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snowbellewells · 4 years

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CS Role Reversal: The Case of the Heart in Armor {Part Three}

Hello there friends and fellow fans! I’m back with something new at last. I first started this story back in the fall for the first @csrolereversal event, inspired by brilliant art from @courtorderedcake. It’s a CS Victorian era AU, hopefully with some enjoyable nods to both Sherlock Holmes and My Fair Lady. I never meant to keep everyone waiting so long, so I am linking the first two chapters as well, just in case anyone wants to catch up on where we left off.

Anyway, without more nervous stalling, here is Part Three of “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…

Part One Part Two

Part Three

Killian Jones left his interview with Chief Inspector Nolan, Lieutenant Watson, and his pretty little thief deeply shaken by the savagery they were up against and more stirred in body and soul than he could remember being in quite some time. Emma - he now had a name to match that beguiling face and feisty bearing - her name suited her, lovely but short and to the point, lingering on his mind as he left the Yard and moved back through the crowded London streets to his apartment and study where he could meditate on his next course of action.

Somewhere within the bustling streets of the city he called home, lurked an evil that was stalking victims, slaughtering with a brutal precision, and leaving little trace behind with which to catch and stop their trail of carnage. Was it a black market trade in stolen organs? Some sort of opium ring gone horribly awry? A disturbed sadist with no true reason at all other than their own macabre and twisted interest? The sight of the crime scene images had been unsettling to say the least. Certainly he had thought no less of Miss Nolan when he noticed her already porcelain skin pale considerably at the gore captured in stark black and white, and her stance wavering just the tiniest bit unsteadily, even as he also noted the tight clenching of her delicate fingers and the firm way she pressed her lips together, clinging to her control with everything she had. Instead, he had only intended to offer a bit of bolstering support as he sidled nearer and laid a hand to her back in wordless solidarity. He was astute enough not to see merely the signs that she was unsettled, but that she did not wish for her associates to know it - and he had no intention of giving her away.

Though Killian had known Emma scarcely 24 hours, he knew enough about the world and the time they lived and worked in to gather that her way could not have been an easy one. She was quite obviously clever, quick, and inarguably lovely, but she was also clearly not meant for quietly milling about ballrooms repeating society gossip. No question she had come from very little to find herself willing to work as a flower cart girl - even if it were merely a cover for her work with the Yard - particularly in the part of London where he had first encountered her. It made Emma all the more intriguing to his mind; no shrinking hothouse flower too delicate for any sense or purpose - that much was abundantly clear. When he wasn’t verbally sparring with her in maddening circles, Jones found that she quite made his mouth go dry and his heart palpitate wildly. He hadn’t felt such excitement since he was little more than a callow youth, back when a very different pair of sparkling eyes and husky voice had made his entire being turn to mush. Not since Milah…

Growling low in his throat, Jones shook himself fiercely from that dangerous course of reverie, angrily shoving aside the notes he had begun to jot down on Nolan’s puzzling case. He stood abruptly, shoving his hand through the riotous thick tufts of his dark hair, making them stand on end as he began to pace. This sort of distraction would do no one any good, least of all him. Had he not vowed all those years ago to abstain from such flights of fancy?

Lust, attraction, besotted mooning - whatever form romantic interest might take - it dulled the mind, made him miss details he would normally catch, made him slow, dense, and foolish instead of behaving with the careful perception on which he prided himself. He would not stumble at the same hurdle twice. He could bar his heart against that skinny waif of a guttersnipe. He could...and he must. Countless lives might depend on his clearheaded thinking if his interest in Miss Nolan impeded his ability to track down a coldblooded murderer. Not to mention… he swallowed hard, his pacing steps slowing… not to mention that the one time he had allowed his heart to rule his head - he had lost horrifically and another had paid the ultimate price in his place. That could not happen a second time.

Refocusing his thoughts, Killian knelt to pick up the papers he had scattered and returned them to order on his desk. Sitting down once more, he went back over all they knew, and was soon absorbed in the possibilities, theories, and connections which never failed to appear at the outset of a mystery. Scribbling furiously to record any idea of relevance before it could be lost, the detective was soon fully engrossed in the facts and puzzles that served him best, not allowing himself to consider doing otherwise again.

~~~~~~~~~~***

Meanwhile, some streets over, Emma Nolan was making her own way back to her small flat as well, not at all sure what to make of the disgust and unease tumbling and rolling through her belly, churning in her gut with a disconcerting frequency, lurching up her throat as if she might lose all she had eaten that day, and then ebbing only slightly as she clenched her teeth together and breathed deeply through her nose to fight down the bile before pressing onward determinedly. She had grown up in a rough world where life was much cheaper than the average Londoner would care to admit, where softness and naiveté were a liability one simply could not afford. When she’d fled the foundling home to fend for herself on the streets, where at least she would not be purposefully teased and tormented, Emma had not retained what wide-eyed childish innocence she’d still possessed for very long. She sometimes shuddered to think what lengths she might have gone to if she hadn’t picked the pocket of Ruth Nolan and subsequently been taken in - scratching and squalling at first - only to become part of a family at last.

Even with her less-than-savory - or even normal - beginnings, Emma still had not seen the sort of needless savagery catalogued in those crime scene photos strewn over David’s desk. Her older brother might tend toward the needlessly protective, and Graham too could be stiflingly careful of her “delicate sensibilities”, but she almost wished she had been shielded from that sight. Those pictures would almost certainly haunt her sleep.

As she hurried up the steps to her third floor lodgings, hustled in the door, and quickly made her way to the rickety vanity mirror over her bathroom sink and to begin fussing with her disheveled and wavy mass of hair, Emma was still deep in thought, even as she was trying to restyle it into a more eye-catching twist before she headed back out with her cart; hoping to draw attention, if only to study those who gathered around her. It was a bit late to do a lot of good, but seeing just what they were up against made her feel the effort couldn’t wait. She could at least keep her eyes open for an hour or two as people headed out for late meals and to the theater further up town. Despite the effort it took with brush and numerous bobby pins, not to mention several frustrated huffs and annoyed restarts, her minds was still unraveling the disturbing facts they did have as she worked. Once Emma finally had her blonde mane piled high at her crown once again, a few curls wisping down to frame her face attractively, she turned to seek out a more colorful dress as well, finally settling on the troubling inconsistency which had been niggling at the corner of her mind.

While not much of life was sacred in the city’s darker corners, and sadly violence was not so rare when living with thieves and worse, there was at least a reason or a cause for most crimes in London’s poorer underbelly. Something would be missing from the victim’s pocket or bag, or they would be in an area known for gambling or opium dealing; perhaps even further investigations would bring to light that most victims had quarrelled with someone known to be dangerous to cross. But this case - people ravaged, cut open, with organs missing - and seemingly no other purpose for their demise, made no sense. It wasn’t just troubling for its horrific detail, but for the simple fact that they seemed to be killed for the mere sake of destruction, of taking a life. And even worse - chosen at chilling random. It was worse than any of the theft or conning she had witnessed all her life, this casual depravity, and it was hard to shake the horror it left behind.

Once she was collected and ready, Emma tried to stop and gather her thoughts, to steel her frazzled nerves for the evening ahead. Yes, the degenerate prowling the dark and smoggy streets was a frightening reality, but she was no fainting society Miss with fragile nerves and little gumption. She was doing nothing more than what was asked of her, keeping her eyes open and reporting back on anything strange or out of the ordinary.

Determining that, she was able to nod her chin firmly, square her shoulders, march back down the steps at the front of the building, making her way toward the fresh market where she usually managed to purchase enough blooms to look the part of a simple flower cart girl rather than extra eyes and ears for the city’s police force. She would have never imagined herself one day earning a fair salary from the coppers for her ill-gotten skills in stealth and observation, but she wasn’t daft enough to look a gift horse in the mouth either. She might have a leg up through her brother in this particular field, but if she weren’t serving as a sort of informant for him, she would have had precious few options for making her way in the world. She was a woman of no name or connections, no bright, youthful, accomplishments to recommend her, and she though she was bright, she had spent many of her formative years trying to make sure she ate enough that her stomach’s pangs didn’t keep her up all night or that the older kids in the homes she’d landed in didn’t come to pound on her or steal her few possessions in the dark to fuss over arithmetic. Once she had finally landed with Ruth and David and accepted that she truly was safe there and would not be put out on her ear, her years of schooling were nearly over. She wouldn’t have had many options beyond a salesgirl of some sort if she had been left to her own devices. She was grateful she hadn’t been; her brother would be the first to attest that she did not possess the sweet and patient temperament to wheedle a purchase from most customers.

Scrunching up her nose, she paid for the armload of asters, carnations, black-eyed Susans, and daisies and turned to hurry off to the less crowded and much dodgier end of the street. She wouldn’t admit it to most - too much of the unrepentant pickpocket and scamp in her even yet to acknowledge the sentimentality - but she wanted to do something worthwhile; to be part of an effort that made things better than what she had known as a child, to give something back and prove that the Nolans had been right to pluck her out of the gutter and take her in, to return their generosity, so to speak.

Lost in these thoughts and shaking her head at the rather maudlin turn they had taken, Emma was reflecting both that she was glad what went on in her head couldn’t be heard aloud and whether or not her adopted brother didn’t somehow already know and understand her motivations anyway. It was only after surfacing from that reverie at the rather stained and littered stretch of pavement where she often “set up shop” that she realized just how low and grey the sky had become within the last hour. An ominously thick fog, seeming dense enough to reach out and slice her fingers through or to move in and smother bystanders, was hanging in the air, and it was much darker than seemed at all normal for late afternoon. While she usually picked this spot because it was less crowded and noisey - fewer competitors with similar wares, and therefore a clearer view of genuine persons of interest - it seemed unnaturally devoid of calling voices, horns and whistles, and clanging metal; all of the sounds that were common to the city streets, and even more eerily deserted. In fact, the only sound Emma heard, now that she truly focused on her growing suspicions, was the sharp clip of her smart little heeled boots on the pavement as she spun to look behind her and paced anxiously on the pavement.

She was more than just ill at ease now. This sudden shift in the air around her wasn’t right somehow. Though unable to explain the sensation, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end and alarm bells were blaring in her head, screaming for her to move, to leave, to get out of there, irregardless of her previous intentions

Always stubborn to a fault, Emma was resolutely shaking her head, chiding herself for being silly, when her eyes caught a gleam of strangely-colored light from the blackness in the mouth of the alley across the way. Craning her neck, Emma’s breath caught in frightened suspense, unable to see anything else now in the swirling ever-thickening fog that obscured everything else in between, seeming almost to brush across her cheeks and neck in a chilling, insidious caress and to wrap around her like phantom bonds. The points of light that she had seen grew brighter, two red pinpricks like eyes glowing out of the dark, and then they doubled, parting, and doubled again, now three pairs of what she was certain were eyes, emerged from their cave and stalked toward her, though their forms were otherwise unseen beyond the unearthly crimson light.

“No…” she breathed, stumbled back against the building wall behind her, almost unable to process what she was seeing for several desperate seconds.

But those frightening eyes were still moving impossibly closer. The fog obscured any of the bodies connected, yet Emma knew they couldn’t belong to anything good. It felt as though her knees had gone to water, even as she tried to order herself to run. No longer sure if she was out of her mind and hallucinating, she almost thought she could hear a low, rumbling growl, a panting animal breath, wafting toward her in heated puffs of air. The malingering fog seemed to rise up even more heavily around her, swirling in her eyes with blinding accuracy to further confuse and disorient. And then, all seemed to stop as a blood-chillingly wild sound rose up right in front of her - the incomprehensible howl of a ravenous wolf.

It made no sense, but that didn’t matter. Emma whirled, panic screaming that she was already too late, and ran unseeing in the other direction. It was madness in the murky darkness so thick she couldn’t see a foot ahead; the fog seemed almost sentient - as if it meant to hold her back for the predators on her heels. And she knew they were there; she could hear them just behind her, snapping and slavering. It was only a matter of time. They were going to catch her, run her down like a rabbit and tear her apart.

Frantically, she pressed forward, feet pounding, straining to go faster yet, desperate to outrun the unseen monsters. Somehow she was still going, hadn’t fallen or smashed into some obscured obstacle, hadn’t felt their gnashing teeth sink through her skin. Her breath was whooshing out in desperate rasps as she continued to push herself; arms pumping, lungs burning. It still seemed as though the hot breath and snapping muzzles must be mere inches from her and somehow she kept going.

And then suddenly, a tight grip encircled her wrist, jerking her back and to the side, sending Emma careening off course and smacking into the strong, solid chest of another person, hidden by the shrouding atmosphere. Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp, and she flinched, curling in on herself against the warm body that surrounded her, wincing with eyes screwed shut at the expectation of being torn apart in the very next moment.

Except, nothing happened.

The fog broke apart somewhat, brushing over her cheek with a chill sort of farewell. The sound of chasing paws and salivating fangs nipping at her heels vanished; the monsters she would have sworn were pursuing her disappeared as quickly as they had materialized. The hand at her wrist came to rest on her upper arm, holding her out in a strong, bracing grip just enough so her unseen ally could look down into her face just as she tilted up her chin to peer at him curiously.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath at the heavy, dark brows furrowed over sharp, icy-blue eyes studying her as if she were some curious puzzle where a few of the pieces would not fit. It was none other than Killian Jones - the detective her brother referred to as “Holmes” and her insufferably self-assured mark from the previous day. While one part of her wanted to brush him off and stalk away with a reminder to keep his distance, a breathless part of her was still trying to regain her equilibrium from the nightmarish chase she had just experienced. She simply couldn’t bring herself to be so tart with someone who had saved her from whatever phantom shadows would have run her down.

Soon enough, Jones relinquished his hold on her on his own, asking curiously, “Alright there, Miss Nolan? You’re as pale as if you had seen a ghost.” One of those insouciant brows arched in an expressive manner along with the slight quirk up of one corner of his mouth. Was he teasing her? Sincere? As animated as his face was, she had not quite learned to read it yet.

Huffing a noncommittal sort of sound through pursed lips, she attempted to right herself, smooth her hair and clothing, and catch her breath before blurting out just what had spooked her. He would certainly think she belonged in some asylum rather than getting to the bottom of all this frightening mystery in their city.

Unfortunately, her mouth seemed to have some mission of its own, beyond the control of her rational mind. After a deep breath and realizing she had to say something rather than stand there opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, she sputtered, “Yes, well, I thought… I was being chased… I - I - heard their feet right behind me…” She blinked up at him, not having to work nearly as hard as usual to appear innocent and in need of help. “Didn’t… You… You didn’t hear anything?” She gulped in another lungful of air, and waited - kicking herself all the while - for his response.

