speaking with the Exarch," Yuki frowned. Sumire took a breath, then sighed.

"Some days are just like that... If it's true that we all gained another fragment of our souls... maybe I just need time to adjust to it...?" He made a face, then looked over to Shoto and Emet-Selch again. With a wince, he reached up to completely cover his right eye with his hand. He mumbled to himself, but Yuki still heard him, "Maybe I'll just cover it until it adjusts... "

Angel wasn't sure what to say. Their friends would have surely mentioned odd manifestations if they'd have seen them. Much like the orange carbuncle-like creature; Ambrosia; that had appeared during the fight. It sounded like Ice, Yuki, and Sumire just felt a bit stronger, if anything, but nothing else notable had happened. He buried his face in Ice's chest with a quiet sound of frustration.

Shoto also seemed concerned about the updates, and bit her lip. "W-Well," she started, "I had... similar thoughts. I've felt stronger... s-so maybe... my magic is too, and," she trailed off as she blushed. Angel turned his head to look at her. Ice just frowned; Angel's words from this morning replayed in his mind--they had been strikingly similar to Shoto's.

("...I-I've felt stronger too... W-Well, specifically, I-I guess, my magic.")

Yuki's carbuncle hopped over to Shoto. The Scholar squatted down to pet her as Angel opened his mouth to speak, but Ice spoke first.

"...and you thought you'd test it out," he stated, then glanced back down to his husband. The White Mage blushed, then glanced away silently. Shoto looked surprised, but nodded as she focused on petting the carbuncle at her feet. An audible sigh drew attention to Yuki, who now had her arms crossed.

"Really, Shoto, that's irresponsible even by Ice's standards."

"Yeah," Ice agreed, as he looked back to Shoto, then paused, "Wait..." 

He turned to look back at Yuki to argue her wording, but the Ascian actually laughed, smirking widely, and spoke before the Warrior could. "Praise Zodiark, someone else understands~!" He moved to get a little closer to Shoto, but was stopped by a sharp, cold look from the Exarch. His expression said it would be unwise to move any closer than he already was; the Ascian remained where he was and just gave a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

Shoto stuttered to speak again, "I-I just thought... I'd see if... maybe... I could... mend the wound... to full?"

Angel jerked at the suggestion, he turned to look at her and spoke sharply, and in disbelief, "Sh-Shoto!?" Ice let go of Angel when he took a worried step towards his oldest friend. "That was far too much damage to heal alone and all at once!"

"But I did it!" She immediately argued. Eos popped up beside her in a swirl, and nodded fervently as if trying to back her up, then landed on the back of the carbuncle to sit. Angel made a concerned face, then looked to Emet-Selch; the Ascian paused, then nodded in response.

"She did," he crossed his arms with a quiet sigh, "Although, I tried to warn her not to push herself like that."

Shoto looked puzzled for a moment. Had he tried to warn her? As she thought for a moment, she recalled the voice she heard telling her to stop... A look of realization crossed her face and the Ascian near her frowned a little.

"You pushed yourself to the level of Aetheric Exhaustion. If you will recall how 'fine' you claimed to be before you collapsed on me."

"Ae...ther..." Angel's voice was faint, and didn't even finish the first word. The condition was one both Ice and Shoto knew he'd had personal experience with. The former through an explanation from the latter; she'd been around when he had pushed himself that far.

It wasn't just his experience right now, though; the term brought back the feelings of his nightmare from this morning. He heard a distant, quiet bell at the edge of his hearing. The mage's voice returned; quiet, a bit shaky, and full of concern, "Shoto, a-are you c-certain you're alright...? It... I-It normally takes... days t-to recover... from that..."

It was clear that the mage spoke from experience. The Exarch blinked, then looked worriedly to the White Mage. Emet-Selch also cocked an eyebrow. Yuki wanted to point out once more that these two were too much alike, and it was clear on her face as she gave a look to Shoto. The female Miqo'te nodded her head to Angel, then raised her hands to calm things down before they could escalate again.

"Yes, yes, I'm a bit tired, but I feel fine. I promise!" She blushed, then lowered her arms, "That's... That's why I said... h-he... saved me... last night," she trailed slightly, as she felt a bit embarrassed to admit that she'd so direly misjudged. 

"...Even if... he did help you," Angel's tail curled against his own leg as he took another step forward, "Are you... really okay enough to be up...? I'm amazed you're even conscious if..."

"I will be fine to travel," She interrupted him, giving another reassuring smile. "We're not planning on fighting, just traveling to Kholusia, right? There's a boat ride involved in that. I can rest on that." She smiled reassuringly, "I promise I'll take it easy, okay?"

"And what about him, Shoto?" Ice glared at Emet-Selch, "Are you suggesting we just let him... tag along?" Ice was clearly not pleased. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare at the Ascian. Shoto didn't have a response, but her lack of immediate denial admitted she'd been thinking that.

Emet-Selch scoffed, a slow, smug grin creeping over his features, "I can do whatever I please, my dear friend," he replied, clearly pleased to continue needling Ice. "I daresay it's not your call to make." Ice growled in response, but the Ascian just continued to grin.

"You would be correct. It is not Ice's decision," the Exarch took a step forward, "But it is mine." 

The Ascian shrugged dramatically, shaking his head. "Yes, yes, render unto His Radiance what belongs to His Radiance and all that. Whatever, then, can I do to convince you of my sincerity, o wise Crystal Exarch?"

G'raha gave a soft sigh then put a finger to his chin, thoughtfully; he didn't reply immediately... but Shoto heard Emet-Selch speak again, soft and sibilant.

《 If you know anything I might use as leverage with our Allagan friend here, my dear hero, I'd be much obliged...I'm quite serious about traveling with you, this time. If nothing else, someone needs to protect you... 》

Shoto blinked and her head whipped towards Hades, her expression confused and her cheeks slightly pinker. She'd heard him speak, but the others hadn't reacted?

《 Well, that's because they can't hear me. They aren't connected, the way we seem to be, now are they? 》

"Wh--What's connected?! Connection?!" Shoto blurted out.

...Ice, Yuki, Sumire, Angel and the Exarch all looked over to the Scholar as she felt heat build in her face like a bonfire, and the Ascian rolled his eyes. Then the five looked at one another.

"Shoto..." Yuki began, the Viera cocking her head to the side. "No one...mentioned a connection? Except, maybe...going to Kholusia would count? ...Are you really sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Shoto insisted, pursing her lips and crossing her arms. Ice glared suspiciously at Hades and fought down a snarl; this drew G'raha's attention, and the Exarch loudly cleared his throat, as if to officially interrupt.

"Here, then, is an opportunity to demonstrate your sincerity, in some small part, Emet-Selch," he intoned, flicking his ears as his crimson eyes fixed with Hades' golden ones. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough to explain the strange occurrences that have been troubling Shoto and Angel?"

Emet-Selch actually brightened, giving a wide shrug and a personable smirk. "Of course! Simplicity itself, in fact, since as they mentioned, they consulted me beforehand...but I'm digressing, admittedly. Now, then." He held up a finger. "This is somewhat theoretical, but I believe that they, as a result of their eighth rejoining, have accessed creation magic."

"Creation magic?" Sumire asked, looking over briefly towards the Ascian, then back to Yuki, confused, "Like they always talked about everywhere in Amaurot?"

"The very same!" Hades smirked. "Admirably attentive, young dragon-slayer." He folded down his finger and then steepled his hands, looking over them at the assembled group. "Before anyone asks something terribly, mind-shatteringly stupid, like 'what do the words creation magic mean', let me go on to say that they mean exactly what they sound like. They are the act of calling aether into a solidified, true form, of creating through the sheer and precise imposition of will." He cracked his knuckles. "If I might demonstrate? I promise, I'll create nothing harmful."

The Exarch shrugged lightly, and Emet-Selch closed his eyes, drawing on the well of his aether...by the great God, it was depleted after that battle, though at least it wasn't completely exhausted...still, drawing on the arm of his Elder Form in particular, and his Mirrors of Utterance, had been an effort. There was more than enough for what he intended, though; he would focus on one of the first things young Amaurotines learned, food.

He closed his eyes, and snapped his fingers with his usual theater.

Out of nothingness, out of thin air, a table seemed to write itself into being, and then a silvery tea tray. Set on it was a porcelain teapot, filled with hot, steaming tea, and a set of matching cups...arrayed around the tea set were small plates of cakes, cookies, and pastries. As a last flourish, he added a vessel of sugar and a vessel of cream...perhaps it wasn't strictly necessary, but there it was.

There were gasps of shock and interest, and he waited for them to die down before gesturing to the set. "And there you have it. This very same exercise, with...some tweaking, was a simple, elementary act of creation taught to aspiring will-workers as one of the first pieces of their training in the arcane arts. In the days of Amaurot, it was hard to find someone who had no aptitude for creation magic, though...typically everyone had one specialty in which they truly excelled. " He smiled, a little wistfully...and seemed to notice Angel staring at the cakes, though the dark-haired Miqo'te blushed and looked away, shaking his head. "Such as, for example, your creation just now, the one called...'Ambrosia'."

"Wait a minute," Ice demanded. "Angel created that? That was a living creature--"

"Which is quite within the purview of creation magic," Hades replied airily. "It's much more complex than the food and the tea, to which you're all welcome, as it's not static, but it's quite possible." He smirked as if expecting a rejoinder...

Shoto gasped. "...That's how you were able to recreate Amaurot, in the Tempest!" she said. "That's why...Twelve Above," she breathed, imagining the sheer amount of effort it must've taken to build the great city that lay far below the waters, even as a shallow replica.

Hades' look of happiness was genuine. "Ah, you can catch on quite quickly! Yes, just so. It wasn't the work of a single day, but right you are."

"...Wouldn't the work of creation magic fade with the death of its creator?" The Scholar chewed her lip and looked both pensive and worried, a reaction that made the Paragon's smile fade to a melancholy look.

"In time, yes; a large-scale creation like my Amaurot would take some moons to disappear, but in the end all that would be left would be...the foundation upon which I built," he said, breezing over the details.

《 Another time, perhaps. ...Please don't respond out loud. Yes, I can hear your thoughts, and vice versa, it's really as simple as that. Don't be too alarmed, dear hero. 》

Shoto frowned to herself--she wanted to press him on it, even mentally, but her thoughts were already a mess, and she decided to let it go for now, but remember it.

"Yet its aether shows no signs of dimming," G'raha mused, looking over to the Ascian.

"That," said Emet-Selch, more grimly than he quite meant, "is not my doing. My death should've ensured its slow decline, and I assure you, I did, most definitely, perish there. Its preservation is the doing of another...and yes, likely another Ascian. Elidibus could maintain its presence quite easily, if he deigned to do so himself; even one of the lesser rank wouldn't find it too hard. At any rate, that version of Amaurot is no longer mine to command." He shrugged widely, languidly. "I am, believe it or not, in a position rather similar to all of you."

"If you died once, then you can die again," Ice growled. "Right?"

"Yes. Indeed," said the Paragon, raising his hands as if to say 'I yield' even as he rolled his eyes. "Very well spotted. But, truth be told, I really would prefer not to engage in another long, drawn-out, destructive conflict, heroes. Instead, might I not help you...? These powers of creation, your newly recovered legacy, might become quite dangerous to all of you without guidance...and I must stress, you still are broken, sundered souls. Though to be rejoined eight times is unprecedented, it's nothing like being completed. So, I offer you the tutelage of one of Amaurot's greatest sorcerers, for no cost at all."

Shoto raised her brow, though she seemed quite interested. "...You'd train us in the arts of creation? All of us?"

