#just turn the page bre

[alpydk]

Curtain's Closed

So @auroraesmeraldarose has been leading me down a very dark path recently. One of folds and love muscles...

And then came Tim Downie's Cameo about Gale reading smut. Well, the concept just had to be written, didn't it? So here we have a little mini fanfic about Gale reading smutty fanfic. Quotes have been taken from her fic Professor Dekarios (ch14 for this / highly recommended) - And well, it's a nice evening ending in smut. Enjoy.

Word count - 2061 - M/E - CW - Self Pleasure

Springtime had settled over Waterdeep, the snow having now melted, the flowers in bloom outside the cafe window. He sat with the occult tome, flicking through the worn pages, not particularly interested in the contents. The cortado tasted smooth upon his tongue and the tiramisu he’d ordered had gone down a treat, but his mind, however, kept little to the pages in front of him, nor to the surroundings of the bustling streets that lay beyond the windowpane. Instead, they drifted to the small book buried deep under the stack of research papers, not lost, but selectively hidden out of sight of prying eyes.

It was during his morning at the academy that he’d overheard the conversation between two of his colleagues; the two women giggling and blushing over a recent book that had been going around the female staff. Smut they had described it as in a whisper of a word, afraid that someone might hear it. From what he could tell, it was not a mainstream book, no known author such as Cimber or Ruskettle, but the works of a hobbyist with a passion for those who’d been in the spotlight. He’d tried to hold little attention on the discussion, but the talk of a wizard in a compromising position stuck with him for the following hour as he taught his class. He’d read similar literature about desire in the past; what harm could one bit of curiosity do when it came to smut ?

Professor Karedios – Quite the title and very to the point, thought Gale to himself as he hid in the shadowed back corner of the small muggy bookstore. He felt as if he were a teenager looking for a scantily clad photo of an elf to gaze at in secret, only now he was in his late thirties, grey hairs highlighting his dark locks. Get a grip, Gale. He held the novel within the confines of his loose sleeve, a nervousness that someone might stop him and question him on the contents. Grabbing an occult tome with little regard for what it cost or the subject content, he, at least now, had an excuse to make a purchase of the sultry literature.

The shopkeeper took both the books, and Gale was thankful for the tired, darkened eyes of the vendor which met him. He could detect the faintest hint of red wine, hopefully a remnant of a previous lunch break and not a hidden stash beneath the counter. Either way, it mattered little, as the books and gold were quickly traded between them with little discussion. If he’d been asked, he would have simply claimed that it was for a friend as a humorous gift.

“You think I should wash my beard?” The voice of the assistant came through from a back room interrupting the purchase and Gale’s heart dropped as the books were pulled just a fraction too soon from his grasp.

From behind the desk came the slightly slurred retort, the accent unrecognisable to Gale’s ears. “Yes, I think you should wash it. Then you should shave it off, nail it to a steel plate, and fling it over a rainbow.”

Gale stood confused at the relationship between the two people, simply hoping to take what he’d bought and get out of there. The shopkeeper looked at him with disdain before handing over the books with a sigh, his job now done, the contract of pleasantries over. Gale took the books and crammed them in his bag with a quick nod of thanks before turning as quickly as he could to get away from the disgruntled trader. A note would be made to avoid the premises in the future, unless desperate. As he left the store, his heart pounding in his ears, his bag clutched to his chest tightly, he breathed a sigh of relief that at least the worst part was over.

Now Professor Karedios sat awaiting him, teasing him from his bag. He saw how the lilac cover stuck out from amongst the parchment of a study on Okoth, the outline of the protagonist’s robes calling to him. He’d read the blurb ever so quickly within the store. An alternate universe of a Faerûn Wizard. He was intrigued already, the character on the cover baring a self-indulgent resemblance to himself. He’d not been able to help himself, curiosity always getting the better of him, and he had to find out what lewd secrets were being kept from him. Finishing the coffee, he closed the heavy tome with a thud, no knowledge of what he had just been perusing for so long. All he knew was that he needed a certain mood before he could entertain such a topic as the one that truly held his focus. This would not be a quick night of loneliness within a tent, a potential death sentence hanging above his head; it would be one to enjoy, to savour.

The return to his tower was leisurely, the sun setting, casting long shadows down the narrowed streets, the scent of the sea washing in with the evening tides. He took in each sensation, the sounds of the taverns opening for their trade, the bard weaving sleazy tales from atop the shoulder of Ahghairon’s statue, the passing elf that smiled with a faint blush in his direction. The City of Splendours would forever live up to its name.

His home was empty, he discovered as he closed the oak door and called for Tara, a sly smile emerging upon his lips at the confirmation that he would have the tower all to himself for the night. He took off his cloak, thinking through the steps he would take tonight to squeeze each drop of pleasure from his time alone. He deliberated; was it worth bathing before or after? Though not nearly as tough a worker as his friend Halsin, who toiled through woodland day in/day out, Gale felt the effects of lecturing upon his body, his shoulders especially tensed, and forearms aching slightly from weaving spells consistently in the same manner in order to demonstrate to his pupils. He knew a similar ache would be felt later if he rushed through the planned activities.

He decided at least wine would be an excellent starting point. With a warm red poured, the alluring literature in his hand, the fire burning, and the curtains closed, he laid back in his comfortable armchair with a pleasant sigh.

““Good girl.” He tried to keep his voice calm and light even as her eyes widened, and she bit her lip again in response to his praise. “I’ll see you next time, Helene. Take care.””

Gale smirked at the intense flirting that had been going on between the characters, imagining himself as the professor on the cover. He mouthed the words silently to himself as if in the scene with the young lady, the submissive tone of her character already causing the heat to rise under his collar. The fire, the wine, the book? It mattered little to him, which was the culprit as he flipped ahead a few chapters; the story captivating, but his body growing a little too eager with the aid of the alcohol. He could certainly see the appeal of the type of fiction now, an improvement over the paintings and sketches he’d once glanced at. Now it was left to the unlimited reaches of his imagination, the story acting as a guide to entice his mind and, in turn, his body, hopefully leading him to a more satisfying precipice to tread upon.   

“Rayne obliged, taking her face in his hands, leaning in and kissing her lips softly, tenderly.”

Now things were hotting up, he thought to himself, the feeling of his trousers growing a little snugger than comfortable. He didn’t want to rush this, but he was frightfully aware of how much time had passed since his last self-indulgent moment. He untied the drawstring above the leather, slipping the trousers and his underwear down enough to release his already semi hard erection. A sip of the red wine gave him a moment to compose himself before he continued.

“Helene hitched her dress up and, without breaking her mouth from his, threw one leg over both of Rayne’s, coming to rest on top of him, straddling his lap.”

The imagery held itself in his mind. He wanted to move to the next line, but the sight of the redhead straddling his lap in his vision caught him, a slight gasp being released as his hand moved around the base of his cock. He breathed deeply, letting his palm lie against his flesh, his self control remaining to savour the story further.

““Please, Rayne… I need you to touch me. Now.” Her voice was desperate and made Rayne’s already hard cock twitch in his jeans; the thought that she needed him like he needed her drove him wild.”

He felt his own cock twitch in eagerness, the dream of his kisses being laid on her body spurring him on. A massaging rub from base to tip caused his heart to beat that bit quicker, his desires trying to escape him with each word. How easy it would be to let himself go as he would have when he was younger. He closed his eyes and whispered through parted lips. Another slow rub before a few more lines could be read.

““Good girl,” he murmured in her ear as her body tensed, “now come for me, my love.””

Gale saw the teasing and the control before his very eyes. He would have conjured her in front of him if he knew his concentration would not have faltered so quickly, but it was too late to take that chance now. An involuntary moan escaped him, a second where his mind collected itself, returning him to reality, and he questioned if anyone would have heard him. He was no longer in the tents on the road, in the Elfsong Tavern, no Tara to be seen; he was alone and could embrace the sensation.

The build up with the fiction was becoming too much for him as he read on; Rayne’s need to give his partner such pleasure, similar to how he would devote himself to a lover. His hand moved quicker, his hips letting out a light thrust against his fingertips with each stroke. He lost track of the words on the page, his mind becoming clouded by his own arousal. He let out a shaky breath as Helene’s hungered pleas caused his cock to throb in his slowly tightening grip, the imagined form in front of him ready to be taken in full.

“Gently, slowly, he entered her....”

He caught little else of the sentence aside from these few words, knowing Rayne’s and his own motions would be similar in nature. Gale’s muscles tensed at the increasing speed of his hand, its movements now instinctive upon his shaft. He could almost hear Helene’s sounds in his head, her soft cries merging with the unrestrained groans of pleasure he was releasing into his empty study. The wine lay half drunk, the pages of the novel shaking gently in his trembling hand as his concentration faltered. He glanced over the paper in front of him, the words no longer existing to him as he pictured himself standing over her, her walls clenching around him. The book was let go from this trembling hand so he could grip the arm of the chair ready for his impending climax, his eyes closed to the dim light of the study, his cheeks flushed with stimulation.

Fantasy was lost to reality as his orgasm hit, a wave of intensity throughout his mind leaving him shuddering and panting for breath within the confines of his tower. The warmth of his seed flowed freely over his hand and he gave a short chuckle to himself; the evening having ended with the satisfying result he had longed for. Professor Karedios had been very thorough in his devotion to Helene, and Gale knew this would not be the last night that he too would be entertained by the pair’s escapades. Despite this knowledge, though, he still sat with the belief that this night had been one of the best he’d had all year: red wine, curtains closed, and a little smut for company.

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Ten: Truth

Chapter WC: 8,808

Chapter Tags/Warnings: none

A/N: Checked the wordcount on the completed chapters doc today and it's over 100k already?? anyway the next few chapters are for real my fav. i live for the drama

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

"I can't believe they gave me Archive duty," Ahsoka groans, rolling her eyes. 

You smirk, turning the page of the dusty tomb lying in front of you. You had managed to escape the ire of the Council thanks to Obi-Wan, but Ahsoka was not so lucky. She was sentenced to "volunteer work" at the Temple Archives indefinitely, a punishment that she seemed to take very personally. 

You had offered to keep her company while you were still recovering, and you had to admit, when you weren’t forced to be here, it was kind of fun. There was something calming about the Archives, the smell of old paper and leather, the dim light, the quiet.

You'd spent more time here than most other Jedi, and even though the work was often tedious, it was something you found peace in. Ahsoka didn't seem to feel the same.

"It's not that bad," you say, your eyes scanning the page. "Besides, if you hadn't disobeyed Anakin, this wouldn't have happened."

"Well, maybe, if he hadn't given the order in the first place—"

"Ahsoka."

"I know, I know," she sighs, her shoulders slumping. She pushes the crate she was organizing to the side and collapses on a nearby bench, her arms crossed. "He's just...so frustrating sometimes."

"Yeah," you chuckle. “He is.”

“Did you ever feel that way about Master Yaddle?"

"Sometimes," you reply. You glance up from your reading and smile at her. "But I’m sure I frustrated her much more. I’m still not sure why she took me as her Padawan, honestly."

"Because you're a great Jedi," Ahsoka points out. She grins and leans forward, her chin resting on her hands. "And, because, despite what you say, you're actually pretty nice."

"Nice?"

"Yeah," she laughs. "You're one of the few Jedi I can talk to about things. You listen. Not everyone does."

"You could talk to Master Plo, or Anakin, or even Obi-Wan," you say, closing the book. You look at her, a frown on your face. "There's a lot more Jedi in the Temple."

"I know, but..." Her voice trails off, and her expression grows sad, the humor fading. “You’re the only one who’s not trying to teach me some kind of lesson. Who isn’t expecting something from me. You don't care that I'm young, or that I'm not a real Jedi yet, or—"

"You are a real Jedi," you interrupt. You stand and walk over to her, taking a seat beside her, your hands resting on your knees. "Don't ever doubt that. I don't. I know how strong you are, and I know what you're capable of. And, so does Anakin. Don't let this one mistake define you."

She sighs and rests her elbows on her thighs, her chin cupped in her palms. "I know, but it's hard," she says quietly. "Everyone has an opinion, and they're all just waiting for me to mess up again. To prove that I'm not fit to be a Jedi."

"That's not true," you tell her. "The Council might be a little disappointed with your actions, but no one doubts that you belong here, Ahsoka. No one."

She doesn't respond.

You watch her carefully, your brow furrowed. It isn’t lost on you how similar her words are to your own internal monologue, and how often she mirrors your own thoughts and fears. She’s just a kid, and you remember being her age, the pressure, the weight of expectation, and the struggle to be enough.

While you doubt you’ll ever feel like you measure up, or will ever stop feeling like an outsider, you know, deep down, that no matter what happens, the Order is where you belong. You belong with the Jedi. There is no other place for you than here.

"If it makes you feel any better," you say, trying to lighten the mood. You nudge her shoulder. “You’re only continuing the tradition of disobedience set by your Masters before you. Anakin, Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon—“ you pause and let out a sharp breath before continuing “—and his master have all done their time here. Practically a rite of passage, I’d say.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges you back. "You're not funny."

"Sure I am."

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe Master Kenobi ever had to do this," she scoffs. "I mean, he's like, the perfect Jedi."

"Ha! Well, I guess you'd be surprised." 

You smirk, remembering the many times Obi-Wan had come to your aid during your years as younglings, covering for you and, often, getting himself into just as much trouble as you.

It was always Obi-Wan, with his clever words and quick wit, who got the two of you out of hot water, and you always found it amusing how no one seemed to realize it was him who had started the whole thing. It was like people couldn’t see past the image they had of him, or their assumptions, and it made him the perfect accomplice. 

"We caused plenty of chaos back in the day,” you add with a fond smile. "I can't even begin to tell you all the stories I could share. I have years worth of them."

"Oh really?"

"Yep," you confirm. "Obi-Wan was a terror."

Ahsoka snorts and raises an eyebrow. "Now I know you're lying."

"It's true. He was a troublemaker. Still is, if I'm being honest,” you laugh. "We were the worst influences on each other. That's probably why we became such good friends."

"I can't imagine Master Obi-Wan doing anything even close to disobeying the rules," Ahsoka says. She leans forward, her chin in her palms, a mischievous grin on her face. You smile back and cross your legs, settling into the bench. "I'm going to need proof, or a story. Either will do."

"What do you want to hear?"

"Something crazy," she prompts. "Something he would never tell me. Something wild. And then I'll believe it."

You chuckle and lean back against the wall, your eyes drifting, the memories filling your mind. You could think of a hundred different tales, many of them far too embarrassing to repeat, and most of them you doubted would be appropriate to tell an impressionable teenager. You were not the best storyteller, but if Ahsoka wanted entertainment, you could oblige. If only a little.

"Okay, okay, let's see..." you muse, thinking. "Okay, here's one. When I was thirteen years old, Obi-Wan was a newly made Padawan, and I was still a youngling. One day, we had a day off from training, and, well, let's just say, we weren't exactly sticking around the Temple."

"Where did you go?"

"Well, Obi-Wan had heard about this place," you continue, smiling. "Apparently, there was this abandoned warehouse deep in the lower levels, converted it into a kind of club. It was the coolest thing we had ever seen, and we were determined to get in. Only problem was, we were a bit too young. Not that that stopped us. We had been going to this club, sneaking out, for about a week, before a member of the Jedi Council caught us."

"Which one?"

"Master Plo, actually,” you say, a smirk tugging at your lips. "We got lucky. I think he was more impressed than upset."

Ahsoka lets out a snort and covers her mouth. "No."

"Yes," you insist. "He caught us sneaking out of the Temple and followed us. We made it all the way to the warehouse before we realized he was right behind us."

"How did you get away with it?"

"We didn't," you chuckle. "I think we had a few choice words with the Council that night. But we got to go back to the club a few more times before we were caught again. Obi-Wan managed to get himself banned a few months later, though. Something about trying to fight a guy over a girl."

You look away, biting your cheek. Ahsoka didn't need to know that you were the girl. That it was the first, and the only time that the two of you had kissed. You were both so young, and it was nothing more than a childish attempt at romance. It was a bittersweet memory, tinged with a touch of guilt, and you had long ago buried it.

"I'll have to ask him about that," she teases. "I bet there's a lot more stories he'd never tell me."

"You can try," you challenge. "Good luck."

"What was he like?" Ahsoka asks. She shifts on the bench, turning her body toward you, her eyes sparkling. "Before he was a Knight, or a Master, or...all that. What was he like back then?"

"He was different," you tell her. You hesitate, your brow furrowing, and you shrug. "He was...happier. More carefree. He didn't take things as seriously as he does now."

"He's still pretty carefree," Ahsoka points out. She tilts her head, her gaze growing thoughtful, and a small frown tugs at her lips. "I've never really seen him angry, or upset. Except for when you were in the bacta tank."

You pause. You hadn't thought much about Obi-Wan while you were recovering. Your mind had been a bit preoccupied with other matters, but now, looking back, you had noticed the dark circles under his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders, and the way his jaw clenched every time someone brought up the battle. It had only been a week since your return, and yet, he seemed to have aged ten years, and the worry was still plain on his face. 

Even now, there was still a distance, a coldness, between the two of you. He hadn't been by the Healers Ward again, and he'd avoided you at the debriefing with the Council even though he'd spoken in your favor.

"He was worried," you say simply. You glance down at your hands and twist your fingers, swallowing the sudden tightness in your throat.

"I’m sure you’ve noticed that we share a bond. Something like a Master and Padawan bond. It's stronger, because we were raised together, and because our abilities complement each other, and, well, because we've spent our whole lives together."

"What is it like?" she asks. Her eyes are wide, and she's listening intently, her attention focused on you. "Having a bond with someone? Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes," you confess. You let out a heavy sigh, and you look down, your expression troubled. "When the other person is in danger, or suffering, it can be difficult to deal with. And, sometimes, it can be overwhelming. Obi-Wan is quite skilled at shielding, but...I’m not so fortunate. I’m sure feeling my pain was not easy for him."

It’s an excuse, and you know it. But the truth was much harder to admit. Obi-Wan being upset enough at your injuries that Ahsoka had picked up on it was an uncomfortable thought. The reality of how deeply you had hurt him, and the fact that you hadn’t even considered how he would feel, was not something you were prepared to deal with. Not right now. Perhaps not ever.

"You're close," she comments, her voice soft. She hesitates, and she gives you a sad smile, her eyes searching yours. "I...I don't have a bond with Anakin. Not like you and Master Kenobi. I've always wondered what it would be like."

"It's strange," you reply slowly. You shrug and give her a rueful smile. "It’s been this way for so long, and I just...I don't know. I don't know what it's like not to have it. The closest we ever came to losing it completely was after..."

You trail off, your smile fading, and you turn away, unable to meet her eyes. "After the Naboo incident. Things were never the same, after that."

Ahsoka doesn't say anything.

You can't blame her. You don't have the words. There's so much left unsaid, so much you could tell her, but you know you won't. It's not the right time. Perhaps it will never be the right time. And so, instead, you change the subject, pushing the pain and the regret away, burying it under the weight of a smile. 

"What else do you want to know?"

Ahsoka's gaze grows thoughtful, and she leans back, resting her head against the wall, her brow furrowed. She looks up, and her lips purse, her fingers tapping against her thighs. 

Finally, she smiles, a wicked glint in her eyes. "What about Rex?"

Your eyes widen, and you can feel the color draining from your face, the shock making you speechless. You hadn't expected that question, and it takes a moment for you to regain your composure, your mind scrambling to think of a response. But Ahsoka doesn't wait. 

Instead, she keeps talking, the grin growing. "Rex told Anakin that you had saved his life."

"Yes," you say cautiously. You frown, and you cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "And?"

"Well," she draws the word out, and she sits up, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped. "Anakin said he'd never seen you act like that before."

You open your mouth to respond, and then close it, unsure of what to say.

"So," she presses. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Friends."

"Yes," you snap. "Of course we're friends. He's a friend. We're friends. Is that a problem?"

"No, no," she replies quickly. "Of course not."

"Good."

"But—"

"Ahsoka," you interrupt, and you let out a sharp breath, your fingers rubbing your temples. "There is no but. Rex is a friend. I saved his life. End of story."

"Sure," she agrees. Her expression is far too innocent, and you're not going to play into whatever she's thinking. You stand and return to the table, picking up the book, and Ahsoka follows, sitting down next to you. "I just thought, maybe, there was something else."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, feigning nonchalance. She pulls another book off the pile and begins leafing through the pages, a casual, carefree tone to her voice. "He's been asking about you."

Your head snaps up, and you stare at her, the shock giving way to surprise, and then hope, the flutter in your chest returning. "He has?"

Realizing your mistake, you bite your cheek and look back down at the book, your heart pounding, and your throat suddenly dry. You swallow, and you try to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks,and the feeling in your chest. 

Rex had been asking about you. He had talked to Anakin about you. Those were perfectly normal, innocent, things for him to do. Nothing strange. Nothing to indicate anything more.

"Mmhmm," Ahsoka hums, her eyes flicking up, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. She looks back down, the grin growing, and she nudges your shoulder. "He was worried the Council was going to punish you for saving him."

"That's it?"

"I'm not sure," she muses. She tilts her head, her fingers drumming against the book, her expression thoughtful. "He seemed pretty concerned. More than he normally is."

You shake your head and lean forward, pretending to be engrossed in the text.

"I'm sure he was just being polite," you mumble. You keep your eyes on the page, but your mind is elsewhere, and the words blur before your eyes. You force yourself to keep reading, not daring to look up. "I doubt he was all that worried."

"Hm," Ahsoka says.

You wait a few more moments, and then, when Ahsoka doesn't speak, you glance over at her. She's looking at you, her lips pursed, a knowing smile on her face. You stare at her, and she stares back, and finally, you roll your eyes, letting out a sigh.

"Fine," you grumble. You shut the book and shove it away, leaning back in the chair, your arms crossed. "We are friends, and I enjoy his company. Is that what you want to hear?"

Ahsoka shrugs and grins, and you can't help the smile tugging at your lips.

"He's a good person," she says. She's not looking at you anymore, but she's smiling, and you can tell she's holding back a laugh. "Very loyal."

"Yes, he is," you agree. You look away, a frown forming, and your voice drops. "And a good soldier."

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, a heaviness, a sudden sadness that you hadn't expected. You're not sure what brought it on, but it's there, a reminder of the truth, of the reality. You swallow the lump in your throat, and you glance down, your fingers tracing the cover of the book, a strange numbness settling in.

"Yeah." Ahsoka looks at you, and her brow furrows, the teasing tone gone. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," you lie. You force a smile and shrug. "Everything's fine."

"You're sure?" she asks. She looks skeptical, her head tilted, and she frowns. "You look...upset."

"I'm not."

"You don't have to lie," she says. She shifts in her chair, and she turns to face you, her hand resting on your arm, her expression earnest. "If there's something wrong, you can tell me. I won't judge."

"I know," you reply softly. "But there's nothing to tell. I'm fine."

She doesn't believe you. You can tell by the way she's looking at you, her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. Ahsoka doesn't press the issue, though, and you're grateful for that. You don't want to talk about it, and, honestly, you're not sure if you can. Or, if, when the words come out, they'll sound as stupid as they do in your head.

"Now," you say, and you push yourself up, grabbing a crate. You walk over to the other side of the room and begin sorting through the books, setting them on the shelves. "Let's get back to work."

"Ugh, not more sorting."

"It's your punishment," you point out. "Besides, I've had enough excitement for one day. I could use some boring, manual labor."

"I guess," Ahsoka mutters.

You laugh, and you return to your task, the quiet settling over the room. Ahsoka sighs and does the same, and the two of you spend the rest of the afternoon in silence, only occasionally exchanging a few words. 

The sun begins to set, and the shadows grow, and soon, the entire room is bathed in the orange glow of the sunset, the warmth filling the air. It's peaceful, and comfortable, and it's exactly what you need. No drama. No complications. No one trying to get into your head, or telling you how to live your life. It's the kind of solitude you haven't had in a long time, and, even if you can't enjoy it for long, it's a nice respite from the chaos.

You're not sure how much time has passed, or how long the two of you have been working, but the silence is broken when the door slides open. You turn and watch as Obi-Wan enters the room, a smile on his face, his hands tucked in his sleeves. He greets the both of you and comes to stand beside the table, his attention focused on you. His expression is serious, his eyes searching, and you avoid his gaze.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he says, his voice polite, and his words carefully chosen. You can tell he's uncomfortable, and it makes you uneasy. "I was hoping I might have a word with you, if you're not too busy."

