#may or may not crosspost to ao3

[miralines]

A Moss-Covered Home

a little cinderrose ficlet I've been meaning to post for ages, inspired by @bookshopsbizarreblog's suggestion of "a moss-covered home" for their ship name. This isn't canon to any of my other ouatis fic, but I thought I'd finally share it for @mechtober-2024! Alternate prompt: haunted ^-^

Many years after Briar and Cinders have parted ways, years after Cinders mourns the woman who never was her wife, Cinders has settled down someplace. A little cottage in a densely-forested part of Perrault. She’s finally home. It’s terribly lonely, but she prefers the quiet to everyone demanding her time and her stories and her opinions, so she can endure it.

She endured the solitude for thirty years, after all. She’s long used to it by now. Cinders knits, sings, picks up reading again to pass the time, and more years pass quietly.

And then things start happening. She finds objects in places she didn’t leave them. The windows are open when she swore she had them shut. She thinks perhaps she’s just aging; she’s quite old by this point, old enough to be expecting death in the next few years. But things keep happening. More and more. And as time goes on, she begins to feel a presence, warm and familiar.

She doesn’t know if it’s just her mind, but it comforts her. She welcomes the presence. She walks around her mossy cottage, speaks to it sometimes as she does. It’s remote enough here that no one can hear her. Cinders swears sometimes she can almost hear a voice.

She takes to setting out an extra plate for it. It’s her companion in the last years of her life. 

And then her health declines. She knows the end will be soon. One evening, she’s sitting by the fire, resting, feeling the presence. Wishing she could touch her.

As she thinks it, the presence resolves into sight. It’s Rose. Still fresh-faced and youthful, looking the way she did in that lifepod all those years ago, but seeming older and wiser. Seeming to match Cinders. She smiles, and reaches for her. 

Cinders takes her hand.

Her body is found the next morning by the girl who delivers her groceries. Cinders is mourned across the galaxy as one of the last major heroes of the rebellion. And then the galaxy moves on, as they’ve been doing for decades.

In the cottage, Rose and Cinders sit together, invisible to anyone but each other. They’re together at last. The cottage falls into disrepair, the moss overtaking it, but what does that matter to a ghost? It isn’t their grave, but it is their resting place. It’s their home.

[lexsssu]

Fan (Dante)

TAGS: Dante/F!reader, lactation kink, pregnancy kink, breeding, smut, drabble Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ ғɪɴᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴏᴡ ᴏғ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ɪʀʀᴇsɪsᴛɪʙʟᴇ.

“Mmmmm…can’t keep my hands to myself when you look so sexy waddling around like that, babe. ”

Dante never really thought about having kids, nor did he ever think he’d have a kink for MILFs. But of course, life did love proving him wrong time and time again, especially when it served him a positive pregnancy test from his lover. Safe to say that he finally pulled out the ring he’d long been planning on presenting you, unwilling to not take responsibility for the two most precious things in his life.

“Never been into MILFs, but if it’s you? Consider me your number one fan~”

The devil hunter’s big, rough hands palmed at your hefty tits through the fabric of the shirt you’d appropriated from his side of the closet, pinching your puffy nipples and groaning when droplets of milk moistened the cloth. 

Having heightened demon sense was normally a blessing, especially in his profession, but being able to smell your intoxicating scent that emanated from both your cunt and milk-filled tits regularly tested his self-restraint as your pregnancy progressed.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a ‘lil taste, right? Don’t worry, I won’t leave you thirsty either…”

With your arms wrapped around his neck, his own lips busy sloppily slurping at your left breast while his hand played with the other, and your pussy stuffed full with his cock, there is no place Dante would rather be.

[crabbunch]

for @mcyt-aro-week - day 4 - aplatonic/space

Here's the thing: Ken doesn't... love people.

Not that he minds them or anything! He enjoys talking with people, and there are people who he knows well enough to call his friends, and in general, he likes people, he really does, he just...

He doesn't love them.

He's spent a lot of time thinking about it, too. What love qualifies as. What gives him the right to finally, definitively say no, I will never love anyone in any way, ever.

Maybe it's not a right at all. Maybe it's just something he can do. It's not like it's hurting anyone.

It had started with Wato- because before that, he had been alone, or at least distant enough from other people that it wouldn't have made sense to love them. Or maybe it would have- maybe other people would have. Ken doesn't...

But when he and Wato had hit it off and started hanging out more, they'd also started telling him I love you. It had been casual, easy to miss- see you tomorrow, I love you, goodbye- thrown in a jumble of words, and Ken had replied easily enough.

He hadn't meant it, though.

The thing was- he'd always hated it when people saved the sentiment for romance. He wanted to be able to throw it around in whatever context he wanted- it's just that he was lying. And it felt... uncomfortable.

So he doesn't love people. It's just- a thing, a fact about Ken that people know if they're close enough to him. Ken likes escape rooms and prisons, Ken can fit 24 marshmallows in his mouth if he really tries, and Ken doesn't love people.

The problem. That is making itself clear to him now, though.

He never told Wato- not really. They just kind of fell into it together. Ken never realized anything and neither did Wato. That's how it works with everyone. He doesn't give a- a disclaimer, before he goes out and makes friends- oh, hey, before we hang out too much, just wanted to let you know I'll never love you- and it doesn't matter, because his feelings don't have to effect his actions at all! Eventually, the pieces fall into place, and everyone just knows that Ken doesn't love people.

But. Ken has known Wifies for several months now. And he doesn't seem to have gotten the memo.

It's not Wifies fault! It's probably a little bit Ken's fault, but he doesn't know how to explain it to Wifies. He's never explained it to anyone! He doesn't know why it's bugging him, anyways, because shouldn't things be okay as long as Ken knows that this isn't love? But Wifies doesn't know, and he looks at Ken like he expects him to love him, and it's really kind of the worst.

So really he just needs to bite the bullet and text him.

Ken throws his com across the room and slumps to the ground, tail twitching.