"All of you," Emet-Selch affirmed, spreading his arms. 

Angel's ears pricked to attention, his gaze focused on the Ascian, and Shoto looked thoughtful; G'raha fought down a grimace. Sumire frowned, then looked over to Angel and Ice rather than at Emet-Selch and Shoto. Yuki wore a very flat look on her face, as did Ice.

"What a godsdamned farce." Ice clenched his fists. "You tried this before, Ascian. You offered us help, you pulled Y'shtola from the Lifestream in a grand gesture of 'good faith' . And then, when it pleased you, you turned the tables on us without a shred of remorse and tried to slaughter us all! How do you expect us to suddenly trust you?!"

Shoto looked like she wanted to reply, but the Warrior had a point...the last time the Ascian had offered his friendship, he'd just as quickly rescinded it and deemed himself their executioner. Yes, he'd had his reasons, but...

The silence hung heavy in the room, but it was broken by Angel's hesitant voice, as the White Mage crept forwards to take a look over the tea set.

"Y-You don't..."

"Eh?" Ice turned to his husband.

Angel moved over to the table; took one of the small cakes from the tray, and looked at it. His voice low, and his face still seemed hesitant on the topic. "H-He's kept his w-word... and... he t-trusted us... last night. So... it's only f-fair... to rrreturn the f-favor."

The Miqo'te bit the cake before anyone could ask what he was doing or what he meant. He'd stuttered through, desperately forcing back his purr. He was quite nervous about eating anything, but Emet-Selch had eaten the food he had brought, and drank the tea he had made last night. He felt it was only right to accept something from him in return...

Besides all that, he was quite weak around sweets...

The Ascian's expression was one of surprise when the dark-haired, male Miqo'te picked up one of the cakes and ate it. A small genuine smile formed on his face.

Ice, however, was shocked that Angel ate the cake. "Angel?! What are you-" He cut himself off, as he thought about what his husband had said. Emet-Selch had been truthful in their encounters before, just circumstances had put them at odds. He pinned his ears back and he gave a frustrated growl. Angel did not eat any more nor take any of the tea... the cake had only been eaten to make a point.

Shoto actually breathed a sigh of relief, and then drew herself up to try and seem more authoritative towards the Ascian; it wasn't quite successful, and mostly drew a flicker of amusement that she felt through their mental connection, but she pressed on. "...You told me that you still seek the restoration of the original world, the Rejoining, but you believe it can be accomplished without unnecessary deaths, without the mass murder your kind has used before. Did you mean that?"

Hades nodded and spread his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Yes, of course I meant it."

"...Swear that you did," Shoto said firmly, crossing her arms. "Swear an oath, on the memory of Amaurot, that that's your goal. If you'll do that, I don't care about any other hidden agendas, or ulterior motives, or secret reasons. Because I know if you break that word, it'll mean something."

For a long, long moment, Hades just stared at her. 

She couldn't quite tell what all the emotions were, even through the link they shared, the strange tether of fate and heart and mind; there was fear, and shock, and some degree of anger, but also pride, and relief, and joy...

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"I swear by the memory of Amaurot," he said, gravely and solemnly, "and by the souls of the Convocation of Fourteen, that a Rejoining without death or calamity is my goal. If it is at all possible, I will seek it. Is that sufficient?"

His aggrieved air didn't touch his eyes...Shoto felt he was almost smiling, behind a dour mask.

"...Yes," she answered. "...And you're going to tutor us in creation magic, still, all of us, like you said before," she added hastily.

"Indeed, indeed, yes, yes, yes," said Emet-Selch, all dismissiveness and rolled eyes once more, though he didn't sound insincere. "I promise, too, I will teach you, each in turn, all I can. It will be quite limited, given your souls' continued broken state, but. It will be something no one else can do." 

Shoto couldn't help but beam at this--here was an opportunity to learn something no one else could, a lost magic from millennia ago! "Wonderful!"

* * * Another, drawn out awkward silence fell after that settled... and just as it stretched a moment too long, the Crystal Exarch sighed heavily.

"Very well. I suppose such an oath satisfies me, too...as much as I can be satisfied, Emet-Selch. I want you to know, I mislike all of this. I'm not quite of a mind with Ice, but I'm not that far from his position, either." G'raha crossed his arms and shook his head. "But I'm not foolish enough to mindlessly challenge Shoto when her mind's made up...and Angel had a persuasive argument. So, then, here is what we'll do."

He pointed decisively towards the Ascian. "You are to remain with Shoto, Yuki, and Sumire, and travel with them to Eulmore, where you'll rendezvous with Alphinaud and Y'shtola. I believe in a larger group, you're less likely to be tempted by even small transgressions of your oath...and, being very frank, I don't want you near Ice and Angel, at the moment." His brows furrowed. "If I learn you've done anything to interfere with their work..."

"Yes, yes, I'm full aware. I want no part of the full wrath of the Crystarium and her master," the Angel of Truth assured. 

G'raha ground his teeth a little; he hadn't been exaggerating. Everything about this idea seemed wrong. He didn't want to agree to any of this--he would prefer to throw the Ascian in an oubliette and call it a day; but it was what it was.

"Ice, Angel, you'll continue to Amh Araeng as per the assignment we previously discussed," he continued. He didn't share what theirs was, and once he'd made his decisions, he looked to his friends. "Please use the devices I gave you if an emergency should arise... they should have no trouble with range."

"Understood," Yuki replied, then turned to Shoto. "You're certain this is what you want?"

"Yes," Shoto nodded. She stood firm. "He gave his word, and I want to hold him to it.

Yuki nodded with a frown, "Alright. Well. We'd best go gather our bags and head out to our respective travel points. Y'shtola's new findings in the Tempest certainly interest me." 

"Ice, Angel," the Exarch turned to them, "head to the Amaro launch when you've collected your things. Cassard has a caravan to take to Mord Souq today and has the space to take you along." He turned to look at Shoto, "Your group can head out to Tessellation and find Dadfort in Knot. He's promised a boat to Kholusia," his red ears flicked out to the sides. "Unfortunately, we're still working on repairing relations between the Crystarium and Eulmore... so, I cannot promise you he'll take you the whole way to the city." He looked apologetic, but Shoto shook her head and smiled at him.

"I-I'm just glad to have a transport arranged! Thank you so much!" She then looked to her traveling companions, "I know... I will slow our process some, from being irresponsible, but... you're all right. I should take my time to recover, a-and Emet-Selch said I'd be fine in a few days!" Shoto smiled, as she tried to be encouraging to her friends. "Besides, while there's a boat crossing, using Amaro in between should make the process a little faster."

"Hn," Emet-Selch put in. "How much do you trust these oversized goat-birds? Do you not have even one airship?"

"The Amaro will be fine," Shoto sighed, giving him a long look. "This is a diplomatic mission, and diplomats don't demand airship flights."

"You and I have met very different diplomats," Hades quipped in reply.

"That's probably true," she said simply. "Now, come along. If we're getting ready, you're getting ready, too." Shoto brooked no argument...she merely linked her arm with his and pulled the Ascian along as the group began to leave the Ocular; Ice shot one last angry glare at the Paragon, but said nothing.

As they left, Emet-Selch considered things. Things that were likely to give him a headache, and sooner rather than later. First, what had that blind sorceress found out in the Tempest? He couldn't think of what she could have learned that was new, he'd practically given them a guided tour of the recreated city...Unless...

Secondly and more immediately, he hadn't set foot in Eulmore since the project with Vauthry had borne fruit. He grimaced a little at the thought. Vauthry. Now there was a work he wasn't particularly fond of or proud of. And one that people might remember, especially that Elezen boy who'd caused such a ruckus.

This was definitely going to be a pain, wasn't it?

And yet, looking to his side, seeing the genuine sparkle in Shoto's eye, made something in his long-cold heart spark back to life. Something he hadn't thought along the lines of for far, far too long.

It'll be a torturous road, no mistaking it. 

But...I think she's worth it. 

PERFECT TEATIME!!!

Next time: DIPLOMATIC INCIDENTS!!!!

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 26 of 27)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 5100

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, honorary deities of Asgard

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity,  @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany , @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings,           @lokis-butter-knife, @help-i-need-a-social-life, @vodka-and-some-sass, @pandacookieowo

WARNINGS: here is the aforepromised and questionably okay smut? If you want to skip it, read to the asterisks, then scroll to the next set of asterisks and pick up from there.

In an instant, you have a gun aimed at the shadowy figure standing in your living room. “I suggest you back away very, very slowly.”

“Please do not shoot me again. It was not pleasant the first time.”

“Jesus- Loki?”

“I told you, he isn’t real.”

“And I told you you wouldn’t even know if he was,” you automatically reply, fumbling in the dark for the lamp switch. But really, you don’t even need to turn on the lights to know that it’s him. His voice will be engraved into you until the day you die.

He looks the same, surprisingly. Maybe a little more exhausted; a little more worn down. He’s in regular clothes, jeans and a tshirt, but the tshirt is in his characteristic green, which makes you smile. And then you stop smiling, because “…are you really here?”

“No dreams this time, Witling.”

Something breaks in you hearing your nickname sound so real for the first time in a year. In an instant, you’ve got your arms wrapped around his neck in a hug you expect to end very quickly and very awkwardly- but you can’t help yourself. To your surprise, strong arms cradle you and hold you just as tightly as you’re holding him. You take a chance and let your head tuck into the crook of his neck, and even though you’ve never been this close to him you’d swear on your life you’ve smelled this mix of spices and clean snow before. You can’t even begin to comprehend the feelings pounding through your chest, so you don’t- you just hold him, and let yourself be held, and Loki swears there isn’t a God but the simple fact that he’s hugging you right now makes you beg to differ.

“Um-” you pull away, and so does he, but not entirely. Your forehead is pressed against his shoulder while you try and catch your breath, and neither of you have let your arms move from each other’s waists. “Sorry.”

He nudges your chin up so that you’re looking him in the eyes. Beautiful, mesmerizing green eyes that are dancing like they have a life of their own. “Do not be.”

To keep yourself from throwing yourself at him again, you carefully extricate yourself from the… whatever this was… but you let your hand linger, so he knows you don’t really want to pull away at all. “It’s, um. It’s been a while.”

He breaths out a laugh. “So it has. Too long.”

“Does the Trickster have feelings after all? Is he really capable of missing the constant thorn in his side?” An extremely dramatic eye roll complements your teasing like nothing else.

Gently, he tugs you hand into his own, inspecting it like he might glean the secrets of the universe from its scars. Crescent moons dot your palms from your nails digging into the skin during various nightmares, and you have to bite back an apology. “I’m okay. I promise.”

He smiles ruefully. “God of Lies, love. You looked about as well in your dreams.”

“That really was you?”

He nods. “I am still not sure how,” he admits, “And I am not sure it made things easier to handle.”

You cringe a little at the thought of him seeing you like that, desperate and pathetic, but he soothes you by twining your fingers. “It is alright, darling. You did the best you could.”

“How are you here? What did Odin say? I thought-”

“I was banished,” he says simply. “Exiled. Per the Allfather’s decree I am never to return to Asgard or travel the Bifrost again.” He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to end his sentence there. Unspoken words hang between you.

“Is… is that all?” You venture, trying to coax the rest of the story out of him.

“Love?” You look at him. “Do not ask,” he says firmly. “Not… not right now.”

“But you will tell me someday.” He concedes to this with a nod

“So your mother- will you be able to see her? Or… Thor?”

His eyes flash, and you know you’ve touched a soft spot. “Not technically, no. But… we have our ways.” A few crackles of green energy lazily circle his fingers before winking out.