"Of course," you reply.

You look over at Ahsoka, who’s staring at the two of you, her gaze flicking between you, and she smirks, standing and grabbing the crate she had been organizing. "I'll give you some privacy."

"Thank you."

She leaves the room, leaving you and Obi-Wan alone, the quiet a heavy, uncomfortable, thing. You don't know what to say, or what to do, and it's an awkward few moments before he breaks the silence, clearing his throat, his hands moving to clasp behind his back.

"I was wondering how you were," he says. He takes a step toward you, and he hesitates, his eyes dropping. "I haven't seen much of you these past few days."

"Yes," you mumble. You cross your arms and shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I've been, um, busy. You know. Helping with the Archives. And healing."

"I see."

There's another pause.

"So," he says. "Are you feeling better? Has the Healers Ward released you yet?"

"They released me a few days ago," you tell him as you turn, walking over to the window, your fingers brushing along the ledge. "They were quite happy with my recovery. It didn't take long for me to heal."

"That's good."

"And, I feel fine," you add, turning to look at him. "I've been back in training for a few days now."

"Good."

"Good."

"Well," he says. He steps forward and stops, his hand on the back of a chair, his expression guarded. "I'm glad you're back on your feet."

"Yes," you murmur. "It's, uh, it's good to be back."

He gives you a curt nod, and you nod back, and then there's another long, agonizing, silence. You look at him, and he looks at you, and when it becomes too much, you turn away, your fingers tracing the window frame, the metal cool beneath your fingertips.

"You said you wanted to speak with me?" you ask the window.

"Yes."

You hear him take a deep breath, and when you look over your shoulder, he's staring at the floor, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. It's strange to see him so...distraught. So unsure of himself.

"I came to apologize," he says quietly. He crosses his arms, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "For my actions the other day. I was not myself, and I should not have acted as I did."

"Oh," you murmur.

"I was...wrong to have treated you as I did. You didn't deserve it. And I was out of line."

You let out a sigh and close your eyes. "Obi-Wan..."

"Please," he interrupts, and his tone is pleading, and it stops you. "I need to say this."

"Alright," you say. You move away from the window, and you lean against the table, your arms crossed and your brow furrowed. "Say what you need to."

"I was angry," he admits, and the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. He pauses and takes a breath, and you can tell he's choosing his words carefully. "I was upset. You have no idea how much it hurt, seeing you like that. Lying there, unconscious. Not knowing if you would make it. I..."

He trails off, and he looks away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"And I know," he continues. He looks back up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can't help but see the pain, the hurt, the desperation. "I know that you would do it again, if given the choice. And I can't blame you for it. But it doesn't make it any easier."

"Obi-Wan," you murmur. You can feel your eyes burning, and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"I know," he says. "I know."

"I wasn't thinking. I was acting on instinct, and—"

"I know," he repeats, his voice gentle. "It was not your fault. You did what was right, and, had it been anyone else, I would have been proud. You saved a life. That is something to be celebrated. But...you're not just anyone."

"I can't promise that I won't do it again," you tell him. "If the situation arises, I won't hesitate to save another soldier. Even if they're not a Jedi. Or a friend."

He smiles, a small, sad thing, and he nods. 

"I wouldn't expect any less," he says. He steps toward you, and he takes your hand, squeezing gently. "It is, after all, one of the many reasons I admire you."

You can't help the smirk tugging at your lips. "Well, that, and dazzling personality and my good looks, right?"

"Among others," he teases. His expression grows solemn, and he glances down, his thumb running over your knuckles. "I'm sorry. For everything. I'm sure the last thing you need is for me to be acting as I was."

"Well, with the amount of tantrums Anakin and I have thrown over the years, it's only fair that you get to have one every once in a while."

Obi-Wan grimaces and shakes his head "Please, don't remind me."

"You're not still mad, are you?" you ask. He tilts his head, a faint frown pulling at his lips. "I mean, you're not going to lecture me again, are you?"

"No," he replies, his tone wry. "Not today."

"Good."

"You're not completely forgiven, though."

"What?"

"I'm afraid that, if we're ever in a similar situation," he continues, his voice casual, his eyes narrowing, "and if you ever make me think you're dying again, I will be forced to have a very stern conversation with you."

You roll your eyes. "Obi-Wan..."

"I mean it," he insists. "I'll have no choice."

"Well," you drawl. You pull your hand free and push yourself away from the table, crossing your arms. "If I die, and you feel the need to lecture my corpse, by all means, go right ahead. I won't stop you."

He gives you a flat look, and you hold back a smile, raising an eyebrow.

"We'll see," he says finally. His lips twitch, and he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "In all seriousness, though, I am sorry. For everything. I was unfair, and I shouldn't have blamed you. I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you."

"No," you agree softly. "You shouldn't have."

"I know," he sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching out to grasp your elbow, his touch gentle. "I don't want us to be like this. We've fought enough over the years. I want you to know that I trust you, and despite my fears, and the concerns I have, I will always support you. Whatever decisions you make."

You let out a breath, and his hand moves, sliding up your arm, coming to rest on the back of your neck. He gives you a smile, and there's a flicker of regret and sorrow before he pulls you forward, his forehead resting against yours. His grip tightens, and you put your hands on his waist, holding onto him.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"I'll always be here for you," he says softly. "Whenever you need me."

You smile and lift your chin, brushing your lips across his cheek, a fleeting, brief, touch. "And I'll always be here for you. Whatever you need."

He chuckles and squeezes your neck, his breath warm on your skin. "I appreciate the sentiment."

"Now," you murmur, and you pull away, your hands moving to rest on his chest. "What I really need right now is a stiff drink."

He raises an eyebrow. "That is not what you need right now."

"But it would help," you insist. "A lot."

"No."

"C'mon," you beg, your hands curling in the fabric of his tunic. You give him a pout, and he groans, his eyes closing. "It'll be fun. Just like old times."

"You are not getting me into any more trouble than I'm already in," he says. He pulls your hands off of him, and he holds them in his, a stern look on his face. "The Council has already spoken to me about your reckless behavior. I'd prefer not to give them more reason to doubt me."

"They won't know," you promise. You squeeze his hands, your eyes bright. "We'll be careful."

"You don't know how to be careful."

"Then teach me," you counter, a smirk playing on your lips.

He lets out a sigh, and his brow furrows, his mouth twisting. You can see the temptation in his eyes, the desire to give in, and it's only a matter of time before you convince him. He hesitates, glancing over at the door. "It is late. Most people should be gone by now."

"See?" you say. "Easy. Quick drink. No one will see."

"Fine," he concedes. "But we will not be staying long."

"Thank you."

You release his hands and step back, your fingers lacing together, your grin widening. Obi-Wan gives you an exasperated look and gestures for you to go, and you laugh and start to back away.

"I'll meet you at the usual place," you tell him. You turn and head for the door, calling over your shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting."

"Wouldn't dream of it!" he calls out, his tone amused. "Just...don't get us caught."

"Never," you promise.

You're through the door and gone before he can say anything else, and the moment you're alone, you take a deep breath and run a hand through your hair. It's not until you're nearly to your quarters that the nerves begin to settle in, and the excitement gives way to apprehension, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You're still a bit wary of Obi-Wan's sudden change in mood. It's unlike him to act like he did, and to be so openly hostile. And, as much as you'd like to believe that everything is alright, that things were fine, there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind. 

The look on his face when you told him how you saved Rex's life was burned into your memory. You couldn't help but be reminded of how he looked at you the day after your knighting, when you'd told him your plan to find Yaddle's killer, and he'd treated you like a child.

It was the same, the same disdain and anger, the same look of disappointment, and the same, cold, distance. The only difference was, this time, you hadn't done anything wrong. You had saved a life. There was nothing for him to be disappointed about.

But the look was there, the same unspoken accusation. And it stung.

It’s only then that you realize he’d neglected to let his walls down during the conversation. There had been no opening, no chance to see into his mind. No moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t noticed, and now, you couldn’t understand why. It didn't make sense.

Obi-Wan had never kept his thoughts and feelings hidden from you before. He had never been afraid to show his emotions, or his pain. It was always you who'd had trouble with it, who'd struggled with letting him see the truth. He was the one who always opened up.

And now, he wasn't. 

You shake the thought from your mind and continue on, ignoring the unease growing in your chest. He'd apologized then, and he apologized now, and he meant it. You didn't need the Force to know that. And he'd agreed to sneak out with you, which was more than he would have done if he was truly upset with you.

You would have a nice evening, and nothing else would happen. And tomorrow, the two of you would move on. Everything would go back to normal.

You reach your quarters, and you let yourself in, making a beeline for the fresher. You don't waste any time and strip out of your robes, stepping under the hot spray, and you wash quickly, rinsing the day's grime and sweat off. The water cascades down your body, washing the tension away, the warmth enveloping you, and for the first time in days, you can breathe, the knot in your chest loosening.

Once you're finished, you dry yourself and step back into the room, rummaging through the pile of clothes haphazardly thrown in your dresser. You pull out a simple shirt and a pair of pants, and you dress, slipping on a pair of boots and a cropped leather jacket. It's been too long since you've dressed so casually, and it feels odd, like you're not yourself. But, it's also a refreshing change from stifling robes.

You comb your hair, pulling the wet strands back into a loose braid, and you're ready. You check the time and grab a few credits from the dresser, shoving them into your pocket, and you're out the door.

You arrive at the bar a short while later, and you spot Obi-Wan sitting in the corner, a glass in his hand and his attention on the crowd. He sees you and smiles, and you make your way through the room, the noise and the heat hitting you. He's wearing civilian clothes, his hair loose around his face, his beard trimmed, and he looks almost relaxed. Almost.

You reach the table and slide into the seat across from him, his gaze appraising. You can't help but blush, and you cross your arms, giving him a look.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing," he replies. His eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and then they trail over the rest of your body, his lips quirking. "It's just been a while since I've seen you like this. It's...refreshing."

"Well," you say, leaning forward. You lower your voice, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't want to draw any attention to myself."

He chuckles, and his eyes sparkle with amusement, a glint of something else in their depths. "I appreciate the effort."

You smile and reach over, plucking his glass from his hand. He doesn't protest, and you take a sip, the liquor burning as it goes down. You set the glass back on the table, and his gaze lingers, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. You raise an eyebrow and stare at him, and he shakes his head, pushing himself up.

"I'm going to get another drink," he says. He nods his head towards the bar. "Would you like one?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll be right back."

He leaves, and you watch him walk away, and the moment he's out of earshot, you groan, the realization of what you'd done, and where you were, setting in. It was bad enough that the two of you had snuck off to a cantina together, and were dressed like this, but it was even worse that it felt...odd. Strange. And you weren't sure why. It was the same as every other time you'd met him for drinks, and yet, it wasn't.

There was something different. Something...off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but it was there, and it made you uneasy. Like the calm before a storm.

"Hey," someone says.

You turn and see a man standing next to the table, a bottle of something in his hand, his smile friendly. You can't help the sigh that escapes you. It was going to be one of those nights.

"Hey," you reply. Your eyes drop, and you frown, the words on the bottle blurring. It's some sort of liquor, and a cheap one at that. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I'm hoping I could buy a beautiful woman a drink," he says. He sets the bottle down and pulls out the chair, sitting. You glance around the room, looking for Obi-Wan. There's no sign of him. "And, maybe, have a chat. Get to know each other."

"Look," you begin, and your voice is strained, the exhaustion starting to creep in. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not—"

"C'mon," he insists. He grabs the bottle and opens it, pouring a shot. He pushes it towards you, a grin on his face. "Just one drink."

"No, thank you."

“You won’t regret it.”

“No.”

"One drink," he repeats. He lifts the glass and nods, and when you don't move, his smile fades. "Don't be rude."

"Oh, I'm being rude?" you snap. You stand, and you tower over him, your hand on the table. He stares up at you, his mouth hanging open. "I've had a long week, and I'm not in the mood. Now, leave me alone."

"Alright, alright," he mutters. He stands and picks up the bottle, backing away. "You don't have to get so upset."

You don't reply, and he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath and slump back into the chair, rubbing your forehead. It's not long before you're joined again, but this time, it's Obi-Wan who slides into the seat, a bottle and two glasses in his hand. He notices the look on your face, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Another admirer?"

"Yes," you mutter. You take the glass he offers and down it, and he stares at you, concern flickering across his features. "I guess I'm not used to the attention anymore."

"Hm," he hums. He takes the glass from you and refills it, his brow furrowing. "You shouldn't be out here like this. You're too..."

"What?"

"I just..." he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He looks down and frowns. "I worry."

"Obi-Wan, I'm not made of glass," you snap. "And I'm not some defenseless child. I'm not going to shatter because some idiot tries to hit on me."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He looks at you, and he sighs, his eyes searching yours. He opens his mouth to speak, and you brace yourself for whatever he's going to say, knowing that it's going to be a lecture, or a reminder of why you shouldn't be out here. Of why you shouldn't be with him. That it's not safe. That it's a risk. 

But, he doesn't say any of those things. Instead, his eyes drop, and his jaw clenches, and when he finally speaks, it's a whisper, the words soft and gentle. 

"You're a beautiful woman. A powerful, intelligent, wonderful, woman," he says. He looks at you, his expression open, and you can't help the way your heart leaps into your throat. "You have an air of confidence and determination, and...you're breathtaking. It's impossible not to notice you. Especially here."

You gape at him, and his lips twitch, his eyes darkening, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "I can't blame him for trying. I would, too, if I were him."

You can feel the heat spreading across your cheeks, the flush creeping up your neck. He's always been honest with you, and open, but this is different. He's never said anything like this before. You feel yourself scrambling, trying to regain your composure, and when you do, you let out a shaky laugh.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," you say. You lean forward, your arms resting on the table, a smirk playing on your lips. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

"Not at all," he assures you, and the sincerity is almost believable. He leans closer, and his gaze drops, his voice low. "If anyone is jealous, it's him. He'll never have you. Not the way I do."

Your smirk widens, and you laugh, taking the bottle from his hand and pouring another shot. "Well, you have nothing to worry about. I'm here with you, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are."

You hold his gaze, and you down the shot, the alcohol burning. It's a dangerous game, and the both of you know it, and, as much as you want to keep pushing, and prodding, and testing his limits, you know better. It's best to let it go. It's best to move on. Besides, this was supposed to be fun.

"So," you say, pushing the bottle away, a small smile on your face. "Now that you're done worrying about me, can we finally have some fun? I didn't come here to sit and mope."

"Of course." He raises his glass and tilts his head. "To us."

"To us."

The rest of the evening is a blur. It passes in a haze of alcohol and laughter, the conversation turning to trivial things. There's no mention of the war, or Felucia, or the Council, and you're glad. You need a night off, and a break from everything, and you know Obi-Wan does too. The two of you have had so few chances to relax, and even fewer to spend time together. 

You find yourselves falling back into the routine of years past, and, as the evening wears on, the two of you become more and more carefree. You're laughing and teasing, and Obi-Wan's telling stories about his adventures as a young padawan, and your memories of the past come flooding back. The times the two of you have snuck off, and the things you've done, and the trouble you've gotten into. And it's nice. Comforting. To be with him, and to enjoy his company. Even if you know it can't last.

You've managed to drag Obi-Wan out onto the balcony, and the two of you are leaning against the railing, watching the people below, the wind ruffling your hair. You can feel his warmth, and his arm is pressing into yours, and the alcohol has left a pleasant buzz in your head. You're not quite drunk, but, judging by the flush in Obi-Wan's cheeks, he's further along than you are.

"I have a confession," he mutters. You raise an eyebrow, and he gives you a crooked smile. "I've missed this. Missed...us. Doing this. Being here."

"Yeah," you murmur. You glance at him, and he meets your gaze, his eyes bright. "I've missed this too."

"We should do it more often," he says. He reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his touch lingering, his thumb stroking your skin. "Spend time together. Outside the Temple."

"Obi-Wan."

"What?"

"Don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything," he counters. He turns to face you, his expression earnest, his voice soft. "I'm not saying that we should be together. Or that we should..." He trails off, and his eyes flick down, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features. "But, I've missed this. And, I think you have too."

"Obi-Wan..." You let out a breath and run a hand through your hair, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "What's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're...different," you explain. You shrug and turn away, looking out over the city. "It's not just tonight. You've been acting strange for weeks. Ever since Felucia. I just..." You shake your head sigh, glancing over at him. "Are you sure you're alright? That everything is okay?"

"Yes," he replies, and the reply is quick, and curt, and too easy. You stare at him, and he shrugs, a frown tugging at his lips. "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You tell me," you snap. You turn and lean against the railing, crossing your arms, your glare hard. "Because, one minute, you're angry with me, and the next, you're...this. Tell me what's going on."

He holds your gaze for a moment, and then his eyes drop, his hand coming up to cover his face as a low groan escapes him.

"I don't know," he mutters. He takes a step closer and leans against the railing, his arm brushing against yours. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Obi-Wan..."

"I'm tired," he whispers. He looks over at you, his eyes sad, his voice hollow. "I'm tired of the war. I'm tired of the fighting. I'm tired of losing people. And...I'm tired of having to pretend."

"Pretend what?"

"Everything," he answers. His hand drops to the railing, his fingers curling around the metal, his grip tight. "Who I am. How I feel. What I'm thinking. What I want." He turns and looks at you, his eyes meeting yours, a flicker of emotion crossing his features. "What I want with you."

"And, how do you feel?" you ask softly. "What do you want with me?"

He swallows and turns away, his eyes focused on the skyline, and you can see the struggle in his face. He doesn't speak, and the silence grows heavy, and uncomfortable, and you let out a frustrated sigh.

"Obi-Wan—"

"I care for you. I have always cared for you. More than I should. More than is right."

He turns to face you, and there's a desperation in his eyes, and a longing, and you know where this is going. You know what he wants to say.

But, he doesn't. Instead, he sighs, his shoulders slumping, and he shakes his head.

"You mean the world to me, and I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me."

"You don't know that," he insists. He takes a step closer, and his hands are on your waist, his touch light, his gaze searching yours. "I'm not the only one who has changed."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're different, too," he says. His hands move, and they slide up your back, his thumbs brushing along your cheek. "The last few months have changed you. And I'm afraid of what will happen. What will change."

"Nothing's going to change," you promise, and your voice is low, and soft. "We're the same. We're just older. And wiser. And maybe a little more jaded. But, we're still the same. You're still the same man who was my first love, and I'm still the same girl who fell for him."

He smiles, a small, sad, thing, and he lets out a breath, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes close, and your hands move to his chest, the fabric warm and soft beneath your fingers, his heart beating steadily beneath your palm.

The tension in his body melts away, and his touch is gentle, his thumb stroking your cheek. You can't help but press closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight.

"I don't know what I would do without you," he murmurs. He lets out a shaky breath, and you can feel him trembling, the weight of the world, the pain and the fear, bearing down on him. "If anything happened to you, if I lost you..."

"You're not going to lose me," you repeat. You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb running over his stubble, his beard rough against your skin. "I promise."

Obi-Wan doesn't say anything. Instead, he lets out a quiet, strangled, noise, and his lips are on yours, soft and warm and familiar. 

It's a desperate, needy, kiss, and it's all too easy to give in, to let yourself melt into him, his hands on your face and his mouth moving against yours. You haven't been kissed in years, and you haven't kissed him in even longer, and, despite your best efforts, you can't help but respond, your fingers sliding through his hair, a low moan escaping you.

His grip tightens, and his tongue is in your mouth, his body pressing against yours. You can't think, and you can't breathe, and you can feel his need, his desire, the emotions, raw and unguarded, spilling over. He's shaking, and his lips are insistent, and when he pulls back, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark.

The two of you stare at each other, the silence stretching between you, and the gravity of the situation hits you. You've been friends for years, and you've been lovers, and now, here you are, on the precipice, and you're teetering on the edge. One more step, and there's no going back. One more step, and everything will change.

A sinking stone settles in the pit of your stomach, the fog of alcohol fleeing, and a wave of regret and shame crashing down. You can't believe what you've done. How far you've fallen. And how easily. After all the years you've spent avoiding each other, and trying to be friends, and now, here you are.

"We shouldn't have done that," you whisper. You push him away and take a step back, and he reaches out, his hand on your elbow. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"You're right," he says. His hand falls, and he looks away, a frown tugging at his lips. "We shouldn't have."

Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair, his eyes closing, and he lets out a long breath. When he looks at you again, the guilt and the sadness in his eyes is gone, replaced by resignation. He reaches over and gives your shoulder a squeeze, his tone gentle. "Come on, let's go home."

You nod, and he releases you, stepping back. You can't meet his gaze, and you turn, your eyes fixed on the ground, the two of you making your way across the balcony. He keeps his distance, and you keep yours, the silence between you tense and heavy.

You're both back in the Temple a short while later, and Obi-Wan leads you back to your room, his pace quick. He stops outside the door, and his eyes meet yours.

“Will you be alright?” he asks, his brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you mutter. You can't meet his gaze, and you fidget, your eyes on the floor.

He sighs and lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Look," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," you say. "I...shouldn't have let that happen."

"It's not your fault," he assures you. His thumb brushes across your cheek, and he gives you a smile. "We both let it get out of hand."

"Still, we shouldn't have..."

"No," he agrees. His hand falls, and he steps back, his smile turning wry. "We definitely shouldn't have."

You manage a weak smile, and his eyes soften.

"I meant to say this before," he starts. "I didn't want to interrupt the moment. But, I meant it."

"Meant what?"

"What I said earlier," he clarifies. He clears his throat and looks down, his gaze fixed on his shoes, his words hesitant. "I...don't want to lose you. I don't think I could bear it. And...I'll do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen."

"You're not going to lose me," you promise. You smile and grab his hand, squeezing his fingers, your voice soft. "I'll always be here."

He squeezes back, his eyes soft. "I know you're still struggling with Master Yaddle's death, and everything that's happened, and, well, I'm here. It's not much, but my clearance can help. If there's something you need, if there's something that would aid you in your search, let me know. I'm not going to ask questions. Just...if there's anything that can give you closure, I'll get it for you."

"I appreciate the offer," you reply. "But, I don't think the Council would take too kindly to you helping me. Especially after what happened. They're probably going to be watching us both like hawks for a while."

"Right." He sighs.

"However," you continue. "I'd appreciate it if you could pull any records regarding the last few months she was alive. Missions. Debriefings. Anything."

"Consider it done," he promises.

"Thank you."

"Of course," he says. "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes," you say. "There is something else."

"Yes?"

You step forward and wrap your arms around him, hugging him, and he hugs you back, his cheek resting against your head. You hold him close, breathing in his scent, his warmth surrounding you, his arms tight around your waist. There's so much you want to say, and so many things you want to tell him, but none of it feels right. Not after what's happened, and the choices the two of you have made. And, for a moment, you just let yourself be, his heartbeat steady against your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest calming.

"I love you, you know that, right?" you say quietly as you pull away.

He chuckles and brushes a stray hair from your forehead. "Yes, I do."

"Good." You step back and turn toward your door, looking over your shoulder at him. "Now, go. Get some sleep."

"You too," he says, his lips quirking. You can't help but return his smile, and he turns, heading for his room. He glances over his shoulder, and he winks. "Good night, darling."

"Good night," you call out.

He vanishes around the corner, and you turn and open the door, stepping into your room. The door slides shut, and you're greeted by the empty, familiar, sight of your quarters. The walls are bare, the windows are uncovered, and the floors are cold. It's not a welcoming space, and it never has been, but tonight, the silence feels particularly loud. You're used to being alone, but, right now, the loneliness is almost overwhelming.

You're not sure why.

Or, perhaps, you don't want to admit why.

Either way, the ache in your chest is still there, the emptiness still lingers, and you know it's not just from the alcohol. You try to ignore the feeling, and instead you settle on the floor to meditate, focusing on the Force and letting the energy flow through you. 

It doesn't work, and you know it won't. But, you have to try. The alternative is too much to bear. You sit for a few hours, your eyes closed, and your hands resting on your knees, until, eventually, sleep pulls you under.