“Well, I heard you coming,” Holmes offered, drawing his words out as if carefully considering each one. “You were gasping and stumbling, clearly panicked and fleeing something. That’s why I reached out, hoping to help you if I could…” His words trailed off there, blue eyes searching her as if to ask the question he didn’t put into words.

“Oh, um, thank you,” Emma tried meekly, still too shaken by all that had occurred to mock or tease him, or reprimand him for thinking he was some knight-in-armor she didn’t need. She had needed him - that, or she was losing her mind. Could she really have imagined it all? The strangling fog, the pack of wolves, the danger she had been in….surely she hadn’t. What did it mean if they had been there though? And what caused them to just as suddenly disappear?

Emma shook her head, frustrated. This was ridiculous, and Jones was going to think her weak and silly, afraid of whispers and the wind. Throwing back her shoulders, she shook her head and offered a little laugh that rang hollow even to her own ears. “Goodness knows what I was thinking! Clearly there’s no one else out here; those pictures this morning must have spooked me more than I realized.”

Killian Jones didn’t speak at first, merely studied her closer, still without words, a curious glimmer livening those already hypnotic blue eyes. She got the troubling sense that he didn’t miss a thing and could read her false assurances as easily as if she hadn’t even tried to offer them. No matter how she forced herself to calm her breathing and meet his gaze steadily, Emma found herself wanting to squirm and look away under such intense scrutiny, unable to fully explain just what she had felt and seen in any sort of sensible manner.

Either he at last saw what he was searching for, or realized just how unnerving his assessment had become, because Jones dipped his head in a self-deprecating nod, shifting his eyes away with a lightly bemused chuckle and an awkward hand came up to scratch nervously behind his ear. Emma tried to ignore the way the very top curve of those ears were flushed red - and how endearing it was to see that he too was off-balance.

“Pardon me, Lass,” he murmured finally, taking a step back, then turning away from the alley into the street and offering his arm for her to take as they continued down the sidewalk in the direction she had been hurrying. “I seem to have forgotten all of my manners. Perhaps you would conclude your surveillance for tonight and allow me to see you back to your abode?”

Emma blew out a shaky breath. She wanted to refuse the gesture. She could look after herself and make her own way home when she was ready, but… She hesitated only a second as her eyes waivered to glance back at the darkened street in the direction she had come. In truth, she had barely gotten started for the night, but no one else needed to know that. She was still quivering from the fright she’d endured, and truly didn’t want to stay out on the shrouded streets alone any lnoger. Settling on action instead of words at all, she merely tucked her hand into the crook of his offered elbow and nodded her assent.

As they moved away, she tried to ignore the low rumble of a growl her ears just barely caught on the foggy air behind them, strove to un-see the impossible gleam of what still appeared as red, glowing eyes in the deep shadows at her back. She fully intended to believe it had all been imagined by a shaken psyche, even as she glanced nervously back over her shoulder.

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @darkcolinodonorgasm @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious @cocohook38 @tiganasummertree @searchingwardrobes @winterbaby89 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @stahlop @ultraluckycatnd @whimsicallyenchantedrose @drowned-dreamer @resident-of-storybrooke @thisonesatellite @shireness-says

#cs role reversal #cs Victorian au #cs au mc #The Case of the Heart in Armor #part three

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tenspontaneite · 5 years

Text

Boundless (Chapter 2/?)

Chapter warnings: Body horror. Dysphoria? Some level of dysphoria and dissociation.

Spoilers for s3e2.

(Chapter length: ~9k. Ao3 link)

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He woke up to the sound of Rayla cursing quietly over his head, and stirred. “Rayla?” He mumbled, incoherent and slurred from the edge of sleep. “Whas’wrong?”

She was silent for long enough that he opened his eyes, blinking blearily to resolve the shape of her, to see what she was doing. “…Sorry for waking you.” She said, softly, as if still trying to preserve his slumber. “You can sleep a little longer, if you want.”

He was a little more concerned about the barely-leashed fear behind her eyes. He fought towards alertness, and pushed himself up, and-

The new-limbs slid across his back.

Heavy. Heavier. Larger than he remembered – enough that he shot up the rest of the way in alarm, hands coming around to feel one, and-

“Holy-“ He yelped, cutting himself off more from shock than anything else. “Rayla, is that – did it really-“

“They’ve grown.” She confirmed, tightly, and shuffled over beside him, seated on her knees. “A lot.”

Still a little numb with shock, he took it by the base of a clawed finger and pulled it out from his side. It had felt so disgustingly heavy and meaty and foreign last night, when it was comparatively tiny, but now?

Now, the thing was – it had to be nearly as long as his arm, if perhaps somewhat slimmer. And the other one undoubtedly matched it. He wasn’t entirely clear on how big they’d been when they came out, but – if they hadn’t doubled in size, they couldn’t be far off it. “It’s only been a few hours.” He muttered, reeling, and stared at the skin of it in the merciless light of day. Maybe Rayla had been able to see this, what with her better night vision, but – it really was kind of disgusting. The skin was a dark fleshy pink, and disturbingly translucent. He could see the lines of blue veins running along the limb. He could see muscles, and – and tendons, and… “What are those?” he wondered, a little confused, and poked at what looked like a strange black dot underneath the skin, one of many arrayed against the outer edge of the limb. They extended all the way along the longest finger on the hand-joint, too, but not either of the other fingers.

“…Your guess is as good as mine.” Rayla said, voice strained, and reached out with a wavering hand. “Can I…?”

He blinked, almost surprised that she’d asked. “Of course.” Slipped from his lips, a reflexive response, and a little embarrassing for it. Still, she reached out to touch at one of the many black dots, and frowned a little.

“There’s something under there.” She concluded, after a little prodding. “I thought I saw these last night – but they’re more obvious now. They’re poking at the – your skin, a little.”

His stomach twisted. “So not only are things bursting out of my back, but they’re bursting out of the things that burst out of my back.” He said, a little sourly. “Great.”

She shrugged. “At least you can’t feel it?” She offered. And then-

Then, as if solely to spite her-

The limb twitched.

She jumped back from it as if it were a snake, rather than a limb of dubious and unpleasant provenance. He did more-or-less the same thing, but as it was attached to his body, this was not especially helpful. The end result of this was that he ended up half-fallen over on his side, staring at the ugly fleshy limb hanging over his side with wide and wary eyes.

“Did that just-“ He started, at the same time as she said “It moved!”, and they stared at each other for a moment of mutual astonishment.

“…Can you feel anything?” She ventured, after several seconds had passed, and the limb was still laying there placidly.

“…Not that I’ve noticed?” he answered after a moment, and pushed himself back up. After all, he’d just been pretty much squashing one of the limbs, and hadn’t felt anything, so he didn’t exactly expect that to have changed. Still, though….Cautiously, he reached out and poked it, and…still felt nothing.

Rayla eyed it pensively, and then, without warning, reached out and pinched its skin sharply between her nails.

It twitched violently away – spasmodic and uncoordinated, but….moving. Moving and responsive. As if it were capable of responding to pain that he couldn’t actually feel. He eyed her, not certain whether he should be peeved at the pinch or not. After all, he hadn’t actually felt it, but…

“…You really didn’t feel that?”

“Not at all.” He said after a second, admittedly bewildered, and poked and prodded at the limb some more. It didn’t provoke any new response, though, until a few seconds later it just sort of twitched mildly on its own. One of the clawed fingers at the end flexed in a spasming, jerking movement, and then went limp again. “…That’s kind of disturbing.” He observed, as clinically as he could when it concerned something growing out of his own body.

A second later, their observations were interrupted as Zym, apparently oblivious to all of his, rolled over in his sleep and onto his right wing. Both of them quieted, reminded that one of their party was still trying to sleep, and then communicated in a series of wordless glances and pointing gestures the need to remove themselves to a little further from the sleeping dragon.

They ushered themselves further over by the water, leaving Zym nestled amongst their bags. The back-limbs swung on his back as he walked, and as he came to a stop, twitched all-over in a spasmodic motion that fluttered against the skin of his back.

Rayla looked at his back at the same time he craned his neck to look over his shoulder. “…Do you think they’re going to start moving on their own? Like, properly?” She wondered, as if speaking an idle thought aloud, and he shivered.

“I really hope not.” He expressed fervently. “That would be beyond creepy.”

“…You’ll probably be able to move them eventually.” Rayla offered, in a sentiment that would have been more reassuring if she didn’t sound so uncertain about it. “They’re still pretty…red and raw-looking. They’re probably still…developing.”

He eyed the limb at hand with dislike. “I mean, they do still look…baby-skin-ish.” He agreed, deeply sceptical of his (alleged) own flesh. “But I’m pretty sure babies’ arms work. Maybe these will just…hang around uselessly forever, making it stupidly hard to wear shirts.” He contemplated his own ongoing shirtlessness, wondering how he was meant to actually wear clothes, now. Surely the addition of two giant stupid back-arms would make shirt-wearing a challenge?

“Twitching?” She suggested, looking as if she were trying very hard not to find morbid humour in the situation.

“Twitching through shirts,” he agreed, with deliberate levity, and saw her suppress a smile. “Everyone will think I’m hiding a couple of lizards in my jacket, or something.” He recalled some of Ezran’s more audacious attempts to bring animals into the castle, and the corners of his lips turned upwards.

She huffed, amused, and shook her head. “Well, I’m sure we’ll find out soon, if nothing else.” She said, which cast something of a pall on what little lightness he’d managed to muster. She was right, of course. The things had doubled in size in a few hours, so if they were likely to develop further…it’d happen soon. Sooner, probably, if he used any spells.

He frowned, suddenly, something about that thought prodding at him. “…Rayla,” he said, slowly, and her eyes went a little more alert, chin rising to look at him questioningly. “How long do you think it’s been? Since I, uh, cast a spell the last time?”

She blinked, tilted her head as if focusing on something, and ventured “Around five hours?”

Unease settled like a leaden weight into his gut. “….It was maybe a couple hours between the first two times I had to cast a spell.” He said, mostly to himself. “And then…longer, maybe? Three hours? And now…”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You didn’t wake up.” She realised, following his track of thought. “That weird…sky-magic-breath-thing – it’s not happening again?”

Callum took stock of himself; of the breath in his lungs, the Sky filtering leisurely into his blood, the arcanum within that welcomed magic in every time he inhaled…

There was magic in him. There was magic everywhere in him. But it wasn’t too much. It wasn’t building, wasn’t pooling, wasn’t stretching his lungs out until they felt fit to burst…

Slowly, like a foregone conclusion, he became aware of where exactly it was draining. To his fledgling magic-sense, the Sky was in him, and flowing through him, and…draining, very efficiently, into the new limbs in his back. It was disconcerting to be able to feel the flow of magic inside their blood-supply, when he couldn’t feel them at all by the more native sense of touch.

“The magic’s going into them.” He said aloud, nonplussed by this perfectly logical turn of events. It made sense, what with how everything had happened, but still… “It’s like…before, it had nowhere to go – or it did, some of it was going into…these things, but – it wasn’t flowing right? There wasn’t enough…room? I don’t know.” He puffed out a breath, frustrated by the difficulty of putting it into words.

Rayla frowned at him. She was far from the most magically-learned person in the world, but she at least tried to understand his arcanum-and-magic stuff, and he appreciated that. “…It drained it all out when you cast those spells, though.” She pointed out.

“Maybe that’s because some of it went out through the spell, so there wasn’t….a blockage?” He suggested, a little helplessly, then shook his head. “No, that’s probably not right.” He sighed.

Gingerly, she patted him on the shoulder. “They’re your weird-arm-things, Callum.” She said supportively. “And your Sky arcanum. I’ll do my best, but…” She shrugged. “Not exactly my area of expertise.”

He smiled half-heartedly at her. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” A horrible thought struck him, and he stilled. “I wonder if my spells are even going to work, now.” His own words set his gut to squirming with awful, sickening dread.

She blinked, clearly not following. “…What?”

“The last two times I cast a spell – it didn’t really come out right.” He recalled, thinking of a wind-breath that barely gusted, a lightning-bolt that barely sparked, a spark that barely fizzled…

“I thought that was because you were out of breath and panicking.” She said, and then frowned with him. “But – no, that last time yesterday, you were fine. Well, fine, except for the…” She waved at his back. “You-know.”

‘You-know’, indeed. He supposed there weren’t a lot of diplomatic ways to say ‘the limbs that grew under your skin until they started tearing their way out of you’. “It was like all the magic went into these, instead of into the spell.” He remembered, uneasily, casting a look to the one in view. He lingered, uncertainly, knowing what he should do but not quite managing to find the nerve for it. “Like…there wasn’t any magic left over to do anything. So it…didn’t come out right.”

“Are you going to try it?” She asked directly, cutting straight to the heart of his newest anxiety.

He twitched. “…I should.” He said, as if to himself, with deep reluctance. Rayla looked at him expectantly, and he twitched again. “It’s not that easy, though.” He defended. “What if-“ The words caught in his throat, for a second, and then came out sounding uncomfortably afraid. “What if…it doesn’t work?”

The fear hung in the air along with the words he’d uttered, unexpectedly galling.

What if it didn’t work? What if, after everything he’d been through, and everything he’d gained – he couldn’t even cast spells anymore? What if the things on his back just…sucked it up, and always would, and he’d just be a weird magical human with weird magical limbs who could still never have the magic he actually wanted?

Rayla looked at him, sympathetic and firm at once. “Try it.” She said, offering her hand. “There’s only one way to find out.”

He took a deep breath, reached out to clutch at her fingers, and exhaled. “…Okay.”

With her other hand, she reached out and patted him on the bare arm, and abruptly he almost forgot to be afraid because he was too busy being self-conscious about the amount of skin he was showing. He felt his cheeks heat, and he looked away, reminding himself that he’d been shirtless all morning and all night and he should be used to it by now, and really it wasn’t like he could help it…

“Okay.” He said, more firmly, at least half to put a stop to his rambling thoughts. His gut clenched tight with dread that he tried not to focus on too much as he – not thinking about it, not thinking about what it’d mean if he failed – extended his hand to draw a rune into the air.