“You’ve got your magic back.”

“Indeed.”

“Lord help us.”

He snorts. “You have nothing to fear from me, Witling.”

“I’m well aware, but… SHIELD? The Avengers?”

“Have already been dealt with,” he says dismissively. “Apparently they have acquired some new magic users in my absence. In exchange for not being tossed to rot in a cell for millennia, I have agreed to train them.”

“That’s awful generous of you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It was that or imprisonment.”

“As if they could really expect to hold you twice.”

“So much faith, darling.”

“More like cautious admiration.” You very much enjoy the way he lights up when he processes your words. “How long have you been on Earth then?”

“A few days.” A touch of your happiness melts. He’s been so close and you had no idea… “I very much wanted to see you, Witling. Make no mistake. But I-” he pauses, as if sorting his thoughts. “I had to make sure it would be a welcomed visit.”

“Are you crazy?” Now you do shove him away, if only to look at him better. “In what world would I not want to see you, Loki? The whole year-” you stop yourself before you say something stupid. He doesn’t need to know the small black hole that had opened within your chest in his absence. “Well. That was stupid of you.”

A smirk darts across his lips. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“So what happens now? Are you- do you have a place to stay?”

“Somewhat. Stark is not exactly eager to house me in that monstrosity of a tower, but SHIELD has barracks…” you can hear what he’s not saying. Those barracks probably aren’t any better or any different than the cell they shoved him in for the better part of a year.

You look around your tiny apartment. Well, more like a room- the only part of it walled off is the bathroom, and technically the living room is also the bedroom. But- “I mean, I doubt it compares to Asgard. But you’re welcome here. As long as you need.”

“A dangerous thing to say.”

You scoff . “I’m not afraid of you, Trickster. And I know you’re not going to hurt me.”

He gives you a small smile. “You mistake me. If you let me stay, I may never want to leave.”

Your cheeks tinge a bit red at that. “Who says I would want you to?” You counter.

His laugh is the happiest you’ve ever heard, and could probably rival all the splendor of the entirety of the nine realms combined. “I did miss you, love,” he says, and the pure fondness in his voice- for you, that happiness in his voice is for you- makes you completely unafraid to reach up and place a hand on his chest and brush your lips against his.

Time seems to slow. Everything goes soft, and a little out of focus, and you try to ignore your heart, which suddenly seems intent on beating straight through your rib cage. Loki blinks at you, his lips still parted from your soft kiss, and despite everything a giggle burbles out of you. “The God of Silver Tongues, speechless. I must be in a very lot of trouble.”

“You have absolutely no idea,” he whispers in your ear, and a shiver barely has time to crawl its way down your spine before he takes your face in his hands and kisses you back.

He is gentle, and gives you time to pull away if you choose. You laugh a little at that, because you’ve waited a whole goddamn year for this stupid silver-tongue menace to waltz back into your life and you sure as hell aren’t going to let him get away again. So you do pull back, just a little, and whisper back, “You don’t need to be careful, love.”

His eyes flash, and a vague thought of oh, shit flits through your mind before the both of you connect as one, propriety and nerves be damned, two year’s worth of jesting and lingering glances and whispered promises in the dead of night begging to be let out. You think you do them justice, if you do say so yourself.

Somehow he tastes exactly like magic- effervescent, all consuming, and incredibly, indescribably intoxicating. His are lips made for enchantment, made for divination, for speaking stars into the sky- and he is kissing you as though you stand far higher than those enchantments and divinations and impossible things ever could. He kisses you like this is what he is made for, and all he’s ever wanted to do.

Your lips are nothing special. You can speak a few languages and tell a few jokes. You smile sometimes. They’re a little chapped. But now, you let them tell stories that would rival the epics of any ancient civilization. You let them say everything you never have, everything you never thought you’d get a chance to say. You hands snake around his neck and twist themselves into his hair, as though you’re afraid he’ll pull away just as quickly as he came.

Loki deepens your kiss, teasing you with things that are to come, but the unexpected weight makes you stumble a bit, and you have to bite back a curse. “Goddamn ankle,” you mutter, righting yourself against his body. “Sorry. It never really healed quite right…” He looks at you in surprise, green eyes still hazy with kisses. “It’s fine, I promise. Just annoying.”

“It most certainly is not fine.” In one swift move, he picks you up and then deposit you gently on your bed, where you blink at him. Loki kneels by your feet and inspects them, honing in on the ankle that’s a little more misshapen than the other. Slender fingers brush over it and glow a faint green, reducing the ache you’ve come to accept as permanent to nothing more than background noise.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to carefully flex your foot. The bones still grind against each other like they shouldn’t, but the pain is gone. “Wow. Thank you.”

He shakes his head. “It is not permanent. My skills do not extend to mending.” When he stands, he almost towers over you, and you sit up on the edge of the mattress so you don’t feel quite so small beneath him.

“You’re ridiculous. You literally saved my life, I can deal with a little pain.” Loki looks at you with soft eyes, making a bolt of warmth shoot through you. Then, very carefully, as though he’s been practicing the expression in a mirror, he wrinkles his nose in an approximation of your own quirk. Your habit on his face makes you grin like nothing else ever has, and in an instant you’re reaching for him- but your hands pause at the hem of his shirt. This is- he’s- he’s so close, and you’ve never touched him with purpose before, not like this. And you want to- god, you want to run your hands over his body and feel every single inch of him under your palms, map every twist and turn with your fingertips- but hesitation is turning your arms to stone. He’s a god. He’s a thousand years old; he’s had immortal beings in his bed alongside him. You had a couple trysts in college, sure, but a goddess you are not. There’s no possible way you could live up to any sort of expectations-

“You can touch, darling.” His voice is easy, gentle, chipping away at your sudden paralyzation. “If you want.”

“I-” I want to. I’ve wanted to for so long, but if I mess this up I don’t know-

“Stop this.” One of Loki’s fingers reaches out and taps you lightly on the forehead, and the wrinkles that have appeared there. ���Whatever derision is running through that mind of yours, I can promise you it is completely unfounded.” He smooths a thumb over your temple fondly. “I am not the only one who dismisses my worth.”

Hs words give you the courage to let your hands rest lightly on his shirt’s hem, latching on to the soft fabric. His eyes are on you, refracting light into shades of green you’ve never seen before. Slowly, you let your fingertips slide underneath, just barely grazing against his torso. His skin is soft, and cool to the touch. You don’t have to wander far before you meet your first imperfection- a ridged scar that streaks over the soft parts of his hipbone. You pause, unsure if it’s forbidden territory, but Loki only smiles apologetically. “I am afraid I do not come without… defects.”

You know he isn’t just speaking of his scars. “Can I see?”

He seems to internally debate for a moment, but eventually sits down next to you, deftly tugging off his tee by the neck and revealing himself as one might rip off a bandage all in one go. As you take in his taught stomach, the muscles just peeking out from under his skin, and the old wounds crisscrossing every which way, he only looks at the fabric now puddled in his hands and not you. The sting of old rejections is fighting hard against the trust you’ve grown little by little, inch by inch.

You desperately want him to know you won’t abandon him. Not now. Not ever.

“Where did this come from?” You lightly trace the deep-set flaw that curves along his hip, not wanting to scare him away.

“Mmm, I believe that one was Sif.” There’s a faraway look on his face, one that you’ve come to recognize as his mind wandering to stories that played out long ago in a land far away. “She nearly eviscerated me after a lark of mine went particularly poorly.”

A smile touches your lips. Hell hath no fury. “And this one?” A swooping white arc decorates his left shoulder blade, cutting so low it crosses paths with his spine. It’s lighter than the rest- you can barely feel it- and if you closed your eyes you might not believe it was there at all.

“Training. Thor took a swing at me when my back was turned. We were young, and he cried when I bled.”

Standing out amongst the healed wounds are ones still purple at the edges, not yet faded into the poems of his skin. They are harsher, sharper- deliberately cut, and maliciously given. Just below his shoulder are thin parallel rings decorating his upper arm, too neatly aligned to be anything but intentional. When you explore these, he stiffens underneath your touch. You don’t have to ask where they came from.

Gently, you lean in to press a kiss to the mending scars, hoping to ease at least a little of the pain they’re causing their bearer. “None of us are flawless, Loki,” you murmur, resting your chin lightly on his shoulder. “They’re a part of you, and you’re beautiful, so they’re beautiful too. Wearing your story on your skin only means you’re strong enough to have lived to tell the tale.”

************************************************************

This time, you aren’t surprised when his lips find yours, because you’ve already met him halfway. It’s smoother, but no less insistent, and now you’re less afraid to take exactly what you want. You hands once again find their way into his hair, running your fingers through it from the roots just to mess up those infuriatingly perfect tresses. His own hands are winding their way into the hair at the nape of your neck, creating a heady sort of pressure. He pulls your bottom lip into his mouth, lightly running his tongue over it before biting ever so gently giving it a bite. Heat flares through you, and without thinking you tug hard at his scalp, wanting more.

Loki growls at your grip, a low rumble that echoes all the way through your chest. When you nip back, using your teeth to drag and release his lips from yours, the quiet noise of want that escapes him is enough to ratchet the heat you’re feeling up to ninety.

Your fear melts away with every brush of the hand, every small sigh, every moment where you have to pull away just to catch your breath and try to slow your racing heart. It’s a push and pull, give and take, learning each other in this new space where you can touch and taste and feel and revel in all of the above without worry. Because really, you know each other in every way but this- how hard can it be to translate?

He pulls you onto his lap, strong arms flexing at your waist as he settles you onto his thighs, and you hum appreciatively as you press your body to his, enjoying his bare skin underneath your hands. When he tugs at your shirt- and unspoken request- you don’t hesitate before pulling it off over your head. Loki, for his part, looks absolutely starstruck at the picture of you in his lap in your bra and jeans. You giggle, taking your time fiddling with the clasps behind your back, loving the wonder on his face as he takes you in. Just as your bra unclips, he hesitantly reaches up and undos a few pins from your bun, letting your hair tumble down onto your now bare chest.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, mapping out your own scars just as you did his own. Every touch and trace sends goosebumps down your spine, and you have half a mind to take his hands into your own and force them to stop being so careful.

“I won’t break,” you mumble, arching your back a little when he palms a particularly sensitive spot on your side.

“No, but you are something to be worshipped, and deserve to be admired as such.”

You huff out a laugh and press a not-quite-bruising kiss to his mouth. “Goddamn silver tongue.”

“Good for more than just pretty words, I can assure you.”

He twists and lowers you onto your back, nestling you amongst the blankets. Loki very much notices when the sudden chill makes your nipples perk and your stomach tighten. Making sure you’re comfortable, he lays himself next to you on one elbow so that you can still take in the curve of your hips and the rise an fall of your chest. “Are you alright? I do not mean to overstep my bounds-”

“No, nope, absolutely not. You do not get to kiss me like that and then back out on me.”

He grins a little wolfishly. “I am not reconsidering, love, believe me.” He smooths a hand over your lower belly, making you shiver. “I want nothing more. Only making sure my lady is willing.”

“More than.”

He hums, obviously pleased at the ache in your voice. “And have you ever…?”

You wrinkle your nose. “A few times, in college. But nothing… nothing that meant anything, I guess.”

“I see.” He leans down to kiss you softly, then wanders from your lips to your jawbone, then letting his words drip down into the hollow of your neck. Your head arcs to the side, giving him more room to play. “I suppose I shall have a lot to make up for, then.” His tongue darts out and flicks your earlobe, and when he pulls it in between his teeth and drags, all coherent though leaves your brain.