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[genericpuff]

alright so this is a post I've been wanting to write up for a little while now, but I was waiting on permission from a third party to post DM's (censored, of course). That permission has since returned with a yes, soooo

LET'S TALK ABOUT RACHEL'S HIRING PROCESSES-

okay this isn't gonna be as comprehensive as I'm making it sound BUT I've mentioned before on this page (albeit briefly and it's long since been buried) that I actually applied to be a background artist for Rachel a couple years ago, I think it was around the midpoint of S2, and it was (obviously) before I turned to the dark side of crit-n-shit-posting. I never got an email back, so that was that. I'd like to think there's a parallel universe out there where instead of joining the antiLO/ULO community, I became an assistant for Rachel and remained a fan. Enjoy that fridge horror thought.

That said, while I didn't get a response, someone on reddit mentioned that they did:

And they were kind enough to share further details with me in DM's.

Right off the bat, I'm fairly certain they were applying to the same ad I was (as it was a posting that Rachel had made on Twiter and the approximate years line up).

All that aside, considering what Rachel's process is like with her assistants (from what we've discussed here in GREAT detail), it's not shocking in the slightest that the vibe of working with Rachel from the very beginning was "IDK what I'm looking for".

Buuut that's not the end of the exchange because it gets better.

Mind you, this was back in 2019 and it was the experience of one user, so it doesn't necessarily reflect every assistant on the team or how Rachel does things down to the last detail. But it's pretty damning enough that you can still see the evidence of this kind of workflow in current LO 4 years later. If anything she's continued to operate with a rapidly declining pipeline because the art just keeps getting worse and worse.

Part me of wants to say that this could be on Webtoons, as they don't offer support to creators to have assistants. Creators have to pay for their assistants completely out of pocket, split from the income they make from Webtoons. This is why so many creators often don't have assistants or their 'assistants' are also their co-creators (see: Nevermore, which is drawn and written by two people working together).

But Rachel has an average of four assistants per episode, sometimes as many as eight in some cases (though it's been a while since that's happened so I won't really count it for this post).

That means Rachel's team is typically made up of five people, including herself, and that's not including the recent addition of copy editors (but that balances out with the times when Amy Kim isn't contributing , she tends to pop in and out).

Now, she's not the only person on WT with a team of this size, there are others with comparable teams if not bigger ones, but NONE of them seem to operate with as much inconsistency as LO does, and that's not on the assistants, that's on Rachel. She's said in interviews that she always wanted to be a director and that making LO on Webtoons was her way of achieving that, but she doesn't seem to have the integrity or leadership skills necessary to take charge when the team isn't working in sync. You don't see any of these insane art art inconsistencies in webtoons like The Kiss Bet or Tower of God (though they have their own problems, the art isn't one of them), and there are webtoons operating without a team at all that are drawing circles around LO right now, like Nevermore (which is, by the way, also edited by Bre Boswell, same as LO).

Now, that's not to say there isn't struggling underneath the surface, the creators of Nevermore have stated how difficult it is to work for Webtoons as it is, especially as creators who don't have assistants. But how is the #1 comic on the platform failing to meet the standards that come with its labels and awards? Why are the exceptionally better comics being drawn by 1-2 people not getting the attention or opportunities they deserve from the platform? And why does Rachel Smythe, one of the highest paid creators on the platform, still seem to struggle with managing a team of artists after five years of publication on Webtoons? Why does she choose to have a large team if she can't pay them adequately? Why have a large team at all if she's not going to utilize their skills properly? To further lighten the load of work onto others?

Really, it just goes to show the lack of care and respect all around - for the self, for the work, and for those who are pushing out the work and meeting the deadlines, whose reputations and potential are being dragged down with the comic itself.

[shunin-gumis]

Mistery on the Moonlit Passage - Track 02

Seasonal Event Story

I've translated chapter 2, Hope you enjoy!

~~~(flashback)

Ryui: Toi, you’re fine with 3 sugar cubes for your milk tea, right?

Toi: Yes! Thank you, Ani-sama!

Netaro: Ah! I am fairly certain I mixed in some of my special invention of “Wasabi Cubes that look Identical to Sugar Cubes” in that sugar pot there. 

Ryui: Pfghtt!!

Muneuji: Hm, a tea ceremony. Allow me to participate as a break from my studies.

Nanaki: …..

Nanaki: …*glance*

Chief: Yuki-nii, what did you want to talk about?

Kafka: It better be important enough for you to disturb my cozy tea time with the Chief.

Yukikaze: Indeed. This may lead to a new business opportunity for us. 

Nanaki: (...I wonder what it is…)

Yukikaze: The other day, my father was approached by the president of a cruise liner company for a discussion on reopening the Night Cruise, which had been out of operation for some time now.

Chief: A Night Cruise…! We do have a special tourist zone that’s facing the sea after all, it’d be great if we could make cruises more popular too!

Yukikaze: I thought that perhaps there was something we could do to help after hearing this from my father. Would it be difficult?

Kafka: Difficult? Who do you think you’re talking to? If we receive an official offer, HAMA Tours will promise to deliver. 

Yukikaze: Thank you. I’ll let him know.

Chief: It’s rare that we get a chance to help out on a cruise. Yuki-nii, did you get to hear any specifics about the discussion from Uncle?

Nanaki: (Chief’s eyes are sparkling…)

Yukikaze: The liner itself is ready to go, but since it hasn’t been in operation for a long time, they’re looking for advice on what they could offer as onboard services. 

Chief: I see… Then how about we have a soft opening with the members of HAMA Tours as guests?

Kafka: Good idea~♪ We can offer consulting after seeing how the soft opening goes.

Chief: Right, Yuki-nii, could you ask Liguang-san for his opinion as well? We could use the cruising sector from ward 4 as a reference. 

Yukikaze: Alright. Liguang himself probably won’t attend the soft opening, seeing as he’s been busy lately.

Nanaki: (Their conversation is progressing so smoothly… Kamina-san and Ooguro-san both know the Chief from childhood, huh…) 

Yukikaze: I’m excited to go on a cruise and see the night view of HAMA with you… 

Kafka: No one asked. 

Chief: We can discuss the specifics later in a meeting… Is there anyone here who’d be interested in participating? 

Muneuji: I would like to participate to broaden my horizons. It would also be beneficial if the swaying of the boat would help strengthen my core.

Chief: Um, I’m not sure about that… I’ve heard that they use AI to control large cruise ships such as these, so there shouldn’t be much swaying.

Netaro: Ooh~ I would love to see the internal structure myself! I’m coming too~

Yukikaze: There’s a sky deck as well, according to the pamphlet. It’s on this page here, Ryui.

Ryui: Who cares.

Toi: Wow, I’ve never been on a ship as big as this. I want to try it~

Ryui: Oi Kamina, hand over that pamphlet. 

Chief: How about you, Nanaki-kun?

Nanaki: Um… I want to join too. 

Nanaki: (Seeing the night view with the Chief… Maybe it could help set the mood…)

Nanaki: (–No, what am I thinking? There’ll be others on board too, there’s no way it’d turn out like I want it to…)

~~~(end flashback)

Location: Cruise Liner - Party Venue

Nanaki: (Way to set the mood…!)

Nanaki: Chief, please, wake up…!

Chief: ….. 

Nanaki: What should I do at a time like this… Hey, Andy!

Andy: …..

Nanaki: Wait, huh…? The reception was fine till just a moment ago… 

Ryui: Toi… Toi!! Dammit, where’s the captain!?

Yukikaze: I’ll go search for him. The rest of you, look after them. 

Muneuji: Everyone, please calm down. 

Ryui: How the hell am I supposed to calm down!?

Muneuji: It appears that they’re all simply asleep. 

Ryui: Huh…?

Toi: *soft snoring*

Ryui: …You’re right. That’s Toi’s usual angelic sleeping face.

Kafka and Kinari: *soft breathing* 

Akuta: Guoh… Pumpkin… Noodle soup… Pollock Roe… Espetada…

Yachiyo: Munya munya… I can’t eat anymoooore….

Yodaka: There’s no need to rush… Take it in slowly… All the way inside… 

Muneuji: Isotake and Fuefuki-san are both still clutching their plates… Looks like they’re enjoying a buffet in their dreams too.

Yukikaze: Yodaka-san seems to be conversing with Yachiyo in his sleep… What an amazing technique. 

Nanaki: I-If it’s even the same genre…��

Chief: *soft snoring*

Nanaki: (I didn’t think I’d get to see the Chief’s sleeping face… Their eyelashes…)

Nanaki: None of them look like they’re in a bad condition, so… I guess it’s okay?

Ryui: Like hell it is.

[lilyofthesword-writes]

What Should Be - Part 3 (Batman)

Summary: You have a loving family, a cozy home, a great job - What more could a person ask for? But what do you do when an injured man dressed as a bat shows up in your home in the middle of the night?

Pairing: Batman x Reader (Platonic or Romantic)

Word Count: 1,024

Warnings/Disclaimers: Blood, injuries

Counterpart: Alchemy (Please read first)

Part 1 | Part 2 |  | Part 4 | Part 5 | Epilogue

Masterlist

When your family finished dinner, you picked up the dirty plates and made your way into the kitchen, fully intending to clean up after having cooked for everyone. It only felt right after napping the day away… And only waking up after your partner came home from picking Torrence up from the bus stop, something you were supposed to do, something you did every day. 

Your phone had shown no missed calls, but Torrence’s phone clearly showed outgoing calls to you and then Jesse when you didn’t answer. Your stomach churned with every step at the thought of, for all intents and purposes, forgetting your son. 

I shouldn’t be a parent… I’m terrible…

You bit your lip as you placed the dishes in the sink. Your limbs itched with a strangely familiar feeling to run. Run and no one will get hurt again. You shook your head vigorously. A pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

“Babe, let me worry about this. Go relax. You’ve been moving nonstop since—”

“No,” you cut off your partner. “No, I just— I need to do this.”

They paused a moment before pulling your hands from the sink and turning you around, forcing you to look at them.

“Hey,” they started gently. “We’re not mad, you know. We’re just worried about you. Don’t beat yourself up over one day.”

You gazed into their eyes, hoping to see what made their words feel… Well, you weren’t sure exactly. They weren’t… It didn’t feel right. You couldn’t find it.

Torrence took this moment to fling his arms around you. “We just want you to be okay.”

A lump in your throat formed and bobbed. They were trying to make you feel better. But that was exactly it. They were saying what you wanted to hear but… It wasn’t… Wasn’t genuine. It was hollow, hollow like their eyes. 

You hugged them back. 

Later that night, you found yourself flipping the medallion between your fingers, attempting to let the cool clay ground your mind. You had made sure Torrence was tucked into bed extra well and teasingly did the same for your partner before settling into your office. You still had work to do. You had to finish this project and presentation. It was your chance to move up the ladder and be next in line for the Archeology Department Head.

But that dream…

Those two men, Nightwing and Red Hood. How did you know them? And who the hell was Batman?

No. Not the time for that. Focus.

Your thumb skimmed over one of the symbols, one of your nails catching in the grooves as you traced it. You know this, but from where? You stood and went to the bookcases and stacks to rummage through your collection again.

You checked the shelves one more time. Nothing. Stepping back to survey the spines, you jumped as a book stack toppled over. Dust plumed as the books hit the floor. Had this been in an office at the university, you’d be embarrassed by the mess. Sighing, you kneeled and began picking up the books. One of which caught your eye. A leather-bound tome laid near. You lifted the book into your lap for a better view. Your thigh twinged in response.

Could this be…

You stood, letting out a small grunt as you did. Your leg seared with the motion. You made haste to your seat. With the medallion in hand, you scoured the handwritten pages. Deep within the tome, you found what you were looking for: Symbols that matched the medallion, symbols that told its story. To you, it was more akin to an amulet.

Silence. Conceal. Shield.

The dull pain in your thigh surged into an electric shock. The amulet snapped in your grip. Its pieces fell to the table. You panted, clutching your leg, willing the misery to cease.

Just breathe… Deep and slow…

Your eyes clenched closed, and instead of seeing darkness, there was the inside of an old warehouse. In front of you, an older man stood grinning. His hair was shockingly white, and he had dichromatic eyes. There were patches of stitched skin running along his face. The most concerning part was the rusted scalpel in his hand. His name came to you in an instant — Doc Benton.

What is this? It feels…

The pain left as suddenly as it came, leaving only a ghost of its former self, and you were able to open your eyes. You flexed your fingers and massaged your thigh. Through your pajamas, you could feel a raised scar running down from your hip to your knee.

What? 

You wrenched up your pants leg to find nothing. Rubbing your fingertips against the skin, it was smooth. Other than some stretch marks that had grown over time, there was nothing. Releasing the fabric, your hands came up to cradle your face. Maybe you were getting sick. That had to be it. Right? You snapped the tome shut and left your desk. It was time for bed. 

As your fingers wrapped around the doorknob, you heard it. 

Clomp. CLOMP.

You shook your head.

No. Not this again. It’s not real.

You decidedly fling the door open. There was nothing to be afraid of. Unless you’re afraid of looming, bulky men dressed as bats.

There he was again, the man from the night before. 

“Batman,” you whispered the name echoing in the back of your mind. Deep down you knew it was right.

Your body froze while your mind raced at a staggering speed.

He’s not— He can’t be. But he’s right there. Can a hallucination be this realistic? 

You could see every spec of stubble on his jaw, hear every hoarse, heavy breath, smell every bit of sweat clinging to him. Overwhelmed, you stumbled away only for him to pull you back. Despite his beaten appearance, his grip on your wrist was bruise inducing. It grounded you.

He mumbled your name. It sent a shockwave through you.

With that, he warped into nothingness like before. And you fell into a heap on the floor, heart pounding as you tried to catch your breath.

[sunflowervoltwentyeight]

Happy 28th! Here's my August 2023 fic rec, organized by length from longest to shortest. Enjoy!

My Lights Stay Up, But Your City Sleeps by pearlydewdrops / @moonhusbands (108k)

Harry breaks into his own smile, scrunching his nose when he glances back up, meeting Louis' eyes, his stiff posture loosening. They stare for a beat, Harry's smile dwindling. "So... you're okay with it? That it can’t go anywhere?"

Louis nods easily. "We're on the same page. Promise." He holds out his pinkie to prove it, mind hazy and giddy from alcohol. Harry’s dimples appear in each cheek as he holds out his own, their pinkies intertwining. "We're just two people who like each other, have fun together, and who may or may not kiss and... stuff.” He grins, wild adrenaline pumping through to his fingertips.

Harry sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, lowering his flushed gaze to the floor.

“Just don't go falling in love with me, and it'll be fine," Louis smirks.

Or Louis has trouble sleeping, Harry has a habit of wrapping himself around Louis during the nights, and a mutual agreement to engage in a fun and simple thing quickly turns into something perhaps not so fun, and certainly not simple.

Somewhere In Between Lightning by jassy117 nauticalleeds shiningdistractionwrites / @nauticalleeds @shiningdistraction (99k)

As Louis took another bite, he thought back to how he had once believed that the hardest thing about being on Love Island would be Liam handling his social media.   He had been wrong. It was Harry Styles, peeking over at Louis as he forked a pancake into his mouth, and gauging his reaction. It was having to quench the swelling of his heart, which felt simultaneously like hope and the breaking of a thousand pieces.

---

A summer gone wrong (or very right) when, under Liam’s persuasion, Louis finds himself drunkenly applying for Love Island, and getting accepted. Oh, well. A summer spent on an island paradise couldn’t be all that bad, right?

Imagine his surprise when Louis arrives in sunny Majorca to find that his first love and ex-boyfriend, Harry, is another contestant, about to capture the hearts of everyone in the villa. Most normal people don’t have to face their ex on an otherwise straight TV show. Most normal people don’t fall for their ex again in front of the whole nation, either. Too bad this whole situation isn’t normal.

The Murmur of Yearning by mediawhore / @mediawhorefics (93k)

Four years ago, Harry Styles was forced into a marriage of convenience to enrich and ally both his and his promised's families. The sudden, and slightly suspicious, death of the Marquess of Haxshire, however, brings great disturbance to Crescentfield Hall and, as his late's husband's closest male relative, Harry unexpectedly finds himself the head of a family he never felt he belonged to. Between a meddling distant cousin hellbent on inserting himself in Harry’s life, his wicked and mistrustful mother-in-law and his late husband’s advisors refusing to help or take him seriously, Harry struggles in the fight to keep what he’s earned and make the Estate finally feel like home.

Luckily, he doesn’t stand completely alone and finds himself an unlikely ally in Mr Tomlinson, the elusive Land Stewart who has been taking care of the property in the shadows for years. Louis Tomlinson is caring, patient, and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t seem to think Harry committed a murder.

Consequences by allwaswell16 / @allwaswell16 (78k)

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

An amnesia au

Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) by justfortommo (76k)

Harry watches Louis as he scrunches up his nose and bites the end of a pen in concentration. He’s been working on seating arrangements for the past hour and getting more frustrated by the minute. Louis huffs out a breath and glances down at Harry with a soft smile on his lips before he returns to the task at hand. It’s easy, right then, for Harry to let himself believe that they’re planning a seating chart for their own wedding and bickering over who is going to sit where from a list of their own family members. He can let himself daydream about a white picket fence and a dog that they could have within the next year.

It’s like a cold slap in the face when Harry looks to the top of the page to see “Aiden and Louis Grimshaw” at the head table, and Harry has to mentally remind himself for the thousandth time that Louis is not his. Never was, really. He’s just the wedding planner that’s been in love with Louis since he was sixteen.

(or the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner.)

That's What I'm Here For by taggiecb / @taggiecb (46k)

Louis Tomlinson is a dairy farmer on a tiny farm in eastern Canada. His wife of nearly thirty years has left him and his children are all grown up and out of the house. Louis needs help running his business but has no idea where to even start looking. Luckily for him his children know just the man for the job.

Suddenly Last Summer by disgruntledkittenface / @disgruntledkittenface (44k)

Louis is bored, rich and lonely. He has no reason to expect that this summer in the Hamptons with his friends will be different from any other – until he meets Harry. Suddenly he has someone who listens to him and cares about what he thinks. Someone who really sees him. But their happily ever after is forever marred by an incident at a party during Labor Day weekend, and Louis is left with a choice to make.

Walk My Days On A Wire by sunshiner / @theprizeofcoolness (38k)

Harry hums, staring at his hands in his lap, and Louis can still feel their smoothness, how solid they were in between his own. “Do you think it’s the same for us? Are we here only because of the likeliness of our jobs? Of our lives?” “We’re here because we have inventive managers,” Louis says, giving Harry’s leg a little nudge with his knee, but all that’s going around in his head is, I think I'd be in the same spot in every possible universe.

or, when actor Louis Tomlinson used to daydream about dating Harry Styles, this is not what he had in mind.

The Happiest Season by sadaveniren / @sadaveniren (37k)

“You’re going to spend Christmas - and your birthday - with his homophobic WASP parents? That’s gonna be hell.”

Louis closed his eyes in frustration. “It was either that or be apart and I don’t think that’s gonna be good for either of us this year, you know?”

A fic loosely based on Happiest Season but make it ... different

Tightrope by sadaveniren / @sadaveniren (33k)

Louis knows he and Harry are going to be together for the rest of their lives and one day they were going to get married and have three point five children, a dog, and two cats. But life hasn't matched up perfectly yet and that time is not now. So they are both happy to be best friends and casually date other people until life decides they really should get their shit together.

aka Louis gets pregnant from "one last time" sex and he and Harry somehow think they'll be able co-parent without it being weird for anyone (most especially their new boyfriends).

Brown Skin and Lemon Over Ice by penceypansy / @penceypansy (2k)

A short one shot of a reunion in Italy, around the time Harry filmed the Golden video.

- He should know with more certainty which one is their bedroom but he’s only been here twice, only once since their things had moved in, and come to think of it, he’s not sure this is the room they slept in last time.

Regardless, he’s got clothes he knows are his hanging in the wardrobe, sees his old Stone Roses shirt crumpled and worn on the unmade side of the bed. He drops his bag, rummages through the drawers for a pair of trunks, goes into the bathroom to change. It doesn’t feel like enough of a home yet for him to be totally comfortable, but that should change soon enough. He can’t help a spray of the cologne sat by the sink, vanilla and wood and comfort.

[swordbisexual]

A Chest Of Pine And Iron: Chapter Two

Being on the Trevelyans, vows, and the properties of elfroot.

(h/t to @litlunacy for telling me about the elfroot and weed thing, which promptly went into this fic)

--

{Fenella’s diary]

21 August 9:41

If there’s one thing a body can count on, it’s for the local tavern to have cured meat and cheese aplenty. The Singing Maiden is no different. Hopefully I don’t leave smudges on the page with the grease, but if I do, it’s simply a testament to how thoroughly satisfying these victuals are, especially with a draught of mead that tastes like summer clover.

I suppose it is summer here, though it certainly doesn’t feel like it, this high up in the mountains. Flissa told me she brought this cask with her from Denerim, aged since last Kingsway, and that she’s not just handing it out to everyone. “But anything for the Herald,” she said, and she seemed so nervous. I did my best to smile at her, but that just seemed to make the poor woman lose herself even more, stammering her way out from the bar and into the storeroom in the back to dig up the summer sausage that I fear has now made its mark all over my diary.

[There are indeed fingerprints all over the edges of this page, some smudging the ink at the edges, though not enough to render the words illegible.]

This morning was both too much and too little, all at once. The most vital topic of the day with the council was the matter of coin, just after the matter of weapons and suitable stores of medicines for the potion master. After I assured them all that I’d taken time to speak with both Quartermaster Threnn and Adan, I was treated to another one of Josephine - Lady Montilyet’s - canny-eyed looks. “And what of your family?” she asked.

I haven’t even thought to write them in the midst of all this, truth be told, but I had the sinking feeling I was about to be instructed to do just that. “The Bann and Lady will be more than happy to assist,” I said, unsure if I ought to call them Father and Mother here in the presence of the Inquisition’s councillors. I hardly called them by anything back in Ostwick, either, save for the rare moment either of them have deigned to speak to me as anything other than just another vassal for their command. 

As I feared, Josephine nodded. “A noble house so loyal to the Chantry would be invaluable allies for the Inquisition, should their coffers be deep enough.” She cleared her throat and scratched something on her ledger with her quill. “Or should they have enough influence, in the Free Marches.”

“For the Chantry, anything.” This satisfied Josephine, and Cassandra too, but it earned me a strange look from both Leliana and Commander Rutherford. I ignored them, or I hope I looked like I did, and stared ahead at the table and the map of Thedas spread out before us, with markers set here and there, surely placed by the Commander before we’d arrived for our morning briefing. I pointed at one set squarely in the middle of Ferelden. “What’s this?”

“Reports from our scout, Harding.” Commander Rutherford picked up the steeple-shaped marker and turned it over in his hand before returning it, not a hairsbreadth out of place from where it stood before. “The Hinterlands of Ferelden are vast, and the conflict between the Templars and mages made it more complicated than it should, but we’ve found a Revered Mother of the Chantry who may aid us.”

Something stirred in my breast then. It was the thought of adventure, and of getting off this damned mountain. I should have thought of the Mother (Giselle, I was told, of Jader, and a holy woman she is indeed) and of the refugees she harbored first, and guilt at my selfishness ached in my belly as I stared at the marker. “I’ll go,” I said, and I hoped against hope that I sounded the part of the blessed Herald taking up her mantle, and not the bored child I felt like.

“I will accompany you,” Cassandra said, as fierce and commanding as she’d been when she led me out of the prison and towards the breach. “We do not know what dangers we might find.”

“Take Varric with you,” Leliana said, and the look Cassandra gave her could have melted steel. It didn’t deter the Left Hand, though, as she braced herself against the force of the Right. “You will need support, and he has a way with words.”

“And Solas might help against any apostates you find,” Josephine added, interrupting Cassandra’s protests. “You will have strength in numbers, and we cannot afford for anything to befall our Herald so soon.”

“Indeed, we cannot.” Commander Rutherford turned to face me, the same expression on his face that he had upon the field when we met his forces in the charge to the Temple. The most I can glean from it even now, thinking back on the charge and on the council-room, is that there was a sense of intrigue, as if I was a new tactic he’d yet to master, a new formation he’d yet to learn. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small thrill in me then, too, but I could push that away even easier than I pushed away the need to stretch my legs beyond Haven. I’ve never been an object of interest for anyone, male or female, for as long as I’ve known that there was interest to be had.