Aspiro, this time. His first spell. His easiest. The one he knew in his breath and blood, now, knew in the spark of a Primal nestled beside his heart. To his new understanding of the Sky, it was a perfect spell, a reflection of what the magic was in its purest form. He breathed into the Sky, and the Sky breathed into him. He understood this spell, now, in the same instinctive way that he understood the beat of his heart.

It should be easy. A spell that spoke to the breath of the Sky….it should be the most natural thing in the world.

He touched his finger to the air, inhaled magic, and-

The rune-light came as easily as it ought. The word, when he spoke it, came easy, too. The magic coming in from the Sky, coming in through his arcanum – it flowed like the unhindered wind. Easy, open, effortless, full of the pure exhilaration of the open air. But that was where the ease ended.

It started as it ought. The magic followed the spell into his breath, pooling in his lungs and following it up the centre of his chest as he began to exhale, chasing the air-

And then it stuttered, falling from the breath like a stone from a cliffside – and where it fell it was snatched away. It only took an instant. Just that. Nothing more than a second…and the things on his back, quick and remorseless and greedy, stole the magic away. All of that power, all of that boundless, exhilarating energy…just gone.

He blew out the breath anyway, even knowing that the spell was broken, even knowing it wouldn’t work. The air tumbled from his lips, and was nothing more than itself. Just breath, rather than Breath. Just air, rather than the issue of the Sky. Just empty, barren, powerless air.

The sheer, gutting failure of it hit him like a physical blow; he crumpled forwards, and hardly noticed the weight increasing on his back.

He only realised he was crying when Rayla took him by the shoulder and turned him around. He only had a second to blink at her through tears, only a second to realise that there were tears, and then she pulled him into a hug. He shook a little as her arms closed around his back – surely having to negotiate around the presence of those awful, magic-stealing things now – and buried his face gladly in her shoulder.

“It didn’t work, Rayla.” He mumbled, distraught, into the fabric of his own scarf around her neck. “It didn’t work.”

Her arms tightened. “…I know. I’m sorry, Callum.”

“It’s gone.” The words tumbled out of him, all misery, all hopelessness. “My magic – I only had it back for – for maybe a day. And it’s gone.”

A beat, and then she drew him back from her, as easily as if picking up a ragdoll. He blinked at her, eyes bleary and cheeks tear-stained. “Hold on a minute, let’s not go that far.” She said, voice firm, but carefully gentle. “Your…Sky arcanum. You still have that, right?”

For a second the question sounded absurd. Of course he had the Sky arcanum. She might as well ask him if he had blood or skin or hair – and then he managed to think past the utter depth of his arcanum to remember that he’d not always had it. That it wasn’t even really a day old yet. “Well…yeah.” He admitted, uncertainly.

“There you go, then.” Rayla nodded, with a small encouraging smile. “You’re still a magical creature, if you’ve got that, right?”

His eyes flickered down to his still-bare chest, as if he could see the Sky rooted there, as if it ought to be apparent as soon as anyone looked at him. It felt like it should be. It felt so much a part of him that he could hardly imagine that people would be able to see him without instinctively knowing that he belonged to the Sky.

“….I guess.” He admitted, more reluctantly. “But – Rayla – my spells. You saw – I didn’t manage to make anything come out. Not even a little breeze. These – things,” he bit out the word with something close to vitriol, waving over his shoulder in an almost vicious motion, “They just….take all of it. There’s nothing left for me to use.” Hopelessness encroached again, with the certainty of loss. “I’ve lost it.” Without spells – he might be magical, but…he wasn’t a mage.

Rayla looked at him, worried, brow lightly furrowed. “Well, you’ve only tried one of your spells so far.” She pointed out. “Do you think it’ll make a difference which one you use?”

Hope sparked for a second, but he quelled it, not wanting it to gain too much ground. Still, though… “I don’t see why it would.” He said unhappily.

She sighed at him. “Don’t be so pessimistic. Just try it.”

He wavered, for a while, staring back at her in consternation. He didn’t want to try it, he realised. He didn’t want to try it…because what if fulminis failed, too? As long as he didn’t try, as long as he didn’t know for sure…he could pretend that he still had the magic he’d fought so hard for. The magic that felt right. But, the second he drew that rune, and nothing came out…he’d lose that.

It was like the not-quite-secret of Harrow’s death, in a way. Something he knew, but…wasn’t at all ready to face.

Except he had to, didn’t he? He had to know whether he could cast spells or not. He had to. He had to try it, even if now…even if he was pretty sure that the unwanted limbs on his back would steal all the magic out of it.

He exhaled, feeling the magic travelling on the breath. Magic was in him, still. Coming in on the breath, filtering through his lungs into his blood, travelling along the slow path on his bloodstream to the magic-stealing limbs…and that was the passive way they drew in magic, wasn’t it? They’d sort of been doing that yesterday, he thought – taking some of the magical overload that had been building in him. But yesterday, there hadn’t been any way for the rest of the magic to drain. It had just…built up, an overpressure threatening to burst him. Until he cast the spells, and…it was redirected, somehow.

Now, the redirection wasn’t necessary. The magic had made its own pathways, beyond the slow natural journey of magic to breath to blood. And so…any magic that came into him, drained almost instantly away. Gone so quickly that there was nothing left for his spells.

It’s not going to work, he thought to himself, with something like grief. A day, he’d had his victory. Just a day, or not all that much longer. For a day, he’d been a mage again.

Still, he raised his finger to the air. Because he had to know.

“Fulminis,” he said, softly, like waiting for an axe to fall, and watched the rune-light sparking where his finger trailed. His arcanum sparked with it, opening wide as if to welcome in the Sky-

Magic crashed into his body, stronger than he’d ever felt it, and – and there was so much, a flood of it, the Sky poured in and in and in and – and as he’d expected, the new pathways channelled it straight into his back, straight into the wide channels of magic that each limb represented-

-But.

But…not all of it.

His eyes widened, the delay between speaking the spell and its inevitable failure widening, widening, widening – the magic finished crashing in from the Sky, and for a second, for just a second, there was enough of it that – enough of it to-

He pulled at the feeling of it with fresh desperation, the magic hot and electric alongside his blood, and what little had been spared followed the path he offered in a single searing instant. A lightning-bolt, thin and frail but so wonderfully bright, split out into the air.

“….Stronger spells.” He breathed, into the aftermath, into the lengthening moments of stunned quiet that sat between him and Rayla and the Sky. “That’s…that’s what I needed. Stronger spells. So there’s still magic left over from what these stupid back-things take.”

Quietly, Rayla reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. When he looked at her, she was wearing a smile, small but genuine. “See, sad prince?” She said, nudging him with her shoulder. “It’ll be fine after all.”

Callum exhaled, the relief shaking him to the bone. “…Yeah.” He said, quietly. “Maybe it will.”

The new limbs might be bottomless magic-hungry pits, sure, but…even they seemed to have limits. Maybe, if he used stronger spells, or figured out a way to draw in more magic at once, or to somehow control where the magic actually went…he’d be able to cast normally again. Even with these things on his back.

I’m still a mage, he thought, with a relief so heady that it was exhausting.

Then: “Hate to rain on your moment of triumph,” Rayla started, apologetically. “But you might want to take a look at your back-things.”

He paused, abruptly aware of the increased sensation of weight on his back, pulling around his shoulder-blades. Abruptly aware of, suddenly, the way that something prickled.

“…Oh.” He said, faintly.

---

In short order, they were examining his weird new limbs again.

“Arm out.” Rayla ordered him, and he complied wide-eyed as she pulled the left limb out by its longer finger to compare it to his outstretched arm. A very short while ago, it had been pretty much the same length, the tip of the longest clawed finger just about reaching the knuckles of his hand.

Now, it was almost a hand’s length longer, and already…it looked different.

The skin was a little thicker, a little less translucent. The veins beneath it weren’t so glaringly blue, and when Rayla pressed her fingers near the base of the whole thing, she claimed to find a strong and steady pulse there, as she would on the underside of his arm.

And, of course…the dark spot-things they’d both noticed had grown.

“They’re pressing through the skin now.” Rayla said, needlessly, as she’d pulled the limb around to demonstrate it to him. He could see quite well the way that the tiny dark spots had started growing outwards, like tiny rubbery spikes, almost translucent where they breached the skin. He pressed on one, gingerly, and found it smooth and cartilaginous. Behind them, a row more of dark spots had sprouted along the full length of both limbs, presumably to follow the progress of the first.

Rayla investigated the tiny row of spikes herself, following them along the edge of his back-arm to the elbow and then along to where the skin met his shoulder.

“There’s twenty-seven of these ones.” She reported, eyes narrowed on the foremost layer. “On both of them. Nine on the longest finger, nine on the wrist to elbow, and nine from the elbow to shoulder. Not sure about the rest.”

Callum tried to focus more on her words than the strangeness of watching her fingers on the rows of fine spikes. It was hard to pinpoint. Hard to identify. But…he could swear that he could almost feel the pressure of the spikes being pressed against the skin. He tapped the limb to check, and still didn’t feel that, but… “They’re so weird.” He said, helplessly, after a moment. “Are they – I mean….” He bit back any further words, mind whirling.

Too soon to tell, she’d said. But that was before. Was that still true?

“…What do you think they are?” He asked, eventually, when she failed to answer his poor attempts at articulating his thoughts. “The…limbs, I mean.”

Rayla didn’t answer that for a few seconds either, casting an indecipherable look over the limbs attached to his back. Still, though, she plainly heard the unspoken words, and knew what he was really asking. She poked at the tiny emerging nubby spikes, too, and he shivered. “…It’s not like I’m an expert in how wings work, you know.” She said, eventually, voice pensive, and the word wings set something in his gut to churning. “And I’ve not exactly seen a lot of winged toddlers around.” She hesitated. “I’ve seen baby birds, though. Their feathers, when they’re still growing…they look kind of like really long spikes, growing out of the skin, all in rows.” She trailed a finger along the line of emergent prickly nubs, pensive. “In rows like these, I guess, though you’ve only got two rows starting so far.”

He swallowed. “so…you think they are wings.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Either that, or you’re growing a set of weird spiky arms.”

Callum ran a careful finger over the tiny nubby spikes on the mysterious new limb, and felt words desert him.

Rayla noticed, and looked at him side-long from the corners of her eyes. “…You alright?” She asked, nudging him, and he exhaled.

“…I don’t know?” he expressed, conflicted, his maybe-wing still in his hand. She didn’t speak, just watched him, until he managed to find enough words to describe the mess of how he was feeling. “I just…don’t know. Like…it’s all happening so fast. A day ago – or maybe a little longer – I didn’t even have an arcanum, and now…” he pressed his thumb firmly into the flesh of the not-hand, and….and, he thought he felt something of it. Not a sense of touch as he was accustomed to, but a sense of pressure. “…Now, I might be growing wings.”

“Could still be spiky arms.” Rayla offered, in a plain attempt to be light-hearted. He couldn’t quite manage to smile at it, and she softened. “Well, at least wings are useful.” She said after a moment, as if trying to be reassuring. “If they’re anything like an elf’s, you should even be able to fly on them, once they’re done growing.”

He tried to think of the idea of flight. It couldn’t quite break through the numb shroud of shock of confusion that still hung over him, heavy and oppressive and bleak. “…I can’t even think about that right now.” He muttered, in the end. “I just – this is already…so much.” He raised a hand to his face as if to hide behind it, suddenly overcome in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It was just – so much. He’d not even adjusted to having magic, and then these things had started growing out of his back and they might be wings and he could hardly cast spells anymore and – and there was so much. What was he meant to think about any of it?

She regarded him for a few long moments, then took his hand. “It’ll work out.” She said, with a gentle smile. “Until then…” She squeezed his fingers, and nodded back to where Zym was still dozing in the morning light. “We’ve got a journey to make.”

The words were a breath of fresh air, in a way, and he laughed with dazed amusement. Because of course. He could gain an arcanum and have a pair of wings erupt bloodily from his body, but life went on. The war didn’t particularly care about his turmoil, and Zym still needed to get back to his mother. That, at least, hadn’t changed.

Rayla smiled a little more widely at him, as if sensing the near-calm the thought had brought him. Then she rose, pulling him up with her. “Come on.” She said. “Let’s wake up Zym, and get going. Lots of ground to cover today.”

As she said this, she looked out at the prevailing greenery with almost a hint of…excitement, or trepidation, or both. He would have asked, but she exhaled quick and fast, as though steeling herself, and pulled him determinedly off towards their things.

---

In the end, Callum did not like the idea of travelling through Xadia shirtless, so they had to delay setting off for a while longer to sort out his clothing situation. Given the increasingly large new limbs on his back, this was something of a conundrum.

His undershirt wasn’t even an option now, given it only had a couple of buttons. That had been fine when they were getting it off of a distended back, but was less fine now, when they needed to work around two significant obstacles. He packed it away, mournful, and turned to his sleeveless red shirt.

First they tried just putting it on as normal, essentially strapping the probably-wings to his back. This seemed like it might be successful, up until the right one twitched and the first claw poked cheerfully through the fabric of his poor shirt. “Okay, so much for Plan A.” Rayla said ruefully, as she peeled the shirt off him again to show him the hole.

He made a face at it. “Yeah, let’s…try not to actually wreck my clothes.” He said, with visions of entire clawed fingers breaking through his formerly-nice attire. “It’s not like I have a lot of them. So, er…” He frowned. “What else can we try?”

Dubious, they made a half-hearted attempt at a Plan B, which involved putting his new limbs through the shirt arm-holes, essentially putting the thing on backwards and buttoning it at his back. This let the new limbs hang out unrestrained, but left his arms pinned to his torso, which was decidedly not ideal. Rayla got a couple of chuckles out of that one, at least, so it wasn’t entirely a wasted effort.

“Okay, so maybe let’s not sacrifice your arms to the cause.” She said, lips still twitching as she removed the shirt yet again, considering. As she held it up, he was momentarily struck again by the commonality in colour between it and the scarf she still wore. He hadn’t thought she’d be keeping it, when she took it to distract Sol Regem, but with all the trouble they’d had with the Sky magic and his new back-limbs since then…well, she’d apparently forgotten to give it back. It sat well enough around her neck that he couldn’t quite make himself ask for it back. He smiled at her, gut fluttering in a not unpleasant way, and then belatedly remembered to focus on what she was saying. “But you know, I think we might be onto something, with putting it on backwards.”