You tug on the loop of his pants, inviting him to lean on top of you. Your stomachs press together, the heat of your skin tempered by the coolness of his own, and the combination is heavenly. He’s hard; you can feel him through the fabric of his jeans, and that pressure against your thigh and hips makes you want to roll up into him. He continues his ministrations, kissing and nipping all the way down your neck and grazing his teeth over your collarbone. Completely lost, your eyes slip closed, and you don’t even notice his hand on your breast until he rolls your nipple between his fingertips.

You gasp, sharp pinpricks heightening every sensation. His mouth joins his fingers; his tongue alternating between teasing you gently and tracing rough patterns onto your skin. Everything in you is wound tight, hyper focused on every place he’s touching and your own labored breathing.

“I can’t- I need- christ, Loki, just-”

“What do you need, love? Tell me, and it shall be yours.”

“Touch me,” you get out. “Please.”

“May I?” His fingers drag underneath your waistband, and at your nod he quickly rids you of your jeans, letting every inch of you be revealed. You’re laid bare before him, and for a fleeting second you have a thought to be embarrassed before it’s banished by curious hands wandering lower to exactly where you want them.

He pulls you close, cradling you against him, supporting you as he begins to slip through your folds, sliding easily around your clit. You’re already so wet you’re aching, and his finger pushes into you so nicely it’s almost sinful.

“Oh, god-” It’s been years since anyone has touched you like this, but even back then it was never this sensational.

“You’re so beautiful, my dear,” he murmurs, his words making his actions even sweeter. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this. To be close to you, to feel you under my hands.” His ring finger joins his middle, stretching you wider. “I want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.’

‘You,” you breathe, tying to keep ahold of yourself. “That’s all I want.”

“Then you shall have me; tonight, and every night after. I am yours, as you are mine.”

You’re already working on the button of his pants. After a hasty suck of his fingers to clean them off, he helps you remove them, tossing them somewhere on the floor. His briefs are the next to go, giving you a spectacular view of his cock and exactly how much he wants you. It’s a dangerously heady feeling, knowing that you do this to him.

Experimentally, you grind your hips into his, and you’re rewarded with an absolutely delicious whine from the man on top of you, and Loki buries wet kisses into the crook of your neck, completely taken with the feeling of you beneath him. “This is what you do to me,” he says against your skin, and you turn to kiss the top of his head while letting your fingers trail down his back.

The constant friction is driving you mad. “God, I can’t-”

Loki lets himself linger above you, a small smirk on his lips. “Wrong deity, darling.”

You rise up to meet him for a kiss, not caring if your teeth clash against his. “Loki,” you say, intent on letting him feel his name as it falls from your mouth. “Loki fucking Laufeyson, would you just get on with it already.”

At that, he lines himself up with your center and rocks into you.

You tense. It’s good, it’s so good, but it also hurts- it’s been a while, and he’s stretching you so wide you have to grip at his shoulders for some kind of purchase.

He can see the hesitation on your face. “Darling? Am I hurting you?”

“No, no, just- slowly. Please.”

He drops a kiss to your lips. “Anything, my love.”

Carefully, he works himself inside you, letting you adjust little by little to the pressure. Eventually, as your grip on his shoulders lessens and the pain gives way to more and more pleasure, he begins to move, his hips setting an even pace that match the lazy kisses he’s placing anywhere he can reach. Your nails make an appearance, digging themselves into his side in effort to steady yourself. You’re sure you must be hurting him, but when your hand slips and rakes across his back, he snaps his hips so hard you gasp at the sudden fullness.

Loki’s attention never wavers from your eyes, your face- constantly watching, both for the pleasure of seeing you undone and to make sure he never pushes you too far. He said you deserve to be worshipped, and the way he’s treating you- so in tune with exactly what you need, cataloguing all the spots that make your breath hitch and your hips roll, never letting you go too long without a kiss- makes you feel more loved, more known, than you ever have in your life.

Ever so slightly, he begins to speed up, thrusting with more force, and moves one hand down to your clit to send additional warmth pooling to your core. You’re moaning now, filthy noises escaping your mouth, unable to do more than hold on and remind yourself to keep breathing as the heat spirals up and up and up-

“Loki- Loki I can’t-”

“It’s alright, love. I’ve got you.” You whine, an unspoken command to keep going- you’re so close- “You can let go.”

His name echoes in the small room as you crack apart, clenching around him until he’s all you can feel- his hands, his mouth, his hips, all of him inside you. Your own undoing seems to tip him over the edge, and nothing has ever made you feel so wanted as seeing every single one of Loki’s walls crumble as he loses himself inside you; crying your name in a language you don’t know as you find your pleasure in one another.

You bury your head in his neck, biting his shoulder with a groan as the two of you ride through the aftershocks. Loki’s fingerprints are branded onto your hip, and you’ve left marks on his neck and shoulder. You kiss each and every one. Sweet nothings of encouragement are whispered into your ear as the high recedes, leaving you with stuttering breath and shaky limbs. You can feel your face is flushed, and your hair is a mess behind you, and who knows how you look at this angle, but Loki’s small praises stay constant nonetheless.

A piece of hair is pushed from your forehead, and you open your eyes to see Loki gazing at you with nothing but love. “There, darling. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“I know,” you whisper. Because Loki means home- he became that a long time ago- and seeing his eyes shine so honestly tells you he’s finally found his as well.

******************************************************************

In the end, you’re in your bed, legs tangled together, both you you trying to catch your breath. He hugs you to him protectively, possessively, with an arm wrapped around your back and anchoring you to his side. Your arm in turn is wrapped around his middle, feeling the rise and fall of his chest and the stuttering of his heart and taking vague pleasure in the fact that you’re the one who did that to him. You breathe, and you feel absolutely full somewhere in your chest, and the heat of your body plus the chill of his somehow melds together into perfect harmony.

“What are you writing?” You mumble against his neck, where your head has been tucked for however long you’ve been laying there. His elegant fingers have been tracing patterns onto your shoulder, soothing you into a hazy sort of comfortable.

“How did you know it was writing?”

“I may occasionally study ancient languages, strange as that may sound to you.” You’re rewarded with a laugh you can feel all the way down to the tips of your toes.

“This,” he says, marking a symbol carefully onto your skin, “is for protection.” His fingers glow faintly green in the dimness of the room. As one line fades away, another appears. “This means loved, roughly translated. And this,” he writes carefully, every touch deliberate, “is my sigil.” The last one almost stings a little as it works its way into your skin.

You shift a little, ignoring his little noise of protest, so you can look at him. “Did you just magick me, Trickster?”

“I would not, without your consent. Though a protection rune might make me feel better,” he admits softly, obviously not over the incident. Neither are you. But now you have him here, really here, to help you through the nightmares. “And I believe my name would look excellent on your skin,” he whispers to you, making you giggle to hide the hot streak of want that runs through you.

“Possessive much?”

“Mm. Forgive me; I do like seeing myself written on beautiful things.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “You’re a god, Loki. You’ve seen things I can’t even imagine. And I know you’ve had plenty of other people,” you point out. “I highly doubt I measure up to any of them.”

“I will not lie.” You raise an eyebrow at him that seems to suggest that’s wise. “I have had others. Some after feasts and too much wine, some because they surprised me enough to attract my attention. Others simply because I was bored.” You try not to get too jealous, imagining others’ hands where yours just were. Loki seems to know what you’re thinking, and pacifies you with a kiss placed amongst your mussed hair. “But they were just people. They wanted me because of lust, or for power, or for the things I could give them. I would wager the nine realms that not a single one of them would have sat and read to me while I was hurting, or dared to challenge me when my temper got the best of me, or talked with me on opposite sides of a cell for months because they were genuinely interested in me. Not the prince. Not the god of mischief, not my silver tongue, or my magic. But me.”

“It sounds very lonely.”

“It was, but I did not realize it until a thousand years later.” There’s a sad resignation in his voice, and you tighten your arm around him. “You are something of a trickster yourself, my lady.” You look at him, confused, and then he graces you with the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen, bar none. “I do not think I fell for you, darling. I think you tripped me.”

“You and your silver tongue,” you grumble, but you have a hard time kissing him on account of the own smile on your lips.

“I was afraid you might have become immune to it; I am pleased to see that is not the case.”

“I don’t think I ever could.”

“I do not ever intend for you to.”

You say nothing more, and neither does he, just continues his etchings of affection onto your shoulder as your eyes flutter closed, safe in the little world you’ve created for just the two of you. It’s almost like you can feel your soul and his intertwining, weaving together, a mortal and a god choosing each other over the universe itself. When he begins humming the faint strains of an Asgardian melody, ancient and warm, peace descends, a glow you’ve never known but can’t wait to claim as yours for as long as you possibly can have it.

A/N: I AM SO NERVOUS ABOUT THIS CHAPTER GOING UP BUT HERE IT IS ITS DONE ITS UP

Only the epilogue left now :”)

[panismightier]

Remember me saying I was writing Julian and Remy meeting yet again? The boys are here in 1700 words of Soft (sorry there’s no cut, mobile is garbage)

—

Julian wasn’t much one for parties, least of all ones his mum hosted. He loved dressing up, sure, especially at a masquerade where he could be especially extravagant, but he found that being surrounded by strangers quickly overwhelmed the fun of a pretty outfit.

It really was a pretty outfit. His mask was an intricate weave of red and pale gold, with a rose made delicately from thin sheets of metal over his left brow. He’d matched the rest of the outfit to the mask: a vest in a rich red brocade with patterns of roses and thorns, a smart jacket with gold accents around the cuffs, and a pin in his cravat shaped into a rose by the same craftsman who’d made his mask. Just before the night had begun, he’d clipped a rose from the garden, snipped off the thorns, and arranged it in his hair over his right ear to balance the mask.

Too bad the jacket was draped over the back of the chair, the midsummer air and stuffiness of the ballroom making it unbearable, and the only ones here to appreciate the ensemble were him and the glass of champagne he’d been sipping at for half an hour. At least the drink went with the outfit.

He leaned on the round standing table, watching the bustle of the dance. His sister, Kitty, twirled a girl in blue who he’d probably recognize if he could be bothered. Mum was alone near the band, she and the musicians the only unmasked people in the room. The servants, otherwise in uniform, wore simple masks bought with extra pay.

He thought he was alone in his corner, so a polite “hello” from his left made him jump. He set down his champagne, thankful he hadn’t spilled it, and returned the greeting. At his side, a respectful few feet from the table, was a man he was quite certain he’d never met. His mask sparkled in blues and greens and silver, with peacock feathers on one side reaching well over the top of his head. His eyes glittered behind the mask, and he wore an easy smile Julian was almost jealous of.

“Hello,” Julian said again, self-consciously tugging at the bottom of his vest.

The stranger bowed slightly, holding out one hand with the other tucked behind his back. “May I have this dance?”

Julian was silent for a moment, his mind blank of any coherence. “Um,” he said eventually, “I never learned how…”

“How do dance?” The man straightened out of his bow with a flustered look.

“Not, um,” Julian picked up his champagne, fiddling with the stem for some comfort. “Not with another man.” Kitty had been the one bold enough to learn both parts. Julian had never asked.

“Would you like to learn?”

Julian considered for a moment, downed what was left of his champagne, and held out a hand to take the peacock’s. He grinned and gently tugged Julian to him.

Julian took a moment to think, reversing the steps he knew before the dance begun. The peacock was more confident, laying his free hand on Julian’s waist and leading him into the steps of the dance. Julian tripped over his feet almost immediately, muscle memory taking over and moving his feet the wrong way. He laughed nervously and corrected himself, trying to follow the peacock’s movements more than think about his own.