The matter was settled, more or less, at those words. We’re to set out to find Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands on the morrow, and I’m to send a letter to Ostwick requesting funds if the teyrn can spare them, and at least a banner of support if they cannot.

Sitting in this tavern does remind me of Matthias and Geordie, and Duncan, too. I wish that any of them could be responsible for the family name and family funds. Writing them would be so much easier than writing to Father, or even Mother. I think even Geordie would like to come here himself, if his leg wouldn’t give him so much trouble this high up in the cold. At the very least, I can write him - write them all - and let them know that I’m safe.

For now, though, I think I’d like to finish this mead, and set back out on the same trail I’ve been slowly following for the past few days. There’s elfroot even in the middle of the snowdrifts, and I’d like to get down a drawing of how it looks. It’s just as common here as it was in Ostwick, but I feel as if I’m seeing it anew, and it’s been too long since I took down my observations of the world around me.

--

[A separate journal, larger and of sturdier make with thicker pages, each with an illustration and labeled with Fenella’s observations and knowledge of the plant, animal, or stone in question]

Elfroot

A common plant, like to a weed, hardy enough to grow even up in the Frostback snows

Roots good for indigestion and general malaise; leaves can provide their own brief pleasant sensation when chewed, or brewed into a tonic or tea

According to Matthias Trevelyan, who is neither botanist nor apothecarist and therefore whose word is of questionable merit, the leaves can also be dried and smoked in a pipe in order to forget one’s troubles for the length of an afternoon

--

[A line is drawn beneath the last entry and the following, indicating that they were likely written on the same day. There is a slant to the script in this additional entry, which goes on at length and grows more slanted as the lines go on, showing a marked tiredness in the Herald’s hand as she recorded the events of her afternoon, which were important enough to apparently forego sleep.]

The sound of the soldiers at their drills in the makeshift training yard was as much music to my ears as that of the singer who sat on the tiny platform of a stage in the Singing Maiden. I walked up the hill from where I’d been out collecting more elfroot to take to Adan and his apothecarist assistant, and the clanging of steel on steel drew me to it, as it always has. I nearly felt homesick. There were few comforts I found within my own home, and fresh off a few good lungfuls of brisk air with a sliver of elfroot sitting beneath my tongue and making my lips tingle, I was reminded of those few. I suddenly missed Geordie, and our ongoing tally of our duels in the yard when his leg allowed, and my hand itched to wrap around a hilt. If I’d been in a coat and mail I might have asked the soldiers if I could join in, but simply bundled up in one of the furs I took from my bed, with a basket of elfroot at my hip and my field journal under my elbow, I wasn’t exactly suited for sparring.

Still, I wanted to take a look. Commander Rutherford stood watching over them all, the gold of his hair gone to fire in the light of the setting sun, stepping in only to offer a word of advice here and there to the greener recruits before taking up his post again at the edge of the yard, a sharp eye on the flurry of activity around him. His was a familiar face, at least, and so I shook the snow from my boots and shuffled along the beaten dirt path in order to stand beside him.

I’ve been told I have my head in the clouds far too much, but I see more that goes on than either my mother or father have ever given me credit for. For instance, I saw that as soon as I was within ten paces of the Commander, he shifted his weight and his gaze, the former in a slight lean back as the latter slid forward to meet me before I was even within earshot. “Lady Trevelyan,” he said as soon as I was close enough to hear him over the din of his soldiers’ swords.

I know I wrinkled my nose, but the face I pulled must have been more than just a wrinkle, if the way his eyebrows shot up was any indication. “Maker’s breath, anything but that,” I said, too tired to care about whether the Herald of Andraste would invoke the Maker in anything but the holiest Chant. “Just call me Fen.”

I don’t know whether it was the wind kicking up or something else entirely, but the Commander’s ears went bright pink at the edges. “I don’t know if I could bring myself to do that, Your Worship.”

“Andraste’s sword.” I frowned at the Commander then. He looked taken aback at another holy name taken in vain, but the elfroot was starting to wear off and my feet were reminding me of just how far I’d hiked this afternoon and I was past the point of giving a damn about whether I sounded the part of someone who gets called Your Worship. “Whyever not?”

He was pink in the cheeks then, and not from the cold. It was oddly endearing, on a man of his stature and composure, but I still hold no illusions that I could make it happen more than once. “There is importance in a name. Power.” His hand still rested on the pommel of his sword, but he stiffened his posture a bit, leveling me with clear eyes that, in the light of the setting sun, looked about the same shade as the mead I’d been quaffing before I set out. He cleared his throat. “Respect.”

I could tell that I would make no headway on getting him to obey my first request, so I sighed. “Fine. Herald it is, then.”

He inclined his chin in a small nod. “Herald.”

Refreshingly, he did not seem to feel a need to crane his neck up to appear taller than me, a habit I’ve noticed more than one man tends to have when confronted with a woman of my height. Instead, we stood comfortably eye-to-eye, and then he turned back to watch his men at their drills.

We might have stood in companionable silence for a time, but I felt a sudden and irrepressible need to explain myself. “It reminds me of home. The swords and shields, I mean.”

The Commander was cordial but distracted. “Trevelyan. Ostwick, is it? How does — hmph. A moment.” He excused himself and stepped into the fray, taking a recruit by the shield arm and hoisting that arm up. “You have a shield. Use it.”

When he returned, I picked back up on the question I supposed he might have been asking. “I grew up with three older brothers. They spent most of their days training when we were all children, and I went out with them as much as I could.”

Commander Rutherford’s eyes drifted down for but a brief moment, a familiar look of assessing my stance and figure, the kind I’ve been on the receiving end of ever since I shot up and filled out to take up more space than most women are allowed. His was not a look of shock of judgment, though. Quite the opposite, in fact. It made my stomach flutter, though that could have also been the last bit of the elfroot beneath my tongue acting on a stomach full of sausage and mead. “Your skill on the field shows it,” he said, and the color on his ears deepened before he quickly turned his attention back to the yard.

There was a glow of pride in my chest at knowing he’d seen how I could swing a greatsword, and that he found it impressive. “Knocked all of my brothers on their asses more than once,” I said, the glow turning to a tickle of mischief when I saw the Commander raise his eyebrows at my language. “That is, until Duncan went to the Circle and Matthias had to take his place as the heir to the bann.”

I don’t know why I felt so easy telling him about my brothers, other than perhaps I’ve missed them all, even Duncan, who I’ve not seen in person in nearly two decades. The feeling of ease and trust stayed, too, when the Commander simply nodded, taking the revelation that I’ve a mage for a brother in stride. “You said you have three brothers?”

I smiled fondly - out of fondness for Geordie, of course, though something in my smile seemed to take the Commander aback - and pulled the fur tighter around my shoulders. “Geordie’s the last. He would’ve been a Templar himself, if he’d been able to make it through his training. Couldn’t quite carry it through, though.” I lifted my left foot and wiggled it in the air. “He got a bad leg out of it in the process.”

A line appeared between the Commander’s brows. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I laughed. “I don’t think he was, in the end. It doesn’t bother him much, and now he’s free to swive the girls down at the market and tavern as much as he pleases.”

I swear, Commander Rutherford’s amber-colored eyes nearly bugged out of his not-unhandsome head at that. “He can… he what?”

“I thought that was part of the vows,” I said. There was another tingle in my belly, and not from the elfroot. “I was to take vows as a sister of the Chantry and forego other pleasures. I thought the Templars did the same.”

“I— no.” He shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly unable to look me in the eye. “There’s no such… I mean.” He coughed politely into his gloved fist. “Some may take such vows, but not all.”

I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Did you?”

“Maker’s breath.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his head and stared at a spot in the snow that was suddenly very interesting indeed. “I didn’t, but… could we speak of something else?”

I shifted the basket of elfroot to my other hip. “Fine. How about your time as a Templar?”

I regretted the words almost as soon as they left my lips, for the way a cloud seemed to pass over the glowing sun of his face. “There is no finer duty,” he said, “than protecting those who need it most.”

Thre are stories about him, of course, and of the Chantry in Kirkwall, but I’m not entirely sure where to begin with asking about those, or whether I should at all. “Did you know Varric?” I asked instead. “He seems passing familiar with you.”

“Does he?” Commander Rutherford folded his arms and looked out, not to the yard, but to some place just beyond, brow still furrowed in thought. He simply turned a smile on me, though, small and a little sad and, I think, apprehensive. “Perhaps you might ask him to tell the story, then.”

“I don’t know if stories are meant to be believed,” I said, carefully. “After all, what stories are they telling about me?”

His smile softened. “A point well-made.” He looked back out to the yard, then down to where his arms crossed together, before he finally looked at me again, all the softness gone and the cautious, courteous Commander back in place. “Another time, perhaps.”

I nodded. “Another time.”

I might not know many cues, but I know a dismissal when I’ve been given one. I turned to go, trudging back up the stairs to the doors that led into the rest of the Haven camp proper. Before I passed through, I turned to look over my shoulder at the scene I left behind: the soldiers at their drills, Cassandra not far from the yard keeping watch, and Commander Rutherford now in the middle, taking careful strides around the swinging swords and shields. He paused, and looked up at me for a brief instant, and I could hear the way he said it before, when he brought his chin down in a gesture of respect.

Herald.

I may never grow used to it, but from him, it feels at least a little bit real.

[makethatelevenrings]

Angel By the Wing - TEN

Chapter Warnings: swearing (ofc), throwing up/nausea, a creepy guy for .02 seconds, canonical cancer of a character

Series Masterlist

“I’m a little earlier than normal today,” you said from the doorway. After your fight with Jake, you just needed a moment to escape. Somehow, you found yourself on Sarah and Tom’s doorstep. Sarah ushered you in without questioning the stricken look on your face and she encouraged you to go on upstairs to Tom’s office.

The silver haired man beckoned you in and waved for you to sit in the chair next to his desk. He finished typing something on his computer and then turned to you, a raised eyebrow indicating his silent question.

“I’m fine,” you answered. “I just…stuff.” A vague hand wave punctuated his statement and he huffed out a quiet laugh before opening an application on his computer and typing something down.

Do you want to elaborate more on this stuff? The screen read. You rolled your eyes and shrugged.

“You don’t want to hear about my issues,” you assured him.

It’s better than getting my ass beat in checkers.

A small smile tugged at your lips and you sighed. “It’s nothing. Stupid boy stuff.”

His nose crinkled as he screwed his face up in disinterest. Despite being married for a few decades and having a daughter who was married with kids, Tom wasn’t particularly interested in dating drama, but he looked at you with careful consideration.

Any man should be grateful to know such an intelligent and kind young woman such as yourself. You’ve brought so much joy to our family in the few months we’ve known you. If they’re making you upset, then they’re not worth your time. And if he makes you cry, I do have a gun.

You laughed despite the tightening pain in your chest. You had read about dads in books, saw them shown on TV from Charlie Swan to Jim Hopper, but you never really had a dad. Your dad was physically in your life but he wasn’t actually there. He wasn’t someone you could talk out problems with or ask for advice or learn how to change a tire or whatever dads are supposed to teach you. He just came home from work, fell asleep on the couch, ate whatever your mom put in front of him for dinner, and then slept some more. He wasn’t a bad person, he just wasn’t present.

So having this man could have easily turned you away when you showed up on his doorstep looking like a lost kitten, but he took you in and made you feel safer than you ever have. Sarah and Tom never judged or criticized you. They were good, kind people.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” you teased. “Now, can I start reading? Or do you want to interrogate me on something else?”

He let out a huff of a laugh and leaned back in his chair, gesturing for you to proceed. You pulled out the Agatha Christie novel from your purse with a flourish and cracked it open where the bookmark held your place.

“Now, where were we…”

You were nearly to the part of the novel where Hercule Poirot started to piece together the evidence when a voice interrupted you.

“Admiral.”

You turned at the sound of a man’s voice. It was the guy who had been frequenting the Hard Deck. You had figured he was Navy, but this confirmed it. His gaze flickered to you and he dipped his head in greeting. 

“Ma’am,” he said. You glanced at one of the photos on his desk, noting that it was Tom and the man but much younger. Ah, Navy business. Standing up, you folded the bookmark between the pages and tucked the book into your purse.

“I’ll go help Sarah with dinner,” you said. You paused in front of Tom and reached down, squeezing his hand. He smiled up at you, pride shining in his eyes. He was proud of you.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, you knew something was wrong. Sarah’s eyes were red-rimmed and tinged with a sadness you had seen before.

“No,” you breathed.

“Sit down, sweetie,” Sarah croaked out. She beckoned your forward and you sank onto the stool across from her. She reached out, her slim fingers interlocking with yours. You clasped her hands tightly.

“How bad is it?” you breathed.

“The treatments aren’t working and he’s just so tired, hun. When Maverick came by, it just hit me and…I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” Sarah whispered. “It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. The cancer has been so aggressive, I’ve been preparing for this but it still…”

She trailed off and you could see it in her eyes. The pain. The grief that has been building. Your wounded heart shattered even more seeing her so heartbroken.

“Whatever happens, I’ll be here for whatever you need,” you promised.

“I know. I’m so lucky I met you.”

For a brief moment, you felt wanted for once in your life. Sarah didn’t treat you like a prop to show off like your mom and Tom didn’t ignore you like your dad. They were proud of you. They were grateful to know you.

“Oh, there will be plenty of tears to cry in the future. No use crying now,” Sarah announced. You could see how she pushed her grief back and let a smile settle across her face, no matter how false it was. Sarah pinched your cheek and then stood.

“You can help me make the pico and guac for dinner,” she said. “It’s nacho night.”

You accepted her hand as she pulled you up to join her at the island, various vegetables laid out before you. As you began chopping, you recalled what she said earlier.

“Maverick? Who is he?”

“Pete, he was a friend of Tom’s at Top Gun. They flew together a while back. He lost his partner when they were training. Goose Bradshaw. Horrible accident.”

Bradshaw. Like Bradley Bradshaw.

That was the man who pulled his papers. That was the man who made him weep on the beach. You thought back to that night pressed against Bradley, staring out at the ocean, as you sliced open an avocado. Your eyes cast over the sight of the creamy green insides that you had eaten plenty of times before.

But this time, your stomach turned at the smell and sight of the avocado. Biting back the involuntary gag, you turned away from the sight and raised the back of your hand to your mouth. Sarah looked up from where she was frying some chicken breasts.

“Honey? Are you okay?” Concern painted her tone and you could have nearly fucking wept at the sound of her kindness.

“I…phew, I just got hit with a wave of nausea. I might have caught a bug at the bar,” you said. You tried to shake off the queasy feeling, but it remained. “I’m sorry, but I should probably go home. I don’t want to get you or Tom sick.”

Her brows creased in a frown but she nodded. Sarah wiped her hand on a towel hanging from the oven and she came over, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead and then your cheek.

“No fever, but it could just be a stomach bug. Go home and rest, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow to check up on you.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled. You started to walk over to grab your purse, but you paused and pivoted on your heel to rush back and pull her into a hug. Sarah’s arms quickly wound around your back and she squeezed you gently.

“Thank you,” you whispered again before you pulled away and gathered your purse up.

The drive home was only a twenty-five minute drive away, but you groaned when you turned on your car and saw the little “E” sign on the dash. You had promised yourself that you would get it on the way back, but that was before you felt like you were going to hurl any moment.

Maybe you could stop by a gas station and get gas and some ginger ale. That sounded like a good idea. The closest gas station was about eight minutes away, but rain started to splatter across your windshield the second you pulled out of the neighborhood. By the time you parked in front of the gas station, it was steadily pouring.

You dashed inside and made a beeline for the soft drink section. Ginger ale. Blessed ginger ale. Carrying your treasure to the register, you were dimly aware of the shattering thunder outside.

“Looks like a pretty bad storm,” the attendant said in the classically chipper retail voice. You offered her a tight smile and nodded. You were relieved once the card reader chirped and you could grab your drink and head back to your car.

“Drive safe!” she called. Raising the ginger ale in salute, you pushed through the door and back out into the pouring rain. You slid into your front seat and cracked open the soda. Small sips, you reminded yourself.

You put your key into the ignition and turned it, but your car let out a pitiful whine and then dropped off.

Fuck no.

You tried it again and your engine wheezed and then spluttered into a pathetic silence. This couldn’t be happening.

And that’s when the nausea hit full force. Your hand scrambled to grab the door handle and you stumbled out of the seat. You barely had time to step into the rain before you were bending over and throwing up the contents of your lunch.

Tears sprang to your eyes, an instinctive reaction to whenever you threw up, and stomach acid burned your throat and nose. A sob spilled out of your mouth followed by another round of vomit.

“Fucking hell,” you croaked out.

This had to be a low for anyone. Standing in the gas station parking lot in rain drenched clothes, strings of vomit dripping down your chin and nose, and crying like a toddler who just spilled their juice and a dead car battery.

You dragged yourself back into your car and crawled into the front seat. Grabbing your phone from the cup holder, you hesitated when thinking of who to call. Sarah was closest, but you couldn’t inconvenience her like that. Penny would have just opened the bar so she wouldn’t be able to come until she could make sure someone was covering for her. Usually, you would be the one covering for her.

Phoenix could help, but she had mentioned that she and Sofia had plans to see a movie tonight…

Your thumb hovered over two names in particular. You hesitated before tapping the first name in your texts. The phone rang for a while before it went to voicemail.

“You’ve reached Seresin! I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message or send me a text. And if you’re a telemarketer, don’t bother. Always a pleasure.”

You cursed under your breath and flinched when someone tapped on the window of your car. A man stood there, his hand poised to tap again. You offered him a tight smile and cracked open your car door.

“Car troubles?” he asked.

“Yep,” you laughed, a little too high pitched to be natural.

“I can help you with that.” There was something in his eyes that made you wary. It was the look every woman recognized in a man. Something predatory, as though he would be rewarded for his unneeded service.

“No thanks, my boyfriend is on his way,” you lied. You needed your next call to be answered or you were well and truly fucked. Maybe you could call Coyote?

Without waiting for his reply, you slammed your door shut and checked that it was locked to be sure. You pressed on the second name and held your phone up to your ear. It rang once, twice, three times.

“Please pick up,” you whispered. You could see the guy hanging around near your bumper. “Please.”

“Hey!” Rooster’s voice met your ear and you nearly sobbed in relief. “What’s up? You aren’t at the Hard Deck?”

“Bradley?” you whimpered. God, this was pathetic, but you really couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your mouth tasted horrible, bile stung your throat still, your clothes were soaked and cold against your skin, and you really just wanted to go home to your shitty apartment and curl up in bed.

His voice sharpened, the background noise fading away. “Hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I stopped for gas and my battery died,” you explained. “And, uh, a few other problems but that’s unimportant.”

You heard shuffling over the line and then Bradley said something to someone in the background before he came back to the phone. “Can you send me your location? We’re leaving right now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can text it to you,” you sniffled.

His voice softened at the sound of your tears. “Do you want me to stay on the line?”

You hesitated. You were already being a bother, you didn’t want to inconvenience him anymore. But you also felt so overwhelmed that having someone to talk to would be nice.

“If you can,” you said in a quiet voice.

“How ‘bout I put you on speaker, okay? That way Hangman can join in. You know how he gets when the attention isn’t on him.”

“Jake?” His name tinged your tongue with hope.

“Hey darlin’, sorry I missed your call. I didn’t hear the music over the noise at the bar. Rooster said you were having a little car trouble.” That damn Texan drawl filtered through the phone and you laid your forehead on the steering wheel, relief surging through you.

“Yeah,” you choked back a laugh. “Think I might have caught a stomach bug too.”

Both men grunted, a mixture of disgust and concern. You could hear the sounds of a car moving in the background and you knew they were coming. They would be there soon.

Your boys were coming because you called.

You didn’t have the energy to tamp down the rush of emotion that bubbled up in your chest. Instead, you focused on listening to them banter back and forth as they tried to get you to laugh. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes when Jake’s truck pulled up beside you. You ended the call and unlocked the door, but Bradley was already at your door and opening it for you before you could pull the handle.

“C’mon, Jake has some extra clothes you can change into. He’s on the phone with AAA to get a tow out here and take your car to a shop.” His warm hand enclosed around yours and he ushered you into the back seat of Jake’s cab. The blond shot you a smile from where he was seated in the front seat and Bradley took your key before he shut the door behind you and then went around to get your purse and other belongings out of your car.

Jake pointed at the gym bag parked on the floorboard of his backseat. You dug through it and found some basketball shorts and one of his t-shirts. Tugging your soaked shirt over your head, you quickly yanked on his shirt and then shimmied out of your jeans once the hem of his shirt fell across your thighs and pulled on the shorts. You knew he was trying hard not to look at the mirror, but it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.

Jake was a gentleman, however, and you appreciated that at this moment. Because you felt like shit.

Your stomach was beginning to settle, but now you were acutely aware of the empty feeling that remained thanks to losing all the sustenance that was in you. Vomiting always took a lot of energy out of you and now you were exhausted.

The door next to you opened and a rain-drenched Bradley greeted you with a bright grin and roving eyes. He wasn’t looking at you with the burning gaze he had at the wedding, but something more intimately caring and concerned.

“Do you want your ginger ale or do you want me to hold it?” he asked as he placed your purse down next to Jake’s gym bag.

“Can you hold it?” you asked. “I don’t think I need it right now but…”

He nodded and started to back away to go sit in the passenger seat, but you let out a soft sigh that made him pause. Jake must have noticed his hesitation because he jerked his chin towards the backseat and pulled his phone away from his ear.

“There’s more clothes in there, Bradshaw. You take care of her, I’ll worry about the car.”

Bradley climbed in next to you and you placed your forearm over your eyes as he began to strip. Jake chuckled, low and throaty in his chest, and you pulled your arm away so you could shoot him an annoyed look.

“It’s nothing we all haven’t seen before, angel,” he teased.

“Angel?” you questioned, a yawn taking over at the end of your question. He looked back at you, blue eyes soft and warm.

“Yeah, darlin’. How you feeling?”

“Better. Threw up twice in the parking lot. Some guy wanted to help me with the car but I didn’t like his vibes.” They both stiffened at your words, but you waved them off. “He’s gone now.”

Bradley settled back in the seat, clad in a pair of Jake’s sweats and another shirt that pulled across his chest in a delicious way. But you couldn’t focus on the way he looked right now. You just needed to lay down.

Without asking or prompting, you stretched out on your side and laid your head in his lap. Bradley’s hand settled against the back of your neck and he rubbed his thumb into your shoulders. You hummed at his touch and nuzzled your cheek against the soft fabric of the sweatpants.

“Thank you both for coming,” you murmured. “I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

“Nah, sweetheart,” Bradley assured you. “There’s no place we’d rather be.”

Your eyes were shut as you focused on keeping the lingering nausea at bay, so you missed the way the two men shared a look through the rearview mirror. Bradley nodded once and Jake looked away.

“Take a nap, sweetheart. I’ll wake you up when we get to your place.”

You curled up against him at the thought of returning to your empty, shithole of an apartment. The cold bed in the middle of the water-stained walls and sagging ceilings.

“Nah, she can stay at mine,” Jake said. It’s like he read your thoughts. You cracked your eyes open and looked at him in the mirror, finding that he was already watching you. “That okay?”

“That’s perfect.” You hesitated, figuring that your next request wouldn’t go over well. Jake saw the indecision flash across your face and he turned back to look at you.

“What?”

“I just…” You paused and then sighed. “Would it be alright if Bradley stayed too?”

Jake glanced at the brunet and then back at you. “Yeah, angel, that’s fine as long as he’s cool with it.”

Bradley’s thumb now traced circles against the back of your neck, warmth seeping into your skin and making you sleepy. “Yeah, angel, that works for me.”

Tag List: @mizzzpink​ @xoxabs88xox​ @dreaminglandsworld​ @khaylin27​ @loveforaugust​ @phoenixssugarbaby​ @atarmychick007​ @mak-32​ @itsmytimetoodream​

[wweassets]

Costume Contest anon here. Just in time for SummerSlam… It’s time for the Fantasy Summer Playgirl spread! HBK was able to re-connect with his contacts at Playgirl.com to organize a charity photoshoot, and he even personally invited a few AEW guys to participate. Let’s flip through the pages and check out the centerfolds…

BR*N BRE*KKER is at the Mat Gala after-party at night, climbing out the pool after skinny dipping. He’s flexing his triceps as he lifts himself up, with his wet muscular ass shining in the moonlight. He’s looking at the camera with intensity in his eyes, water dripping down his body and his silver necklace hanging from his neck. On the ground beside him is the black mesh bodysuit he peeled off earlier.