Here's the other problem: Wifies looks at Ken like he hung the moon over the stars, which is weird, because Ken didn't even do anything special. He did the bare minimum to help him out, and now Wifies treats him like some saint. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He doesn't want to hurt Wifies, though- he's the kind of person who'd take it the wrong way if Ken told him that he didn't love people. He's still... he doesn't think of himself as a person, sometimes, and Ken wants him to be happy and know that Ken doesn't hate him or think badly but argh-

He doesn't love him.

Ken stands up again and starts pacing, tail lashing furiously. He doesn't want Wifies to feel like he wasn't- good enough for Ken, or anything dumb like that, but he doesn't want the misconception to keep going. He doesn't want-

There's really no reason to be this upset. Sometimes he wonders- if he's making too big of a deal over it, because if it doesn't make a difference whether he loves someone or not, than why is he so hung up on it? It's just- there's something in his stomach, and it twists around when people expect him to reciprocate, because he can't, and- and-

Ken scoops up his com again and opens up his chat with Wifies. He frowns down the meme he sent a couple of hours ago, and snaps it shut. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't even want to say anything- it's just that letting things continue like this feels unbearable sometimes.

It's cruel to Wifies, to keep up the charade, and it's cruel to himself, and Ken-

Well. He's not a selfless person. He's actually really greedy, and overly critical, and he knows that, he knows his flaws, but he doesn't think this- this has never been one. The avoidance, though- maybe when he says I don't want Wifies to blame himself he means I don't want Wifies to blame me, and that would be bad of him. Selfish.

Because Wifies deserves to know that Ken doesn't love him.

Ken takes a deep breath, and opens his com.

<Ken> hey btw i dont love people

<Ken> just letting you know

That sucked! He shuts it again and flops onto the cold, unforgiving floor. He's not going to open the com again, because he doesn't want to know what- oh, it flashes, presumably because Wifies has replied, and his stupid, traitorous hands open it back up without his permission. Don't they know that curiosity killed the cat?

<Wifies> Oh, okay?

<Wifies> I'm not sure what you mean by that.

Aaaaugh explaining things is awful! Ken brings a finger to his mouth and bites down on it as he types with his other hand.

<Ken> like i dont love you

<Ken> but its not because you're you or anything just cuz i dont love anyone

<Ken> its just. a thing i guess. and i thought you deserved to know.

He drums his fingers anxiously against his cheek as little dots bubble down and back up again. Wifies is taking a long time to respond- but he always does, because he types like a grandma, so Ken is reading into things too much. Unless he's not.

<Wifies> Oh, okay, I see.

<Wifies> Thanks for telling me!

What does he mean by that!!!!

Ken huffs, and stands up again. It's not a problem. Wifies seems happy enough, and Ken being unable to fathom the way his brain works is nothing new. He-

<Wifies> I've just got one question, though.

Huh?

<Wifies> Why'd you call me 'my Wifies' if you didn't love me?

<Ken> what? what does that have to do with love?

<Wifies> Oh. Nothing, I guess.

Well! Whatever. Ken throws his com at the wall again- a couple of sparks fly out, which means that he probably broke it this time, but that'll be a problem for future Ken, because he already solved one problem probably mostly tonight, and that is far exceeding his daily problem-solving quota.

[becauseplot]

Phil wakes up in the morning, curled up on his side of the bed, wings splayed out over the empty half of the mattress behind him. As always. Snags his robe off the hook by the bed and shrugs it on and doesn't look at the vacant hook beside it. As always. Half asleep hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into his slippers and opens the blinds; bedroom flooded by golden sunlight, shining on the glass panes of the framed family photos hung up on the walls, drowning them in morning glow. As always.

It's just another morning up here on the wall. He heads down into the basement expecting the usual: finding Tallulah already awake and writing quietly in her diary, listening to her giggle as Phil drags her dead-to-the-world brother out of bed, sending them both off to go get dressed and wash up while he fumbles something together for breakfast.

When he steps into their bedroom, their beds are empty.

The spike of panic is immediate. He knows he put them to bed last night. They're not staying over anywhere else. They weren't anywhere in the front garden. There's no obvious note or sign anywhere that Phil can see. Where did they go? Where are his kids?

But then he hears it---the laughter. Clinking of dishes in the kitchen. The smell of eggs and bacon and beans. Soft Spanish that's low and syrupy-sleepy, still waking up.

Phil walks into the kitchen, and it's like walking into a dream.

The three of them are crowded around the counter, with Chayanne standing on a stepstool to the left and Tallulah standing on a chair to the right. Daylight spills in through the window above the sink and makes the mirage of Missa expertly dicing onions shimmer, body wreathed in warmth.

Missa sets down the knife. He turns around, the off-white of his bone mask almost dandelion in the sun, and Phil just about loses it.

He's relieved. He's disbelieving. He's ecstatic, and he's furious, and he's oddly numb. Something inside him wants to hurl a fist across his jaw; something else wants him to curl a fist around the lapels of his cloak and never let go.

Phil's arms are around him before he even realizes that he's crossed the kitchen.

Missa makes a sound of surprise, arms briefly hovering like this is the last thing he expected, but it doesn't matter---Phil feels him return the embrace a heartbeat later, and Phil sinks into it. A soft noise of anguish dies in his throat; he buries his face in Missa's shoulder and clutches at the back of his cloak and squeezes him like he wants to shatter bone and nestles in closer with the irrational, irrepressible desire to burrow into Missa's chest and fucking live there. Missa would probably let him.

A hand comes to cradle the back of his head. He feels lips and nose land softly in his tangle of unbrushed morning hair.

"Buenos días, querido."

He's home.

[soaphawk]

Medwhump May 1 // Under Anesthesia

Simon’s never had the best experiences with surgery. Luckily, Captain Dad is there to help.

w/c: 1,194

pairing: ambiguous John Price/Simon “Ghost” Riley (can be read as platonic or romantic)

tags/warnings: surgery, hurt/comfort, simon needs a hug, good dad john price

For @medwhumpmay <3 cross-posted to ao3

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

“It’s gonna be okay, son.”

John squeezed Simon’s hand tight, fingers stroking over his bare skin in an attempt to comfort his lieutenant. Simon wasn’t having any of it, though, turning his pleading brown eyes on his Captain.

”Please, sir,” he begged, “Please don’t make me do this.”