For several minutes, the two were silent, Julian too focused on where his feet were to think of much else. Eventually, though, he fell into the rhythm enough to look up to his partner’s face. “I don’t think I know you,” he ventured.

“I don’t think you do.” The peacock smiled. “What’s a masquerade for if not to dance with a stranger?”

Julian flashed a smile of agreement and fell quiet, not sure what else to say.

“What brings you here?” the peacock asked after a moment. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much.”

“My mum’s the host,” Julian said. Maybe that would give away too much, but the family resemblance was clear enough, anyway.

The peacock chewed his lip, looking up in thought. “Starts with a C?”

“What does?”

“Your name.”

Julian smiled. “If you don’t remember, it doesn’t matter.” It was a relief, in fact, to not be associated with his family for a moment. A name meant more than a face, anyway. “It’s a masquerade. Dance with a stranger.”

The peacock grinned, and they danced wordlessly for a few moments.

“What about you, then?” Julian asked. “Why are you here?”

The peacock shrugged. “It’s a party.”

The song ended and Julian stepped back from the peacock to stretch his arms. “You like this kind of thin, then?”

“Most of the time. It’s a good chance to meet people.”

“At a masquerade?”

The peacock laughed. “The dancing’s fun, too.”

At that, the band started up again, bursting into a fast-paced, jaunty number. Julian had always dreaded those kinds of songs in dance lessons, not least because Kitty always flung him out a bit too hard, but at the way the peacock’s face lit up, he found himself smiling, too.

It was a disaster of tripping over his own feet and stepping on the peacock’s, the music flying by too fast for Julian to think through the steps. The peacock didn’t seem to mind. He murmured assurance at Julian’s apologies until he stopped apologizing altogether and let the clumsy jumble of limbs be some fun, a smile fixed on his face that he couldn’t shake if he’d tried.

As the song crescendoed, the peacock spun Julian under his arm and leaned back, holding tight to his hand so they caught each other’s momentum. Julian laughed out loud and the peacock pulled him back in, twirling him until his back was pressed to the peacock’s chest, his arms crossed in front of him. The song came to a decisive end, but Julian let the peacock hold him, still exhilarated and giggling. The feeling of the peacock’s breath in his hair made him shiver.

“Caldwell!” the peacock said, triumphant.

Julian tensed, and the peacock let him go. “What?”

“Caldwell?” the peacock repeated, though his tone had turned concerned. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

The bubbling joy of a moment before drained out Julian’s feet, replaced by the stinging feeling of ice in the backs of his hands. “Yes,” he admitted shortly. The ballroom was too loud, and the stuffy air pressed hard around him. He couldn’t breathe right.

“Oh.” The peacock frowned and reached a hand towards him, not touching. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Julian lied, drawing his arms close to himself. “I’m going to take a minute outside.”

“Are you all right?”

“It’s hot in here.”

Julian stalked for the door.

Outside, Julian sat near the bottom of the stairs. It was cool and dark and quiet here. He took off his mask, the cloth starting to make his face itch, and breathed deep through his nose.

It wasn’t fair to be angry. Julian hadn’t even realized himself how much he’d enjoyed his relative anonymity, he couldn’t expect the peacock to. Still, it stung to be snapped back into reality, one where he was Julian Caldwell and not a pretty stranger at the ball. Where everything he was good at didn’t matter, and everything he was bad at did.

Shoes tapped down the stairs behind him, and he took a moment to regain his composure before he turned around.

“Hello,” the peacock said, standing several feet back. Julian couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness. “Your sister said I should go after you, but if you’d like me to leave, just say so.”

Julian shook his head, turning back to face the bottom of the steps. “It’s all right. Kitty was watching us?”

“She said she’d never seen you have fun before.” The peacock’s tone was more certain now, and he descended to sit by Julian, still keeping a respectful distance. He’d taken his mask off, too, and dangled it off one finger. “I couldn’t tell if she was teasing.”

Julian laughed softly. “That’s Kitty for you.”

A silence passed, somewhere between comfortable and horrendously awkward, before the peacock spoke again. “I really am sorry. You said it didn’t matter. I should have let it go.”

“I’m not upset with you.” Julian sighed. “I’m just...frustrated. I’d have liked not to be Caldwell longer.”

The peacock glanced at the flower in Julian’s hair and said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right?”

Julian shrugged. “Names mean a lot, I think. Juliet had to convince Romeo he’d still be somebody without his name. I guess I wanted to be who I am without mine.”

“You understand that play better than me,” the peacock admitted with a short laugh. “I just thought it would be romantic.”

“It was,” Julian said, letting himself smile now. He scooted a little closer to the peacock.

He grinned back. “Would you like me to tell you my name?”

“There’s no need to,” Julian told him.

“What if I said I wanted to?” he amended. “If names mean something, I’d like you to have mine.”

Julian’s face warmed. “All right?”

The peacock turned on the steps and held out a hand to Julian. “Remy Hackett. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”

Julian beamed, the nickname making him almost giddy. He took the peacock’s hand in a firm shake. “The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Hackett.”

“Call me Remy.”

Julian moved still closer. He looked into Remy’s face, searching for permission. Remy closed the gap between them and gently scooped Julian against his side.

“Is this all right?” he asked softly.

“More than,” Julian murmured. Remy was warm, though it was comforting now rather than stifling. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

Julian let his eyes slip closed as Remy laced his fingers in his hair. It had been a long time since anyone held him like this. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

“I’d like to see you again,” he murmured without thinking. Then he blushed and extricated himself from Remy’s side.

Remy was grinning. “I didn’t want to ask before you did,” he said, relief clear in his voice. “I’ll write to you tomorrow.”

Julian smiled back, resolving not to breathe a word of this to Kitty. “I’d like that.”

Remy stood from the stairs and bowed slightly, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “Rose, may I have this dance?”

Julian took his hand and stood with a bow of his own. “You may,” he said, and the two returned to the ballroom hand-in-hand.

[killswitchwrites]

Three Little Monkeys

Sam x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Beta’d (live and in person) by: @pinknerdpanda & @hannahindie - there were a lot of cackles and snorts. 

Also beta’d (and sadly, not in person) by: @trexrambling

Warnings: Language, some feels, mostly crack.

Summary: Speak no evil. See no evil. Hear no evil. Sure, it sounds simple enough, but try putting it into practice. Luckily, Rowena is around to help. Well... “help” is a relative term. 

“Dean! How many times do I have to tell you to pick up your wet towels? I nearly died a minute ago.” It’s not that you enjoy nagging your boyfriend’s older brother, it’s actually the contrary. But shit. Near death.

“I dunno, Y/n. How about you tell me, in an even more shrill voice, a few more times. Maybe, if you shatter my eardrums, the information will absorb faster.”

“Don’t tempt me, asshole.”

“Better an asshole than a whole ass!”

“What’s going on in here?” Sam interrupts Dean’s self-satisfied snorting.

“Oh, nothing. Your harpy of a girlfriend-”

 Whatever Dean’s about to say is cut off by the heavy thwack of a wet towel hitting him in the face.  

“Real mature, Y/n,” Dean grumbles.

 Sam tries to remove himself from the situation by slowly backing out of the room. He fails.

“Not so fast,” you warn. “Don’t you have anything to say about all of this?”

“Um…”

 It’s not like you don’t recognize the position you’ve put him in, asking him to choose you over his brother. But only one of you is sucking his dick on the regular; you expect some sort of advantage.

“I think I love you both, and I wish you’d find a way to get along.”

 Slippery bastard. Now you’re the asshole if you push the issue. Well played, Sam.

 Storming from the room, before Dean can, is about your only option for maintaining what’s left of your dignity. Unfortunately, Dean has the same idea as you. And, because you’re just that lucky, you end up wedging yourselves in the doorway.

 Dean grunts when you slam into him. His shoulder digs into your collarbone.

“Mother fuck. I think it’s time to cut back on the pie, Dean.”

“I think it’s time you get glasses. I was clearly here before you!”

 Dean mutters something else while he struggles to extricate himself from the doorway.

“What are you muttering about?” You struggle against him, still trying to be the first one to exit.

 Dean stops. “I said, maybe then your eyes wouldn’t look so beady!”

“Well, I never!” You throw an elbow into his ribs and he stumbles back, giving you the upper hand.

 Sam gapes from the hallway, at a complete loss for words, as you march past him.

 The door to your room is closed, and you bang it open before slamming it shut. Frustration seeps out of every pore and culminates with tears at the corners of your eyes.  

“Stupid, freckled-faced, beer chugging, pie scarfing-” you throw open the door and poke your head out, “whole ass!”

 Dean, who just happened to be walking past your door, jumps and flattens himself against the wall, dramatically clutching his chest. His eyes narrow when he zeros in on the tears streaking your cheeks. “Y/n, look I-”

“I don’t want to see your face, ever again!” The slamming door cuts him off.

 You watch until the shadow of his boots disappears from beneath the door before going to sit on your bed. Clutching your knees to your chest, you let out a sob. Words hurt. Especially, when it’s not the first time you’ve heard them. Something Dean’s not aware of. And not like you’d ever tell him, even if he’d listen.  

“Y/n?” Sam’s knock is soft before he cracks the door open. “Mind if I come in?”

“It’s your room, too,” you remind him, discreetly wiping the snot from your nose with the back of your hand.

“I know that, but if you want space…”  

“What I really want is a hug.”

 Sam slips into the room, kicking off his shoes before settling on the bed and pulling you to his chest. “I don’t understand why you guys are suddenly at each other’s throats.”

“I dunno, maybe it’s because Dean has been extra annoying lately.”

“Maybe,” Sam ponders, and you almost feel the gears turning.

“You’re not going to start looking for hex bags as soon as I fall asleep, are you?”

“No, that’d be ridiculous. The only people that have been in the bunker lately are Cas and-” Sam curses under his breath- “and Rowena.”

 Both of you sit up and stare at each other.

“She wouldn’t dare,” you scoff.

“She’s Rowena,” Sam shrugs.

 That’s all the explanation needed to get you off of the bed and digging through drawers. Within a few minutes, the room looks like it’s been on the receiving end of a burglary.

“The bunker is huge. A hex bag could be anywhere!” You push sweaty hair out of your eyes and rest your hands on your hips, feeling thoroughly defeated.

“Let’s just put the bed back together, and we’ll deal with it in the morning,” Sam suggests with a yawn.

“Fine,” you agree. “But first thing in the morning I’m summoning that hairy warted thorn in my side.”

“First thing in the morning?” Sam questions with a look that you’re all too familiar with. “Because I kinda had plans for us, first thing in the morning.”

“Oh yeah?” You sidle closer. “And what might they have been?”

“How about I give you a quick preview?”

 Sam grabs you by the hips and tosses you unto the bed. You land with a soft thump and a giggle. The laughter dies on your lips with the predatory gleam in Sam’s eyes.

 As he stalks up your body, dragging his frame to cover yours, you swallow around the lump in your throat. If this is the preview, we’re going to have one hell of a morning, is the last coherent thought you have for the next few hours that follow.

___

 Achy muscles greet you with your morning stretch. Not the “I’ve just fought a werewolf and nearly lost” kind of achy. This is the good kind. The worn out from complete, and utter bliss, kind.  

 In the dark, your hand goes in search of Sam, and you find him sprawled out beside you, somehow covered in sweat, regardless of the perpetually cool temperature of the bunker.

 You shuffle a little closer to steal his body heat. He stirs under your touch, and you place a kiss on his bare chest.