W*RDLOW is doing a tribute to his new brief-cut singlet. He’s standing under an outdoor shower at the beach and wearing just a wet black tank-top clinging to his upper body, with his huge ass cheeks sticking out underneath.

L*GAN PAUL is on the beach and walking out of the water wearing a black scuba suit. He’s unzipping it down to the base of his penis, with his round ass sticking out on both sides, even visible from the front-facing view.

M*TT R*DDLE is re-creating his photo with Reese Rideout in a pool in Vegas, except they are both fully nude this time. Riddle’s long erect penis is resting on top of the water, with his arm around Reese.

R*CKY STARKS is re-creating his photoshoot in the waterfall, except he’s taken his swimsuit off. He’s giving a sideways pose and walking through the water, with his fat ass resting on top of the shallow water.

C*RMELO H*YES is sitting in a white VIP cabana at a pool party, wearing nothing but a white floral button down shirt, unbuttoned. He’s holding a glass of champagne, with this huge erect dick pointed upwards and to the right across his muscular abs. A few feet away from him is TR*CK W*LLIAMS, fully nude and laying stomach-down on a lawn chair, raising a champagne glass to the camera and his huge ass sticking into the air.

S*TH ROLLINS is paying tribute to America’s favorite sport - baseball! He’s squatting over the catcher’s mound with his back to the camera, wearing nothing but a backwards retro WWF hat and a catcher’s glove. His muscular cheeks spread apart as he squats, showing his slightly hairy hole. He’s turning his head to the side to reveal a big smile as he laughs maniacally.

PR*TTY DE*DLY are naked mermen, perched up on a giant rock in the sea, with their tails forming right below their fat asses, and their long wet hair waving in the breeze.

LA KN*GHT is in the driveway of his home washing his red Ferrari. He’s wearing nothing but a white tank top, which he’s spraying with his hose making it wet and see-through, and making his erection pointed upwards visible through the shirt.

JD McD*NAUGH and S*M GRADWELL are re-creating their famous nude balcony pic, only they are fully nude and dripping wet, with their speedos draped over the glass railing. They’re both pointing their fat asses toward the camera, and grinning devilishly.

ANG*L G*ARZA is re-creating his waterfall shot in the pool, only this time, he’s fully nude. He’s facing the waterfall this time, with the water falling onto his fat ass and splashing everywhere.

MJF and AD*M C*OLE are on the beach - Max is nude laying stomach-down on the sand, as Adam has begun to build a small sandcastle on top of Max’s huge mountain ass cheeks. Adam is fully nude and oiled up, with his erection resting on this thigh. Both are laughing hysterically, enjoying their summer bromance.

C*DY RH*DES is just… KEN! He’s fully nude, standing still like a doll in the pink box, with his erection pressed up and laid across the plastic case.

Which 3 pin-up’s are you hanging on your wall?

OH SLAAAAAAAAY 🙏🙏🙏🙏thank you thank you thank you!!! you have delivered AGAIN wowowowoowow these are all SO fucking hot :///

ummm THIS WAS HARD AS ALWAYS BUT…

🥉

seth… he’s always gonna be in top, and the vision of him showing of his ass like that… yeah

🥈

cody… i’m just horny for ken and cody doing THAT? yup yup

🥇

angel… simple, so simple, but so effective… that fat ass just takes it

honourable mentions to pretty deadly and bron!

how about everyone else?

[lonelypond]

Idol Protection Program: Birthday Special Edition

NicoMaki, Love Live, 1.3K, 32/?

Birthday Special Edition

“Mom MOM MOM did you open your present!!!” Seven year old Ruby’s excited voice bounced around the hotel suite where Yazawa Nico, fresh out of a long, hot bath, was dressed in a fluffy pink robe, sitting up against pillows.

“No, Ruby, I’m just giving them to her now.” Maki rushed into the camera view, waving a rectangular package.

“Birthday presents are a breakfast activity, Mama.” No one could chide Maki like her firstborn, Dia.

“We were both traveling, bun. I didn’t want to meet Nico in the airport, then hand this over in the middle of hundreds of people.”

“Bzzzzt.” Maki’s excuse did not soothe Dia.

Nico was giggling like a fiend.

“Your Mama is taking care of Nico’s birthday just fine. And I listened to both your voice messages right away.” Nico leaned in close to the camera, puckering to land a kiss on the two parts of the screen where she could see her daughters. “Nico loves you both so much. We’ll be home soon.”

“Auntie Cocoro is taking us to see Boa tomorrow. It’s her 20th Anniversary live.” Dia flipped back to eager.

“That’ll be such a great show! Make sure you tell Nico everything.”

“We will, Mom!” Ruby’s bright eyes gleamed, “But open your present, c’mon, Momma.”

Nico chuckled, “Hand it over, Maki-chan. You know Nico can’t resist her babies.”

Ruby squealed and rocked.

Nico ripped the wrapping paper, revealing a photobook, with Dia and Ruby on the cover, microphones in one hand, plushies in the other, caught mid song, with hearts and candy and cutesy animals all over the backdrop.

“It’s our first album, Mom.” Dia pushed forward as Nico flipped through the pages in awe. Ruby and Dia had kitchen photoshoots and camping photoshoots and playing with piles of plushies photoshoots. They’d been busy while she’d had two weeks travelling. “We know you collect all your favorite K-pop albums and merch so we made you a Ruby and Dia…”

“It was Dia’s idea, Momma. She’s so smart. And Mama helped us with the pictures and the music.”

“Just a little,” Dia interrupted, prideful again. “Ruby and I already know a lot about what Idols sing. We listen to you. Then Ruby and Mama and I listened to some of the Muse songs and asked Aunt Umi for help.”

Nico read the tracklist: The Cutest Mom, Sweet Potato Camping, Happy Birthday, Pancakes and Pretty, and Stars and Good Night Stories.

Nico looked to Maki and mouthed, “You did this?”

Maki nodded.

Nico started tearing up.

“Mom, are you ok?” Ruby was always the first to respond to emotions gathering.

“Mama, what did you do??” Dia snapped.

“Your mother is fine. She just misses you two.” Maki flumped on the bed, “But for her birthday, I ordered her favorite dishes, we’re going to eat, and watch a movie. Why don’t you sing one of the songs for your mom. That’ll cheer her up.”

“Mama’s smart. How about Happy Birthday?” Dia turned to Ruby. Ruby shook her head, pulling Dia in as she whispered.

After a couple of minutes of consulting, Dia stared at the camera, “Are you ready?”

Nico nodded, “Nico is always ready for the cutest daughters in the universe to sing.”

“We’re going to do Pretty and Pancakes, since you should have birthday surprises with breakfast.” Another glare at Maki, who was very used to Dia and just snuggled closer to Nico, her arm dropping around the Super Idol’s shoulders.

“It’s all right, bun. I’ll make sure your mother’s happy with her day.”

Dia nodded, fierce gaze softening as she and Ruby got to their feet, turned in to each other, and began mimicking Nico pouring pancake batter into pans.

“This is amazing, Maki. Who did their choreography?”

“They did.”

Tears now running freely down her face, Nico cheered, “Nico has the cutest, talentedess daughters in the world, Nico Nico Ni.”

Now Dia and Ruby turned to the camera, flipping imaginary pancakes while singing about pretty strawberry pancakes for pretty strawberry eyes.

“Did you write that?” Nico whispered.

“Nope.”

“It’s giving Nico a breakfast craving.”

“We could order some…after.” Maki nipped at Nico’s ear.

“Mama!” Dia registered romantic moods growing between her parents faster than a thermometer registered a drop in temperature. “We are going to do Stars and Good Night Stories next. But we need to finish.”

Maki pulled back slightly from Nico, “We’re listening, bun.”

Ruby and Dia ended with a flourish and double Nico Nis.

Nico bounced up on her knees. “Nico loves it. Sing the chorus with me. Pancakes and pretty. I flip for strawberry sweet. Sweet and sunny, dipped in honey, bunny bunny, berry berry, bunny bunny, berry, berry, I flip for sweet and strawberry.” All three had their hands up, doing little bunny bops, as their voices blended.

Nico’s smile was the SuperNico Family Special Sparkler. Happiness glowed. “That’s adorable. Nico’s best birthday present ever.”

Nico ignored Maki’s pout.

“Nico will listen to the rest of the songs on the CD later. You girls had better rest up if Cocoro’s going to take you to the concert tomorrow.”

“Yes, Momma.”

“We’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“Make sure you get sleep.” Nico was going to make sure Cocoro knew that even though 9 year old Dia would insist she didn’t, she would need a nap before the concert.

“Yes, Mom.” Ruby waved.

Dia frowned. “I know that.”

Of course, Dia did. Nico was so frustrated sometimes by her eldest’s daughter independent streak, but Dia was Dia and exactly perfectly cute, even if she’d picked up prickliness from both parents. Ruby’s sweetness soothed it over, as long as Nico and Maki kept an eye on Dia’s domineering tendencies.

“Good night, Dia, Ruby.” Maki leaned forward, ready to flip down the laptop screen. “We…”

Nico joined in, “... love you. See you tomorrow.”

Nico rolled back into Maki, presenting the photobook, as Maki shoved the laptop off the bed, “Nico is so spoiled.”

“Nico is so loved.” Maki said firmly.

“You love spoiling Nico.”

Maki inhaled, her nose in Nico’s hair, “I love being near Nico. No more shows and travel for awhile, right?”

“No.” Nico slid her arms around Maki’s waist and squeezed, “Nico has to recharge.”

Maki was shifting, restless, not relaxing into Nico.

“What is it, Maki-chan? Is something wrong?”

“Want my birthday present?”

“Can’t it wait. Nico was about to unwrap some…thing else.”

“I think you’ll want to see it.” Maki slid another rectangular package out from under the pillows.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

Nico could see the blush on the tips of Maki’s ears, not quite as red as her hair. Now she was really really curious. A quick tear and Nico had another photobook in her hands, Maki, draped in cloth clinging to curves and not covering much else, winking at the camera, amethyst eyes smoldering, DARING!! In bold, red lettering below her, as if it were a couch.

“Who took this photo?” Nico felt a surge of protectiveness.

“Timer, silly.” Maki had a sly grin as she leaned across Nico, effectively pinning her to the bed, but her eyes stayed shy, not meeting Nico’s.

“Oh.”

“Happy Birthday, Nico-chan.” And then a familiar tune hummed and an unforgettable voice skipped to breathily sexily sing mid chorus…

Are you ready, are you ready? (Come here, challenger!) Are you ready, are you ready? (Hesitation's a no-no!!) Are you ready, are you ready? (Don't give up, how boring!) Are you ready, are you ready? (Hesitation's a no-no!!)

Nico had learned not to hesitate in these moments, Maki near and nervously bold. Room service could wait. What couldn’t was Nico’s all time favorite any day activity, kissing Maki silly.

[spectres-fulcrum]

I just read Thrawn and Eli's scene before the battle where Thrawn assigns the tie defenders to Eli because Dobbs trusts Eli and says he's certain Eli won't let him down. Tells Eli to ask about the project he's working on.

And I could be wrong but I have a sick feeling this is their last ever meeting before-before Ezra space whales Thrawn. And I can't

Can't turn off this chapter. Can't rip them apart. For 12 years. I can't do that to Thranto.

But I have to. Because even if I don't turn the page Zahn already did. Filoni already did. But we got the gorgeous 15 years of bonding. Their trust and support. Their loyalty.

And they'll meet again one day. And maybe, then, maybe their paths will once again stay joined.

[unwishablestars]

noted

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort // Fluff

Word Count: 1.8k

Tags: Confessions, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Comfort

TWs: none

Summary: You and Levi have a sweet confession through written and verbal words. One day, it left you wondering, what made Levi want to keep your notes.

A/N: I actually wanted to post this on Valentines day but my sleep deprived ass and short attention span got in the way😭. Anyways hope you like it :) hope it didn't turn out corny or anything😅.

You weren't scared of Levi's intimidation. His face was stoic and hard to read but you had already fallen for his compassion and kindness, your eyes weren't filled with fear when you looked at him. They were soft admiring looks, and that's exactly how Levi fell in love with you.

He enjoyed the presence you had brought to him, he felt calm around you. He'd ask you to help clean his room and ask you to make him tea and you'd gladly do so.

He couldn't stop thinking about how he could tell you, how he could tell you how much you mean to him, how much he loved you.

You wanted to tell him as much as he did; as Hange described it, it was like "Two idiots doing their best."

Sick of their teasing you decided to leave a little note on his table, asking him to meet you in the garden later that night.

He walked under the night sky, the clouds covering the moon's light, turning the corner to see you sitting on a bench beside the gate to the garden.

You waved and offered him a welcoming smile. He made his way to you, though he was outside, it felt like he was walking home.

You made space for him and patted the bench asking him to sit with you.

He showed you your note, asking "You wanted to talk?" He felt nervous for a moment.

He was alone with the person he cared and loved for most; but in the moment, he calmed, realizing that he was alone with you.

"I just wanted to confess to you." You felt just as nervous, "Confess.. what?"

You ripped off a piece from your notepad and handed it to him.

"I love you."

He looked at the paper in awe. "Levi," you caught his attention, "I love you."

He let out a soft chuckle, not because he found it hilarious but he was just so happy he couldn't hold it in anymore. A sense of comfort and relief washed over him.

"If you were going to confess verbally why did you have write it?" He asked with a content smile on his face.

You looked at the note in his hands and thought for a moment, in reality you were just nervous and started scribbling your feelings out but you thought of something better to say, something that expresses how much you cared for him.

"Well, if I'm not around or I'm busy or we had a fight, you can always have this to look back on.." you gave him a sincere smile

"Something to remind you that I'll always love you."

Pouring your heart out you look back at the once stoic caption showing a face of awe, and not long after, a giggle and smile.

You couldn't help but stare, how wonderful it was to see him smile, because of you nonetheless.

Trapped in your trance he took your notepad and pen out of your hand, inking his thoughts on the empty page.

"I love you too."

He handed you back the note, "You're wonderful.. I love you too."

You took the pad out of his hands and replaced it with your own, feeling the warmth of your palms contrast the cool wind of the night.

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

It's been about 2 months since you and Levi started dating. You held his note in your hand as you were organizing your desk covered in paperwork.

The sound of knocking on the door pulls you out of your thoughts as your lover walks with a tray in his hands and a soft look on his face.

"Finished?" He gestured his head to the freshly organized stack of paperwork on your desk

You let out a deep sigh "I wish, these have been piling up lately.." He put the tray down and pulled a chair closer to you.

"I'll help you finish, you take a bre--" He reached for the pen as you cut his suggestion off.

"No, take a break with me. I like that better." You moved his hand away from the pen and took a sip from your tea.

As he watched you drink your tea and nibble on the snacks he'd brought for you, he noticed a piece of paper next to the stack of paperwork you were working on prior.

"What's that?" You unfolded the small piece of paper and handed it to your lover.

I love you too.

"I just didn't have the heart to throw it away." A faint blush accompanied the smile on your face. That small piece of paper, those 4 words, brought you so much happiness.

Just as much as the man sitting next to you now.

Well, almost, nothing can beat the real thing, his soft kisses, his longing looks. All of it couldn't be beat.

He moves his hand to the small pocket on his jacket and takes out a similar piece of paper.

Showing you that he also kept a souvenir from that night.

"I couldn't part with it either." A content smile was formed with his lips, those lips.. kiss him..

You leaned in close and pecked the corner of his lips as he chuckled at your sweetness.

He closed his eyes as he kissed you back, enjoying the sensation of your soft lips on his.

He bit your bottom lip, asking for permission, as he slid his hand up your arm, moving to to your neck, and now cupping your face. The kiss getting more passionate as you felt his tongue on yours.

He held your other hand as you gripped his arm, holding your face so softly. You let yourselves enjoy the silence, nothing but the sound of sweet breaths, and quiet gasps as his kisses got intense.

I love you.. I love you too..

You moved your hand to his chest, hovering towards the buttons on his shirt, until. Knock Knock Knock

The knocking on the door had brought both out of your state of desire. "Tch.. shit.." He scoffed under his breath as you chuckled at expressions.

"Name and Business?" A voiced on the other side of the door answered your question, "Cadet Kirstein. Sorry Captain, I know your on your break but Commander Erwin insisted on getting these signed."

You gave a soft sigh as you pecked your boyfriend's cheek before walking to the door. "Alright, Cadet, give it here." He watched you walk away, already missing you.

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

Days, weeks and months go by as you and Levi started leaving notes for each other. "Eat well, alright?" or "Take a break.. come see me♡"

Levi wasn't the type hoard items and clutter his room. But your little notes were just too sweet to throw away; so he kept them in a small box in his bottom most drawer.

You were just guilty as he was, you kept his notes compiled with a paperclip, though you realized you'd need to buy a bigger clip as the pile kept getting bigger day by day.

You both wondered how weird this felt. Feeling so much love through a few writings on a piece of paper. You two felt like little kids passing notes to their crushes.

Now, cuddling on your shared bed, his nose buried in your hair and arm over your waist. Letting yourself smile over the memories of your relationship.

"Levi?" "Mm.." "Why don't you throw away the notes I gave you?" "Don't want to." He gave a a quick response, yet you continued search for an answer.

"Doesn't it clutter your drawer?" "No, why want me to get rid of them?" "No! Its just I thought the mess was bothering you, so I was wondering why you still kept them."

He gave it a moment of thought, looking for the words that could tell you how much those notes mean to him, but most importantly; how much you mean to him.

"I don't know.. those notes just.. mean a lot to me.." Sensing he had more to say, you turned to face him, completely flipping over to see his lightly flushed face get redder.

"Before you.. I didn't have someone to tell me to eat well or get some rest. I felt alone, I was always alone with my thoughts and I couldn't clear my head. I was worried, stressed, I had nothing to lean back on.. and I wouldn't accept it if I did have something to lean on. At least, back then."

"I just couldn't understand my feelings when I met you.. I wanted you.. to be by my side. Through all this hell, all that pain. I found my feelings foolish.

'What difference would it make if I let them in..' But I realized I just couldn't accept having someone as wonderful as you.. I would never forgive myself if I had lost someone as loving as you.

All of this, all of you, everything is so new to me.. I can't express how thankful I am of your patience."

"That's when I realized; maybe it's alright to be foolish."

Despite he was the one spilling his heart out to you, you felt a tear fall from your eye. It's as if you were mesmerized. Your heart felt full, air caught in your throat.

You knew Levi loved you. You knew you meant a lot to him, but hearing it all come out of him at once, the strings of your heart were pulled. I love you too.

He finally realized how long he'd been spilling his heart out. His eyes widened as he saw a tear drag across your cheek. He tried to apologize, as the palm of your hand caressed his face.

"Love, you have nothing to apologize for. The world should be apologizing to you. You've been thrown around, treated unfairly, in a world of fear and loss. From the moment of birth you didn't deserve any of that.

Levi, I love you, and I'll be damned if I leave you in a world like this. You deserve a break, more than that, actually. I'll leave notes for you when I'm busy, I'll kiss you when I'm here.. I'll love you wherever."

Tears flow from both of you. You wanted to wonder how a simple question resulted to tears but you just couldn't stop yourself from sharing.

"You have no idea how happy it makes me.. knowing that I can help you, how happy it makes me to know I can make you happy.

"I know we won't be happy all the time. I know we'll go through scares and troubles but I really do love you, so much, even when we're fighting."

"I hope it can be enough for you."

He wiped the tears off your face and then his own. Your forheads close the already small gap, he whispered clearly to you before taking your lips in a tender kiss.

"More than enough. Thank you."

[c-e-d-dreamer]

More demon!Nesta please I am begging 🧎🏽‍♀️🧎🏽‍♀️

Thank y'all so much! I'm glad everyone has been enjoying Demon Nesta :) And I hope y'all enjoy this installment. It has fluff! It has angst! It's over 4,000 words which is CRAZINESS! But shout-out to @talkfantasytome for the idea for Cassian's deal. Also, I tried to pull from Greek mythology in terms of the Underworld and souls but uh... yeah... just go with it! TW for mentions of death and intense Underworld things

Part One // Part Two

Cassian doesn’t like to admit it, but the weather can play a pretty big role in his moods. He considers himself a pretty carefree person through and through, but there’s something about it. Something about waking up to the sun slipping between the cracks of his curtains, painting soft golden spotlights across his floor and sheets. Something about crisp blue overhead and a gentle breeze filling his lungs. It has an uncanny way of flooding his veins and burrowing deep in his bones in the best way.

But for the first time in a long time, Cassian finds himself wishing for darker weather. Wishing for heavy grey clouds to fill the sky, to engulf and blot out the sun, the moon. Sadly, his wishes go unanswered, and Cassian awakes to just a few white wisps streaked across blue. He barely holds in a groan at the back of his throat as he lets his head drop back down against his pillow. He lets himself count to five, let’s his brain focus on each breath as it pulls at his chest and settles in his lungs, before finally pulling himself up.

When he gets down the stairs, Nesta is already up and sitting at his kitchen table, a steaming mug in front of her and an open book perched in one hand. Cassian can’t help but notice the air mattress that’s already deflated, blankets neatly stacked atop it. The sight has Cassian swallowing hard.

“I couldn’t touch them,” Nesta says, not bothering to look up from her page. “But I can feel the power. They’re definitely charged.”

Cassian turns his attention to the crystals sitting on the sill by the open window. He carefully gathers them up, placing them back in the box the shop woman had originally packed them in.

“What are you doing? We need those for the banishment.”

“We can do it tonight,” Cassian explains simply. “I vote that we spend the day doing something fun.”

Nesta slowly closes her book, pinning Cassian with an unimpressed look, nose scrunched and eyes narrowed. Cassian refuses to let the look get under his skin the way he knows she hopes. Instead, he just smiles.

~ * * * ~

“This is your idea of fun?”

Cassian chuckles as he throws his truck into park, turning to where Nesta has her arms crossed in the passenger seat.

“Well, I don’t want to look like a crazy person talking to myself, so that sort of limited my options.”

Before Nesta can protest more, Cassian throws open his door. He hops down and walks around to the passenger side, opening Nesta’s door for her. Nesta slides out of the truck, her feet crunching against the gravel of the parking area. He leans in to grab the backpack from the backseat, tossing it over his shoulder. When he turns back to Nesta, her arms are still crossed and that ever present scowl is pinched across her face.

"That doesn't look like the face of someone who is about to have fun," Cassian teases.

"Has anyone ever told you you're annoying?"

"Multiple times actually."

"And you don't think that warrants a personality change?" Nesta quips.

"You and I both know you wouldn't have me any other way, sweetheart."

And with that, Cassian turns on his heel, making his way toward the trail head. Luckily, Nesta doesn't make any further comments, nor does she dispute his claim, as Cassian hears her soft footsteps fall in behind him.

The start of the hike is a bit steep, so Cassian has Nesta walk in front of him along the narrow path to avoid her slipping. They weave their way up and up, the main road and its cars getting smaller and smaller until they eventually disappear behind the sea of bark. The breeze shakes the branches above their heads, raining down leaves that crunch under their feet.

At a particularly tricky section of the trail, Nesta grips Cassian's hand in her own. He helps hold her steady as she navigates the small rocks pressed into the dirt to create a semblance of stairs. Despite her being a demon and the cool Autumn air, her hands are surprisingly warm, and when the trails evens back out and she releases her grip, Cassian misses that heat instantly.

The path finally branches off to a series of flat rocks, creating a type of overhang, and as they step out of the cover of trees, the full sight takes shape. Canopies of reds and yellows stretch out below them, leaves twisting and swaying in the fall breeze. The Sidra River cuts a path to their left, blue waters glistening and tiny shops and homes dotted along its banks. The sky is mostly blue, but the white clouds that do marr its surface create streaks of light like the Cauldron itself shining down.

Cassian finds himself entranced as he watches Nesta take in the view. The way her whole face softens and her lips part slightly in awe. Her eyes dancing across the landscape before fluttering closed, dark lashes splaying across the apples of her cheeks. Her chest heaving as she takes in a deep breath.