He eyed it, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” He folded his arms, sceptical, and experienced a brief moment of disorientation at the fresh reminder of how shirtless he was. It was so awkward to be so unclothed, especially outside, especially in the open, and especially in front of Rayla.

“Trust me.” Rayla insisted, seemingly oblivious to his renewed discomfort at parading around in front of her shirtless, and he sighed. Sensing his capitulation, she flashed him a smile and ordered “Arms out!”

Obligingly, he followed her directives, and she pulled his arms through his sleeves…again, with the shirt on back-to-front. He couldn’t see what she did next, but he could infer from the shifting of the weight of his new limbs that she was moving them around, and then…a little of the cool air on his lower back eased off, as buttons were fastened into place along his back.

He blinked, and turned his head over his shoulder to try to see what she was doing. “Oh,” He said, surprised. “I should have thought of that.”

It was a decidedly awkward solution, but…a reasonably workable one. She’d buttoned his shirt up to where the limbs emerged at his upper back, and then insistently pulled his collar and upper two buttons closed at the top. It left a gaping diamond of skin of his upper back exposed, with the still-translucent skin of the prone limbs hanging down over his back, but…

“…That could work.” He decided, surprised, and adjusted his shirt as best he could to make it sit a bit more nicely. Even if Rayla had managed to actually get it on him, it wasn’t exactly comfortable to wear it back to front, and not even fully buttoned. He reached behind him and tried to smooth down the line of fabric that kept the buttons mostly invisible. “…Are you sure there’s no way to tuck these in, though?”

He didn’t need to specify what ‘these’ were. Rayla considered it, then went rummaging in his bag again. After a moment, she extracted the black cloak she’d used for her Human Rayla impressions, and he shivered a little at the sight of it. In his weird dark magic dream-quest thing, his other self had been wearing that. But…he supposed he couldn’t fault the utility. “This alright?” She questioned, apparently noticing his hesitation.

“…Yeah, that’s fine.” He said, determinedly, and she slung it over his shoulders. It couldn’t disguise the pronounced lumps on his back, maybe, but at least he wouldn’t be walking around with them looking all exposed and fleshy and flappy.

He took a step, and immediately proved himself wrong; the wings swayed limply and swung briefly out of the cover of the cloak, jarringly pale and alien to look at. He sighed.

Rayla winced, and folded her arms. “Well, then….” She trailed off, frowning, as she tried very hard to figure out some way to stop his wing-arms dangling and flapping every-which-way as he walked. “Well. I think…you’re either going to have to carry them over your elbows or something, or…”

“Or…?” he prompted, leadingly, when she didn’t continue. She was staring at his back, brow furrowed.

“Or, we use your jacket to tie your wings down?” She suggested, after a moment. Needless to say, they’d not even tried to get the jacket on him, when the shirt alone had been so much trouble. He still felt a little strange and exposed without it, thoroughly unused to being all in red again, and to having his arms all exposed. It was strange to look down at his arm without seeing blue. But…well, the jacket might manage as an improvised restraint or sling of some sort, he supposed.

He sighed. “Well, at least that way I don’t have to carry it.” He said philosophically, and Rayla went around to enact the plan.

It was not especially elegant, but she did tie the wings to his back, the sleeves of his jacket tied around his front, and the hand-joint of each appendage hanging over the jacket-rim at his back. He put the cloak back over the whole mess, and walked in an experimental circle.

“You can see the lump under the cloak moving a bit, but at least you’re not flapping everywhere.” Rayla reported, almost satisfied. “It’ll do. Finally!”

He observed her familiar sort of impatience with a weary air. “Time to get moving?” He asked, and hefted his bag. He’d never been grateful for it only having one strap yet, given that tended to lead to one very sore shoulder, but in this case….in this case, it being a single-strap bag meant he could actually wear it. Carefully, he slung the strap of his backpack over the other shoulder, and straightened.

Rayla nodded, briskly, and ducked to the side to pick up Zym and thrust him into his arms. “Time to get moving.” She agreed, and ushered them onwards towards the distant forest.

---

Zym, when they woke him up, had proven exceptionally astonished by the growth on Callum’s back.

That astonishment had not subsided significantly since.

Callum sighed and bent his neck forwards as Zym, yet again, slung himself around his shoulders as though acting as a blue draconian replacement for his scarf. A blue, unusually active scarf. A scarf that kept sticking his nose down the collar of the cloak to nose at his new set of shoulders, and therefore, not really anything like a scarf at all.

“Zym.” He complained, without any particular animus, at the warm feeling of dragon-breath whuffling down his back, where a diamond of skin was still exposed. “Do you have to keep doing that?”

The dragonling surfaced briefly to croon insistently at him, and then promptly buried his face under the cloak again.

A moment later, he reached out with a paw to bat and prod curiously at the new limbs there, the backs of his own wing-fingers poking Callum in the back of the head. He tried to turn to look at him, and promptly took a dragon-tail to the face. Raya, pitiless, snickered at him behind her hand. “He’s really fascinated with them.” She remarked, all cheer and light-heartedness, which was all well and good for her, but she didn’t have a young and very curious dragon messing with her.

“It’s just wings, Zym.” He said, exasperated, over his shoulder. “Well, probably wings. You’ve got them too, you know.”

Zym determinedly ignored him, and batted at one of his wing-claws. Callum winced, and – well, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Zym was delightedly investigating the new appendages with all the brazen curiosity of a young child, and Callum…

…Callum could feel it. He thought. Probably.

It was inconsistent and weird-feeling and not-all-there, but….

He’d felt that tug, a painful shove of a joint in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He’d felt the draconian snout nosing at the skin, albeit in a rush of half-numb half-prickling trickles that didn’t feel anything like normal skin should do. And, increasingly, there was this sense of…pervasive numbness. He hadn’t quite realised it before, but numbness was in itself a sensation, and before now…well, he’d not even had that.

But now, he thought, the wings felt numb. Heavy and ungainly and weird-feeling, like a leg you’d been sitting on for so long it had lost all feeling.

When he shifted, he thought he could feel the pressure of the jacket-tie around his wing-hands.

There was still absolutely nothing he could do about the twitching, though.

Callum winced as Zym – again – pulled one of the wing-fingers in a direction it did not like, and the whole set of digits jerked and flexed in response, sending the dragonling yelping back and up. He craned his neck to see around his shoulder, and surmised that Zym had gotten himself poked up a nostril by one of the wing-claws. He sighed, and coaxed the dragon off of his shoulders and into his arms. “Sorry, Zym, I didn’t mean to jab you.” He said to the little Dragon Prince, who suddenly looked pitifully betrayed. “I can’t control what they do, so…be careful, alright?”

Zym chirped at him, a little grumpily, reminding him uncannily of Ezran when he’d been told to keep his fingers out of some animal den or other. For a long, painful second, Callum fiercely missed his brother. Then he pushed it to the side with all the other stuff he didn’t have the time or wherewithal to deal with.

Luckily, it wasn’t long after that that they reached the edge of the towering Xadian forest, and then…well, then, he had plenty of things to distract him.

---

“These trees are gigantic!” He exclaimed to Rayla, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as they passed between the towering tree trunks. The ones at the forest-edge weren’t that large, but he could see the way ahead; before them, the forest canopy towered so far overhead that he thought the trees would happily outsize the castles of Katolis, the uppermost leaves so far away that the light came down yellow-green and verdant, flickering over the ground. “This is amazing,” He breathed, a minute or so later, when he began to see the glowing mushrooms and colourful plants and luminescent motes in the air-

She smiled at him, tolerant, and patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, Callum.” She said, fondly. “If a few little trees get you excited, you’re going to have to raise your standards.”

“My standards are fine, thank you, have you seen this place?” He said, staring around every-which-way until he pulled something in his neck trying to look too far upwards. He winced, rubbed at the sore muscle, and then focused his attention on the middle-distance.

Ahead, the forest floor erupted into a twisting mass of tree roots thicker than most houses, each of them wreathed in ferns and mushrooms. There were beds of strange flowers everywhere, lines of strange mushrooms along every root and bough, everything was sheathed in thick moss or lichens or some sort of life, and – and he had no idea where to look. It was amazing. It was all amazing.

“I did grow up here, Callum.” She informed him, lips twitching, and led him up onto one of the arching roots. “Though I wasn’t exactly here-here much, since my hometown is down over a cliff, and it’s hard to get up here.”

He eyed her, fascinated, and realised she’d hardly spoken about her origins at all before. “….So, how are we going to get down there?” he asked, then paused. “If we’re going down there. Or are we…not going there?” He couldn’t imagine bypassing Katolis if it happened to be in his way, but, well…maybe there was a reason Rayla had never talked about home? Maybe she didn’t really want to go back?

His thoughts had about a second to start speculating wildly before she rolled her eyes and smiled. “I’m taking you home.” She decreed, with such easy certainty and cheer that all thoughts of her possibly having an unpleasant home situation vanished instantly. “So yes, we’re going down off the cliff.”

Callum squinted, a little wary at the hint of mischief in her smile. “….How?”

Her smile widened. “You’ll see.” She said, secretive, and reached out to pull him by the hand towards the nearby arch of another root. “It’s not far now.”

He shrugged, too fascinated by their surroundings to want to press the issue, and let her lead him onwards.

---

He was distracted enough by all the plants, mushrooms, magic dirt, three-tailed squirrels, weird birds, musical flowers, and foul-smelling flowers that he almost forgot the issue of the stupid unasked-for probably-wings growing on his back.

Almost.

In the end, it was hard not to notice things that felt increasingly numb and prickly on your back, especially when they twitched and flexed and moved without your say-so, and especially when you started to be able to feel the sensation of that movement in how the numbness and the tingling shifted. He reached over at one point to poke at the skin on a wing-shoulder, once, and was almost alarmed at how…sort-of-normal it felt. Prickly, yeah, like a dead leg, but…

He could feel it.

Callum did not tell Rayla about the rapidly-developing sensation in his wings. He didn’t need to, in the end. They stopped for a rest in the verdant tree-shadows of the ancient forest, and quite matter-of-fact, Rayla pulled his cloak over his shoulder so she could have a look at his wings.

“They’ve grown. The spikes, too.” She announced, to no one’s surprise, and then reached over to untie his jacket-sleeves.

The jacket fell away.

The wings…didn’t.

For a second, Callum was as astonished at the sensation of the still-folded limbs as Rayla was to look at them. Then she whirled to face him, demanding “Are you making them do that? Can you move them now?”

“What? No, I can’t move them at all!” He protested, and…well, he tried again, just to make sure he wasn’t lying. But it…it was like there was nothing to move. He could feel them there, maybe, all heavy and numb and prickling, but he felt no more able to move them than the skin on his body. He tried to describe this sensation to Rayla, and she listened intently, tilting her head.

“Kind of like ears, then.” She concluded, to which he responded with a very sceptical stare.

“How is it like ears?” he wondered, furrowing his brows at her, and she blinked.

“You know, they kind of move on their own, and you can feel it but not really control it?” She offered, and he stared.

“Human ears don’t do that, Rayla.” He informed her, thinking of the times he’d seen her ears shift in a new light. “I mean, I think. Not that I’ve noticed?”

“…Huh.” She stared at him, a little nonplussed. “I did think your ears were weirdly still, but I didn’t realise they don’t move at all.” She inspected something at the side of his face for a few long seconds, presumably his round human ears, and then concluded “Humans are weird.”

“Weird for having not-moving ears?” He asked, and she nodded firmly.

“Very weird.” She agreed. “Point is though, Callum, you can sort of learn to move your ears by focusing extra-hard on what it feels like when they move. Like this,” She concentrated for a second, and her ears twitched noticeably up and down a few times. “See?” Her face fell, then. “But, I guess if you can’t actually feel them moving…”

He shuffled in place, almost guiltily. “I kind of can now.” He admitted, and she straightened, eyes widening. “Sort of? It mostly feels….numb and prickly. Like a leg you sat on too long, you know? But…” he shrugged, and felt the wing-shoulders shrugging along, as if to reinforce the point. “I’m starting to feel them.”

Rayla stared wide-eyed for around two more seconds, then leaned slowly forwards with a finger outstretched.

She poked him on the left wing-shoulder, firmly. “Did you feel that?” She demanded, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Yes.”

She moved her hand. “What about that?”

He blinked. “No? What did you do?”

“Touched the…wing under-arm? But lightly.” She pursed her lips, pensive, and the rest of their break turned into Rayla finding different ways to test the developing sensitivity of his wings.

In the end, it turned out he could feel pressure, temperature, moderately-light touch, and also could feel the first layer of protruding barb-things – now a good couple inches in length – pulling at something unsettlingly deep in the flesh. Like they went all the way to the bone. Light touch was still beyond him, though, and everything he could feel came across in varying degrees of numbness, prickling, and tingling. The closest to normality was the wing-shoulders, which only felt slightly weird when poked.

“Maybe it’s spreading outwards.” Rayla suggested, when she’d run out of ways to poke him. “And your wing-skin will start feeling more normal further and further out from the shoulders.”

“…Maybe.” He said, dubiously, and looked at her for a long moment. There was something strange, he thought, about how oddly fixated she was on this, on testing the range of sensation, on figuring out how his wings worked. She seemed almost more interested in them than he was.

Should he be more interested in them? …It felt like he should. Probably. He tried to imagine meeting someone else with developing wings, who was also a friend who wouldn’t mind being poked. He’d want to know all about those, wouldn’t he? How the joints bent and folded, and how they felt, and how everything lined up. If it had been Rayla unexpectedly growing wings, he’d want to know everything about them, right? He should probably be more interested in his own wings than he was. Instead, he was just…oddly blank-feeling on the whole matter, in a weird and distant way that implied he probably wasn’t dealing with the whole thing as well as he could be.

“Why are you so interested in them?” He asked, after a pause, to distract himself from his own thoughts. His earlier thought reiterated itself anyway: if it had been Rayla unexpectedly growing wings, he’d want to know all about them…

She seemed a little taken-aback at the question, and then frowned a little, as if seriously considering it. “I guess I have been asking a lot of questions, haven’t I?” She said eventually, with a troubled glance over his shoulders.

“Usually it’s me who’s the curious one, right? Kind of a turnaround.” He said, with a teasing smile, and she huffed at him.