“You still up for those plans?” you purr.

 Sam doesn’t answer.

“Sam?”

 The click of the bedside light reaches your ears, but the light doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Sam?” This time your question is laced with panic.

 Sam grabs your hands and places them on his face. His morning scruff tickles your palms while your thumbs graze his soft lips. Lips that are moving, but not making a sound.

“What the hell is going on, Sam?!”

 Sam moves your hands again and signs into your palm. It’s been years since you studied ASL, and even then, you had your eyesight. You’re fairly certain he’s signed “wait”.

 The bed springs creak just before the door slams. Seconds stretch like hours until the door bangs against the wall and scares the life out of you.

“What the hell?!” Dean yells. The pitch of his tone is all over the place. Almost like he can’t hear himself.

After a few moments of processing, you burst out with, “You’re deaf!”

You practically feel the exasperated look Sam gives you.  

“What?!” Dean yells, again.

So this is what retirement with Dean will be like. Awesome.

Pointing in the direction of Dean’s voice you motion to your ears.

“I can’t hear you, Y/n!”

You wave your hand in front of your face and slowly blink your eyes.

“Oh,” Dean mumbles.

Sam’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you lean into his touch.

“Well, this is just peachy. I can’t see, Sam can’t speak, and Dean can’t hear.”

“What?!”

___

 After many tries and more than a few accidental insults, the three of you devise your own version of sign language.

 It takes even longer to figure out how you’re going to summon Rowena. Sam, the resident Latin expert being mute, is a setback. You, the second best, unable to see the words, is another. Which leaves Dean. On most days his Latin is passable. Today is not most days.

 Due to his inability to hear himself, his intonation is completely off. At this point, it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t summon a hellbeast from another dimension.

 Much stuttering and stammering later, and there’s still no red-headed wench to answer for her crimes. Tears of frustration and pain -the corners of the library tables are surprisingly sharp- slip down your cheeks.  

“It’ll be okay!” Dean tries to console you but ends up shouting so loud you wince.

“Sorry,” he mutters a little quieter.

 You give him a watery smile and he awkwardly pats your back before moving away.

A chair scuffs the floor beside you, and Sam’s heat radiates at your elbow.

“Did you find anything to help us?”

“I think so.” Siri’s voice reaches your ears, and you slap yourself in the forehead. Of course.

 It’s safe to say that Siri is no better at Latin than she is at English. Still, she’s a bit better than Dean at this point.

“Well, what have we here, dears?” Rowena’s Scottish lilt floats through the library.

 It’s quickly followed by a surprised squeak. “Och, hands off, ya great brute. This is vintage!”

“Ha!” You snort. “Just because you’re a crusty old lady, doesn’t mean your ratty clothes are vintage.”

“And just who do you think you are calling me crusty? Ya wee Bampot.”

“Ladies,” Siri Sam interrupts, “calling names won’t get us anywhere.”

“When did you get a robot voice, Sam? And a female one at that,” Rowena coos. “You know, I always thoug-”

“Enough, Rowena!” you interrupt, stepping in her general direction and swinging, only to connect with empty air.

“I’m over here, Lass. Can you not see me a’tall?”

“I don’t need to see to kick your ass,” you grumble.

“Not to argue, but apparently you do.”

“Fix us!” Dean rumble squeaks.

“It appears you’re all in a bit of a bind, now aren’t ya?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Siri Sam answers.

“Language, Samuel,” she chides. “Ya know… I’d love to help you. But I swore never to practice magic in the bunker. I’d hate to go against my word...”

“Evil skank!” You step in the direction of her voice, determined to wring the spell from her.

“Now, now, before you go pointing fingers and getting grabby, you should get your facts straight. If not, you might end up looking like a numpty.” She pauses. “I may be convinced to help. If I were properly motivated.”

“And there it is, the angle... I knew this was you!”

“Oh darling, it’s always about the angle,” Rowena giggles.  

“Just tell us what you want.” Even Siri Sam sounds exasperated with Rowena’s attempt at extortion.

“Och, it’s nothing. Just a wee book. You won’t even miss it.”

____

“I’m not saying it was me who cursed you, but drink this and everything should go back to normal. Well... as normal as you lot get.”

“How do we know it’s not poison?” you ask, sniffing the contents of the glass she’s placed in your hand.

“Because there’s no point in killing you. You’d just come back again,” she drawls.  

“You’re not wrong.” The way you say it sounds more like a warning than a statement.  

“Toodle-loo, dears. Do ring again if you find yourself in need of saving. I’m sure there are more bargains to be struck.”  

 As soon as the door clangs shut, you down the liquid in one gulp. It tastes like ass.

“Do you feel anything?” Siri Sam asks.

“Not ye-” gut-wrenching pain doubles you over- “something is definitely happening!”

 The darkness begins to take shape, while bright lights spark at the edges of your vision. Slowly, Sam’s face floats into focus. His shoulders sag with relief when your eyes meet.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” you say with a wide smile.

“Hey yourself,” Sam replies with an even bigger smile.

“Does this mean I have to listen to you two going at it, again?”

 Instead of answering Dean, Sam grabs you by the hips and pulls you close. You go up on your tiptoes and seal your lips to his.

“Awesome. Now they’re the deaf ones...”

 Sam slides his hands down to your ass and you jump, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“...it’s okay. I don’t mind talking to myself, at least that way I’ll get some intelligent conversation, for once.”

A wanton moan vibrates your lungs when Sam nips your bottom lip.

“Perfect. Just perfect. I think that stuff actually made my hearing better. Fucking witches.” Dean takes his mumbling down the hallway, and Sam continues to explore your curves.

 Things are just reaching the point of no return when the door bangs again, startling you and Sam.

Cas shuffles down the stairs, looking more perturbed than usual.

“Look who finally decided to show,” you grumble, slipping from Sam’s grip. “We could’ve used you a few hours ago. Instead, we got stuck dealing with Rowena.”

“I apologize. I was detained, dealing with a matter.”

“What matter?” you ask.

“I recovered a cursed object, but its container was damaged in the flight home. Delta assured me they would treat it with the utmost care.”

Sam clears his throat, “Do we need to be talking about this, right now?”

 One look at his heated gaze and you grab his hand and drag him from the library.

“Sorry, Cas. Gotta run! Important thi-” you skid to a halt. Sam, who was too busy staring at your ass to watch where he was going, bumps into you, nearly knocking you over.

 A book, waiting to be reshelved, has caught your eye. “Wait… was that object you found a statue of three monkeys, perchance?”

“That is a very accurate guess, Y/n.”

“Where is it now?”

“I have it stored in one of the vaults in the archives while I await to hear the results of my damage claim. I may have forgotten to fully close the door.”  

 With a groan, you realize that Rowena was right. Now there will be no living with her.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yells from down the hallway. “I bet it was a cursed object!”  

You roll your eyes, shouting back. “It’s like there’s a slow echo in the bunker!”

“What?!”

Need more Sam? Click HERE

Sam not your jam? Click HERE for Dean. 

Want in on the crazy? Send me an ASK and become a peep. 

[jarienn972]

Only a Little Superstitious - Chapter One

I’d been a little hesitant to post the start of this story while I have another WIP out there, but I decided to go ahead and put this one out there too.  I have this one all plotted out but because it is taking more research time to get many of the details and character traits ironed out, I don’t have as much completed as I do with The Right Place.  I have two chapters completed and posted on both AO3 and FF.net and I’ll upload the second chapter here on Tumblr as soon as I have a chance.  

This story basically developed out of the same premise as The Right Place in that I wanted to take Emma out of the magical realm and put her in a position where she had to fall back on her wits along with her newfound ability to trust others to get out of their predicament.  Expect this to be a bit of a bumpy ride with a new twist on some infamous legends.  I’m also going to go ahead and tag @killian-whump because I know this tale will definitely be pertinent to her interests.  

There really wasn't any way to know where or really even how she was going to land. If this portal worked like the others she'd had the occasion to jump or fall into, they'd end up wherever Killian had been thinking of when he lost his footing and fell. She'd just kept repeating the mantra in her head – Bring me to Killian – and when her body finally collided with the ground, it was every bit as unpleasant as she'd expected it to be. The earth here was strewn with rocks – a fact she'd learned the hard way as she'd landed face first, scraping her cheek and shoulder on a boulder that the rest of her head narrowly missed, although she wished she could say the same for the bush she'd landed on top of, colliding with several of its thorn laden branches which tore several small holes in her blouse and jeans. Thankfully, the leather of her jacket spared her from the worst leaving a deep scrape in the fabric that would have laid open the skin on her right side had she not been wearing the outer garment.

The sudden hard landing knocked the wind out of her and she realized later that she must have blacked out for a few moments when she suddenly awoke with a start and a single thought: Where was Killian? As she extricated herself from the jagged bush, she scanned the surrounding area looking for signs of her missing husband. She didn't immediately see him nearby, but thankfully, he must have spotted her first as she heard his voice calling out to her.

"Swan?" His voice sounded so distant, but with her ears still ringing with disorientation from the portal, she couldn't exactly be certain. "Are you alright?"

Alright? He was asking if she was alright? Only moments before the portal opened up in the middle of Main Street, she'd watched him take a dagger to the gut and he wanted to know if she was alright?

"I'm fine," she replied, pushing her protesting body up from the dirt as she wiped at her bloodied face with her sleeve.

"You don't look fine," he continued, his voice closer now as she realized he was walking slowly toward her, partially obscured by clumps of chaparral and some dangerous looking pointy leaved plants, some of which neared five feet tall. She could see that he was clutching tightly to his chest, his fingers already slick with blood from the stab wound she knew lay beneath. "You're bleeding."

"So are you," she reminded him, dumbfounded how he could still be so concerned that she had a few cuts and scratches when he was obviously in greater distress. "I've just got a few scratches and a little bump on the head. You're not that lucky," she stated as he reached her.

"I'll be fine," he insisted as she slid her arm around his waist, moving him toward a slab of nearby sandstone where she could get him to sit down. The slight waiver in his voice told her he was anything but fine.

"I don't think so. Sit down here and let me take a look at you," He didn't put up much fight, his body nearly collapsing onto the boulder which was an even better indicator that he was in a great deal of pain and doing a lousy job of concealing it.

"Is your magic working in this land?" he asked. It was an honest question, but she instantly doubted that she could give him the answer they both wanted to hear. She couldn't feel her magic – couldn't will it to surface. Whatever realm they'd landed in, it was one without magic and that meant she couldn't heal his wound.

"I don't think so," she responded, recognizing the flicker of fear that flashed in his eyes. "I can't feel it, but we'll manage… Do you have your flask on you?" He nodded, producing it from the inside pocket of his leather coat and proceeding to remove the stopper with his teeth and take a quick swig before she snatched it out of his hand. "Hey! I didn't mean drink it!" she scolded him. "We're going to need it to disinfect that wound."

"Just attempting to dull the discomfort somewhat," he confessed as he begrudgingly yanked his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and began to unfasten the buttons of his vest. Emma pushed his hand away knowing she could complete the task faster with two hands. "You do realize that I'm perfectly capable of unbuttoning my own garments…"

"Will you just relax a moment?" she glared, scowling at him as he attempted to reach for the flask she'd placed on the flat surface of the rock beside him to free up her hands. "Leave that alone…" He groaned with displeasure, but withdrew his hand, wincing as she peeled back the blood soaked fabric of his shirt to reveal the wound. "Sorry," she apologized, not wishing to cause him additional pain. The wound itself didn't look like much – just a narrow slit in his skin right below his rib cage, but it was bleeding profusely and there was no way to tell how deep it went or the exact path of the blade. "You don't happen to have a handkerchief or a scarf hiding in there anywhere by chance, do you?"