”Simon…” He flinched when John’s free hand rose, hated how much of a burden he was being in the moment. His captain had never raised a hand in anger, there was no reason for him to be so terrified. “It’s gonna be okay.”

”No…” Simon’s low, weak moan, coupled with the tears gathering in his eyes, prompted John to slowly stroke over his short blonde hair. “Please, please, please…” he chanted.

John squeezed his fingers again, thumbing over scars and veins across the lieutenant’s skin. Why was he being so weak and pathetic? His captain had better things to do than console the man who’s name struck fear into the hearts of their enemies. Mentally, he scoffed. He needed to be stronger, shouldn’t be afraid of something so trivial. He shouldn’t have been sobbing like a child!

Simon had shed that skin years ago, hadn’t he?

(He had, but this was one of many moments where he so desperately wished John had been his real dad.)

”Simon, let me help.” John swiped the tears from his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

Simon’s mouth went dry, trying and failing to formulate words. How could he even explain? He shouldn’t fear pain, not like this.. not with what he’d gone through… not with what he’d put others through.

But it wasn’t just the pain.

It was the feeling of being trapped again.

A shudder wracked his body, mind dipping to those months spent isolated and afraid—

John’s arms wrapped around him the same moment he let loose a fearful, mournful moan. Startled, Simon didn’t react for a few moments before he sagged against his captain’s chest, sobbing weakly.

”I’ve got ya.”

”I… know,” Simon choked out.

”What’s scaring you?” John pulled back to look the man in the face, forcing Simon to meet his gaze. His voice held no judgment, only calm concern. Like he could fix anything Simon threw his way.

Could he?

Would he?

”It’s the anesthesia,” he finally warbled. “I can’t… last time…”

John’s eyes softened, encouraging him on. “You can tell me, Si.”

”It didn’t work.” Simon’s hands plucked frustratedly at the scratchy hospital sheets, glaring down like they’d personally offended him. Though, if he was being honest with himself, this entire goddamn place offended him. “Last time,” he clarified, watching John’s confused expression. “They tried to put me to… to sleep. It didn’t… take.”

John’s voice held soft horror. “You were awake during your last surgery?” At Simon’s nod, his hug tightened.

“Yeah,” The next words spilled unbidden from Simon’s mouth. “They told me to count back, and when I woke up it’d be all over. But I.. I felt them digging into me, poking and prodding and I couldn’t move—” he broke off with a loud sob, voice catching hard on the next words. “I couldn’t… escape… kept thinking back to… to—”

Words failed him. At the same time, John’s hand curved up to cradle the back of his head, carding through the unruly blonde strands. Simon gave himself over completely, slumping into John’s arms as his terrified cries continued.

God, he was weak. He didn’t deserve the name Ghost.

“Shh, easy lad.” John soothed. “I’ve gotcha, I’ve gotcha.”

”Please—“ Simon gasped. “Please don’t… be angry, sir, I’m… so sor—“

”None of that now,” John commanded. Simon stiffened in his arms, attempting to pull back with a silent sniffle. John only tightened his grip, smiling sadly. “At ease, son. Focus on me. You’re safe.”

”Please don’t hit me,” the words fell from his lips before he could snatch them back. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

His vision tunneled, breaths coming in short, heaving gasps as he tried to shove John away. The need to flee consumed Simon’s mind, overtaking every other thought as he struggled and cried in pain and desperation. He heard John bark something over his shoulder before returning to holding his lieutenant close. Big hands stroked down his back, warm and soothing and loving as John caught Simon’s limp form once more.

”Shh, Si, you’re safe. You’re safe, Simon,” John squeezed gently, careful to not hurt the man in his arms.

”I’m so scared,” Simon hiccuped. “I can’t—“

”Yes, you can.” John’s firm voice held so much conviction, Simon couldn’t help the plaintive whimper that he replied with. “You can. I won’t leave your side. I’ll be with you the whole time, last thing you’ll see before your nap is this ugly muppet’s face, and it’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up.”

”Captain Price?” A nurse poked her head in, voice no more than a squeak. “We need to prep the lieutenant for—“

”I’m coming with him.” John declared, leaving no room for argument.

And he did. Through the hallways, into the elevator, down to the operating theatre, John’s hand never left Simon’s. The string of gentle, soothing words never let up, those big blue eyes the only things Simon could focus on for fear of coming undone once more.

As soon as the doctors approached, however, Simon went stiff. A low whine built in his throat as they began their prepwork, gaze desperate as he lost sight of John for a moment—

“I’m here,” John, now donned in a surgical gown and cap, appeared above his head, hands grazing Simon’s temples. “Look at me, alright? Don’t look away. Just focus here.”

Simon helplessly stared up at his captain’s brilliant blue gaze. He tried—and failed, once more—to suppress a fearful whimper as a mask descended on his face, eyebrows knit together. John stroked his hair softly, the firm pressure keeping him grounded as the nurse hovered to his left.

”Count back from 100 out loud for me please, Lieutenant.”

”You’re gonna be alright, Si,” John assured. “Focus here.”

”100…” Simon couldn’t help the tremble in his tone.

”99…” Already his mind was fogging over.

”98…” Everything felt so far away, his body felt so heavy…

”Atta boy,” John murmured, sounding so distant to his tired ears. “Doing so well.”

”97…” His eyes were so tired, closing them couldn’t hurt, right? His captain would keep him safe…

”9… 6…” His voice slurred.

”9…” Simon never finished the end of the sentence.

John’s hand ended up being the first thing he could feel when he managed to pry his eyes open. Simon’s head pounded, vision swimming and thoughts scrambled. Groaning, he went to sit up, before another hand pressed down on his chest.

”Easy, son. Don’t move, just relax… that’s it…” His da—no, John’s—low voice soothed him.

“I—“

”It’s all done, you did brilliantly. It’s only been a couple of hours, just rest. You’re alright.”

”Thank you…” in his mind, he supplied the word ‘dad’ once more, mind still cloudy.

John chuckled softly as Simon’s eyes slid shut again. “Y’know, Si… I’d be proud to call you my son. Just sleep, your dad’s right here. I’ve got you.”