“You’re still the curious one, trust me.” She said, dryly. “If I let you, you’d stay in this forest looking at dirt for the next three years, probably.” Well. That was probably fair. “But, I suppose, to answer your question…” She frowned again. “I don’t know. I think – they’re just…growing so fast. It feels like every time I turn around they’ve changed, and it’s…” She searched for a word.

“…Scary?” he suggested, because that was about how he felt about it.

She side-eyed him narrowly, and he recalled that she (and Moonshadow elves in general) had a Thing about admitting to fear. “…I suppose.” She admitted, begrudgingly, and shot his wings an indecipherable look.

He considered them himself, gut churning uncomfortably, and nodded. It made a certain sort of sense. She was coping with the anxiety of having two limbs grow violently from his back by keeping on top of absolutely everything that changed with them, and he…he was doing his best not to think about any of it at all. Especially how much they were changing.

Still. They were a little less unsettling to have, now that he could feel them. A little less like horrifying parasites growing out of his body, and a little more like…he couldn’t really say a part of him, not yet, maybe not ever. They were too…weird. Too frightening. Too expected and uninvited and jarring. But they at least had some level of sensation now, and that was…better, in some way that was hard to properly put to words.

As if to purposefully disrupt the vague positivity of that thought, the left one flexed out fully on his back, all three digits stretching, and then folded inwards again. He grimaced, both at the movement he had no control over and the rush of numb tingling that the movement sent through the wing. The hand-joint and its constituent fingers flexed on the right.

“Ugh.” He muttered to himself, stomach roiling, and shook his head. “Can we keep moving now?” he asked Rayla, and she looked at him. Her brows furrowed, eyes worried, and then she reached out to replace his cloak. The jacket-tie didn’t seem as necessary now that the things were holding themselves up. Her fingers lingered around his shoulders, arranging the cloak over his collar, and for a second, he vividly recalled how he’d adjusted his scarf on her before she went to trick Sol Regem. It felt similar. He stared at her for a long moment, feeling oddly bashful when she looked up to meet his eyes.

She still was wearing his scarf, wasn’t she?

Unbidden, he found himself reaching out, a strange gesture of reciprocity, and shifting the scarf around her neck. Just adjusting it a little, so it sat properly. It still looked good on her.

When he looked back up at her, her cheeks were a little pink. “…Didn’t you want this back, at some point?” She asked, after a moment, fingers moving to play with the scarf-tail. The way she looked at him was oddly hesitant, for her.

…Would it be weird to tell her to keep it? It was his scarf, after all. He’d had it for a long time. He…didn’t especially feel its loss, though. And…it made him oddly happy to see it on her.

“…Well, it’s your good luck charm, right?” he said, after a moment, cheeks strangely hot. “Maybe you should hold onto it for a while.”

That wasn’t giving it to her, right? That wasn’t weird? That was…a normal best friend thing to do?

She ducked her head, suppressing a smile. Her fingers wrung the end of the scarf a little more firmly, and though she was still looking away, she looked pleased. “…Thanks.” She said, in the end, and her eyes flickered up to meet his, just for a moment. “I think I will.”

That moment of eye contact lingered, stretching into something that felt as strange and charged as the first time he’d adjusted the scarf on her.

And then it ended, and she stepped away. “Best get going now, then, if we want to get to the cliff soon.” She announced, and whirled away to stride up along another root.

He blinked after her, wondering why his heartbeat felt so strange, and then ushered Zym along beside him.

He supposed he was curious to see what she had planned for this cliff-descent of hers, so…

Quiet, with the wings tucked tight against his back, he followed her through the forest.

---

End chapter.

Notes: The response to chapter 1 of this was surprising, to say the least. I suppose I’ll not underestimate the power of new-season-hype in the future. Glad Boundless has pleased so many of you; thanks for reading!

On ears: Callum and Rayla are kind of mistaken, in that human ears can move on their own. That’s how I learned to move mine – I felt them moving and learned to control the sensation of those muscles in use. Still, I don’t think it’s exactly common.

On the wings: hopefully this chapter clarifies things with regards to what kind of wings he’s growing. If you want to spoil yourself, check the boundless tag on my blog. You’ll find a reference image for the fully-developed wings that I drew around a month before s3 hit.

Future updates: We have now reached the end of pre-written Boundless content. The next update will correspondingly take a much longer time to come out. I have written more Boundless, but it feels more like chapter 4 than 3, so could be a while until this updates.

In the meantime, please do check out my other tdp fanfiction, Peace Is A Journey, which has been my top writing priority for like seven months now. It has now been updated to accommodate s3 context and information, and I’ll be working on finishing and publishing chapter 11 as soon as possible – which, for reference, I expect to be around 20k long. That story is a beast.

#the dragon prince s3 #rayllum #tdp callum #tdp rayla #wingfic #tdp fic #boundless

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lucytara · 6 years

Text

prompt: pink; “my girl, I think I'm in love, It's the scariest place to be alive”

It’s a Tuesday night over summer break when the revelation hits, and nothing’s even happening.

They’re sprawled out together on the couch, eating pizza and watching some old black-and-white horror flick on television. Blake’s head is resting in her lap, black hair spilling out over her thighs like running ink, and Yang tosses her other arm casually across her stomach, purely because there’s nowhere else comfortable to put it. Blake’s ears twitch occasionally, automatic reactions to every skin-crawling sound effect, the creaking of doors, footsteps in the night, sudden screeching apparitions. She’s dangling a slice above her mouth carelessly, cheese slippery against the sauce.

“If you spill that on me,” Yang says, watching the bottom tear under the weight of the anchovies, “I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, relax,” Blake says, taking a big bite and sliding it back onto her paper plate next to Yang’s feet, kicked up on the coffee table. “You’re just discriminatory.”

“Discriminatory?” Yang repeats disbelievingly. “Against what?”

“Anchovies.”

Yang sweeps her fingers mindlessly through Blake’s hair. The movie’s ceasing to entertain her, though not much ever competes with Blake, anyway. “They’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Wow.”

Blake finally tears her eyes away from the screen, unable to contain her laughter at the mock offense seeding Yang’s tone. “I’m kidding,” she says, running her teeth against her bottom lip. “You’re fine.”

“Oh, that’s much better.” Yang tugs playfully on a curl, tucks it behind Blake’s human ear. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, and all I get is fine.”

“Shut up,” Blake says, her cheeks pooling with hot embarrassment. Her lips burn pink, irises like wedding bands. “You don’t really think that.”

“I do,” Yang teases, or means to and misses entirely; the words come too naturally soft, not as a whisper but with the intent of one. Blake pauses, stares up at her, and Yang vaguely comprehends the palm of Blake’s hand settling over the back of hers. Summer heat sinks through her skin and Yang wonders if her mouth carries the same weight. Her tongue briefly slips between her lips, wets them, nervous and uncertain.

“You’re the beautiful one,” Blake murmurs, brushing the knuckles of her free hand against Yang’s cheek, and her blood rushing through her veins scrapes as if suddenly raw. “You always have been.”

“Belladonna,” Yang says, shocked to hear herself breathless, “shut up and take the compliment.”

In the background, there’s the sound of a slashing knife and tearing flesh, and someone’s heart ends up scattered across the floor.

Weiss is the second one to notice.

It’s a month later, a Thursday drenched in warm rain and thunderstorms. School’s not due to start up again for a few weeks, and they’re taking full advantage of an empty house; Blake’s parents are away at some summit meeting for the night. Yang rides her bike there, leaves it sitting against the porch under the awning, a bottle of Qrow’s cheap tequila tucked into her backpack. Weiss, on the other hand, breaks into her dad’s liquor cabinet, sneaks over with a few bottles of fancy wine and some disgustingly rich bourbon that only Blake ends up being able to tolerate.

Blake’s flushed and giggling with the back of her hand held to her mouth. Yang’s tracing all of her lines and edges, half-smiling like the slant of that falling rain tapping gently against the roof, one knee crooked with an arm resting on it. She’s drawing, painting. Blake’s hair spirals over her shoulders in loose waves, reminds Yang of the night sky if it had a tide. Every giggle sends Yang’s smile wider, stitching pulling free and spreading. Weiss lifts her wine glass to her lips and stops, stares at her through the rim, an eyebrow quirked curiously.

“I have an idea,” she announces. Blake chokes on her bourbon, causes Yang to laugh. They’re stupid-drunk, the kind where they’re on the brink of honesty and enthusiasm for making decisions that only look good under the light, the kind they’ll pretend to shrug off in the morning after ignoring the way they wake up tangled around each other.

“What?” Yang asks, taking a drink from Blake’s glass and grimacing with a shake of her head. Weiss thinks of probing, exposing her - why are you drinking it if it’s so terrible - but she sees Blake place her lips exactly where Yang’s have just been, and oh, she knows. Maybe they both do.

Weiss isn’t stupid-drunk. She’s fun-drunk, manipulative-drunk, oh-shit-my-best-friend’s-got-a-crush-drunk. They’re seventeen. Sometimes these things just happen. “Truth or dare,” she says.

“Dare,” Blake says immediately, not realizing Weiss had only been proposing the game rather than actually challenging her to it.

Doesn’t matter. She’ll take it. Yang only gazes on, expression serene and calm and innocent. That’s going to change. “I dare you,” she says, sugary-thick and sweet, “to kiss Yang. And I mean, like, kiss her. Not like we’re thirteen year-olds playing spin-the-bottle in Jaune’s basement.”

There’s a singular pause while time puts itself on hold. Blake sets her glass down - it sloshes against the rim, fortunately doesn’t spill - and Yang’s already so close to her. Neither of them are sure of when that happened, or how. They make eye contact, and something wordless passes between them, something Weiss can’t decipher even if she tries. Not all codes are meant to be cracked.

Blake’s fingers push Yang’s bangs out of the way, drop across her cheek and down to her jaw. Yang only looks on, slightly star-struck in the most literal sense of the phrase; there’s a sky crashing down above them, there’s the roar of collapse. Her eyes are wide, lips parted as if she can’t remember another way to breathe. Blake’s stare flutters back and forth and her irises are fireflies, blinking in and out of existence.

Shockingly, Blake isn’t the one who leans in, and Weiss can actually sense the moment the tension cracks, thunders like the storm outside. Something shifts in the universe: there’s a fractured moon, there’s a planet unaligned. Somewhere a black hole swallows an entire galaxy and a supernova creates a new one. Yang breaks - she breaks like she’s never realized how simple it is to do, as if breaking is a thing that leaves no need for repair, only the task of becoming again - and Blake’s bottom lips slides easily between hers, Yang’s fingers following the curve of her skull around her ear, hands spreading into her hair.

It’s the complete lack of hesitation that makes Weiss realize the truth. They kiss and it’s like they’ve done it a thousand times before - there’s no awkward adjustments of their mouths, no bumping teeth, no skittish fingers - it’s like watching the creation of a puzzle before it’s split into different pieces, seeing the whole of what it should be rather than what it is. They kiss once, twice - on the third, Blake’s drunk and brave and her tongue sweeps across Yang’s bottom lip - and then lightning strikes, weaves through the sky, and Blake pulls away, shuddering.

There’s a split second of time where they lock eyes and say nothing. Blake’s smile curls, slow and shy. Yang lowers her arm, brushes her thumb across Blake’s lip, red and full, lets her own grin flower in response.

“You,” she says, drowning in open adoration, “are trouble when you’re drunk.”

In years to come, Weiss will remember this and think only one thing: I should’ve looked away.

“You love her,” Weiss says quietly. It’s three in the morning and Blake’s passed out against Yang’s shoulder, which is how these things normally go. Blake gravitates to her, always has; it’s just the state of affairs. Now Weiss knows why. She’s never seen inevitability until now.

“Yeah,” Yang says. The admission comes easier than Weiss expects it to, but it’s the time of night that beckons secrets be told. Like they’re so real they can be made tangible. Like they’re so real they can’t be real at all. Blake only continues breathing peacefully, wrapped up in Yang’s embrace.

“What’s it like?” Weiss whispers. The room’s dark and her vision struggles to adjust. The walls are coated in a thousand tiny pinpricks of light and absence of color, greys and blacks.

Yang stands out. All Weiss discerns is the way her fingers dance up and down Blake’s arm, the same motion she’d eased Blake to sleep with in the first place nearly an hour ago.

“Scary,” she says honestly. “Terrifying.”

Blake lifts a hand in her sleep, palm coming to rest over Yang’s heart, fingers in a half-curl. Yang swallows, pulse hammering so hard Weiss swears she can hear it echoing inside of Yang’s chest.

“But good,” she adds in a soft whisper, and in the darkness Weiss spots the tilt of her jaw, and the quiet sound of the kiss she presses against the crown of Blake’s head.

Ruby’s the last one. It’s not her fault.

She finds the two of them sitting on the porch swing the weekend after schools starts, Blake’s legs across Yang’s lap and her head nestled in the crook of Yang’s neck. Yang’s rocking them slowly, forward and back, bare feet pressed against the ground. The air isn’t quite in the mood for fall, still damp and warm from summer, though the cool breeze and the colored leaves speak to changing hands.

They seem to be talking in low, hushed tones, broken by bits of laughter and playful insults. It’s just how it always is, how it’s been for years; that’s what Ruby thinks, anyway, when she steps out front to ask them what they want for dinner.

But then she catches Yang’s left arm wrapped around Blake’s waist, her fingers aimlessly dipping against the ridges of Blake’s spine like a mindless habit. She catches Blake’s lips a little too close to Yang’s jaw, the way her blood temporarily makes a home in her cheeks. She catches how the world narrows in, how delicate lines vanish, how space seems to have forgotten its place.

She meets Yang’s eyes, and Yang smiles, looking away.

#bumbleby #rwby ficlets #its officially too hard to go scroll down my inbox and find old prompts so they're just getting posted like this #sunnysaiyan

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jazzycheshirekitten-blog · 6 years

Text

When Roses Collide

((Meeting yourself can be a strange experience.

@analyticseer

Rose

So.... A pink humanoid cat has been brought in. Also with very interesting circumstances if you may add. Karkat had liked this new person but then again you need to see this person yourself. You have your comfy clothes and phone with you hidden in a pocket, just in case something happens. After all you can never know what might happen and if this is somekind of trick to cause chaos from inside the Hideout, you need to let others know. Walking casually and without actually hiding your faint steps, you arrive and knock before opening the door, letting this person know that you are coming in and hoping Karkat was right and there isn't any trickery going on.