"It's beautiful," Nesta comments.

"Yeah," Cassian whispers, never taking his eyes off her.

It takes a moment, but Cassian shakes himself out of it. He steps forward to join Nesta, sliding the backpack off his shoulders before settling with his feet dangling over the edge of the rock. Nesta settles beside him, as Cassian digs through the bag, pulling out the two sandwiches he had packed and handing one to Nesta.

“It’s so… quiet,” Nesta notes as she unwraps her sandwich.

“The peacefulness is why I like to come out here,” Cassian says, turning his head to face Nesta. “Oh. Um… you have a little…”

Nesta’s eyebrows dip in confusion, and Cassian gestures to his own face in an attempt to better explain what he means. Nesta just continues to blink at him. After another moment passes, Cassian decides to say ‘fuck it.’ After all, this could very well be their last day together. He reaches his hand up between them, his thumb rubbing gently against the corner of Nesta’s lip. Nesta’s eyes catch on his at the brush of his skin against hers, and Cassian isn’t sure if either of them is breathing. Her skin is soft and tantalizing, and Cassian can feel himself subconsciously leaning in closer before he catches himself, pulling back and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Nesta assures him. “Should we head back?”

Cassian can feel the word ‘no’ weigh heavily against the tip of his tongue, desperate to escape, so he swallows it down and simply nods. He offers Nesta his hand, but she doesn’t take it, pulling herself to her feet. She takes one last look at the view, something Cassian almost thinks is longing gracing her face, and then heads back for the path. As they make their way down the trail, Cassian finds himself desperate for miles, for the woods around them to stretch for miles and miles and swallow them whole. Instead, his truck comes into view.

~ * * * ~

The sun is just beginning to set when they pull into Cassian’s apartment complex, purple clouds bleeding into deep blue as the first stars begin to twinkle to life. The ride up the elevator is silent, and it takes all of Cassian’s willpower to quiet the incessant buzzing of thoughts ricocheting around his head as he gathers the crystals and sage. Nesta produces a piece of black chalk from somewhere, holding it out for Cassian.

Cassian takes a deep breath before reaching forward and taking the piece of chalk out of Nesta’s outstretched hand. He bends down and begins drawing the circle along the floor. Once the circle is complete, he pauses, fingers gripping the piece of chalk tighter. Before he can talk himself out of it, he draws the line of the pentagram.

“I don’t think we need a pentagram. The lady at the shop just said a circle,” Nesta points out.

Cassian ignores her, hopping to his feet and collecting candles, lighting and setting them around the pentagram.

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be using the crystals, not candles.”

Cassian digs his phone out of his pocket, finding his message chain with Rhys, the photo of the page he had pleaded with him to find in his library. He can feel Nesta’s eyes on him, but he reads the words in the photo.

A deep rumble seems to shake the whole apartment, the pressure in the air dropping as dark tendrils skate along the floor in swirling clouds. Barely another moment passes before a man is standing in the center of the pentagram, power pulsing out of him in heavy waves. His dark eyes pin Cassian in place like a predator sizing up its prey. A slow smile pulls across his face, all sharp edges and too white teeth.

“You humans always do have a death wish,” the demon sneers, looking at Cassian down his nose in disgust.

Cassian resets the stance of his feet, squaring his shoulders as he stares the demon down. “I want to make a deal.”

“Do you?”

“For Nesta’s soul.”

The demon’s eyes snap to where Nesta is standing, watching the whole exchange with wide eyes, before settling back on Cassian. Something like realization seems to crash across his features, and then he laughs. It’s mocking and wrong and it grates against every nerve ending in Cassian’s body.

“A soul has a high price, boy,” the demon bites out. “Are you sure it's worth it?”

“Yes,” Cassian replies without hesitation, earning a head tilt from the demon in response.

“Interesting…” the demon comments before a slow smirk tugs up one side of his lips. “Alright. You can have her soul… if you can find it.”

With a wave of the demon’s hand, a door appears suddenly against the wall of Cassian’s living room, the wood a dark oak with wrought iron nailed into lines across the planks. The hinges creak open, and the darkness awaiting on the other side has the air stuttering to a stop in Cassian’s lungs. A cold breeze blows out the door, leaving goosebumps breaking out along his skin, and he swears there’s a heartbeat coming out of the unnatural darkness. Or maybe that’s his own heartbeat pounding through his ears.

At some point during the process of the door appearing and opening, Nesta has drifted to Cassian’s side. He reaches over to take her hand in his, palms sliding together and fingers tangling in a tight grip. He takes a final deep breath, trying to calm the budding panic settling in his stomach and threatening to claw its way up his throat, then steps through the threshold. The door closes behind them with a resounding boom, and all that’s left is the darkness.

“You know, I knew you were an idiot when you accidentally summoned me, but this is taking it to a whole other level,” Nesta snaps at him, tearing her hand free from his.

Cassian turns toward her voice, blinking a few times to get his eyes to adjust. “Are you kidding me?”

“I should be asking you that! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about you,” Cassian practically yells. “I can’t lose you.”

“And I’m supposed to be okay with losing you? This is a suicide mission. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“It’s worth the risk.”

“No, I’m not,” Nesta protests, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Cassian steps forward, finding his way toward Nesta through the shadows enveloping them. He reaches his hands up between them, framing her face and sliding his thumbs against her cheekbones. They may not get another moment. Nesta may be right and this may be a suicide mission, a fool's dream. So Cassian finally gives in. He gives in to that feeling that's been bubbling and flourishing deep inside him since he first saw her standing in the middle of his living room. That feeling that took root in his chest and spread like vines through his veins until every part of him thrummed for her. He finally leans down and presses his lips against Nesta's, relishing in the softness of them, in the soft sigh that skates across his skin as she melts into him.

A screeching cry breaks the darkness, causing them to break apart. Cassian snaps his head in the direction of the sound, squinting through the shadows. He’s not sure why, but he half expects some winged creature to come tearing toward them, but the stillness remains.

“Welcome to hell,” Nesta mutters. “Literally.”

Nesta grabs his hand and begins walking. He wonders if her demon eyes help her see down here as he blindly follows her. But luckily, as they walk, shapes start to take form. They’re in some sort of tunnel, jagged obsidian rock framing them on both sides and above their heads. Some sort of dark liquid drips down along the rock, and Cassian shudders to think what it could be. Their steps begin to echo around them, the ceiling of rock starting to stretch higher and higher.

The darkness finally begins to bleed into a pale light, and Cassian is finally able to take in more around them. Particularly, the forms walking past them along the walls. They’re ghostly devoid of any color, clothes ragged and barely hanging on to their lithe limbs. Their steps don’t make a sound, and their gaunt faces stare straight ahead with a hollow expression.

“Don’t look at them,” Nesta snaps, keeping her voice low.

“Are they dangerous?”

“If they feel threatened.”

Cassian glances back to the forms. One of them lifts their head slowly, vacant eyes meeting his. Cassian quickly snaps his eyes back forward, just in time to see the tunnel empty out into a large room. Despite there being no sunlight, a large elm tree stretches its branches wide and high to their right, its leaves an ominous deep red. A tall double door made out of that same dark stone stands a few feet ahead, intricate drawings carved into it. It seems to follow some sort of story, the way the carvings weave together. In front of the doors, evenly lining either side, are statues. Cassian swears their stone faces watch him.

Before they make it to the door, the statues snap to life, and suddenly, Cassian finds Nesta’s hand torn away from his own and three female figures crowding into his space. They each are wearing a pale flowing dress, but Cassian doesn’t miss the emptiness to their eyes. Those eyes bore in him, burrowing under his skin like claws, as they circle around him like prey.

“Who do you think you are?” one of them bites out, dragging a nail across his shoulder and down his arm.

“What is it you think you’re doing?” another snaps, digging nails into his forearm in an iron grip.

“Just let us pass,” Cassian pushes out through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure it’s worth it?”

“Are you sure she wants it?”

“Are you sure she wants you?”

“Why would she want a bastard like you?”

“What do you have to offer her anyways?”

“As soon as you free her soul, she’ll find someone better, someone worthy.”

Cassian squeezes his eyes shut, focusing his mind on drowning out their lilting voices dripping with cruelty. He thinks instead about Nesta. As the women continue to hiss in his ears, he thinks of Nesta’s soft smiles, the ones she rarely shares but he knows are just for him. As the women’s nails scrape against his skin and through his hair, he thinks of Nesta’s soft golden waves and the way they fall against her shoulders and back when she wears her hair down. He reaches out blindly for Nesta’s hand to ground him but comes up empty. It makes his eyes snap back open.

Over one of the women’s shoulders, Cassian finds Nesta. She’s standing stark still, a man Cassian doesn’t recognize, who doesn’t look like one of the statues from before, standing before her. The sneer painted across the man’s face and the way his eyes seem to be cutting into Nesta is enough to have Cassian using all his strength to get away from the women. He tears his arm free, pointedly ignoring the pain at the action, shouldering past the other woman blocking his path.

It only takes a few seconds to get to her, and he’s putting himself between this man and Nesta. He’s not quite sure what the man is, but the way his skin seems to bubble and shimmer has Cassian thinking he must be some sort of shapeshifter. The sneer falls from the shapeshifter’s face and his head tilts eerily as he takes Cassian in with dark eyes. Even though those eyes never leave Cassian’s face, he can feel them dig into his bones, sinking into his soul and the secrets it bears. Slowly, the shapeshifter begins to stretch and change, an all too familiar set of dark curls appearing, but the face is less familiar, even as the cruel lines of the smile strike a chord deep in Cassian’s chest.

“Let us pass,” Cassian says again, keeping his voice steady as he reaches back for Nesta’s hand.

The shapeshifter doesn’t say anything, so Cassian decides to take a tentative step forward. When nothing happens, he takes another. The shapeshifter’s eyes follow them, and Cassian can still feel the eyes of the three women crawling over his skin, their hisses of doubt still trying to worm their way into his mind. But Nesta’s hand is a solid weight in his hand, so he presses on, past the other guards, and pushes through the door.

The other side of the door is more darkness, but globes that flicker a sickly yellow at least line the walls. In the distance, Cassian swears he can hear running water.

“Who was it?” Nesta whispers as they walk. “Who did Fear show you?”

Cassian swallows around the lump trying to solidify in his throat, tightening his grip on Nesta’s hand. “My father.” When Nesta doesn’t say anything more, Cassian decides to give in to the question on his mind. “Was the man you—Feyre mentioned there was a guy that—”

“Yes.”

Before Cassian can say anything more, they come up on a river of some kind. It’s wide, but even in the dim lighting, he can see the other side. From the shore they’re standing on, it doesn’t look too deep, but the current is slow enough that Cassian is sure that even if it's not, they should be able to make it to the other side with little issue.

“Cassian, stop!” Nesta’s panicked voice breaks through the quiet, her hand tugging hard against his. “Just one foot in and they’ll pull you under.”

“What will?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“What do we do then?”

“Wait.”

Cassian turns to Nesta fully then, his brow furrowed in confusion and tongue heavy with further questions, but Nesta’s gaze is pinned down the river to their left. A small yellow orb breaks through the shadows. It bobs and grows, and soon Cassian realizes it’s coming from a lantern attached to a wooden boat. At the other end of the boat stands a man, or at least Cassian thinks it’s a man. A long, ragged black robe hangs from his body, and the hood hides the top half of his face, only long pale fingers that grip the oar truly visible. The boat comes to a stop in front of them, and the man holds out a hand expectantly.

“You have to pay with a memory,” Nesta explains. “Something important, that means a lot to you.”

Cassian watches as Nesta extends her hand, the way she closes her eyes and shudders when it meets with the man’s. After a moment, the man’s hand shifts toward Cassian, and Cassian slowly raises his own, clasping to fingers around that pale palm. Cassian’s eyes slide closed, and suddenly he’s ten years old. Twinkling red and green lights flicker in his eyes, and the laughs of Rhys and Azriel in the other room echoes in his ears. He can just make out the fresh pine scent of a recently cut down tree and the smokey smell of a crackling fire, but it’s the soft perfume that fills his senses. Delicate hands guide his own as he presses a cookie cutter into the dough. Before Cassian can focus on anything more, the scene falls away to blackness, and when he blinks open his eyes, he can’t even remember what he had been thinking about.

Satisfied with their payment, the man steps back to take up post at the back of the boat. Nesta steps in first and Cassian follows behind her. Once they’re both settled, the man pushes off the shore with the oar. As they make their way down the river, Cassian can’t help but lean over and look into the dark waters below. Gaunt faces with empty eyes stare back at him, their mouths agape and frail limbs reaching up through the dark waters. Suddenly, Cassian understands why Nesta said not to step in the water.

The water begins to pick up around them, burbling and rising around them in swirling waves. They lap up against the side of the boat, and Cassian grips the wooden seat beneath him to stay steady against the rocking. A dip in the river sends the boat careening slightly forward, the sound of the waves growing louder and louder, echoing in Cassian’s ears and bouncing around his head. He can’t see ahead, but he’s sure there must be some sort of rapids. Considering the jagged rock of this whole place, he’s not sure how that will end, and he can’t help but swallow hard against the fear bubbling in his throat.

“Hold your breath,” Nesta’s voice draws his attention suddenly.

“What?”

“Hold your breath, and don’t stop. Even when it hurts. Even when that little voice tells you not to.”

Before Cassian can even ask what she means, the boat jerks suddenly, and then there’s water pressing in all around him. He opens his eyes, but in the dark waters, he can’t tell which way is up. He pushes his arms and tries to swim anyways, hoping his instincts are right and he’ll find the surface. After a few moments, a burning feeling begins to spread in his chest, squeezing his lungs, begging for air. Cassian tries to swim harder, willing his arms to push through it as he fights to find the surface, but he stops short when a familiar voice caresses its way into his mind. It’s a voice of lullabies, of quiet bedtime stories about princes and warriors.

“Let go, Cassian,” the voice whispers. “Let go and breathe in.”

Cassian thinks back to Nesta’s words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his lips firmly together as he ignores the voice.

“I said let go,” the voice hisses, no longer soft and motherly.

Cassian wills his mind to stay blank, to keep the air tight inside his lungs, even as the voice gives way to a ringing in his ears, even as red begins to pop behind his eyelids. He clenches his fists to ground himself, and he holds his breath.

When Cassian’s eyes snap open, he gasps for air, instantly coughing as dust and dirt fill his mouth. He rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he swallows down gulps of oxygen. As his lungs finally start to settle, he takes in his surroundings. He seems to have ended up in another tunnel of shadows and jagged rock. He pushes to his feet, and it’s then that he realizes he’s alone. He spins quickly in his place, eyes searching desperately for a familiar figure.

“Nesta?” Cassian rasps, his throat still aching from before. He clears his throat. “Nesta!”

Cassian strains his ears, but only silence answers him. A stone settles hard and heavy in his stomach, his heart clenching in his chest before kicking up to beat double time. He can already feel the bile threatening to climb up his throat, as he forces his feet to move further down the tunnel.

“Nesta!” Cassian calls again, hearing the thick worry that coats his own tone. He doesn’t care, not as his blood pounds in his ears, as his whole body starts to shake. How could they have failed? How could they have come this far, but not far enough? Cassian presses his palms hard against his eyes, tries to stave off the panicked water beginning to build there. How could he be so stupid? He tries to take a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves, but all it does is stutter through his lungs.

“Nesta, fuck, where are you?” he mutters.

Cassian is about to try calling her name again when he notices a light. Before he can even think, he’s running in that direction. The tunnel gives way to a meadow, and Cassian has to cover his eyes and blink a few times against the brightness. A warm, summer breeze dances across his cheek, leaving the tall blades of grass and soft flowers dotting through the green swaying like a gentle tide. And there, in the center, is a figure, a soft blue dress adorning her frame and golden brown waves flowing down her back.

Slowly, Cassian steps through the meadow toward her. He prays to whatever gods that may be listening that it isn’t a trick, that he isn’t dreaming.

“Nesta,” Cassian whispers, reaching out for her arm.

She turns, and this time there’s smokey blue eyes staring back into his own.

[goldenlaurelleaveswrites]

Back to September

4. Jukebox

Based on this prompt list

AO3

__________________________________________

“So, what do you think?” Rose asked brightly. Cheerily. Innocently. 

Too innocently. 

Heat crawled its way up and across her face, spreading to her ears and down the back of her neck. She sank a little lower in her seat as Rose beamed at her with a triumphant and calculated look in her eyes. 

“Well, musically speaking, it’s a little all over the place-“

“It’s a jukebox musical, Luka!” 

“And the plot…” She tried desperately not to look at him. The last thing she wanted Luka to see was her burning face. And she didn’t know if she could face him. Not after seeing the way his eyebrows had risen so far, they had disappeared under the hair that was always falling into his face as he had read the script Rose had proudly presented to them. 

The script that had him playing the male lead. 

The script that had her playing his love interest. 

“…it’s a little all over the place. I mean, here you have us on a pirate ship, but then four scenes later, I’m suddenly a knight?”

Rose sighed dramatically, pinching her nose with her fingers before waving a page of the script at them. “It’s a creative vision, Luka! See, your character is so in love with Marinette’s character that…” 

As Rose went on a tirade about her creative vision for the musical, Luka leaned in close to her. Her breath hitched in her throat. His breath tickled her ear, and suddenly her heard was racing, pounding in her chest. “So how many bad romance novels and eighties music videos do you think she consumed for inspiration for this?” he asked with a whispered chuckle. 

She had to bite back a laugh. The last thing she wanted to do was earn Rose’s ire. Juleka shot her a knowing look and raised eyebrow from across the table but didn’t say anything. For her part, Rose didn’t seem to notice. She was still passionately explaining her creative vision for ‘the most romantic story ever told in the history of jukebox musicals.’ 

Which, if Rose’s earlier smirk had been any indication, was also a scheme. A scheme so thinly veiled it may as well have been transparent. 

“See?” 

She jumped at Rose’s sudden and very pointed comment. When she looked up, Rose was towering over her, having risen to her feet at some point during her impassioned monologue. And she was smirking produly down at her. 

“Oh... Umm... Yeah!” she stammered. “I just… I guess I just don’t really understand the casting…?” Rose hadn’t put her in the female lead role. The members of Kitty Section were playing the lead roles. Obviously. But she still had a big part. 

A big romantic part.

That would require her to sing love ballads with Luka and dance with Luka and kiss-

She blanched as Rose’s grin turned downright wicked. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Juleka, who had a very similar, albeit far more subtle grin on her face. Even Ivan was smirking. As much as Ivan ever smirked. 

“Because you’re perfect for this role, Marinette!” Rose said sweetly, batting her eyelashes, daring her to protest. 

She didn’t want to protest. But she also did! Because she was hopelessly and helplessly and utterly and irrevocably in love with Luka, but there was no way he-

“Hey.” She froze as the weight of a hand—a very familiar, calloused hand—settled on hers. Had the squeak been her? He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as he spoke to her in a low, soft voice that made her heart shiver. “It’s ok; you don’t have to be in it if you don’t want to. You don’t even have to do that costumes if you don’t want to; I know the script calls for a lot.” She could hear Rose starting to protest, but suddenly her blonde, spritely, meddling friend’s voice was turning to white noise. Like the world was dropping away from her. Entranced, she turned her head to look at him. His smile was gentle, and his eyes were burning with reassurance and- “But I hope you’ll do it. The costumes and the role. I know you would be great.” 

He was staring at her. So intensely. So gently. So…

Wordlessly, breathlessly, she nodded. 

“I-I’ll do it.” 

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Protector

Prompt: if prompts are still open: virgil as an adventurer who keeps accidentally befriending the monsters he’s supposed to be fighting (aka the other sides)? have a wonderful day! (and don’t feel any pressure to do this at all, and if your inbox is meant to be closed absolutely delete this ask)

Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: sympathetic remus & deceit, some ptsd flashbacks but nothing super explicit

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic but Virgil’s definitely got some gay panic in there

Word Count: 8153

 Virgil’s got a simple code when he’s not on a hunt. Don’t hurt whatever you don’t absolutely have to, and odds are, it won’t hurt you. Now and then there’s a bit of an, um, incident where that doesn’t quite work out as well as they’d hoped, but by and large they get by.

Or: 5 times Virgil helps a monster he was supposed to kill, and 1 time the monsters help him

He sighs as he walks outside, grabbing the pair of gloves from the rickety tray and tugging them over his weathered hands. The front garden isn’t nearly as overgrown as it was when he found this little cabin in the middle of nowhere, but it’s got a long way to go before he can walk through without tripping over at least one overgrown bramble.

 There’s a very persistent mint plant that’s slowly and surely trying to choke the flowers. Virgil bends down and starts to toil in the dirt.

 “Come on,” he mutters, because he’s allowed to talk to plants when no one else is listening, “let’s stop doing that, you don’t have to be literally everywhere…”

 The mint doesn’t protest verbally, because it’s a plant and plants can’t talk, but Virgil would swear it tries to hold onto the dirt as he pulls it up, holding his hand under the roots to catch the dirt.

 “Alright, come on out, then, let’s just…put you in here.”

 There’s a plot of dirt in a crate resting at his knee. He pats the soil. Fresh enough. The mint plant looks almost contrite as he tucks it into the corner.

 “Next time I go see the townspeople I’m sure you’ll make some tea-shop owner very happy.”

 The rest of the garden goes similarly. By the end, he’s filled the crate almost halfway when his hand catches something sharp.

  The blade gleams as it flashes through the air. The child screams. His eyes widen—

 “No,” he grits out, flattening his hands into the dirt, “no, it’s…it’s okay. We’re okay. It’s…hhhh.”

 As he exhales, his shoulders slump, head bowing almost to his chest. The sounds of blades swinging through the air fade as the breeze rustles the leaves surrounding the cabin. The faint smell of mint cleanses his nose of blood.

 Virgil opens his eyes and carefully moves his hand away from the rose.

 “When’d you get here,” he mutters, carefully lifting the leaves to examine the stem, “don’t remember seeing you.”

 The thorns snag on the little pieces of dirt hanging from his gloves. He glances around. There aren’t any other roses nearby, not that he can see. And it’s probably not very good for it to be growing in the middle of this choked soil patch.

 He stands and makes his way back for the sharper trowel.

 Something hisses.

 His grip on the trowel doesn’t waver but he turns his head casually to glance over his shoulder.

 Something crouches in the garden, just barely visible over the crate. A tuft of hair, not dark enough to be a bear cub, not light enough to be a squirrel. His arm relaxes against his side, trowel snug against his thigh.

 “Hello,” he calls, watching closely, “is someone there?”

 He blinks in surprise when a cat pokes its head over the crate.

 “Uh, hey, there,” he manages, “uh…what’re you doing all the way out here?”

 In response, the cat leaps elegantly over the crate. It’s a slim thing, but not underweight. Its fur is bluish-gray, almost like a stormcloud. As Virgil watches, the cat sneezes and its fur turns a dappled brown.

 Virgil sighs. “So you’re the mischievous sprite I’ve been told to get rid of.”

 The neighboring village has tried several times to make him seek and destroy the sprite’s nest. Apparently, it’s been causing all sorts of problems. Books going missing, glasses breaking in the middle of the night, jars of preserves broken into. Now, that’s not really what Virgil calls a punishable offense, but the villagers were insistent that he find it and fight it. He’s done one of those things.

 Well, technically, the sprite found him.

 “There’s not much here that would interest you,” Virgil says, gesturing at the unkempt garden, “but if you want to tell me what you do want, then—hey!”

 The sprite, of course, doesn’t wait for him to actually finish inviting it inside. Instead, the door creaks as the cat darts between his legs and vanishes.

 “Be careful,” he warns, “there are sharp things.”

 He pushes open the door to see the cat perched on a precariously high shelf, sniffing at the books. He sighs.

 “I can get those down if you want, it might be easier than doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing now.”

 The cat ignores him, pawing at the thick leather cover. He sighs and pulls off his gloves.

 “Alright, just—wait a damn minute.”

 Virgil grunts as he lifts the book of the shelf and carries it over to the table, opening it and waiting. The cat jumps up onto the table and sniffs at the pages. Its tongue laps at a word.

 “You want more about that? Okay, let’s just—“

 Yes, Virgil is talking to this sprite. He’s allowed to do that in his own home.

 He turns the pages until the cat chirps.

 “This? This what you want?”

 The sprite stares at the page. It goes unnaturally still.