[dansconcepts]

Balloons

A (not so) little Komahina drabble with a Kyouko (and hints of Naegiri) preamble based on this interaction from the Danganronpa Summer Camp game (and yes I 100% bought it and for full price because I'm really silly but I'm so committed for the interactions like JSKAJSKSKA I want them to be happy so bad):

Hajime: You make the flower petals like this, attach the stem… and there ya go, done! Kyouko: Huh, you're surprisingly dexterous. Kyouko: Would you mind if I took this flower? Hajime: Sure, no problem at all. Kyouko: Thanks. Keep up the good work. Kyouko exits. Hajime: I know it's a fake flower, but… giving it to a girl is still kinda embarrassing. Hajime: And to Kyouko, no less. I hope she doesn't tell the boys that she got it from me…

The detective thumbs at the rubbery material, indeed appreciating Hajime’s workmanship. He truly does seem capable of plenty, even if it was like a jack of all trades. But oftentimes is better than a master of one. She retorts her silent conjecture. And indeed, it shows in the way his determination seems to spark around people who are motivated in their passions.

It is just like the creation of this flower. The happy yellow it sprouts reminds her of a certain classmate. She has no need to act coy to herself, it is prevalent to her that her emotions have strayed to a place she never anticipated them to go.

Makoto Naegi, the Ultimate Luck. He has shown time and time again he was more than such a title. Every time he asks questions, remarks on a viewpoint she hadn’t considered, provides patience and calmness when she is unable to compose herself quickly enough… he was endearing and dependable, the type that she can’t help but be drawn to in the midst of the chaos that was her detective duties.

Perhaps she will present this flower to Makoto. It may not be overly affectionate, but she knows Makoto enjoys small acts with messages as simple as “being thought about”. It’s an idea to scoff at, with his easy going personality being the most digestible compared to her fellow classmates. He is, quite often, considered by everyone as the de facto leader of their class the moment he stepped up in second year. His development was quite admirable and impressive. Everyday, he will be greeted by everyone and talked to in one way or the other.

In that sense, it is easier to dismiss his more anxious side, melancholic and self-loathing. Although caring for others is not very easy for her despite the strides being taken by her classmates, there is something about Makoto that makes her feel adequate in giving him an ear to listen to rather than forcing physical affection.

“Kirigiri?” A soft voice pushes through her reverie. Lavender eyes trail up to stark white hair, and a more casual outfit than she has ever seen him wearing. It reflects the setting of the festival however, and she endeavours to say as much-

“I apologize for interrupting you with my presence. I know you must have more important matters than looking upon trash like me,” Kyouko’s mouth closes. Nothing has prepared her to treat this sudden situation. She is aware of Komaeda’s low self-esteem and the way it manifests, but she has never been on its receiving end and is uncertain how to proceed. Komaeda continues on regardless, “I saw this flower balloon had flown out of your hands and I managed to get it back in one piece. How lucky!”

Indeed, in his hand is the yellow flower balloon that she must have let go of during her musings. She takes it from him and nods. “Thank you Komaeda.”

He beams. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, I’m very happy to help. It’s really the least I could do for an Ult- for such an admirable person.”

She notices the intentional slipping of the word “Ultimate”, but does not make any move to indicate her recognition of it. Clearly, it was a habit of his he was trying to stop, if his behaviour is any indication.

“Although," Komaeda says, "I did find it strange you had a balloon with you.”

“Hinata is the one making them. Although his repertoire was limited, he does what he offers quite well.”

The Ultimate Lucky student hums, turning his head back in the direction of where Hinata’s table was. “Really now? How fascinating.” He looks to the ground, and she wonders what he is pondering about.

She remembers seeing them together often, albeit in passing. She notes that their position relative to the celebration is quite distant, out closer to the beach, but still close enough to see most of the attractions. Hmm… “From what I observed, he still has about half a package of balloons left. I’m quite certain you can get one from him.”

Kyouko studies the way Komaeda turns to her warily. She has a hunch now though, and she states, “He would gladly give you one, regardless of what occurs. I think he will appreciate a more familiar presence supporting him.”

Some emotions seem to dart across Komaeda’s face, but she cannot process them all in time before it settles. He sighs. “Ah, I suppose you figured me out. As expected of the Ultimate Detective!” He praises. She sees the way he glances back to the festival tents. “I suppose I can pay a friend a visit.”

She allows herself a smile, hoping it comes off as encouraging. “Good luck.”

He laughs. “I sure hope I'll have it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nagito hugs himself loosely, clutching onto the soft fabric enveloping him as he walks past stands and tents. He looks around, biting his lip. A sigh inevitably escapes, much like his resolve always does.

He listens. Chatter, laughter- so much, so loud... But no cries or sobs. No cracks of wood or thumps of metal. And most thankfully, no screams. Regardless, he checks around him anyway. His presence here can change so many things. He can bring so much despair just by simply existing. Why did he possibly come in here again?

A glimpse of spiky brown hair and a familiar tie fills his vision. Right. It always traces back to Hajime.

The Reserve Course student goes to finish up shaping a red balloon into a flower, and hands it over to the Ultimate Astronaut, although his name escapes him. He can hear the “Awesome!” all the way from where he's standing, which is kind of impressive. The man makes his way to the Ultimate Caregiver, who he immediately tries giving the flower to. She looks pleased. Yet, she shouts “Do you want to die!?” so maybe he misread her?

Nagito turns back to Hajime, who’s already gesturing to him to come over. “Hey!” He smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here!”

He frowns. “I know that my presence isn’t deserved around U-.”

“Okay, shut the fuck up. You know I’m just glad you’re out here. How are you enjoying it so far?”

“Ah. What if I said I only came to see you?” He can’t help but tease. Hajime’s ears, as predicted, turn red.

“You can’t be serious. Out of everyone else?” that are Ultimates isn't spoken, but heavily implied.

“Now who’s the one who needs to stop talking about status?” He teases.

“H-hey! I didn't even say anything!” Hajime coughs. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t change the subject.”

Nagito hums. “I’m not joking though, I did come here because of you. Kirigiri told me you made her flower balloon and I just had to see what that was about.”