"Sorry, Love. 'Fraid not," he replied. "Didn't leave the house this morning expecting to be run through with a bloody dagger." Well, at least his sense of humor was still intact despite the injury.

"We've got to find something to help stop the bleeding. Need to keep pressure on it…"

"I've been trying to," he assured her, "but it's a tad difficult with only one hand…" She understood knowing that he'd likely landed as hard as she had so she was worried that there might be other injuries she couldn't even see, but right now, she had to think of something.

Since it was already tattered and torn from her entanglement with the barbed brush, Emma pulled the hem of her blouse free of the waistband of her own jeans and tore off the bottom section of the pale peach fabric leaving a strip of skin exposed at her midsection. Had he not been in so much discomfort, the sight of that glimpse of flesh would have been quite the turn on, but he could barely manage a pained smirk as he focused on how to put an end to the ache in his chest. He already suspected the severity of the injury having been run though enough times in his many years to have a decent grasp on his situation. It was a survivable wound, if they could find help rapidly, but the thought that they didn't even yet know what realm they'd landed in wasn't helping.

While he lamented the seriousness of their dilemma, she folded the strip of fabric into a makeshift pad and after retrieving the flask, soaked it with a generous dosing of rum then pressed it into his wound. She tried to ignore her own stabbing of guilt as he hissed and writhed from the sting of the alcohol on the tender, open wound.

"Sorry… Sorry…," she stammered, fearful of pressing too hard as she really didn't want to inflict more pain.

"I'm fine, Love… Just stings a bit…," he lied as the initial shock wore off leaving him with just a lingering burning sensation. "I'll be fine."

"Fine? You're a lousy liar… Keep holding this against the wound," she instructed. "I need to find us some shelter and try to figure out where we are. Those skies aren't looking too promising…"

"Aye," he replied in a hushed tone as his eyes drifted upward to the clouds. There was still blue sky directly above them but out toward the horizon, ominous dark grey clouds loomed. "There's definitely a storm brewing."

"That was my thought too," she concurred, digging into her pockets to retrieve two items – her cell phone and her department-issue handgun. "I'm going to go scout around a bit," she stated, placing the weapon next to him on the rock's surface. "I'll try not to be gone long, but if anything comes near you that's bigger than a jackrabbit, shoot it."

"And what about you?" he asked, still more concerned for her welfare than his own safety. "You don't have magic here…"

"I can manage. Remember, you're the one with the hole in his stomach. You need the protection more than I do. Besides, I can still run. You can't."

"Point taken. Just please be careful, Swan."

"I will," she promised, not really keen on leaving him here in alone but well aware that she could move faster without him. There had to be something in the near vicinity that could provide some shelter from the approaching storm and if they were lucky, provide them with some clues as to their present location. The landscape here was rugged and arid, evidenced by the sparse vegetation consisting mostly of dry scrub brush and plant life that was likely some form of cacti or maybe yucca? The panoramas were vaguely familiar, yet she couldn't quite place why. Had she been here before?

She tried to scope out a perimeter within a few hundred yards of where she'd left Killian, making sure to identify and remember landmarks so she would be able to find her way back. Her knee high heeled boots weren't the best footwear to be navigating the uneven, gravely terrain. What she wouldn't give for a decent pair of hiking boots and a huge bottle of water right now! The sun's position in the sky and her shadow on the ground had to be her guide as she had little else to use for direction. Without a compass, she could only assume that she was traveling southwest from Killian's location and if she was correct – slightly downhill.

She'd begun to circle back when she noticed that on the far side of a row of bushes similar to the one she'd landed in earlier there was a patch of well-worn dirt which stood out in stark contrast to the rocky earth on this side of the brush. She squeezed herself between the brambles to spy what appeared to be an intentionally cleared path and if she didn't know better, she would have sworn it was a hiking path worn through the wilderness. Perhaps this was some sort of roadway between villages in this realm she thought – until an unexpected object gave her the first clue to their whereabouts.

Approximately twenty feet from her was rectangular wooden post about 18 inches tall that had been driven into the ground and bore an engraved number on it – an 8. Emma scrambled over to the post hoping there might be more information on it besides the number and as she got closer, she realized that the number emblazoned on it was actually a decimal - .8 and below it were four almost imperceptible letters – USDF. Why was a wooden post in the middle of nowhere marked with a decimal – a decimal and a bunch of letters? She stared quizzically at it for a moment then it dawned on her – she had been correct in her theory that she'd been looking at a hiking trail and the post before her was a trail marker! Now – which direction?

She followed the trodden path a short distance, until she came to the next marker which was labeled .6. Counting down meant she was going in the direction of the trail head which held the promise of providing more information and perhaps a picnic area or something with a little cover. She wanted to push ahead and see where the trail led, but she'd already been away from her husband longer than she'd wanted to be. She'd go back for him and they'd head down to the trail head together – hopefully getting themselves one step closer to civilization.

"Killian?" she called out to him as she neared the clearing where she'd left him earlier, fairly certain that she'd returned to the correct spot, but still harboring a few doubts when she couldn't see him. "Killian? Can you hear me?" She'd been away for twenty, maybe thirty minutes – longer than she'd intended, but she should have known that he wouldn't stay put. She'd apparently mistakenly assumed that he would follow her instructions and stay in one place, but it was looking more and more like he'd wandered off in search of her – at least until she heard his faint reply.

"Emma?" His voice was noticeably weaker which instantly renewed her concern that she couldn't see him as her eyes scanned the clearing, recognizing the boulder he'd been seated on when she'd gone in search of shelter.

"Yeah – it's me. I'm back and I have a bit of an idea where we might be. I found a marked hiking trail nearby. If we can follow it back to the trailhead, it might have signage to tell us exactly where we are and maybe a few clues as to how we can get help," she nervously kept rambling on hoping her voice would draw him back to her, but her anxious mind was getting the best of her… "It's not far to the trail. I think we can make it, but I have to find where you've wandered off to first. I told you to stay put…"

"Over here…," he said a little louder this time and his voice seemed to be coming from the direction of the boulder where he'd been sitting earlier, but he wasn't atop it any longer. She could see smears of blood and his hopefully not empty flask, but not him. "And I didn't 'wander off' anywhere… Down here, Love…" he added as he heard her footsteps draw closer.

"Down where?" She started to ask then stopped as she saw his black denim clad leg poking out from behind the stained sandstone slab. Hurrying over, she found him seated on the dusty earth, leaning against the sturdy sandstone for support. In his hand, he still clutched the crimson soaked cloth she'd torn from her blouse, but it was no longer held against the wound as his arm lay across his thigh. Her pistol rested beside his right hip, the safety still in place. He no longer had the strength to hold his arm up and Emma knew there was no time to waste if they were going to make it down to the trail head. "Think you can walk?" she asked him rather bluntly as she stooped to retrieve her weapon and return it to its holster at the small of her back. With time of the essence, she needed to know, determined to carry him if she needed to. She wasn't leaving him behind this time.

"I think so," he replied, pushing his back into the boulder, using it for leverage to push himself to his feet while she took ahold of his left arm at the bend of his elbow, then wrapped his hooked arm around her own waist before slipping her right arm around his midsection. He wasn't steady on his feet, but he was standing.

"Lean on me," she insisted. "It's going to be about a mile over some uneven terrain." He nodded in understanding, reaching back for the glass flask which he tucked back into his jacket pocket.

"We may need this later," he grinned, getting an icy glare of skepticism from his wife in return. "Don't worry. I didn't partake of a single drop while you were gone."

"Come on. The clouds are getting thicker and the wind is picking up. We probably have less than an hour to find the trailhead and if we're lucky, someplace to hide from this storm…"

[cosmicallybrownie]

stardust (paint the sky in your fight)

Pairing: Natan 

Word Count: 1750

Warnings: blood mention, death mention 

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @astarisms!!! Love my my life, my sun and moon! Queen of my heart I love you forever. 

This is a take on the fairy AU from @astarisms and @giventheocean and the art can be found here and here! I borrowed some dialogue from the talented @giventheocean‘s comic about this same AU. Bless both of them. 

The vines of the forest parted before him, then concealed the wandering path that he haphazardly cut through the heavy trees. The untouched corner of the earth smelled unfamiliar, but the perfumed air danced with something floral that filled his lungs and lingered on his tongue. It tasted far too much like home.

Lucifer could sense her through the foliage, and he followed her gentle singing down the route defined by a stream of blue water. Fallen leaves and purple flower petals dotted the navy surface and twirled in time with his heavy footfalls. If he dipped a toe into the stream, he knew it would run warm.

 When Natalie’s form came into view, he saw her hair first. The contrast of her bright waves cut through the shadowed evening, and echoed off the branches of the tree she sat under. Despite the setting sun tinting the world purple, he swore she was glowing, illuminating the leaves with her fragile wings she was unashamed of. Her pale skin seemed untouched by the sun, and he worried the dark ink of his tattoos with his thumb, the scarlet lines forever branding him as a traitor.

 A branch snapped below Lucifer’s foot on his next step, and Natalie’s head lifted in shock, startling the small bird from her grasp with the abrupt motion. Instead of looking for the intruder, she watched the bird take flight into the treetops, towards somewhere safer than here. When she looked back down to her hands, a midnight black feather was the only reminder of her visitor.

 Finally, her attention turned towards Lucifer, his fingers twitching under the scrutiny and surprise that hid simmering anger. He would have missed it, had he not grown so familiar with the emotions that worried the faint lines of her face. Some things never changed.

 When she stood from her spot, the pale gown she wore shifted, its hem skirting the waters of the stream that circled her in a gentle sort of cage. She was alone in the large clearing, with only the fireflies and birds to sing to her when the silence of the nights grew so deafening that she swore she could hear the darkness carve the moon into smaller pieces each night. Natalie never liked to be alone.

 She twirled the feather in her fingertips, the motion distracting her from looking to Lucifer. His presence was almost suffocating. When she finally raised her gaze to meet his again, the momentary anger was gone, and replaced with something far more heartbreaking.

 “I was told you would be here,” Lucifer told her, his even voice nearly swallowed by the rising groan of the cicadas in the trees. He didn’t sound like himself. (he was hollower, somehow).

 Her fingers brushed over the feather in her lap before she tucked it behind her pointed ear. It stuck oddly out of her hair, completely familiar in a way that made Lucifer’s throat tighten. He rubbed a hand over his chest to alleviate the pressure, and plucked a flower from a nearby bush to give his hands something to do.  

 When he spoke again, his voice bordered on soft, like he was sharing a secret with the small bloom, “I should have known. You always liked gardens.”

 He seemed to be talking more to himself, and she was almost afraid to listen to the words. She was no longer sure what he would say, and what the silences meant.

 When Natalie asked, “Lucifer?” his attention snapped back to her, and he crushed the flower between his fingers, turning the tips of them a bruised purple. It was fitting.

 “It’s been a while, Natalie. We need to talk.” She watched the destroyed petals drop from his steel grip, his tone matching the chill.

The edge in his voice brought up the walls Natalie had carefully erected in her solitude, locking herself in a self-inflicted prison, “I have nothing to say to you.”

 There was no emotion in her voice, and Lucifer was wrong. (The water around her ankles was cold, biting cold. There was no warmth here)

 Her dismissal made his lungs freeze in his chest, and he kept his next few breaths shallow for fear of shattering into pieces before her. Hell was hot, burning hot. It never could have prepared him for how cold her green eyes were. Crystalized frost had crept into her soul, pulling the bright green of her eyes to sleep under the temptation of rest.