Jazz

You had been napping a little having needed a break from the books Karkat had given you. The knock wakes you immediately and you give the new comer a sleepy cat face. Looking at her is like... looking in a mirror, or at least it feels that way. A strange sensation runs down your spine as you gaze at her. For once you are wordless, partly because you are not quite sure you're not dreaming. It wouldn't be the first time you've had a dream like this since leaving your original universe.

Rose

Same could be said when Rose had got in room and her attempt to close door behind her is half completed. She just stares this person openly with confusion because... This Jazz... Has too many details that remind you at yourself. Suddenly you remember the message you got from some horrorterror at tumblr. Did they mean this person? "... From another timeline...?" you ask a little confused and you just needed to ask it right away.

Jazz

Ah, so straight to the point. And she's actually talking so most likely, not a dream... Unless you're both dreaming? A possibility. "An alternative universe which isn't exactly like an alternate timeline," you say, your cat-ish smile finding its way to your lips.

Rose

Oh... She also sounded quite similar like you do expect she maybe has some kind of... Cat-accent while talking? Is that a thing...? ... Yes, it's an actual thing, you decide. "....Right, Alternative universe then," you say and finally close the door. You now wonder if this is how Dave felt or feels when ever he meets new version of himself. The sensation of this is... Weird but somehow interesting at the same time.

Jazz

"Rose Lalonde the, yes?" you purr. It's been a long time since you've said that name. The last time was when you still used it. "I am Jasmine, mostly called Jazz~" It's very odd to see who you could have been or rather who you are here. Though she is you, she is also not you. The pair of you likely share much and little at the same time.

Rose

You aren't actually surprised when Jazz says your name. She is at least... Some sort of version of yourself so it was kind of your expectation that she already knows your name. Thank of the horrors though she uses different name. This way confusions should be close to zero. "Correct. I heard we have a... Guest whom name is Jazz. Karkat seemed to like you so I wanted to come and see you. I had not heard that you were..." you try to finish but end up gesturing Jazz and yourself because you still try to process that she is and is not you and has cat ears, is pink and.... What else???

Jazz

You see her eyeing you and you wave your twin tails and tentacle whiskers in a sort of playful way. You wonder if she's as interested in the outer gods as you were before being partially melded with them by your father. "That I was so cute?" you giggle mirthfully.

Rose

Did you- no, you mean did SHE actually say that? You wouldn't say that in this situation, so you did not expect that. But now when she mentioned it, she does look cute. You slowly start smiling a little and chuckle. "That wasn't really what I was trying to sat but you do look cute. Especially your hair looks very soft," you admit and wonder if it's softer than your own, which it might be since she is... Part of cat and... Are those whiskers really tentacles? ... Yup, seems to be like that. Cool.

Jazz

"Oh my hair is so very soft~ Karkat can attest to it as he petted me. Meow" you say, wiggling into a sitting position. "You can pet me too if you'd like~" "So~ Do we play a game of questions or do we just proceed accepting one another as unique individuals?"

Rose

"I'm more than curious to play game of questions with you, also with your permission" you say and come closer so you can put your hand on her hair and wow... It's even softer than you imagined so you start petting Jazz with slow and gentle moves, enjoying this experience.

Jazz

You purr quite loudly at her pets. Not quite as good as Karkat but still very good. "Mmm~ Very well, game of questions it is. We go back and forth asking questions and if either of us doesn't want to answer one then the other can make them do a tiny dare? Nothing that would get either of us in trouble of course~"

Rose

"Hmm... That is quite fair suggestion since I might also not be allowed to answer some things you ask, which I'm sure you already figured out," you say. You give it a thought for a moment, thinking the up's and down's of accepting this request. "If we have dare's the same rule must be applied so we have a chance to refuse. In the end, you have upper hand with dare's since I'm free and your actions are quite... Limited."

Jazz

"Hmm.... Fair~ Very well. Terms are accepted. Meow," you mew delightedly. You grin, and gesture to her, "After you~"

Rose

"Very well. First question. Are you actually horrorterror messing up with us?" you ask playfully with smile and scratch now Jazz's behind the ear, trying if she also has the spot some cats have.

Jazz

You giggle a little and look up at her, "Promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to say, under the condition of course that I remain a none danger to you and those you love and work with?"

Rose

You take your hand from Jazz hair and put it on your chest and raise the other one, looking like someone that is about to give a promise though Rose kind of does this a little more theatrically. "For the duty of secrecy I promise I will not tell anyone what you are about to share," you say and then lower your hands on your sides and sit down where ever you can safely sit down.

Jazz

"I, while not a horrorterror, do contain horrorterrors inside me. Given it is you I am talking to, I trust you understand why I would be cautious in who I share this information with. Nya~"

Rose

You lean a little closer to listen this secret and... Wow, that is some secret she's sharing with you. It might or not might explain the way she looks like because horrorterrors and humans don't really mix up well in your knowledge. While you are not hiding your interest towards horrorterrors, you do feel more safe having only Crew knowing about your seer powers actual source. The answer makes you wonder, how it feels to have horrorterrors inside yourself instead of being horrorterror... "I believe I understand why," you nod and lean back to your original sitting position. "Since this is a game, I must wait. You may continue.

Jazz

You beam a smile, take her hand and put it on your head. Pets to continue please~ "What is your relationship to the outergods?"

Rose

You were first a little confused by this gesture but realize that she must be graving some more attention. Well then, you pet her again but this time properly, like you would pet cats. "Hmm... I have been in contact with horrorterrors a long time in human years. They spike my curiosity and are my main subject to study so I would say my relationship with horrorterrors could be described as apprentice since I get in contact with them from time to time to learn more about their being," you answer and to be honest, it IS an honest answer.

Jazz

You nod. Before meeting your father you'd been researching them yourself. In truth they're probably the reason you met your father... You've always felt they wanted you for something. "Very fair~ If any try to deceive you let me know and I'll sink my claws into them," you tell her. Not all the outer gods can be trusted.

Rose

You chuckle a little bit for the words she said because you find Jazz very adorable from that moment. "I'll keep that in my mind. So, my turn to ask," you state and keep petting Jazz's head, while asking a little quieter to be sure no one could hear if they go past the door, "Have you always had horrorterrors inside you?"

Jazz

You're quiet for a moment then you answer honestly because if anyone could spot you in a lie, you suspect it is her. "No." There's another pause then you ask your question in return, "Have you ever had a cat named Jaspers?"

Rose

Okay, so she was maybe a human once and not like this originally. You wonder what happened to her and how she got these terrors inside her. However, the next question makes you stop petting Jazz for a moment and aren't smiling. It's been such a long time since someone mentioned dear Jasper and it's from the time you still had home and Mom around. "... Yes." Simple answer for simple question. You don't even ask right away a new question, because you need to have a little moment to collect your thoughts.

Jazz

"Ah I see.... so we share that then..." you say softly. You mean more than just Jaspers, but it still hurts too much to think of her much.

Rose

"... Did you also write stupidly long speech in Jasper's memory and read it out loud?" you ask, getting back petting Jazz softly.

Jazz

"Yes..." you say then laugh a little. "It may disturb you to know this... but my catness... it's... him..." You wonder, will she draw away? Will she be disgusted and horrified? Horrorterrors is one thing, but your beloved pet is another. You've also managed to forget the game for the moment. She's making you... feel... old things. This is dangerous. You are Jazz. Not Rose. You can never be Rose again nor do you want that.

Rose

This was very unexpected to hear so naturally you are quite in somewhere between shock and just being casually surprised. You don't know what to think about this like... Has she fused together with Jasper like... You aren't for sure but Sock is Dave and bird together like... Is this version of you the same way like Sock? You move your hands to hold Jazz face's sides while looking at her appearance, details that would tell you something, trying to analyse but... "You... You are not only me but also Jasper... Your Jasper?"

Jazz

"Yes... And I love you as much as I love me..." you say realizing it as you say it. Jaspers's knows Rose and loves her in all her forms, yourself and this alternate version included. that's frightening. But at least it's only the love a cat can feel. You can control that you think. If.... When you're father comes, he is what matters most.

Rose

Those words came from nowhere and was like a surprise attack after letting your guard down. It brings you back in the day how your Jasper died because of your stupid mistake. He could have lived longer life if you would have been more careful but you failed and... You once tried to even search if some kind of magic could bring him back but it's impossible. But your alternative self brought him in someway back alive? You can't hold yourself back and you embrace Jazz tightly while closing your eyes from tears. "I'm sorry.... I- I don't know if you understand... I'm- I'm sorry..."

Jazz

You think maybe you sort of understand. But you're not sure... It's must harder for you to understand feelings, particularly that of others since you became what you are. But she is you and not you... and you think if you were crying that maybe you'd want to be hugged. So you hug her back as tightly as you can with only one arm free. 'Perhaps.... this was part of the purpose...'' you think to yourself. Did the outergods want you here because of her? Did your father know? Would he understand?....

Rose

When you feel that she's hugging you back, it makes even harder for you to hold cry since tears have already won the battle between your eyelids. It's just touchy subject and the fact that there's two of you is making it even harder because you have a feeling that your other self haven't either had easy time in her original universe. This take a little time, before you speak. "I- I'm fine... This... This is just a lot to process..." you murmur and are ready to force yourself to stop hugging her.

Jazz

Slowly you let go and nod, "It is. I am willing to stop the game if you wish it..." The game is what led you to this pain... Perhaps it was a mistake on your part to play.

Rose

With your sleeve, you wipe some tears from your face. Thank god you didn't wear make-up today. "It... Would be wise though I have a lot questions for you but... I would like to continue this game some other time."

Jazz

"Alright. I am... um... Sorry to have given you distress...." and you actually mean it to an extent. You haven't been genuinely sorry to anyone other than your dad since... you changed. But you are what you need to be. You don't regret the change. "I suppose you'll be leaving for the moment then?"

Rose

"It's okay... You are not responsible how I reacted or in control how I feel from this," you assure. "But yes, I could consider to have a moment to collect my thoughts."

JazzToday at 1:30 PM

"Very well..." you close your eyes a moment and compose yourself as well. then you look up at her again with your smile, and you purr, "I look forward to seeing you again, Rose Lalonde~"

Rose

Faint smile comes across your face. It's nice to at least know Jazz looks a little more cheerful person than you are currently but... You wonder what she has gone through to get at this point. "I will come back later Jazz. If you want something that I could possibly bring, now's your chance to ask."

Jazz

"I would say knitting needles but I fear they would be mistaken for weapons and I could possibly be shot given my situation. So best to wait until I've proven myself and been made a member of the Midnight Crew~" you say casually.

Rose

"Well, I can bring you a yarn and teach you how to knit without needles, if you want," you suggest, assuming the way she says this that she haven't been taught how to knit without but you could be also wrong.

Jazz

Oh... she has a skill you do not! That's is rather wonderful and exciting really. You purr loudly and nod, "I'd like that greatly."

Rose

"That's then decided. I'll be back here at least tomorrow night after my work to show you how to do that," you say and get up.

Jazz

"I look forward to it, Rose. Take care of yourself in the meantime," you say. You are talking like a normal person would yes? you think perhaps for once you really are.

Rose

You smile a little amused, because worrying about your unnecessary reaction she should be more worrying about herself in case bosses are deciding something else than letting her join in the crew but.... You really hope she's clean enough to join and not a threat. "I would same to you, but it doesn't really wit in your situation so... I'm going to wish you luck that everything goes well. See you later." With that, you walk out and close again the door behind you. After this brief but surprisingly emotionally straining moment, you feel like having a drink.

Jazz

You'd love a drink yourself but for now... you have books. That must do. You will do what it takes to join the Crew. Not more then ever you feel it is the best and most interesting way to have purpose in this world.

#analyticseer #ic #offline #discord rp #long post

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the-windchild · 7 years

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Back to the Beginning Part two: Messy Procedures

“I’m kind of scared, not going to lie…” Mika said, shifting uncomfortably as Glasses carefully placed wires into her right wrist. “Am I going to die?”

“No, you’re not gonna die. This is gonna hurt…A lot…But we have it set at the lowest setting, and the pills I gave you earlier should help,” Glasses said, stumbling over his words a little, trying to find the right ones. He put in the last wire and sighed. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, either. I’ll be here with ya.”

“Okay, Mika.” Satanick turned off the light in the lab and moved over to the switchboard. He placed his hand on a lever and looked at her. “Are you ready?”

“Uh…Yes? Yes. I’m ready…” She tried to cover up any nervousness in her voice, but failed to do so. Even if she did manage to hide that, though, her nervousness would have been obvious because of how tightly she had been gripping to Glasses.

CLICK

Upstairs all the lights were off and all the curtains were closed. There was hardly a sound in the large building. It had been five minutes after Glasses got Mika ready to get connected to her clock. Apparently he tried to ‘dope her up’, as Anten said, but Satanick along with Sullivan, wouldn’t let him. It would have only made things worse in the long run. When Sullivan had gone back upstairs he told the employees it was fine if they left for the day. Some of them left, but a lot of them stayed.

It wasn’t too long after the five minute mark when it started. The screaming started. The lab was all the way down in the basement, yet the screams were more than loud and they were more than clear. Sounds of things being knocked over were also starting to come up from the lab. Then the sound of a body falling. More screams. A lot of screams. At first they were wordless, but then the ‘help mes’ started.

“She really learning her lesson down there, isn’t she?” Anten said, taking a sip of his cold drink.

“Anten, control yourself,” Sullivan said, shaking his head.

“I’m only saying what’s true, and what’s on everybody’s minds,” he responded. “This is the best way for the kid to realize Pitch Black Time isn’t as great as it’s made out to be. Well…If she survives.”

“Hey. What do you mean ‘if’?” Lyon asked, shooting a glare at his fellow employee.

“Come on. A small child like that? You think she can survive that kind of shock?”

“With…The medicine and low shock level it should be fine,” Sullivan cut in, doing his best to lighten the mood.

“Well, we’ll see.” Anten shrugged and looked toward the doorway.

After that, silence came to the living room. The only thing that was there once again, were the screams of a small child.

Mika had been making a mess not long after the shocking started. She knocked things over, either accidentally or on purpose. She screamed and she screamed. She had fallen onto her knees a few times. She’d get back up only to damage herself, by slamming her fists against the wall, or ‘pressing’ the back of her head against the wall.