Upon sharing that info, Hajime averts his gaze, clearly blushing. How interesting…

He feels tempted to smirk, but doesn't in favour of sounding noncommittal, “Something wrong about what I said, Hajime?”

“Nope, nothing.” He trails off. “…You don’t think she’s told anyone else, do you?”

Nagito crosses his arms. Why would Hajime care? Is he embarrassed? How silly. He eyes the bag of balloons and lets out an amused puff. “Well, it certainly benefitted you if she did, considering you’ve emptied the whole bag.” The sigh escapes him before he can stop it. He didn’t even realize he wanted a balloon before it was taken away.

Just his luck. How disappointing.

“Huh?" Hajime asks. "It’s empty?”

He swiftly lifts the bag. "Aha!" He calls out triumphantly. Turns out, under the opaque portion of the packaging sits a deflated green balloon.

Nagito grins. “How lucky!”

Hajime responds with a smirk. He adds as much air as possible to the balloon, and when satisfied, says, “Alright, I know you’re going to make fun of me, but I can only manage a flower and a dog. Which one do you want?”

Although he probably would’ve been quick to tease Hajime about his skills “befitting a Reserve Course student”, the mention of a dog makes the words freeze on his tongue.

“A dog would be nice.” Nagito admits.

“Oh, sure.” Hajime says, a little disconcerted by the honesty, and his eyebrows are furrowed. Adorable. He doesn’t know how Hajime isn’t an Ultimate. In a way, he almost likes that he isn’t.

Within a few minutes of tanned hands twisting and turning rubber, he is finally presented with a cute little dog.

The ends of his lips tug upwards. He gently grabs the balloon, being extra careful to transport it into his arms.

“This is wonderful.” He says breathily.

Hajime looks at Nagito, bemused. “Your eyes are sparkling. I’ve never seen you so happy.” And almost as if it was an afterthought, he adds, “It looks good on you.”

What? “H-huh?”

“It seriously can’t be that surprising. It’s… nice to see you happy. Not that you don’t already look nice! You tied your hair and even wore a jinbei for the festival. You’re looking pretty good.”

The lucky student just stares at Hajime, who grows steadily more red under the gaze. The Reserve Course student swipes his hand through the air, as if that'll somehow dispel the flurry of thoughts going through his head. “Alright, what’s with that look?”

“I’m glad you think I look ‘good’, Hajime." He starts, "I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, much less someone like yourself, but I see your eyes would be more used to seeing trash in your everyday life and thinking it’s beautiful.”

Hajime stares him down. “Nagito, anyone at this camp would agree you’re good-looking. And I know you’re just saying that shit about me being a Reserve Course because you’re spiraling a little bit.” Ah. He looks at the ground. “Hey, it’s fine. We kinda talked about this, remember? I know we’re friends.”

He doesn’t reply. How could he? To be read so easily…

A warm hand grabs his shoulder. His gaze immediately whips to Hajime's face. “D-don’t think too much about this." A flustered Hajime spits out. "Let’s just go. We’re going around and enjoying this damn festival together.”

How is Hajime Hinata real?

“Is this your way of getting a date, Hajime?” He says playfully instead. “You could have just asked, you know. I’m sure Chiaki- or anyone else really- would not have declined.”

Hajime gives a raised eyebrow at the mention of Chiaki, but doesn’t seem to press it. Instead, he goes, “I’d rather be here with you, to be honest. I said it already, but it’s nice to have you out here. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

Nagito shuts up at that. While judging Hajime the whole time, his face isn't any better, probably looking crimson at this point.

“And you dropped this.” Hajime waves the green balloon dog that ended up in his hands. The Ultimate blinks, surprised he had let go of it. However, the wind picks it out of Hajime’s hand and starts carrying it on its currents.

“Shit!” Hajime exclaims. He jumps, but it flies out of his reach.

“Fuck! I’m sorry Nagito, I didn’t mean to lose it.”

He easily waves it off with a chuckle. “No, it’s alright. Besides, you could always make another one.”

“I mean, honestly, this was pretty fun." Hajime admits, "I wouldn’t mind doing it again…”

And Hajime trails off, and he knows exactly why, considering he’s leaned in in that cutesy way he’s seen girls in dramas do. He smirks at Hajime’s bewildered face. While amused, he backs off, as if it was merely an accidental brush.

He sends him an innocent smile. Olive eyes narrow in response, but they face forward again in silent acceptance. It would be quite impressive, if Hajime’s face wasn’t flushed.

“There’s a restaurant here. You’re coming with me.”

He nods happily.

Things could always be worse because of my luck, but for some reason I feel like, perhaps, I'll be okay. But can I hope? Do I dare hope?

Nothing hurts more than hope getting crushed.

…But maybe…

Maybe this is worth it.

[queenburd]

I'm still writing TSP fics! I've been primarily writing Parable Actors ficlets that are confined to the discord server, but I've been thinking about classic TSP stuff, so here is a piece about how the Narrator's memories work.

Takes place in TSP HD, after lotus eaters and the flashback that's seen in in-game motivation, part 1. It also uses the pause feature that is mentioned in pause. None of these are necessary reading, but if you like my writing and want to see how Stanley and the Narrator have gotten to this point, then I would appreciate if you checked them out!

CW for an incomplete Zending run.

|.|.|.|

“Stanley, please,” the Narrator says, voice weak, “let’s go back to the other room. Please?”

Stanley swallows, looking up at the stairs. He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do this, you know you don’t.”

He sits on the first landing, looking at his shoes where they rest on the steps.

The Narrator promised he would reset.

“I will! I will reset, soon, as soon as I’m ready, like we agreed!”

Stanley grimaces and gets to his feet. He ascends a flight and the fellow groans in frustration.

“Please, Stanley! I just wanted to be in there a little longer, you said I could—!”

He fell into the trap again.

It’s hit or miss, with the starry room. The Narrator is still trying to find his own sense of empowerment. The peace the room affords him can become addicting, drawing him in and in and in. It quiets his mind like nothing else does, and he’s loathe to leave it.