 He had come to wake her.

 “It’s time, Natalie.” Her name tasted sweet on his tongue, “We all have to pick sides. You chose me before, and Heaven doesn’t give second chances.”

 “You want me to join your side,” Natalie filled in, cutting straight to the marrow of the question Lucifer had found her to ask. She should have known, he would only disturb her carefully created peace when the situation turned dire.

 “I need you to.” It was not a lie. The forces of Hell would never stand a chance against the unified forces of Heaven unless the fairies backed them. “It would be a slaughter without you.”

 Natalie could practically see the forest run red. Heavy streaks of crimson painted the trees in violence, turning her world hot with hatred that soaked into the roots of the earth. The fields would reap poison for generations to come. The creeks ran black as tar, sticking to her bare feet, and pulling her deep, deep, deeper, until she was gasping for air, but unable to breathe. She would die in a wake of destruction that started with a single spark, her lungs heavy with the smoke.

 But she could fight. She would not lose her home again.

 “I will work with you. At your side, not below you.” Lucifer opened his mouth to protest, and Natalie held up a hand, “I’m not a soldier for this war.”

 Where Natalie went, the rest of the fairies followed, so for the first time in his life, Lucifer didn’t protest. Instead, he consented to her terms with a firm nod that spoke the accordance that he was too proud to say. Natalie held her hand out as an offer, and he wrapped his large hand around her smaller one, shaking away the small note of fear lingering in his throat.

 Her blood was too clean to seal the promise with a contract. If they cut their hands open to unify their stake in the war, she would kill him.

 Wind pushed through the trees, rippling the water and whipping Natalie’s hair in a spray of red, giving her and excuse to pull her hand away from Lucifer’s grip. She twisted the mess of waves around her fingers, but didn’t step away from him, terrified he would disappear.  

 “Do you,” Lucifer paused, his eyes searching the clearing that was filled with traces of her, “do you live here?”

 Natalie’s gaze followed his, searching the empty area that was so full of life, but felt so chokingly empty, “Where else could I live? Humans almost hate us worse than demons.” Bitterness crept around her words as the last flashes of the sun streaked across her face, casting shadows on her gentle features.

 Guilt bit sharply at Lucifer’s stomach, threatening to buckle his knees, but he kept his face a practiced neutral mask, “Imagine that.”

 (They both knew he was to blame)

 Darkness washed over her form when she stepped away from him, “I don’t have to.”  

 Lucifer could practically see the loneliness draping a cloak over her, hiding her from the dark, but also hiding her from him. A heavy wedge of fear was driven between them, and they both knew what happened the last time they relied on each other. Trust led to pain and solitude, and he could see the flicker of her contemplation as she evaluated the options laid before her in the face of the end.

 He wondered if she had always been this transparent.

 The gauzy material of her gown bunched around her hips as she sat down on the edge of a fallen tree, the rough bark scraping her ankles. Natalie kept her back towards Lucifer when she pulled the feather from her hair, smoothing the broken plume until the edges were pristine again, and then she placed it gingerly on the log beside her. The wind carried it off seconds later, as if accepting the offering.    

 She spoke over her shoulder, reading the confusion of Lucifer’s silence, “the treasures of the forests are not to be kept and coveted. You cannot put them on display.”

 He wasn’t sure what to say to that, and settled for a sharp nod, “I’ll come find you again soon. I must talk to my second in command.”

 She stood to face him, and the material of her skirt dragged softly through the water when she crossed to meet him, “I’ll be here.”

 Again, she held out her hand to shake his, and this time it was Lucifer that pulled away first, but not before Natalie’s cold fingers trailed gently over the inside of his wrist.

 The wet hem of her skirts chilled her, and she shivered when he withdrew his warm hand from hers. Natalie pressed her dry palm to her chest when the forest swallowed him, and the touch spilled warmth into her veins. She had forgotten what it was like to be warm, and when the sticky sweet air of the forest lingered in her lungs, she smiled into the darkness.  

 Lucifer’s heart pounded in time with his steps as he carved a trail outwards, feeling helpless and lost even as he followed the stream in its certainty. He hurried too fast, desperate to be away from a past he wasn’t ready to face, and a thorn bush tore into his shoulder. The sharp pain pulled him out of his rush, and when he extricated himself, he could smell the metallic blood in the black night.  

 He looked towards the moon when the cover of the trees broke at last, and just a sliver of white was visible around the darkened new moon. New beginnings reflected in Natalie’s green eyes, and this time, they would be the winners in the war of free will. In this war, there was no room for neutrality, and the consequence of being on the wrong side would be death.

 But even when the leaves on the trees crumbled to nothing but stardust, doomed to paint the sky with constellations until the last night fell, he would never see her lonely again.

[niiqhtmare]

i. overview

Species: Light Blooded Wytch

Full Name: First Name ( UTP ) du Plessis.

Birthday & Age:  June 2nd, 1997 / 22

Skill: Telekinesis & Twin Telepathy

Level: Favoured Soul

Occupation: Socialite / Fashion Influencer / Exchange Student at Astoria University.

Neighborhood: UTP or Belmonte Estate, # bed(s) # bath(s) - lives with UTP.

Hometown: South Dakota, United States

Residency Status: Newcomer, UTP weeks

Sexual Orientation: UTP

ii. personality

+ poised, labyrinthine, charming, & trait.

- vainglorious, ruthless, reticent, & poisonous.

iii.  about the species

wytches are humans with the power to affect natural or unnatural change by magical means. they connect themselves with divine forces in order to practice magic. with regular practice they can become highly skillful, dangerous if endeavors lead to malecium. there is a general curse to their existence; they tend to become addicted to supernatural forces and due to their constant use of magic, to misuse they will surely go down a path of becoming increasingly amoral towards human life as a result. the concept of wytches has existed across various cultures both primitive and advanced, throughout recorded history. their general misconception of their kind is primarily rooted in the mass carnage of the middle ages, against people, particularly women, who practiced any form of belief or healing that could be deemed anti-christian.

iv.  the past

Pearls around her neck and her hand around yours, stroking or choking, Ariadne du Plessis was capable of much more than what she let on. She consisted of wild eyes, soft lips, and a look that dared you to get closer.  It was the look of a siren; enchanting and distracting, ready to lure in the victim and into a deep grave when reality hit them a second too late. Ariadne was pink, but she had the potential to be TERRIFYING if she worked up enough effort to unearth her lethality. It slept beneath bright smiles and the highest of heels standing upon its grave. In truth, her untapped potential laid dormant in the cage beneath her chest and Ariadne fully intended to keep it that way. It bubbled up occasionally, peeking through the most in her fencing, and only mentioned if the current (often darker) company required it in rarer scenarios.

                                ‹ rose garden;                                           full of thorns.

Ariadne was beautiful. She knew it, and her parents had made a correct conjecture before she even graced the earth with her birth. It proved true, and she was given a lofty name to match. Philyra - a beautiful nymph chased after by a God. The blonde enjoyed being chased, but she wanted to be her own legend. Ariadne. It was bright, beautiful, and bubbled in the throat. Ariadne Atherton would write her own destiny along the way. As the product of a foreign affair, she was bred for them. Well-traveled, well connected, and eager to please – both herself and any potential lovers. She had plenty, but they had what she wanted - information. She liked to worm her way in and gather it piece by piece, in the heat of the moment, and then store it away. Ariadne was playing a dangerous game, sinking her teeth into both sides to stockpile secrets like weapons. A deeply shallow, vapid facade carefully hid it all away beneath a shell of pink glitter.

                                ‹ a nightmare ;                                           dressed like a daydream.

Happy is a complicated word for Ariadne, and the one that slips most easily in its spot is fun. Ariadne is fun; a bright hurricane of a girl. She is bright smiles and the exciting pop! of champagne corks. She is a bruise left on a long neck by soft lips, demurely hidden by scarves in winter. She’s a taunting pink lipstick print and daring, mischievous eyes. Ariadne is a glittering facade of many things, but true happiness is not one of them. She is happy enough, but she excels at being fun.

Anyone that signed their name as P. Graves was bound to leave an impact, but the usual choice was not a sparkling, midnight ink. The Graves are touted as a powerful family in both connections and skills, and Ariadne is no different. Her exceptional dueling prowess was encouraged from a young age. It flourished into a love of fencing, in which Ariadne is internationally ranked. She may or may not be known to enchant a suit of armor to spar with her when intoxicated.

                              ‹ it’ll leave you breathless ;                                          or with a nasty scar.

She had a creepy situation with a teacher/authority figure depending on verse when she was underage and it has left her scarred and a little guarded, and it’s a large reason why she has a glittery facade. Later stabbed him with a letter opener when she tried to extricate herself.

Here’s a small blurb about the teacher, but underage + age gap tw,

it wasn’t common knowledge how cupid’s arrow stabbed and splintered as it broke the skin and broke her heart. it wasn’t common knowledge how she clutched it to her chest while he clutched her to his. they didn’t know how much it bled when she plucked the arrow from her body, and how much it took to snap it over her knee. they didn’t know that deep splinters were still working their way to the surface, and how long she picked herself apart to find them and to find answers. she didn’t know that it was more than stolen glances in a room full of people and the thrill of first love. she hadn’t known it would lead to crying on the bathroom floor, feeling worthless as she applied another coat of lipstick for him to smear. feeling violated and alone, and how it hurt so goddamn much when he ripped her heart out when it all turned out to be a lie.

v.  the current

a few months back she was giving the finishing touches to her makeup and turned to her mother with a smile plastered on her face. her mother was shining with pride for being invited to host the charity ball of the year. couture dress, designer jewellers. groomed to be the image of perfection. obviously, she needed to ruin her happiness and share the news. she was moving to south dakota. “absurd. your place is here in france, not among them.” calliope du plessis takes a deep breath before continuing, now the mask was slipping. “I knew that boy was a bad influence, he is just like his father. should have never allowed him to...” her sentence is interrupted when the mirror breaks and various glass shreds levitate in the air. like daggers hovering next to her. silence while her daughter places red lipstick. “do never speak of my brother like that.” hell could freeze over with her detached tone. “now smile, we have a role to play. don’t want to cause a scandal would we?” she adds closing her black louis vuitton clutch. the glass shreds explode into tiny pieces, returning to sand. as she was turning around to leave, a hand moves towards her forehead. “your son says hello, dearest mother.” while she might be a light blooded wytch, she is by no means good. that´s a burden she never had to carry.

vi. connections

✗ CHURCH OF EDEN - deeply ingrained in the history of france and the church of eden, her maternal grandfather was the former high priest. the young woman was expected to follow the path that was laid before her.  many others of the family did, but she refused to be their perfect porcelain doll.a rebel at heart, she will do whatever she sees fit and may the heavens forbid who dares to stop her. never one to commit foolish acts, she will keep all the fame and fortune that the du plessis name allows. perhaps even start using the belmonte name as well when she arrives in america. in both sides of the ocean she is royalty and it´s time everyone becomes aware of that.

✗ LUCIUS BELMONTE -  her mind is a temple of depravity and insatiability shared with her twin brother. half of a soul in each one. it’s as if the universe had to split such perversity in two or affect the balance. they have no secrets, it’s practically impossible given their twin telepathy. and experience shows that when their psychic connection is severed both suffer from it.while they feed their inside demons, they also serve as an anchor to each others sanity.their insanity would be an even bigger punishment for the world. lucius is actually the voice of reason, both amoral creatures she is more impetuous.there is a secret that they keep about their skills or rather what happens when they bound them together. but that is a story for a posterior date…