 The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stand up.

 Then it breaks; the cat shakes itself off and jumps down.

 “That’s it? You done now?”

 The cat’s tail twitches gracefully as it struts back to the door. Virgil rolls his eyes and follows it out.

 “Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” he mutters as he closes the door.

 Something rough touches his hand. He looks down. The sprite looks back up at him and licks his hand again.

 “…you’re welcome.”

 The cat sneezes, its fur changing back into the deep bluish-gray. Without another look, it takes off, leaping effortlessly over the crate and disappearing into the woods.

 Well, stranger things have happened in Virgil’s life.

 Shaking his head, he gets back to his garden. He glances at the rose before deciding that, eh, what the hell, it can stay another day. He finishes filling the mint crate and sets it near the front door, ready for his trip to the village tomorrow.

 “Ah, thank you!” The tea shop owner beams as he hands it over. “I’m sure this’ll be plenty.”

 “I’ve got more than enough, I promise.”

 “Well, since that sprite disappeared, I won’t be running out nearly as often!”

 Virgil blinks. “Huh?”

 “Oh, the sprite you got rid of!” She smiles. “Thank you kindly for that, it was ever so pesky.”

 Virgil just nods.

 ————————————

Virgil opens his eyes and doesn’t quite reach for the dagger he keeps in the nightstand but it’s close.

 “There’s a dog in my bed,” he mutters, “standing on top of me, drooling on my face.”

 The dog just barks. And changes color.

 He sighs. “Are you the same one from last time? Was the book not enough for you?”

 The dog barks again, jumping off the bed and trotting to the kitchen, its nail clicking on the floor. Virgil lets his eyes close for a second before getting up and following it.

 “Alright, the book it—whoa.”

 The dog is, um. Not a sprite.

 A huge mastiff elemental sits in the middle of his kitchen. It looks up from when it was nosing at what remained of a chicken carcass and rumbles. Virgil raises his hands.

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says lowly, “even though you did break into my house and wake me up. What do you want?”

 The elemental turns and moves through the house, out toward the woods. Virgil stuffs his feet in his boots and follows, tucking a slingshot and his knife into his pockets as he goes. The elemental moves through the trees with an inhuman grace, the very edges of the leaves it passes smoldering. A thin tendril of smoke wafts past Virgil’s nose.

  “She’s still inside!” The guard shouts as Virgil wrenches his arm away. “I have to go get her!”

  “Sir, you’ll die!”

  “She’s still—“

  The top of the house crashes down as—

 Virgil closes his eyes and brings his kerchief up to his nose. He breathes deeply. Freshly baked bread. Honeysuckle. The slightly tacky smell of leather oil. Breathe in, breathe out.

 When he opens his eyes again, the elemental has paused, glancing back at him.

 “I’m coming,” he says quickly, “I’m coming. Keep going.”

 He shrugs the old ghosts off his shoulders and follows.

 The elemental leads him to a clearing. Underneath a large, dead white tree, there’s a small den of moss. Virgil’s breath catches in his throat.

 The villagers had sent him a warning about a curse in the area. Fires had been going out. It had been impossible to keep warmth in the houses over the long winter nights. They’d been seeing figures in the smoke, sightings of, well, a mastiff. They’d contacted him to try and get it to leave.

 Well, the mastiff elemental is here, under the tree, looking back and forth between Virgil and something he can’t see, buried in the moss.

 “Is there something you wanna show me,” he asks softly, coming a little further into the clearing, “in there?”

 The elemental whines. He walks forward until he catches sight of a stone in the middle of the bed of moss. It’s cracked in two.

 “Is this what you wanted to show me,” he calls, shifting into a crouch, “this stone?”

 The elemental huffs, nudging his hand. It reaches past him and tries to pick up the stone in its mouth, only for it to drop. It puts its nose down and whines.

 “…was this your favorite stone to play with?” The elemental butts its head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry it broke. How’d it happen?”

 The elemental points its nose toward a jagged boulder in the corner of the clearing.

 “Ah, I see.”

 And you know what? Yeah, Virgil gets it. He’s dropped shit where he shouldn’t have dropped it before and it broke. What does it matter that this elemental is so upset over accidentally breaking its favorite toy that its warmth is so low the nearby villagers think it’s a curse?

 “Hey,” Virgil murmurs, reaching out to cup the two halves of the rock in his hands, “it’s okay. This rock—good choice by the way, very good choice—it’s part of the Perse Mountains, right? So it’s susceptible to fire magic.”

 He reaches into his slingshot bag and pulls out two small rocks. Using one on either side, he sandwiches the two halves of the broken rock together and holds it out to the elemental.

 “Now breath on it.”

 The elemental exhales carefully, bathing the rock in a steady stream of fire. Sure enough, in a few moments, thanks to Virgil holding it steady, the rock glows a soft yellow and reforges.

 “That’s good.” He takes it carefully between the stones and rolls it around the moss, trying to cool it. “Okay. Try now.”

 The elemental takes the rock gingerly between its teeth and yips.

 Virgil chuckles. “I’m glad I could help.”

 The elemental spins in a circle before turning back into the dog and licking Virgil’s cheek, barking excitedly.

 “Okay, okay, you’re welcome, jeez.” He half-heartedly shoves the dog’s head away. “You’re getting slobber all over me!”

 The dog pulls away and takes the rock into its mouth again, snuffling happily. Virgil shakes his head and gets up.

 “If that’s all, then I’m gonna go home.” The dog licks his hand one more time. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

 And if a fire is already burning when he gets back home, well, that’s just a surefire way to know there was never a curse for the villagers to worry about.

 Get it? Surefire?

 Shut up, he’s hilarious.

 ————————————

“Ah, Virgil!”

 Virgil turns. The blacksmith waves at him from the market stalls. Dodging fruit carts and weaving his way through passers-by, he stops in front of the man and gestures to the new wares.

 “Good season, Anbel?”

 “Oh, the best!” Anbel gestures to the coin chest behind him. “You know how it is, goes in and out of season.”

 Absentmindedly, Virgil rubs at the scars on his arms. “I know the feeling.”

 “Anyways, I got that dagger you gave me to repair.”

 Anbel reaches behind him and pulls the dagger out of a leather bag. He holds it up. The deep gouges in the blade are gone, the handle isn’t tarnished anymore, and it looks…good.

 “Thank you, Anbel,” he says, reaching for it, “so how much?”

 “No charge.”

 “Come on.”

 “No charge,” Anbel repeats, “not for you.”

 Unbidden, a flush rises to his cheeks as he tucks the dagger into his belt. “Anbel…”

 “Alright,” the blacksmith says, holding up his hands, “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

 Virgil sighs. “What’d you do?”

 “Why do you assume that I did something?”

 Virgil just gives him a look.

 “…alright but this time it wasn’t me.”

 “Uh-huh.”

 Anbel smacks his chest. “I’m serious, there’s something wrong in the woods outside of town.”

 Virgil sobers, taking a step closer. “What is it?”

 “Dunno. But my horses won’t go past a particular stretch of land and I need to be able to make the trip next moon.”

 Virgil chews on his lip, thinking. “Did they run away or just refuse to go near?”

 “Refused to go near.” Anbel shakes his head. “Don’t know what’s gotten into them. They’re good mares.”

 “Have any others reported anything?”

 “Cindi had trouble getting through too.”

 “Where is it?”

 “Just before the bend in the river. Near the trees.”

 Virgil sighs. “I’ll have a look.”

 That’s how he finds himself wandering down the main road on the next cloudy day. He glances around to make sure there aren’t any other villagers nearby before he starts looking around. There’s a small grove of trees near the riverbank, a mound of rocks next to the bend in the road, and a rapid system rushing just out of sight.

 Maybe the horses were scared of the rapids? They’ve been known to spook before. But no, Anbel makes this trip every season. If the horses were going to spook at the rapids, they’ve done it before.

 Virgil frowns, coming to a stop in the middle of the grass between the road and the river. What could they’ve been startled by? There’s not enough space to hide anything here. The rocks are on the wrong side of the road. The river isn’t close or loud. And the trees aren’t close enough together to hide anything between them.

 …between them.

 Virgil holds very, very still.

 Out of the corner of his eye, one of the trunks shifts.

 He doesn’t move quickly, doesn’t draw his dagger, just lowers his eyes to the grass and turns, facing the trees, and takes a step backward. Then another. Then another. When he’s over ten yards away, he looks up.

 “I mean you no harm,” he calls, “I have no wish to interfere. I was told that there was something that scared a few horses and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

 The breeze rustles through the leaves.

 “I am happy to leave you here,” he continues, risking a step closer, “but I know that…this is probably not where you’d like to be. This isn’t an especially damp forest.”

 The trunk shifts again.

 “If there’s something I can do to help—“ he risks another step— “I’d be happy to.”

  There.

 The trunk shifts and seems to shrink inside as a jaculi unwinds itself from around its base. It blinks lazily at him with amber eyes, golden scales rippling in the faint light from the cloudy sky.

 “Hello,” Virgil waves, “can I—will you let me come closer?”

 The jaculi hisses and lays its head near the ground.

 “Thank you.” Virgil walks forward carefully, stopping a few feet away and crouching down. “Now, what brings you here? You look like you’re an awful long way from home.”

 The jaculi hisses again, its head swiveling toward the river. Virgil looks. Across the bank, he can see a much denser forest and what looks like a storm brewing.

 “You’ll be hurt,” he realizes, “if you try and stay here…”

 The jaculi coils tighter around the tree trunk.

 “How’d you get over here,” Virgil mutters, “you’d’ve needed to swim across…and that also won’t go well for you.”

 There’s a soft rustling as the jaculi buries its tail in a pile of leaves near the base of the tree. Virgil glances over to see it rubbing its face halfheartedly against the bark.

 His eyes widen.

 About a month ago there had been a terrible storm. His little cabin had barely held together. He’d heard reports from the tavern owner that it’d blown one of the old trees right over.

 “That’s how you got across,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “you climbed across the tree. And now it’s gone and you’re stuck.”

 The jaculi blinks remorsefully at him.

 “Okay,” Virgil mutters, “okay, we can…we can figure this out.”

 They’ll have to do it at night. There’s no way the jaculi will feel safe enough to move while it’s still light out. There’s an old barn that never finished construction just over the ridge. One of those timber pieces is probably long enough to get over the river. And he can make a bridge wide enough to support the jaculi’s weight.

 He explains his plan to the jaculi, feeling a little ridiculous, but he’s allowed to explain what he’s doing to help someone, it’s fine, and says that he’ll be back. Promise.

 The landowner gives him a weird look when he asks to borrow the timber.

 “It’s too long for you to do anything with it,” he says, still helping Virgil load it onto a sled, “and much too tough for you to cut by yourself.”

 “It’s fine just the way it is,” Virgil says, “and thank you.”

 He waves Virgil off. “Keep it. You’re doing better than I am with it.”

 Virgil’s back at the river bend by sundown. He can’t see the jaculi anymore—it’s probably hidden itself for safety—but he calls out when he arrives.

 “I’m going to use these to make a bridge for you. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

 The pieces of timber are ungainly, to make a colossal understatement, but Virgil grits his teeth and slides them out of the sled. He wades a little into the river and—

  The water is so cold it burns. He has to keep going. It’s gaining on him. He’ll be safe in the water.

  The growls get closer and his foot slips—

 “No,” he mutters, “no, it’s not that. I’m fine. I’m standing, I’m not hurt, I’m not drowning.”

 He blinks down at his boots, the water swirling around his ankles. The timber in his hands shifts as he breathes. He’s fine. He’s fine.

 “Okay…okay.”

 He grits his teeth again and heaves, bringing the piece of timber with him. He wades further until it’s swirling around his waist. The piece of timber is just long enough to reach the other side. Onto the next one.

 He gets the five of them stretched across the river just as the last of the light vanishes. Panting, he struggles back up onto the side of the river bank and splays out onto his back, eyes closed.

 A low hiss sounds in his ear.

 He just manages to avoid a scream.

 “Hey,” he gasps instead, eyes flickering open to see the jaculi coiled up a few feet away, “uh…please don’t do that.”

 The jaculi just blinks at him.

“Uh…why don’t you, uh…” Virgil holds a hand to his chest, trying to get his breathing back under control. “…try out the bridge?”

 The jaculi slithers closer, flicking its tongue out against the timber. It looks back at Virgil.

 “Go on,” he encourages, “you can do it.”

 It slithers on, testing the boards against its weight.

 Virgil holds his breath until the jaculi vanishes into the trees across the river banks, slipping further and further into the darkness.

 Anbel leaves on his trip the next moon.

 ————————————

Honestly, when the kraken explodes out of Virgil’s well, he just sighs and fetches his bath so he can get the poor thing out.

 “Easy,” he grumbles when the kraken squirms so much he almost drops it, “you may be a young one but you’re still heavy.”

 Panting, he drops the tentacled beast into the full tub, his arms flying up to shield his face from the shower of sparkling drops. Judging by the happy trills and clicks, the kraken likes it in there. He shakes his head.

 “So that’s why I’ve been asked to fight a monster in the sewers,” he muses, watching the kraken’s tentacles writhe giddily in the metal tub, “just how did you end up so far inland?”

 The kraken, of course, does not deign to answer. Instead, the tentacles latch onto the side of the bath and threaten to tip the whole thing over.

 “No, you idiot,” Virgil shouts, grabbing onto the other side and weighing it down. He winces when more water spills onto him, drenching him head to toe. “Now look what you’ve done.”

 What the kraken has done, apparently, is get Virgil close enough so that its tentacles can haul Virgil into the tub.

 “Hey!”

 Virgil spits water out of his mouth, much to the kraken’s delight.

 “That was rude.”

 The kraken just chirps happily and wriggles around. Its tentacles stick to Virgil’s clothes and pull him through the water.

 Virgil’s chest tightens.

 One of the first things they teach you about krakens is never get in the water with them. The second thing they teach you about krakens is do not get in the water with them. The third thing they teach you about krakens is not to get too close to their tentacles so they don’t pull you into the water with them.

 And yeah, this is Virgil’s bathtub, not a river, a tide pool, or the open sea, but you can drown in an inch of water.

 Virgil presses his back up against the rim of the tub. The kraken seems to realize something’s wrong and settles, burbling softly.

 “Hey, bud,” Virgil says shakily, “I, uh, what’re you doing here?”

 The kraken twitches a few tentacles and more water slops over the edge.

 “Right…” Virgil shakes his head. “Okay, well, uh, I would rather not sit here and soak through all of my clothes, so I’m just going to—“

 As soon as he tries to move, the kraken wraps a tentacle around his leg and tugs.

 “Okay, okay, not leaving, not leaving, um—“ Virgil reaches down and takes a handful of the grass. Worst comes to worst, he can tip the tub and get the kraken back in the well.

 The kraken lets go as soon as he settles back in the water. Virgil looks at the creature carefully.

 There’s a mark on its head. Discoloration, probably, but still obvious. As he watches, the kraken burbles to itself and starts making little ripples in the surface of the water with its tentacles. After a moment, it starts gently pushing the water towards Virgil.

 The water laps at Virgil’s knees in little waves, not enough to wet him anymore—not that it would matter at this point—but enough to bounce back and make more patterns. The kraken trills softly and keeps doing it.

 Does it…want to play?

 Slowly, Virgil lifts his hands up and starts to push the water back. The kraken, realizing that Virgil is indeed committing to the idea that he is going to play with this kraken, trills louder and uses more of its tentacles to move the waves bigger.

 “Yeah? Is that how it works?” Virgil moves his hands. “Like that?”

 The kraken chirps.

 He’s not really sure how long they stay there, playing with the water, but it’s long enough for the sun to go down in the sky and Virgil to get more than a little chilly in the water.

 When the kraken notices that the water is rippling more around Virgil and he’s not moving his hands any faster, it wraps a tentacle around his ankle and tugs.

 “What? You tired?” The kraken leans its head against the side of the tub. “Okay. Well, I don’t know how long you can stay in here—“

 He cuts himself off when the kraken jabs a tentacle toward the well.

 “You wanna go back in there? It’s so small and cramped, and the sewers in town aren’t much better.”

 The kraken insists.

 Sure. Why not.

 Virgil grunts as he lifts the kraken back into the bucket, carefully lowering the creature down into the well. He hears one more trill before splashing sounds indicate that the creature is gone.

 Funnily enough, reports of the sewer beast vanish overnight.

 When Virgil wakes up panting from a nightmare of ropes around his neck, the glass of water on his bedside table is perfectly cold.

 ————————————

Virgil curses as the sole of his boot slips. He just manages to catch himself against the cliffside before splitting his knee on a harsh spire of rock. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself onward.

 The cliffs frown over him as he makes his way up the pass. The rocks crumble threateningly as his boots crunch, crunch, crunch. The sword on his hip feels too heavy. He curses, tugging his glove the rest of the way onto his hand.

 He never was one for dragon hunts.

 The message came in a week ago. Some poor terrified soul had come screaming into the town, ranting about dragons, missing people, curses, the whole lot. Virgil had taken up the call and set off, promising to get to the bottom of it.

 He never promised to hurt anything.

 Thunder rolls ominously in the distance and he bites back another curse. There’s a cave up ahead, he can see it just over the next ridge, he’ll rest there.

 In all honesty—and he can be honest, now there’s no one else around—he hates these kinds of missions. Finding something is one thing. Going to get something is one thing. Rescuing someone is one thing.

 This feels like something else.

 There’s something in his boot. There’s a wrinkle in the thinnest shirt he’s wearing. The sword belt is digging into his hip. The voices in his head won’t shut the fuck up.

 The cave is right there.

 He all but collapses to his knees as soon as he makes it inside, just as the first drops of rain land on the back of his armor. He breathes a sigh of relief, heading further into the cave, into the safety, out of the storm.

 It’s quiet here.

 He takes the knife out of its loop on his belt and sets about setting up a fire. There’s a reasonable stash of dry wood here, probably enough to keep him going throughout the night. He makes a small bundle and lights it, blowing on it until it catches and burns merrily.

 Shrugging off his pack, he leans it up against the wall and starts to dig out the dried meat. He tears off a long strip with his teeth and chews slowly, staring into the flames.

 There’s something nice about fire. Not all fire—he’s got the burns to prove that—but this fire. Controlled fire. He sits back on his hands, brushing aside the eggshells to lean against the cave wall.

 Controlled fire is…justified chaos. It’s strange, to think of chaos as being justified. But that’s what it is. A controlled burn. Snapping and sparking amidst a small mound of wood, warm. Safe. It’s strange to think of fire as safe, too.

 Virgil sits back, finishing off his meal and closing his eyes. The fire is very, very warm. Much warmer than he would expect for just a small campfire. And a little irregular, too. It comes in waves, pants, almost.

 …wood, eggshells…

 Okay, look.

 Look.

 Virgil’s tired, okay?

 It’s not like this is what normally happens to him on hunts.

 He knows what he’s doing.

 He does!

 It’s fine.

 This is fine.

 This is so utterly fine right now.

 But…okay, yeah, maybe Virgil’s not been paying as much attention as he should be. And maybe he’s fighting down a panic attack right now. And maybe he’s frozen in fear to the floor of this cave and not sure how he’s survived this long.

 Whatever.

 Virgil cracks an eye open.

 “…hey, there, dragon.”

 Surprisingly enough, his head does not get immediately bitten off. Instead, the dragon looks at him, nostrils puffing hot air into his face. The smell of dank cavern air mixes with what Virgil really hopes isn’t decomposing human.

 “Um…fancy seeing you here?”

 The dragon huffs louder, still staring into Virgil’s soul. He risks a glance over its shoulder to make sure that yes, this is the only dragon in this cave, there aren’t suddenly going to be five of them. He spies the scales trailing further into the darkness, muscular legs, long, powerful tail. The dragon growls, snapping his eyes back.

 “Hey, uh—didn’t mean to invade your cave.” Virgil scoots backward. “That was absolutely my fault. I can, uh—well, I can’t really promise to leave you alone, but I, uh…rain check?”

 As if on cue, thunder booms from outside.

  Shit.

 A lower growl sounds from the dragon as its mouth curls up. Wow, those teeth are long…

 “Can you, uh—so I know that this is a pretty big request, considering I just, you know, invaded your cave, but uh—maybe don’t eat me?”

 Judging by the growl, that’s a no.

 “Okay, I, uh—“ Virgil risks a glance around. His fire is still burning. Maybe he can at least get the dragon to back up before he—

 He pauses.

 Near the fire, the dragon’s leg looks…wet. Its scales are stained with a dark splotch coming from somewhere higher up. As he watches, the dragon shifts its weight and it gets wetter.

 “You’re hurt,” he says softly, “you’re—oh, god, you’re hurt.”

 He looks back up. The dragon’s snarl doesn’t quite soften, but its mouth relaxes a little.

 “I’ve got salve and bandages in my pack,” he says cautiously, “if you let me get them, I can—I can help?”

 Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his hand to his pack, keeping the other one raised as he opens the flap and takes out the bottle and the bandages.

 “Can I have a look, please? I’m just gonna…”

 The dragon huffs cautiously as Virgil turns, moving around its body to crouch next to its injured leg. Now that he’s closer, he can see what’s happened.

 A shard of metal is lodged in the soft space between two of the scales. Every time the dragon moves, it shifts, spilling more and more blood. Judging by how loud the dragon is breathing, it must really hurt.

 “You poor thing,” he mutters, “how long has this been here?”

 No response.

 “We gotta get it out,” he says instead, looking for something he can use, “if we leave it in you might get infected, or…something else bad will happen.”

 He pulls a pair of pliers from his pack and the dragon snorts.

 “Easy, easy—“ the dragon’s eyes go wide at the glint of the flame off the metal— “hey, it’s okay, I’m gonna use these to get that metal outta you, yeah?”

 It seems an hour before the dragon calms, gingerly stretching out its leg so Virgil can see the shard. Taking a deep breath, he hooks the pliers around the edge of the metal.

 “Ready on three, okay?” He grits his teeth. “One…two…three!”

 He yanks.

 The dragon roars as the metal shard comes out in his hands, the side release almost sending him toppling back into the fire. Quickly, he discards the tools and reaches out to soothe the dragon, petting its scales and hushing it gently.

 “Shh, shh, it’s out now, it’s okay, it can’t hurt you anymore.” He runs a hand over the dragon’s heaving back. “I’m gonna help you, okay? I’m here to help.”

 It seems to calm the dragon, its breathing slowly but surely calming down as Virgil continues to speak softly to it. Honestly, if it were this easy to calm himself down, he would have a lot fewer problems.

 “I’ve got to clean it,” he says after a minute, “just to make sure you don’t get infected. Then I’ll be done, okay?”

 The dragon swivels its massive head around, looking at the wound, then back at Virgil. It heaves a great sigh and its chin comes to rest on the floor, staring at him. Guess that’s as close to permission as he’s gonna get.

 “Thank you. This, uh, this may sting a bit.”

 He barely gets a flinch as he starts cleaning the cut. Dragons. Once he’s wrapped the dragon’s leg as best he can, he turns to peer at the shard of metal he pulled out of the wound. He holds it up, examining it in the firelight.

 It looks…wrong.

 It’s too thick to be just something that happened to get in there, but too jagged to be something natural. It looks like it snapped off of something, but it’s not the right shape to be an arrowhead or a piece of a building. So what…?

 He turns when the dragon starts to move.

 It heaves itself to its feet, testing out its weight on all four legs. When the pain doesn’t shoot through, it lumbers off, further into the cave. Its head dips down, out of sight for a moment, before it turns and starts back toward the fire, dragging something in its mouth.

 Virgil’s eyes widen when another bag is dropped in front of him.

 “Is this…is this someone else’s?” He lays his fingers carefully on its surface. “Did…did you…did someone else come here before me?”

 The dragon huffs.

 With trembling fingers, he flips open the bag. There’s a good store of meat in here, a change of clothes, something for armor, it’s a provisions bag. One side has a little loop attached with nothing inside.

 “…someone tried to stab you,” he realizes in horror, looking back up at the dragon. “Someone tried to fight you but couldn’t. So they stabbed you in the leg.”

 His fists clench.

 “They hurt you.”

 Another huff. Then the dragon nudges the bag toward him again.

 “Is there something else in here?” Virgil starts sorting through the possessions. He lays the clothes to one side, the bottles to another. When he gets to the food, the dragon leans forward and snorts, blowing hot air into his face.