But sometimes, he can manage it. Sometimes, he can take his fill, then sigh happily and reset the game, refreshed and renewed, and ready to do and be more. Sometimes he can free himself of the siren song, stop eating the lotus flowers, and continue sailing, as Odysseus did.

This is not one of those times.

Stanley doesn’t want to do this! He doesn’t like it—doesn’t like putting himself or the voice through this experience. He finds no power in it, not like others might, nor does he find catharsis. Yet he has little choice—he has no other way to free them from this ending. There’s no other way out.

“There is! Please, just listen to me, just go back and we’ll relax and then I’ll reset!”

It won’t. He knows that. It wants to believe it will, but deep down, the voice knows.

Stanley makes it to the top landing, and steps off.

“No no no no no!”

The Narrator’s voice breaks as he makes impact. Stanley gasps as he pulls himself off the ground. There’s no blood—some pain, but no centered to any point of him. It’s diffused through all of him.

Still hurts like a bitch. He’s limping to the steps again, noticeably slower, when the Narrator says, frantic, “I’ll reset, I’ll reset, I’m resetting, I’m—“

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley braces his palms on the edge of his desk, and thinks in the same moment the Narrator speaks:

[ "Pause." ]

He inhales sharply, and then relaxes into his office chair. The Narrator lets him sit quietly, gathering his thoughts, before the fellow speaks.

“Stanley? Is everything okay?”

He lifts a hand in a seesaw gesture, and lets it fall into his lap.

What does the Narrator remember?

The response he gets is a thoughtful hum, noticeably without distress. “Let me see—if I recall correctly, we went through the red door in the warehouse, yes?”

Stanley nods. The Narrator continues calmly.

“Well, then I must have managed to reset without issue.”

All at once, Stanley feels very tired.

“Oh. I didn’t manage it, did I?”

On his part, the fellow seems at least politely apologetic. And, really, Stanley doesn’t hold it against him, that he can’t remember, nor that he struggles with the issue every time. It’s why he’s not even angry, or upset, about this. He’s just… tired. Resigned, perhaps.

The voice sighs gently. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He offers the memory.

“No, please; in your own words, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not force you to relive it.”

That’s generous, he thinks. He can oblige.

They went through the red door. They were in the room with the lights for a while. The Narrator stopped talking to Stanley, and didn’t respond when Stanley asked to reset. So Stanley had left.

He had gone to the stairwell.

“Yes, I think—yes,” the voice interrupts. “I had tried to tell you to go back, but you did end up falling before I finally forced a reset. Oh, Stanley, I am sorry,” it says, with real sorrow.

It—remembered?

“Yes, though not without prompting, I’m afraid.”

How? It hadn’t remembered before, what had changed?

“I—um—oh, look.”

Stanley’s monitor display—changes.

The black screen disappears, instead displaying a desktop, with task bar and icons. As he watches, the folder icon is clicked, quickly opening a window that displays more folders.

“Now, this is simply a visual metaphor, you understand, yes? Imagine, perhaps, my mind is the computer, and the files inside house all the different bits of me. However, I am also the person navigating the computer. Are you with me so far?”

Stanley presses his hands together and rests his elbows on the desk, then his chin on his hands. He was… kind of following.

“Now, imagine every memory is a file. Every run is located somewhere in the computer, you see? All my scripts, every word I have said and every thought I have had, it’s here, somewhere.”

Then why does he not remember certain things?

“Stanley I am getting to that, you’ve always been so terribly impatient,” the voice huffs at him, eliciting an eyeroll. “Honestly, you wouldn’t know good set-up and pay off if it bit you in the arse thirty minutes from now, after I’ve foreshadowed it.”

Yap yap yap. He frees one of his hands to open and close it like a talking mouth.

“Oh for God’s—no, no,” the Narrator interrupts sharply. “I will not get irritated, I will not become distracted, I am going to explain this because this is important.”

He inhales deeply, and exhales slowly, and as he does Stanley sits back again, focusing once more on his screen. Curiously, he moves his mouse and double-clicks on a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders—

Oh.

“Yes,” the Narrator says, “You see? I simply don’t know where the memory is. I need guidance. I need to know where to look.”

Stanley sits back.

“Mind you, it’s not a perfect metaphor. Sometimes I do have an idea of where to start, a path or—“

An Adventure Line™️, his mind adds unhelpfully.

“A-hah, not, not quite. But you see, when you give me the starting point, you can lead me to the correct file, do you see?”

Kind of, yes. The thing is, Stanley didn’t understand computers too well, so some of the metaphor didn’t make a lot of sense.

“Alright, let’s try a different example. Let’s take the office, for an example. Let’s say we have the office, with its many halls and doors, and behind a door, somewhere, is the memory. The problem is, I’m not sure which door. But say you know the building, so you can wind through the halls and lead me to the correct door, and I just need to open it.”

Okay. So…. The Narrator’s memories were lost, but not gone. If Stan gave him context, he could get to the memory himself?

“I do believe that’s the case! It is, I think, a matter of experimentation to confirm my theory, but I do believe the fact that you and I have a rapport now is what makes this even possible. Could you imagine, if we hadn’t come to a sort of truce, what would have happened? Why, I probably wouldn’t even know there was a missing memory to even search for!”

Stanley’s mouth curls down. Yeah. He could imagine.

“…oh.”

The single utteration feels heavy. There is a long pause.

Then;

“I—I can’t recall if I’ve said it before, how grateful I am to you, Stanley. I—I know we’ve had our differences—“

Issues. Fights. Desperate bids for control—

“—yes, thank you, your point has been made; but I… appreciate that we’ve been able to come to an accord and tried to, to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I… I know I would be far worse off, if you hadn’t… been willing to compromise.”

Stanley crosses his arms, feeling a little off-balance. He imagines getting all that out was absolute hell.

“Honestly?” The Narrator sighs. “Not at all. I really—I really don’t know what I would do without you.”

His eyes fall. The voice asks, a bit hesitant.

“Are we okay? Is this too much?”

Stanley rubs an eye. It… it is a bit much, he thinks. He’s recovering from a bit of a rough reset, and new information, and this still growing connection they have is something he doesn’t know how to talk about, sometimes. It isn’t the first time the Narrator has apologized or thanked him, and their bond isn’t a new one at this point, but there’s still a part of him that doesn’t like looking at the hurt before it. It still feels raw. Maybe because of the ending they just experienced, but still.