There were times where it looked like she was going to pull the wires out, but somehow managed to stop herself. To make up for stopping the source of the pain, she hurt herself other ways. She tried to find different ways to get the original pain to go away, but it was plain to see it wasn’t helping herself much.

“SAVE ME, MISTER GLASSES!!” Mika screamed again.

She slammed her back against the wall and slid down. Her eyes were wide and tears fell from them. Her fingers were digging into her throat and she clawed down the normally soft skin. She had done this several times already. By this point, blood had begun to drip from her neck.

“Turn it off.” Glasses took a step back from Mika. When he got no response, he turned to his dad. “You promised if this got outta hand again, you’d turn it off!”

“Just a little longer.” Satanick’s voice was unnaturally cold, but he always had that façade while doing this procedure.

“SAVE ME!! IT HURTS!!”

Glasses turned back to Mika. More blood from her neck was dripping from the floor. She just continued to hurting herself more and more. She didn’t even realize what she was doing by this point. All she was doing was reacting to her traumatic situation.

“Dad, turn the machine off I’m takin’ Mika outta here!!”

“How are her eyes?”

“Who cares?! Just turn the machine off!” Glasses turned back to Satanick. He tried to block out Mika’s screams. He stepped forward. “Dad!”

“Just a little longer…It should be done soon.”

“Dad, turn the machine off now!”

Sullivan stopped halfway pouring his cold coffee. Everyone else in the living room seemed to stop, too. After ten or so minutes, the screams finally came to an end. All that noise that was once there was no more. It was pure silence; it almost felt like a horror movie setting. Sullivan slowly put his mug down and looked at the other employees. They looked at each other with uncertainty, but there were also some ‘finally it’s over’ looks.

Hanten placed her hands in her pockets. “Well, it’s done now…”

“So…” Anten stood from the couch and faced the door again. “Who wants to bet ten bucks that she blew up?”

“Anten, please,” Sullivan said, rubbing his forehead.

“The last one did.”

Glasses turned back around and tilted his head. The sudden stop was unsettling; she barely moved at all. Her body was heaving up and down lightly, though, so there was a small bit of relief. Glasses took slow steps towards her laying body.

“M-Mi…Ka…?” Glasses lowered himself to his knees and lifted her limp body.

“How do her eyes look?” Satanick asked again.

Glasses resisted rolling his own eyes at that. He gently lifted Mika’s head up. Her eyes were barely open, but he could see them well enough. He took a deep breath. “Still black but swirlin’ in her iris’.”

“Alright, you can take her out of here now.” Satanick’s voice was gentler now. He turned everything off completely and turned towards Glasses. “Go take her to our medical unit. They can handle it from here on.”

Glasses didn’t need to be told twice. He carefully removed the wires from Mika’s wrists and lifted her up from the floor. He didn’t look or say anything to his dad. There were too many thoughts and too many emotions running through him right now. None of that really mattered right then anyway. The only thing that mattered was hurrying to get Mika off to the medical unit, especially because of her partially bleeding neck.

It only took a couple minutes to get to the medical unit. It was nothing but a building, somewhat big but nowhere near as big as The Office, that was located behind said large office. Earlier that day, Satanick had already told the team to get ready for the situation, so they were already prepared to take Mika in for treatment. Glasses handed the small child over to them and watched as they took her away to stabilize her.

He stepped back and plopped down into one of the chairs in the lobby. It wasn’t as if it had been hours, but it certainly felt that way. It always felt that way when it came to that disgusting procedure. It was something his deadbeat dad should have fixed by now; should have made it safer. Yet, for some reason he kept things the way they were. Glasses seemed to learn more than his dad did. Or so it felt, anyway.

Glasses rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. It was only three in the afternoon. He would have considered taking a nap; it was tempting and Mika would be in the back for a while, anyway. But he knew what would happen if he fell asleep. He’d have to suffer through a traumatic experience from two or so years ago, and he already saw enough of that in the middle of Mika’s session. He didn’t need to see it more vividly in a dream.

"Coffee?”

Glasses blinked a couple times when a coffee mug was held out in front of him. He looked up and saw Sullivan there. He shrugged and took it from his superior and took a nice long drink. “Thanks.”

Sullivan sat in a chair next to Glasses and sipped his own mug. “Figured you’d need it after that,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “You know, you don’t always have to go watch that…”

“…I wouldn’t have if she wasn’t my partner,” Glasses replied, shifting a bit in his chair. “I learned from the last one that it’d be best to stay away. Then ‘gain…Deadbeat dad said he wouldn’t accept any more employees here after that accident.”

“He wasn’t. He really wasn’t, but Mika was put into his custody.” Sullivan looked back at Glasses and sighed. He looked as frustrated as ever. “It was going to happen eventually. Don’t be mad—uh…madder, at your dad than you already are.”

“Hard not to be mad at ‘im when he does shit like this,” Glasses said, shaking his head. He took another drink. “Tell me somethin’. Why does he keep doin’ this? This place really ain’t as amazing as he makes it seem.”

“It was decent in the beginning, before you came here, you know.” Sullivan put his mug down on the table next to him. “But things happen. Things had to change up, even if it wasn’t the best of changes.”

“Somebody died the last time. She blew up. He should’a shut this place down the moment it happened,” Glasses said, getting further frustrated. “Y’know the real reason why he keeps this up? ‘Cause his freakin’ brother is the god damn mayor, so he can cover up any deaths that happen here.”

“Glasses, please calm down.” Sullivan gave Glasses a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home? You could use some sleep, or maybe spending time with Kiku will help.”

Glasses shook his head. “No, I don’t wanna leave ‘till Mika’s up and movin’ ‘round,” he said, tiredly. “’Sides, I called Kik earlier. I told her I might not be able to get home tonight. Y’know how long these can take…”

“Don’t wear yourself out more than you have to. Trust me, it isn’t good for your health,” Sullivan joked.

“I know that all too well by this point.” Glasses leaned back in his chair and stared at the clock. Time certainly enjoyed taking its sweet time to go by.

In the end Glasses did end up waiting all day. He did move around a bit, but he didn’t head out of the building, just in case there was any news. He talked on the phone with Kiku for a while, not long after the time he would have already been back at his apartment. Kiku’s voice really did help calm him down, but her presence would have been much better. However, she had school the next day and he didn’t want her to fail because of him.

He also managed to keep himself up all day, making sure to do whatever he could to stop himself from sleeping. It drove him a bit crazy for a while, but thanks to cups and cups of coffee he managed to survive decently enough. Thankfully his dad never came out to visit him; he might have finally been able to get the message.

It was one in the morning when the nurse, Chisibuki, came out and told him that Mika was fine. She was still sleeping, but she was out of harm’s way. She would have to be in the medical unit for two days, but there was nothing to worry about. Glasses would have liked to stay until Mika actually woke up, but he was forced out by the doctors and other nurses.

Glasses did try to stay up all night, but he ended up crashing around three in the morning. Somehow or another, he didn’t end up having a gruesome dream like he thought. Or rather, it was still gruesome, but it happened in quick flashes. Thus, it didn’t disturb him too much. This was the last time he’d want to deal with anything like that again, though. Enough was enough. But Mika was going to be the last employee, he was sure.

He was still cranky with his dad when he woke up the next day; around twelve in the afternoon. He didn’t have to tell everyone that Mika was going to be alright, Sullivan did that for him. With all that done, Glasses was free to head out and keep an eye on Mika. And apologize. He owed her that much.

When he got to her room she was already sitting up and seemingly fine. She looked exhausted. She did smile when she saw Glasses, though. That was…Somewhat reassuring, if she could still be herself.

He sat on the chair next to her bed. “How are you feelin’?”

“Tired. Tired but fine,” Mika answered honestly. “I uhm…I was really scared yesterday…”

Glasses nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have made ya go through that.”

“What has to be done has to be done, right?” Mika said, reaching over and picking up Glasses hand. “I’m sorry for screaming so much…” She tilted her head as she started fiddling with Glasses hand, as if it was the first time seeing it.

“Don’t be sorry for that. Anybody would be like that,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “You’ll be out of here soon, and then…”

“And then…?”

Glasses closed his eyes and thought about it. He shrugged. “You’ll be able to go on your first job soon.”

“And you’ll be there with me?” Mika asked, rubbing the back of Glasses’ hand now.

“I am your partner, in case ya forgot.” He tried to sound teasing, but teasing wasn’t exactly a strong suit of his. “I’ll be there and you’ll be just fine.”

“Just fine~” Mika echoed.

“Mhmm…Just fine.”

#and back to the story line!#Now then #the next part is the final glimpse of the past #then we get back to present day #whoo-boy. Present day #ha.#ask to tag #just in case 'cause I'm not sure??#Enjoy!#Pitch Black Time AU

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delicrieux · 8 years

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Peculiar (Newt x Reader) pt.9 FINAL

A/N: cant believe it’s over…thank you everyone. i hope you’ll like it <3 WARNINGS: none PREMISE: An aloof, though kind, Gryffindor Quidditch player with an attention span that of a gold fish catches the eye of one extremely shy Hufflepuff that promises her to show all of Hogwarts’s magical creatures in an attempt to show off.

peculiar masterpost. MASTERLIST KO-FI.

Golden years ago in a mill beside the sea. There dwelt a little maiden, who plighted her faith to me;

The Maid of the Mill. I remember it clearly now, as if it was only yesterday it had happened. The cracking of the old record player, the melodious though haunting voice and the same repetitive circus tone. Then it all sprays with colour, the black and white memory, as if someone were to drop paint into a clear glass of water. And I’m falling; my back hits the ground and I shatter by my own spell. I heard it then, but perhaps only this many years past do I understand why.

The mill-wheel now is silent, the maid’s eyes closed be, And all that now remains of her are the words she sang to me:

I remember being a small child and dancing to it in my family’s living room, just like my mother had danced before me at her wedding.

Do not forget me, do not forget me!

And I know now why I heard it then, as my own life was running behind my eyelids like tears. I have dreamed and craved to do as my mother did on that fateful day. I wished for it to be my song. And at the time I felt like I could never realize my dream. Laying in the pool of my own blood I felt like I had lost much more than my life. That that was the end, my end. And in a way it was. Along with my shattered wand, something else broke too. That child-like wonder he loved me for so.

////

New York, 1926

(Name) (Lastname), born 1898 xx xx and is considered to be one of the brightest witch of her time, has gone missing. The War hero and inventor of Fiendfyre has been last seen on her trip to Peru, from which, she as sources say, vanished. Apparition was impossible, Auror Leroy Ambrose says, since the disappeared into one of the world’s most magical places – Machu Picchu - which is guarded by strong anti-apparition spells. More? Read on page 11.

Along with a lovely photograph of a woman smiling into a camera as it flashed over her face was the said paragraph Newt Scamander’s eyes glazed over, worry pulling on his heartstrings as an old, forgotten flame sparked in his chest. He inhaled, taking a step closer and tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the picture – the newspaper laid sideways on the already cluttered table, and as he was about to reach it—

“What are you looking at?”

“Oh…oh uhm, nothing.” He blurred, “Nothing at all.”

Porpentina Goldstein, behind her desk, slumped her shoulders with a curt sigh and looked back at the papers in her hand, “Do you have a wand permit, Mister Scamander?”

“Wh-yes, yes I do.” He nodded, unruly, “Say,” he took a step closer, making the girl blink, “Do you know of…” his eyes wandered back to the photograph and for a second he was lost in thought. Porpentina followed his gaze, raising a brow and failing to see how any of this was relevant to the situation at hand.

“(Lastname)? Of course I know her, everyone knows her.” She told, scribbling on her paper, “She’s a legend.”

…

The air was chillingly cold, or perhaps it was just him, trembling. With eyes wide and filled with pain he stared at Percival with disbelieve and horror, then shifting to the side once they caught of something much more important. By Graves’s side sat a woman, too close to be just another acquaintance, yet too stiff to be a close friend. Newton didn’t recognise her; the council seemed to move in slow motion as their gazes met for the one and only time. His heart betrayed a strange jump when the connection sparked. In his mind surfaced a painful, suppressed memory of dazed (color) eyes and untamed forest of playful curls, young dewy skin, blushed and apple-sweet with lips that tasted like honey suckles after the rain. Her name in his mind, one he read on the newspaper just yesterday, echoed in his earlobe. Soon the illusion broke as a scream, blood stinging and hurt, pierced his chest along with a horrid flash of red.

Newt gulped and quickly collected himself, more confused than distraught. It all fell into place then, the overwhelming fear of what was to happen to him and his creatures. He didn’t dare linger on the memory; in fact he was ashamed it appeared so suddenly in such a bad timing. Why? He did not want to worry over it not now, not ever. He pushed himself to reality as his eyes filled with opalescent tears and he begged, “Please, you don’t understand, nothing in there is dangerous.”

…

It was deadly silent in his office, only the clicking of short heels and Tina’s sniffles bounced off the walls now ten times louder. The unfamiliar woman that sat next to Percival was here too, circling the table and watching Newt shift in his seat, his eyes boring into the paper in Graves’s hands. He had caught her staring a couple of times, gaze sharp and precise like a lion’s; again she walked as stiff as she sat, head held high in authority. She must’ve been an important figure…but why does it matter? Why does she matter? And why was she staring so intently?

Newton met her gaze as she stood behind Percival Grieves, her dark iris glimmering in the dim light with raw emotion, but what it was he couldn’t tell. Newt thought he’d look away first, but it was in fact the woman that glanced to Tina before he could grasp onto what she was trying to say. The silence stretched; Newt tapped his foot – a sign of cracking nerves no doubt – as Graves finally decided to acknowledge him.

“What I want to know is…What Albus Dumbledore saw in you.”

…

The metro was cold and the dust floating in the air made him choke. Newt coughed, raising his hand up as if that would help stop Grave’s from shooting a spell. Behind him Tina found it hard to stand, sinking into the debris and hurting her feet. A zap of wind and his skin prickled, snapping his head to the side he caught a snipped of a traveling coat.