 “This? This is what you want me to get?” He looks at it. It’s just more dried meat. It, uh, it actually looks a little better than his. “Are you hungry?”

 The dragon snorts at Virgil’s pack, then at the food in his hands.

 “…are you…giving this to me because I’m still hungry?”

 Another huff, longer this time, and the dragon’s head comes to rest on the floor, eyes staring up at him.

 Virgil swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Well, that’s—thank you.”

 The dragon rumbles as he starts to eat, eyes blinking lazily. Virgil tries not to mind too much.

 And…honestly? It’s not that bad. He’s had worse audiences when he’s just trying to eat. The dragon switches its tail every now and then, huffing gently to keep the fire going. It’s…nice.

 Virgil finishes eating as much of the food as he wants and tucks the rest away. He takes a moment to just…look.

 “The other person,” he says eventually, “the one that hurt you…they—I think they wanted to kill you.”

 The dragon stares at him like he just said the sky is blue.

 “No, really, I—I don’t think they wanted anything else.” He shakes his head. “We’re not near enough to any villages for that to be the reason, there aren’t any traveling paths through here, there’s…there’s no other reason. I think they just wanted to kill you.”

 The cave falls quiet as the rain pours outside.

 “…I think they wanted me to kill you too.”

 Virgil’s chest aches. Something in his right hand tingles.

“Why do they always want me to kill you?”

 And he’s not just talking about the dragon now.

 It’s always the same.

 Fight this. Kill that. Rescue us from this. Save us from that.

 What if you’re not the ones that need to be saved?

 Virgil lets his chin drop to his chest and sighs. His sword hangs heavy at his hip. His hands tremble in the burning light of the fire.

 “I hate to impose,” he manages through a sluggish tongue, “but…may I stay? Just until the storm passes?”

 A low thud makes him look up. The dragon shifts, its tail curled in a half-circle around Virgil and the fire. It huffs softly.

 “Thank you.”

 ————————————

Sometimes he has sleepless nights. Drifts in blackness and emptiness until it’s time to get up. Or he’ll close his eyes for what feels like an instant before he wakes up the next day.

 Sometimes he has restless nights. Can’t sleep, can’t manage to get more than a few minutes of tense darkness before his eyes shoot open and he has to reassure himself that’s he can sleep.

 Sometimes he has good nights. Dreams of sunshine and warmth and the safety of a hot drink between his palms. Closing his eyes and just hearing the peaceful hum of his cabin.

 Most of the time he has nightmares. The good ones are just mixes of monsters he can’t see coming, kills he wishes he didn’t have to make. Losing someone he should’ve been able to save.

 This one’s a bad one.

  Jaws close down on his arm. The creature whips its head back and forth, shaking him like a rag doll. He grits his teeth and tries to—

  His eyes widen as the burning roof collapses on top of him. A heavy beam falls onto his chest and he can’t move, he’s going to—

  The cliff face collapses under him and he plummets, fingers scrabbling for a hold against the crumbling face. He can’t reach, he can’t reach—

 “….shut up, you’re gonna wake him up!”

 “If you stop shouting, then he won’t.”

 “Shh, the both of you.”

 “This is certainly working, I think we should all keep talking like this.”

 “Oh, don’t you start!”

 “Hey, hey, shh! He’s waking up!”

 Virgil is waking up, as a matter of fact, and he also has no idea where he is or what’s going on. He does know there are at least five people in this room with him though. That’s either a good thing or a really, really bad thing.

 He can feel rocks under his head. Is he still in the cave, then? How other people…here? Where’s the dragon?

 “Hey,” one of the voices says, “are you okay? You kinda, uh, well, you weren’t looking very good for a little bit there.”

 “Back up, you morons, you’re gonna scare him!”

 “We’re not scary, shut up.”

 “You’re scary.”

 “All of you be quiet,” the first voice says, before it softens again. “Hey, can you open your eyes?”

  Well, I’ve definitely made worse decisions.

 He wholeheartedly concurs with that thought when the first thing he sees is genuinely one of the most attractive people he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting face to face.

 “There you are,” the beautiful person says, “good morning. Is your head alright?”

 “Uh—“ not now gay panic— “uh?”

 “Back up, Logan,” another person says, “let me see.”

 Logan—great name, sure, why not—moves out of the way, and oh god there’s two of them.

 “Hi!” The other attractive person leans over Virgil and gods— “are you hurt? You looked a little upset while you were sleeping.”

 “You—“ Virgil does not squeak— “you watched me while I was sleeping?”

 “Well, you fell asleep and Roman got worried, so—“

 “I’m sorry,” Virgil interrupts, “who—who are you?”

 The person in front of him tilts his head. “Don’t you recognize us?”

  I would absolutely fucking remember meeting you, and I do not.

 “Patton,” Logan says, “he’s a mortal. He won’t—we are not as we were when he met us.”

 The butterflies in Virgil’s stomach ice.

 These…these are creatures. Is he—what supernatural force did he piss off?

 Logan smiles at him and winks. First off, rude, but—

 Virgil squints. One of the man’s eyes is a deep bluish-grey. The other one—the one he just winked with—is a dappled brown.

 Oh.

 “…you’re the sprite.”

 “I am,” he says, “my name is Logan.”

 Something nudges his shoulder. Virgil looks over to see Patton offering him a round stone.

 “…the mastiff elemental?”

 “Patton, actually.” Patton smiles and gestures over Virgil’s other shoulder.

  Why are there five of them and why are they all so pretty?

 “Can you guess who they are?”

 One of them rolls his eyes. “Yes, that sounds like a perfect use of time that isn’t at all a waste.”

 “Okay, so you’re the jaculi.”

 He smirks. “Janus.”

 The one near the entrance to the cave just cackles and bounces on the balls of his feet. Almost like…

 “You made me spill the bathtub over my whole yard!”

 He cackles louder. “Yes, I did!”

 Virgil rolls his eyes. He’s not fond. He’s not.

 “Remus,” Logan scolds, “you said you were just going into the well.”

 “He took me out!”

 “Yeah, because that thing is cramped as hell.”

 “Aww,” Patton coos, “how sweet.”

 “Well,” the last one says, smiling softly from one of the darker corners of the cave, “we knew that, didn’t we?”

 Virgil turns, looking hard into the darkness. The last person stands, walking over slowly, leaning most of his weight on one leg. As he moves into the light, he sits down on the log and reaches down. Virgil’s eyes widen as he gets handed the last of the dried meat.

 “You’re still hungry,” the person says softly, “I can tell.”

 Virgil cannot eat right now, thank you very much. Instead, his eyes are fixed on his bandage, still tied sloppily around the person’s leg.

 “You’re the dragon.”

 “I am. But you can call me Roman.”

 “…does it still hurt?”

 “Oh, this?” He smiles and moves his leg. “A little. But it’s almost better,” he finishes, reaching over to gently bump Virgil’s shoulder, “thanks to you.”

 Yes, hello? Virgil would like for someone to explain what’s going on, please.

 “I’m sure you’ve got questions,” Logan says, also sitting down, “and we can do our best to answer them. But first…are you alright?”

 Uh, no. “Why do you think I’m not?”

 “You’re breathing faster than most mortals do at rest, your face is more flushed than it was, and you were troubled while you slept.”

 …shhh…

 “I, um…I was having a nightmare.”

 “Ooh,” Remus says, plopping down on the floor with his chin propped up on his hands, “was it a bad one?”

 “…you could say that.”

 “Remus,” Patton chides, “don’t.”

 Remus pouts but hushes, reaching out to toy with a stick. Patton rolls the stone between his hands.

 “You did seem upset,” Janus says, “can we help?”

 “H-help?”

 Janus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, help. Or is that not a thing most mortals do?”

 Um. Well. Uh, hang on.

 “Are you just going to be mean to him,” Logan sighs, “or are we actually going to make an effort to be friendly with the person we have decided to befriend?”

 “Can one of you explain what’s going on?” Patton nods to Virgil. “Before he decides we’re all mad?”

 Roman sighs. “Virgil? Are you still hungry?”

 “Huh? No, no, I’m…I’m okay.”

 He smiles. “Good. This…this might sound a bit strange, but…try and keep up?”

 “As weird as it might sound, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 Roman blinks in surprise, a small smile coming over his face. “Isn’t it?”

 “Well, you must have some idea of what I do for a living.”

 Roman’s smile only grows. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we do.”

 Logan clears his throat. Virgil turns, seeing the book from his cabin appear in Logan’s hands.

 “Did you—is that my—“

 “I can assure you,” Logan says softly, “that I did not steal your book from you. Rather, this is a copy, generated from the information I was able to learn.”

 “What did you want?”

 “We were cursed.” Logan closes the book with a snap. “Cursed to take on forms that were hated or feared or simply a nuisance.”

 Virgil’s stomach drops. Cursed?

 “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “that sounds…awful.”

 “It was,” Janus mutters, “completely inconvenient and an utter waste of time.”

 “You say like it wasn’t your fault.”

 “Oh, right, it was absolutely only my fault.”

 “You two,” Patton huffs, “enough.”

 Virgil’s still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Wait, hang on, so—you were cursed? Were? Past tense?”

 “Well,” Janus gestures to himself, “I don’t exactly look like a snake anymore, do I?”

 He raises a finger when Virgil opens his mouth.

 “Careful, dear.”

 Virgil snaps his mouth shut.

 Roman rolls his eyes and places a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You broke the curse, my friend. Or at least…you helped us break it.”

 “But how? I didn’t—I didn’t do anything.”

 He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the bandage. “You don’t consider this doing anything?”

 “Or this?” Patton holds up the stone.

 Logan taps the cover of the book. “You helped us. When you had no reason to, past the goodness of your heart.”

 “We would’ve been hurt,” Janus says quietly, “or hunted without you. They certainly would’ve killed me.”

 “And me,” Remus says.

 Patton nods. “And me.”

 Roman simply taps his leg. Right. They already tried to kill him.

 Virgil blinks. “So…me helping broke the curse?”

 “You caring broke the curse,” Logan corrects gently, “and, well, when you...when you seemed to be in need, we wanted to care for you too.”

 Oh.

  Oh.

  Oh, fuck.

 “So,” Roman says, smiling up at Virgil, “how can we help?”

 “Help? With—with what?”

 “The nightmares.”

 “Oh,” Virgil mumbles, averting his eyes, “you, uh, can’t. Not really. They’re not a curse or magical or anything. They’re just nightmares.”

 “But there must be something we can do.”

 He shakes his head sadly. Believe him, if there were anything five unfairly attractive people could do, he’d tell them. But there isn’t. “They come with the job. There’s not—no one can do anything.”

 He can practically hear Patton frowning. “That’s not very fair. You do so much for others, don’t they—don’t they care?”

 Virgil shrugs. “Life isn’t fair.”

 “So take what it won’t give you.” Janus folds his arms. “They don’t care for you. Even though you care for them.”

 “They do care for me,” Virgil argues, “they’re kind. They help me.”

 “Not with this,” he shoots back, “not with what you really need.”

 “You protect everyone,” Roman says softly when Virgil opens his mouth to argue again, “who protects you?”

 Who protects the protector?

 “…no one.” Virgil shakes his head. “No one but me.”

 “Well, you’re right. That doesn’t seem fair at all.” Logan sets the book aside and it vanishes into the darkness of the cave. “Perhaps we should endeavor to fix that.”

 “F-fix it?” Virgil’s head jerks up. “How?”

 “Let us protect you.”

 “Protect me?”

 “Do keep up,” Janus sighs, but he’s pretty sure he can see him smiling over there, “at the very least, we have magic. That should offer you something.”

 “You don’t have to decide right now,” Roman says quickly, “but…thought we’d offer. Think it over.”

 …well, if ‘protection’ involves seeing them more often, Virgil can definitely work with that.

 “While I think it over, will you tell me how you got cursed?”

 “So it was entirely Janus’s fault—“

 “It was not!”

 “Yes, it was!”

 As Remus and Janus start arguing, Virgil smiles and leans back against the wall of the cave. Roman waves his hand and the cave wall warms, almost cradling Virgil. Logan settles on his other side, weight solid against his arm.

 Yeah, he could get used to this.

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[celestial-thoughts]

don’t judge a book by its cover (Bookstore AU)

Fandom: WWE; Pairing(s): Shayna/Dakota, platonic BRE (Shayna & Jessamyn & Mia).

Based on a prompt from @poohsources

prompt: “I’m just not that big a fan of reading.”

Shayna really does love Jessamyn Duke. But right now, she can't help being annoyed at her best friend. There are a lot of words Shayna could use to describe Jess, but the one she would pick right now is persistent, because Jess has spent the last 10 minutes nagging Shayna about going to a small bookstore a mile away from their house.

"Please? It'll only take a few minutes!" Jess insists.

Shayna sighs. "Fine, but you're paying for coffee after," she says.

"Deal," Jess nods in agreement. As the two begin to walk to the bookstore, she turns to Shayna. "I don't know why you're so against going. It's just a bookstore."

Shayna rolls her eyes. This isn't the first time they've had this conversation. "I don't like reading, Jess. You know that."

Jess decides it's not worth arguing with her, and the conversation changes to their usual topics until they reach the bookstore. It's a small shop, in between a hair salon and a coffee shop. The sign above the door reads Turning Page Books. Jess opens the door and walks in, Shayna following behind her. Jess immediately heads towards the section she's looking for, telling Shayna that she'll make it quick.

Shayna leans against a wall and begins scrolling through Twitter, hoping that Jess doesn't take too long.

"Can I help you find anything?" The sound of someone talking to her makes Shayna look up from her phone, where she sees the source of the voice standing in front of her. A girl with hair dyed light pink, and hazel eyes that watch Shayna curiously. She's dressed in simple clothes, just blue ripped jeans cuffed at the bottom, black and white Vans, and a gray cropped hoodie. The name tag on her hoodie says Dakota.

Suddenly, Shayna remembers that this girl asked her a question, and she mentally scolds herself for staring. "No thanks, I'm not here for me. My best friend convinced me to come here with her so she could get a book."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Dakota says, but there's no judgement in her voice.

"It's not bad," Shayna says carefully. "I'm just not that big a fan of reading."

Dakota smiles at her shyly. "Would you be up for giving it a try? I think I have a book you might like."

"How do you know what I like?" Dakota asks, intrigued.

Dakota tilts her head a little. "I'm good at figuring people out," she says. "For instance, I have a feeling you don't like a lot of romance. But if it's in the background, you can at least tolerate it. Friendship is clearly important to you, and you're not one to pretend to be someone you're not."

Shayna is taken aback. "You got all of that from one conversation?" she asks.

Dakota nods. "So can I at least show you the book?" she asks.

And if it were anyone else asking that question, Shayna would say no. But something about this girl, with her pink hair and her observant mind, makes Shayna do the exact opposite. "Sure," she says.

Dakota smiles. "Follow me," she says. "By the way, what's your name?" Dakota asks as they walk through the small store.

"Shayna," she replies.

"Nice to meet you Shayna. I'm Dakota," the smaller girl says.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that out," Shayna says, nodding towards the name tag on her sweatshirt.

Dakota lets out a small giggle. "Oh right, I forgot about that," she says. She leads Shayna down an aisle and stops about halfway down. "Here it is," she says, pulling a paperback book off the shelf. "I have a feeling you'll enjoy this one," she says, passing her the book.

Shayna looks down at it. The cover art is pretty awesome, and it's not too long for her to be able to get through. Sensing her hesitation, Dakota gives her a reassuring smile. "Just give it a try. You don't have to love it, but it's worth a read."

What's the harm in reading it? The worst thing that could happen is she doesn't like it. "Okay, I'll give it a try," she says.

Dakota smiles. "Glad to hear it," she says, as they make their way to the front of the store, where Jess is paying for her books.

"How much do I owe you?" Shayna asks, reaching into the pocket of her jeans for her wallet.

Dakota waves the question away dismissively. "Don't worry about it," she says. "Just promise you'll come back when you're done and tell me what you think of it."

Shayna smiles at the idea of seeing Dakota again. "Deal," she says.

As they leave the bookstore and head into the coffee shop next to it, Jess raises an eyebrow at Shayna. "Since when do you read?" she asks.

Shayna shrugs. "The girl at the bookstore said she thought I would like this book," she says. "I figured it was worth a try."

Jess gives her a knowing look. "Is that all?" she asks.

Shayna rolls her eyes as they get their coffee and begin the walk back to their house. "Jess, no," she says. "Whatever you're thinking, no."

Jess laughs and shoves her playfully. "Sure, Shayna. Sure," she says.

"I hate you," Shayna says, but she's laughing too. "So did you get the book you wanted?"

Jess launches into a whole detailed explanation of all of the books she got. And Shayna is mostly listening. But she also can't help but think about Dakota, and how she can't wait to get home and read the book so she can go back and see her again.

As soon as they get home, Shayna goes straight up to her room and curls up on her bed. She looks at the book in her hands. "Okay, Dakota," she says to herself. "Let's see if you were right."

*****

For the next hour and a half, Shayna does nothing but read. The only time she stops is when Jess texts her to ask if Chinese food sounds good for dinner, to which Shayna responds with a thumbs up before turning back to the book in her hands. It's only when Mia pokes her head into the room and tells Shayna that dinner is in the kitchen and if she wants any she should come down now. For a moment, Shayna considers staying holed up in her room with her book. But food does sound really good right now, so she reluctantly bookmarks her page and heads downstairs to the kitchen, where Jess and Mia are sitting at the counter, boxes of food open in front of them.

For a little while, they just talk about the usual dinner conversation topics. Plans for tomorrow, who's turn it is to do the dishes, whether or not the dogs got a walk. It's not until their finishing up that Jess turns to Shayna with a mischievous spark in her eyes. "So, how's the book?" she asks, not even bothering to hide her smirk.

Mia turns to Shayna in surprise. "You got a book?" she asks.

"Yes, I got a book, it's not that big of a deal," Shayna says. "And it's really good so far," she adds.

"It's totally a big deal," Jess says, and Shayna can hear her smiling.

Shayna glares at her, but there's no real threat in it. "No it isn't," she says, finishing the last bite of her eggroll.

"Okay, one of you needs to fill me in because I feel like I'm missing something here," Mia says.

Jess grins. "Shayna met a cute girl today," she says.

"Wait, what?" Mia asks, turning to look at Shayna.

Shayna groans. "It's not like that," she protests.

"It's totally like that," Jess says to Mia, who is smirking at Shayna knowingly.

"I hate you both," Shayna says, sliding out of her seat and going into the living room where she sits down on the couch where Isys Puppy immediately sits down at her feet.

"No you don't," Jess fires back, as she drops onto the couch next to Shayna. Mia sits down on the other side of her, and Shayna knows that there's no avoiding this conversation. Her friends know her too well.

"Come on, spill," Mia insists.

Shayna shrugs, not looking at either of her roommates. Instead, she focuses on petting her dog. "There's nothing to spill," she says.

"Liar," Jess says, playfully nudging Shayna with her shoulder. "Come on, you know we're going to get it out of you one way or another."

Shayna sighs. She really does want to talk about Dakota. And there's no one she trusts more than her roommates. "Her name is Dakota," she says, still focusing on the puppy currently at her feet.

"Is she cute?" Mia asks, and Shayna can practically hear the smirk in her voice.

"So cute," Shayna says, leaning against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. "She's got pink hair, which isn't something I normally like but on her, it works." She can feel her roommates watching her, and she doesn't need to see them to know how much they're enjoying this. But now that she's started thinking about Dakota, she can't stop. "And her eyes are this perfect shade of hazel that I've never seen before, but it's absolutely amazing. And her smile," she trails off, shaking her head at the memory. "I don't even know how to begin to explain her smile."

Jess turns to look at Mia. "How much you wanna bet they're together by the end of the week?" she asks, a grin on her face.

"Nah, because that mean Shayna has to actually tell Dakota that she likes her," Mia says, smirking.

Shayna sits up and glares at her friends. "Shut up," she says. But she doesn't really mean it.

"Come on, Shayna. Are you really going to sit here and say that you're not head over heels in love with this girl?" Jess asks her, a knowing look on her face.

"I'm not in love with her," Shayna says. "Just because I think she's cute doesn't mean I want to ask her out."

"You literally just gave the sappiest description of her I've ever heard in my life," Mia says.

Shayna wants to argue, but she knows she can't. Her roommates know her too well. They know her better than she knows herself sometimes. And she can't ignore the heat rising in her cheeks, the butterflies in her stomach. She knows that her friends are right. So she doesn't say anything. Just leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, going back to petting the dog sitting at her feet.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?" Jess asks.

"I'm thinking about how much I hate you two right now," Shayna says, but she's holding back a smile.

"Love you too," Jess says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Shayna, you know we're right. I know you don't like to admit that we're right about anything, ever. But you know that we're right."

Jess and Mia watch Shayna closely, and no one speaks for a few minutes. Finally, Shayna lets out a breath that she didn't realize she was holding. "Fine. You're right," she says quietly, more to herself than to the girls sitting on either side of her.

"What was that?" Jess asks, a teasing smirk on her face, knowing full well what Shayna had said.

Shayna looks up from her dog and playfully shoves Jess. "I said you're right," she says. She hugs one of the throw pillows on the couch to her chest. "You're right and it kills me because you know me so well."

Jess turns to Shayna and looks into her eyes. "So what are you going to do about it?" she asks.

And once again, the living room goes silent. Shayna thinks back to her conversation with Dakota. The longer she thinks about her, the more she realizes just how hard she has fallen for this girl. She knows she's smiling and blushing, and she can tell her friends are thoroughly enjoying seeing this side of her. Shayna sees the looks of amusement on the faces of her roommates and groans, burying her face in the pillow. "Would you stop looking at me like that?" she asks, her words muffled by fabric.

"You know you love us," Mia says.

Shayna lifts her head up from the pillow and proceeds to smack Mia in the side of the head with it. "Yeah, I know," she says, and she can't help but smile. She turns to Jess. "I don't know what I'm going to do about it," she says, revisiting the question Jess had asked her earlier.

"Well, do you want to see her again?" Jess asks. Shayna nods, cheeks flushing as she thinks about the possibility of seeing Dakota again. "Then go and finish that book of yours so you can go back there and tell her how much you loved it."

"And how much you love her," Mia chimes in, a teasing smile on her face. Shayna hits her with the pillow again, and Mia laughs. "Alright, I get it, I'll stop," she says, holding her hands up in mock surrender.

Shayna gets up from the couch and heads towards the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase, she turns around and looks back at her roommates. "Thank you," she says.

"Anytime," Jess replies. "Now go read your book. You have a cute girl to go visit."

And with that, Shayna heads up the stairs to her room, where her book is waiting for her.

*****

Two days later, Shayna is standing outside of the bookstore trying to breathe, the warm early evening breeze blowing her hair back out of her face.. The only thought that gets her to walk through the door of the shop is the knowledge that Jess and Mia will never let her hear the end of it if she doesn't.

As soon as she walks in, she sees Dakota sitting behind the register reading a book. The smaller girl looks up as Shayna approaches, a smile immediately on her face. "Hey!" she says, closing her book.

"Hey," Shayna says, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. "How's it going?"

"Good," Dakota says. "You came at a perfect time. I'm just about to be done with my shift." She looks at the book in Shayna's hands. "So did you finish it?" she asks.

Shayna takes a deep breath. Now or never. "Yeah, I did," she says. "How about I take you out for dinner and we talk about it?"

Dakota blushes, her cheeks turning almost the same shade of pink as her hair. "Like, on a date?" she asks. Shayna nods, and Dakota gives her a shy smile. "I'd like that," she says. "I just need to get my bag from the back and I'll be good to go."

"Sounds good," Shayna says. As Dakota disappears towards the back of the store, she sends a quick text to her roommates.

Shayna: i'm not going to be home for dinner tonight.

Jessamyn: so it went well then?

Shayna: no comment ;)

Mia: i'll take that as a yes.

Jessamyn: we expect details when you get home.

Shayna: keep the teasing to a minimum and i'll think about it.

Mia: we'll try, but no promises.

Shayna rolls her eyes and turns off her phone as Dakota returns from the back room. "Ready?" she asks.

"Ready," Shayna says, taking Dakota’s hand in her own. And with that, the two walk down the street, hand in hand, into the setting sun.