“I see. Well,” the voice starts, feigning nonchalance, “I’m ready to go whenever you are, but if you need to pause for a little longer, then I’ll leave you to it for a bit, shall I?”

His screen closes the folders window, but it does not return to the black input display. The voice quiets, not gone, he thinks, but giving him space to think and decompress. It makes no argument, at least, when he double-clicks on the cards icon on his desktop. It lets him play Solitaire in peace.

He doesn’t keep it waiting. He exits the office, hops out the window, and lets it serenade him with a new, silly song. He thinks it is grateful.

It’s getting better. The Narrator is making strides with every run. There are stumbles, in the path, certainly—the last run is an example of one—but each time he gets a little better.

And Stanley is proud of him. And Stanley doesn’t know what he would do without the Narrator, either. Despite everything, he’s—glad. That they have each other. That they’re trying.

That they’re friends.

He’s glad.

[fleet-off]

Menagerie [4]

(previous parts: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3)

The vet mentioned that rats like company. A day after the pet supply store, Vegas stalks into the kitchen with Pete faithfully in tow and sets two more rat carriers on the counter. He’s evading eye contact, which is a shame because Pete looks majorly in love with him.

Macau peers through the carriers’ plastic slats and glimpses whiskers and hairless tails. “Two rats? Is it my birthday?”

Vegas snorts. “Only if you want rat cake for your birthday dinner. No, we’re just…celebrating.”

“The final stitches are out,” Pete says, eyes gleaming. “Doc’s very impressed with his progress.”

“I’m cleared for baths again.”

Macau groans. “We don’t have a housekeeper, please don’t clog the drain with your long-ass rose-petal soaks.”

“I’ll do worse than that,” Vegas threatens, and—Macau can’t remember the last time he sounded so genuinely cheerful.

“Jerk.” He knocks gently against his brother’s shoulder. “Glad you’re getting better, bro.”

Vegas ruffles his hair and drops a kiss on his head. “Me too,” he says. “Me too.”

One of the rats crouches in the back corner of its carrier, sniffing at the air. The other is investigating the gaps in the wire-grated door. Vegas pokes his finger into the carrier, and the creature at once approaches and takes his finger in its tiny paws. It noses at it—hesitates, weighing options in its little rat brain—and begins to nibble at the tip.

“He likes you,” Pete murmurs.

A vague smile softens Vegas’s face. “D’you know, Macau was a biter when he first got his baby teeth,” he says. “Little menace mauled anything he could fit in his mouth. Bit our uncle’s mole once, right in the middle of a visit.”

The story is worn from over-telling, but it seems fresh to Pete. He stifles a snicker—like wanting to laugh is secret, somehow. “What did he do?”

“Couldn’t do anything, could he? Getting upset with the baby is a bad look.” Vegas wiggles his finger. The rat adjusts its grip and keeps chewing on him. “He just had to stand there with that goonish dad-smile stuck to his face and pretend to be indulgent while Ma coaxed Macau off. He made the funniest fucking wheeze.”

“And Ma freaked out, but Ba nearly laughed his ass off,” Macau recites.

“He wasn’t upset?”

“He was proud. Said it meant Macau would grow up strong.”

This one’s a fighter.

Macau grimaces. When he was twelve—when their father forgot his presence and even Vegas had less time for him than before—he’d clung to that old story. A born fighter, he’d thought. Born to crush that filthy family between my teeth. The rest of them just couldn’t see it yet.

“When did Ba get anything right,” he says now. In the open air of the kitchen with their father dead in the ground, it only aches a little.

Vegas’s eyebrows draw together; his mouth catches on his instinctive response. “Ba,” he says. “Well. He wasn’t always wrong.”

…Which is the funniest shit he could say, standing here with his healing wounds and his awkward half-smiling boyfriend a step too close and a rat gnawing happily on his finger—and fuck Ba, honestly, for never seeing everything he got wrong about Vegas—but Macau’s not fighter enough to argue.

“Hia, you’re going to need new stitches if you keep letting that rat bite you,” he says instead.

Vegas’s expression eases. “He’s fine. He’s not doing it to hurt, he’s just curious or hungry. Baby hedgehogs are the same. Get the—Pete?”

“Snack sticks,” Pete says, having already fished them from the bag under his arm.

Vegas takes three. “Here. Offer one to the other little guy, see if it’ll help him settle in. And Macau—for the one in your room.”

“The OG rat.”

“The—fuck it, the OG rat.”

“Ojirat?” Pete cocks his head. “Is that what we’re calling him?”

Vegas’s arm jerks mid-handoff. Macau misses his snack stick. It hits the floor—some seeds scatter—Pete’s already bending to help, but Macau ducks into a crouch before he can. “It’s fine, phi, my bad. Uh, we’re not calling him anything, I don’t think. Don’t…” He tries to sweep the loose seeds into his palm. The tacky honey sticks to the floor and to his hands.

“Is that what we’re calling him,” he hears Vegas repeat, tone indecipherable. His nails tap against the counter.

Macau is glad to be low to the ground, and then ashamed for it. Vegas isn’t going to— “You don’t have to sweat the names, p’Pete,” he says. “It’s just a pet.”

Vegas…laughs. High and a little hiccuping, which means it’s genuine. “You know that’s a Ba thing too,” he says.

Macau’s ears burn. “Oh,” he says stupidly. His thumb crushes one of the seeds into the floor. He’s making a mess. “I always figured it was a you thing.”

More specifically—a who cares what it’s called, it’s just going to die anyway thing. One of the things you rip up and hide under your pillow after, waking the next morning to find smears of half-formed names in crayon on the pillowcase. Macau’s always been good for a mess and not much more.

The stain a name leaves seems suddenly more permanent than crayons or the honey residue on Macau’s palms. Sticky, solid. Macau’s fingers itch for it. “It’s confusing with three,” he blurts. “It’s confusing, if we don’t name them.”