His eyes roamed forward, a tall figure standing in front of him as it raised its slim wand, pointing it directly at Percival Graves himself. The end of it lit up into magnificent bright red flames that grew in size, a ripple of heat and magic catching his breath and making his lungs blaze with fire. He marvelled at the growing beast, his heart stopping for a moment as he recognized the form of a fearless lion which roared and shook the roof. Newton recognized the tight braid of hair to belong to that stern woman he saw earlier, but what was she—

The gloom peeled off like paint, revealing curls of (color) hair hiding underneath and blotchy skin regained its colour. He could not see her face, but he knew who she was, who stood before him confident and wordless firing a spell. It was soon cut off, just like last time he had seen it, eating itself into a small black bubble that disappeared a second later leaving unnerving silence behind. Graves, taken aback by the sudden appearance, soon scowled and sliced with his wand. One elegant turn of her wrist was all it took and a flock of crumbling debris shielded her, turning to dust but giving her just enough time to fire a pale blue spell as she took a step forward. It snaked around the official, like rope, tying him down and immobilizing him as it squeezed at the pressure points.

Loud footfalls could be heard from above, and still unable to move Newton watched the female figure stride forward, hop onto the platform and crouch to examine the face of the man. The pads of her fingers traced his cheek, drawing symbols but of what he couldn’t say. Finally, the cavalry arrived and the woman, snapping her neck to the coming aurors stood and Newt could finally see her in her full glory.

Your left cheek held a shallow cut; no doubt you were battling in the city before coming here to aid them. You stood by the hunched over Graves, not daring to even lance Newton’s way. His mouth fell agape.

“Miss (Lastname),” Madame President stalked over, displeased, “should’ve known it was you.”

“It is always me, Seraphina” Your voice was playful, but held this distinctive sweet tone that made it appear staged. You smiled, unnaturally, kindly, but that kindness never reached your (colour) eyes, “Surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”

“You broke into MACUSA.”

“Me and rules…Never got along.” You replied, dispatching the slim Alder wand, “You should know better than anyone else.”

“I should pull you in for charges.”

You raised a finger at her, almost comical “Ah, yes, you should, but you won’t. The paperwork is on your table, signed by the British Minister of Magic. Official duty you see, top secret, could not drop by for a drink but I will kindly take you up on that offer once we’re done here.”

He watched with a mix of shock and strange disgust – the scene full of banter was clay like, almost appearing as a bad play had bought a ticket to ogle at. Your smooth features were as if bewitched – every remark had a fast paced answer, which was not like you, never like you. Unnatural. Plastic. The interaction was lively, but not life like.

Newt called your name, his voice cracking at the last syllable as hopeful he watched the actress facade crumble. The first genuine emotion blossomed in those doe eyes as they connected – his heart jumped in his chest as a brief second of happiness washed over him like a wave. But like a machine, the wheels fell into motion and your face twisted from surprise and even remorse to the same inhuman smoothness.

“It has been too long, Newton.” You finally said voice even and low, losing all coyness and sounding strange coming from smiling lips. You turned back to Seraphina, as if he was not there anymore. In turn Newt felt untamed sudden anger rise in his chest and he took a shaky step forward, calling out again as if afraid you’d fade away like a summer dream. You didn’t respond, though, instead fixing last business with the President about Grindewald.

“Wall then,” You said after a short conversation, sending a wary glance at the blonde haired wizard, “I best be on my way now.”

“You know I can’t let you go.” She said, serious. You recoiled. Lastly, you nodded, again, scripted. Your eyes swept the ground and flashed to Newt Scamander, still waiting for you to notice him, “I guess I have no other choice but to go…” You winked, then hurriedly turning back to Madame, “Shall w—“

You evaporated.

…

“You never talked to me, despite my numerous and failed advances…I never even got to properly complain about you taking the blame for what she had done. Ever the kind, you are. Though, I suppose it was my fault as well. I should have been more careful, more aware of my surroundings…” You faltered, “In the end it was I who frightened Leta enough to bite back.”

A heavy silence settled between the two of you, despite the pub brewing with life. Music, specifically jazz, played, beautiful women eyeing men and flirting each chance they got. Two glasses, both empty, were on your table. It was hot here, hot enough for you to lose your jacket and Newt couldn’t help but stare at your exposed shoulders and the delicate arch of your neck. He gulped, looking down into his intertwined hands.

“You changed.” He told, the pads of his fingers coming to graze the edge of the small glass. You shrugged.

“War changes everyone…” You said, quieter.

Jacob Kowalski’s bright grin flashed in his mind, “Not everyone.”

“Then only me.” There was a smile in your voice, he could tell and in turn he let a loopy grin slip onto his lips before he pulled it down. “Why did you avoid me, Newton?”

“I thought…I thought it was best if we-we-we stopped” His green irises found yours, “seeing each other all together, that is. I…I thought that…That after what happened…You wouldn’t want to see me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was my friend.”

“Hardly matters in the end,” You told, “I know you…You must’ve been ashamed or something silly like that… All this time, wasted…” you added, more to yourself than him as you leaned onto the table, successfully breaking some distance between your bodies, “I don’t think I’ve changed that much.” You told, a ghost of a smile tilting the corners of your lips as your eyes twinkled in the smoky lights, “I just think you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Well, I still have my suave charm.”

“Oh do you ever.”

“Isn’t MACUSA looking for you?”

“Don’t tell me that is going to stop you?” You coyly raised a brow, “The danger is part of the fun, after all.”

“I never could resist an adventure.”

“With yours truly, no doubt.”

“You give yourself too much credit.”

You shook your shoulders with a cheerful grin, “Credit must be given where credit is due. I must admit, though…I did not expect you to reach out to me.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to show you something.”

“Last time you did I ended up in your suitcase.”

“Do you want to again?”

“Cannot say no to such an invitation.”

…

He pulled the curtain open and his form was flooded with warm sunlight, sounds of rustling leafs, howling wind and oinks and stomps of various creatures reaching the small cabinet you found yourself in. He had lost his jacket when you entered this warm space of his magical suitcase, neatly hanging it on a chair along with your coat. The smell of herbs and dirt tickled your nose and with a curious step you followed after him. Your mouth fell agape, eyes growing wide as small reflections of stars started to shine in them; caught in awe your feet took you forward but spun and twirled as you took in each and every inch of this pure creation. Creatures you have never even dreamed about poked their heads out to see the visitor, or leisurely continued their precious work of hiding in grass or rolling some tree branches for a den. A warm breeze tickled your skin and it blushed. As you tried to keep up with the whole ecosystem you released an amazed laugh, slapping your palms over your lips to stop a squeal.

Meanwhile he watched, watched and realized that you haven’t changed after all. He grinned, pride striking him and he straightened his back, overly pleased. Making you happy brought no greater joy. He had almost forgotten this feeling. Almost. But it surfaced again, kept safe in his subconscious before it could emerge and infatuate him again. Everything about you was enticing and only after all this time he realized. His jaw tensed and he glanced at the swaying flower heads – so much time he had wasted. A cold hand squeezed his heart, but he gulped those bitter feelings down.

But some things are not broken, some simply cannot be. They are just forgotten, drowned by misery into the deepest caves of our minds. And all you need is to remember. A spark, like a firework or a glint of beautiful spell. Or much simpler than that, one gleam of your true loves gaze can awaken the things one thinks they have lost.

Little talk was exchanged as you opted to wander and explore what he had built, playing with the creatures and feeding some. You dirtied your knees and hands in the process, accidentally smearing some dirt on your cheek as you tried to wipe away the moistness forming on its tender skin. You seemed so emerged he didn’t want to disturb you; and so you worked in silence, together, harmoniously.

It wasn’t until you stumbled to a small shack, opening the damp wooden door and coughing as a cloud of dust blew on you. Your eyes glazed over the cabinets, in search of some treats, but what caught your gaze was not edible. You recognized the outline of your face and passing the threshold you tilted your head to the side, fingers gripping the newspaper as you brought it to your face.

(Name) (Lastname), born 1898 xx xx and is considered to be one of the brightest witch of her time, has gone missing.

“I was worried about you.” Newt spoke up from behind you, making you jerk and turn to him. His form was leaned on some boxed, shoulder slumped, his gaze lazy and his hair a mess – he was tired, you conducted, “I…” a splash of energy prompted a rosy tint on his cheeks, “I always…worried about you.” He gulped, shyly glancing away and scratching the back of his neck, “I’m…I’m sorry, (Name). I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” His words caused you to inhale, every happy thought that previously swam in your mind erased, leaving you blank and motionless. Noticing the sudden shift he pushed himself to stand straight, “They…they didn’t pick you to find Grindewald, am I correct?” Your head bobbed, stiffly. Newt’s face turned soft, sad and pitying, “I should’ve been there…with you.”

You neatly folded the newspaper back and put it where you found it. It was enough time to collect yourself, and fixing a pained smile, that lasted for a second if not less, you crossed your arms over your chest and looked at him again, “You were right.” You murmured, “War…War doesn’t change people. It’s the loss that does.” Your voice trembled and you gulped, stepping out the shack, “Not sure if you remember him or not, but… Out of all of my friends, only Leroy survived…And I am grateful for that. Just that. Asking more would be greedy.” Eyes stinging you rubbed them with the hilt of your palm, trying not to infect them. Taking in a calming breath you continued, “I have made peace with it.” You found his gaze, “You should too. You are here now, and that is all that matters.”

Newt seemed to think, the corner of his lips cracking into a smile as he softly shook his head as if recalling a memory, “You know…I never…Never asked you out, properly.” You released an amused huff, “See, that day…That day when…When Leta hexed you… I was there because I wanted to. To ask you out, that is.” Any previous turmoil of pain was snuffed clean as you felt a spur of joy light up your world, “I planned to stand there, by the door to the girls bathroom and wait for you with a bouquet of flowers and well, improvise, I suppose.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m afraid no, not this time.”

You laughed, thought it was a bit dry by the lingering hurt, but it was real. Nothing about you seemed plastic now. “And…I know this…this is, well…Highly inconsiderate and..uhm..” He started, lamely, shyly approaching you “B—“

“Please do not tell me you are going to apologize for kissing me ten years ago.”

Newt faltered, smiling sheepishly, “N-No…not apologize. I was actually…I…” He licked his lower lip, eyes rolling over the room as if to catch an idea on how to convey his words, “I was actually wondering if you…if you would…If you would allow me to be selfish once more and…” Your fingers brushed the fringe of fiery hair from his eyes tenderly. You smiled, lovingly.

Here it was that familiar sweet scent that left your heart racing as your thoughts rushed at an equal pace. It hardly felt as if a day had passed since you’ve last seen him, all those bittersweet memories now playing in your mind like an animated movie, and if the look in his eyes betrayed anything is that he was feeling the same. He stepped closer, or was it you, you did not care. Finally, he was close enough to touch, to feel the heat of his body caress your own. Your hand landed on his chest, near his heart and you felt it beat. Newt pressed forward, catching himself at just the right moment – if you wished to pull away now was the only and perfect time to do so. But you didn’t, instead your lips parted to inhale a frail breath with a weak gasp that did nothing but encourage him. His hand came to rest on the side of your jaw and he felt you quiver. He gulped. His thumb caressed your dewy rosy cheek, gliding over a thin scar – a battle wound – and making it tingle. At last he leaned in, unable to hold himself. The proximity became dizzying as your noses brushed. Anticipation prickled your skin. Your world drowned in velvet darkness as he kissed you and what was to be a gentle show of love turned raw with passion .

…

The chorus of people settles and the heavy door creeks open. I am flooded with beautiful fairy lights and a velvet sky above me, irritated by stars and an obnoxiously big moon. I hold in my breath and tremble – though I am fairly sure I am not the only one – as I feel myself spur with excitement and contagious joy. The pleasant air bites at my skin and I shiver – my eyes land on him, standing by the aisle and waiting for me almost fearful, as if I could change my mind and run away.

Instead of the cliché wedding march an old record player croaks to life and I cannot be any happier. A familiar melody floods the hall and I feel like I am dreaming. I take a shy step forward, as if to make sure this was all real. It is.

My father, behind me, follows suit and links his arms with mine. I see my mother as I pass, staring at my wide eyed and teary; somewhere in the crowd I glimpse at Leroy silently cheering at the perfect moment. But nevertheless, despite my father, the spite the whole reception following the bride I cannot help but awe at the groom. He stands confident as I draw closer, his fiery hair glimmering in the beautiful lights. Newton’s hand reached for mine as we stop, and my father, given the nod, squeezes my hand tightly as if to say goodbye – I smile, though hold a tear. My fingers link around Newton’s and he helps me step up to stand next to him. The bouquet of flowers itches in my dewy palm.

Newt catches his breath, trying to bite down a goofy smile but it still pinches at his cheeks and he gives up, grinning with brilliant radiance and I have the most sudden of urges to kiss him right there and then.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathering here to…” It is a bit silly, perhaps inappropriate to admit that I heard nothing the preacher said, nor did I care for any word of it. What mattered to me were the gentle link between us, intertwined with our hands, a link of rings and hearts and red strings. I love you, is the only thing that dances in my mind as I gaze at him, and if I know him well his thoughts mimic mine.

Our vows go by quick, filled with small laughs from the audience and Newton’s awkward blinks that go along with a rosy blush. I, of course, am no better – forgot my lines and repeated them with a stutter. He didn’t mind, though. I do like to believe he thought it was cute.

“…I pronounce you husband and wife. Newton, you may kiss the bride.” And this was the very sentence the guests, us included, were waiting with baited breath. Newt turns to me, admiring me for one last second before he reaches closer and I follow suit. We meet half way and kiss. The crowd behind us cheers and somewhere above us I hear fireworks greet the night’s sky.

THE END.

BONUS:

“Now listen here, Scamander. (Name) is a precious little flower and if I find out, you hear me, if I find out that you are treating her badly there will be consequences, son.”

“Oh, husband!” Miss (Lastname) shuffled, hitting her man with her white gloves. The said man loosened his grip on Newt’s shoulder; the wizard gulped, loudly at that, “Do not mind him, Newton, he’s all talk and no bite.” She winked, “Welcome to the family.”

Tagging: @tmrhollandkay@hamithefangirl@mamiipix@vanessawolfblue@scamandeur@tatumvandiver@lovelypotterhead@knight-of-light-tier @tfios-whovian@notsosaneemma sassypevensie @fanart-girl@misofine@willowecho25518 @aeichajoanes @goldylocksandthethreefandoms @fly-f0rever@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @backitup-humperdinck @mcveymejames @radioacteve @allie-smile @gryffindorwithagedweyignasia @safetypin-inspace

thank you everyone again. see you in our next adventure.

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