He raises his eyes to his brother, whose gaze is tightly focused on his fearless, mouthy little rat. “Macau,” he says. Lets out a long breath and turns to face him. “Fuck’s sake, it’s my mess. Get off the floor, toss that stick and come take another one—I’ll handle the rest. Pete, pass the paper towels?”

So Macau rises, and washes his hands, and a wet paper towel picks up the honey residue and seeds in seconds, and—some things aren’t a big deal at all, actually. Which is. Cool.

“Side question,” Macau says once his brother is on his feet again, “If I wanted to get you to clean my room for me too…”

“Oh, fuck off.” Vegas offers him a fresh snack stick. He’s breathing a little harder, favoring his right side, but he waves off Pete’s hand with his teeth bared in a grin. “No housekeepers, we sort our own damn messes. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Pete nudges his hip against Vegas’s. “Names?” he asks.

“Names,” Vegas agrees.

(to be continued)

[comfort-questing]

14. "just hold on"

inspired by Cosumosu's glorious FE3H art from day 8 that I simply can't stop staring at. @cosumosu thanks as always for sharing.

--

maybe he should have studied more Faith magic in the old days, when everything had made more sense. maybe... maybe there were other things he could have done to prevent this, or maybe nothing, nothing at all.

Sylvain took another deep breath in, the salt air of Derdriu Harbor mixed with smoke now; his dizziness abated for a moment, but the sharp pain in his side made him cough and gag again. the blood and acid taste in his mouth was almost familiar by now.

never mind. nothing to do about that now. he wasn't dying.

but Claude was.

his leader, his commander, his friend.

Sylvain had dragged him out of the way as the battle went on, to this corner of the docks between crates and old salt-stained stone wall. Claude's head lolled to the side, eyes closed, unflinching as Sylvain scrabbled back the ragged remains of his jacket to look closer at the wound. the sword in Professor's hands had slashed open his chest, from shoulder halfway to his hip, leaving splintered bone visible and bright blood spurting out with each effortful breath.

Sylvain hissed a breath in between his teeth, throat tightening with despair.

here in the momentary solace, the noise of battle dulling to a distant roar as his own consciousness became more and more slippery, he did what he hadn't done for years and tried to remember. remember Professor, and Manuela, and weekend lectures on healing, when he'd sat between Felix and Lorenz in the back row and tried not to fall asleep in the sunlight falling through the windows...

come on, Sylvain, think. what a fool he was, unable to help or save anyone, when he was the only one here, perhaps the only one left at all who would try to save Derdriu's fallen general now.

the fumbling half-recalled spell, incantation as shaky as the spell diagram he'd scrawled, did something anyway; about as much, or as little, as either of the healing potions he trickled between Claude's bloodied half-parted lips. enough to pin back together the shattered collarbone on Claude's left shoulder, and seal the dozen smaller gashes from the shards of his broken Relic bow; enough to make it so that each breath he fought for gained him at least as much air as blood, anyway. but the edges of the wound still gaped open and the color was still drained from beneath the tan of Claude's skin, his breaths rattling through punctured, collapsing lungs.

too late, too late. Sylvain blinked back tears, furiously, hopelessly. the Empire's trumpets were blowing, somewhere beyond their hiding place; someone would find them, soon, and he tried to tell himself it would be one of the others. but he had seen Hilda go down at the narrow bridge, screaming in laughter or tears or both as her axe shattered in a burst of light. and all the others had been holding the line further up, and met the enemy first.

maybe they were the last two Alliance commanders left, and it was only a matter of time until all was over. but it wasn't over yet. he leaned forward, clutching at his side, feeling blood welling hot between his fingers.

"Claude," he said, hoarsely, "listen to me, Claude..."

he wanted to tell himself that Claude's eyelids had flickered, under the mess of his bloodstained dark hair. he didn't know. at least he could hear his breaths still, slow and ragged, fading like the waves as the tide went out to sea.

"Claude... hold on. don't die."

alive was a start. they could work with alive. everything else would come later.

"...just... hold on. please."

[batbirdies]

As some other have mentioned, with ao3 still down, I’m happy to send some of my fics to people if you wish. I’ll probably try to post some of my one shots here later today.

[kitkatt0430]

Talk Shop Tuesday: What's one goal that you're working towards and what steps are you taking to try to achieve that goal? Why is this goal something you want to achieve? <3 -@fieldsofview

So my main goal this year is to have fewer Works In progress - both on the small level of unpublished fics/chapters and the bigger level of chaptered fics/series.

This is to a.) clean up my WiP folder(s) on my computer, try to move stuff that's been sitting there for a long time into the done pile and b.) to close out some of my unfinished works on Ao3 so that I can celebrate them being done!!! Or at least having made progress on them, which is still worth celebrating. I've got a number of WiPs right now and a strong desire to cut down on them, so that's why I set this goal.

The new Arrow Redux series that I started this year has actually been in service of this goal despite technically being a new series on Ao3. It's a WiP that's been sitting in my folders for several years now so it's been good to actually not only make progress on it but to be three fics in posting-wise with a bit written for the fourth fic. This is one that I had a lot of scattered notes for in addition to random scenes written for it (though not all actually work anymore) but it's definitely nice to get that sense of accomplishment at finishing pieces of this series instead of the "meh" feeling of closing the document unfinished once more.

It is admittedly a bit of a vague goal in many ways since I'm not specifying specific WiPs and series, but sometimes if I push too hard on one thing then I wind up burning out fast because I'm trying too hard. But considering I finally got the third part of Thaw completed (thus finally closing out the series) and made progress on two other open series, I think I'm doing pretty good at achieving my overall goal for the year.

Steps I'm taking towards this goal are

trying not to start new WiPs that I know I can't finish in a week or two which I've been surprisingly successful at

I don't open my fic files with the goal of completing them, just at adding to them. Often if I approach it with the 'i just want a little progress, don't have to finish yet' attitude then I wind up getting back into the groove of things more easily after re-reading what's there so far. And then it does wind up finished after all.

I do want to make progress on my older unfinished fics/series the most, so I'm also re-reading what I have so far. It's the best way to remind myself of what happened and where it's been headed... and sometimes also to realize that maybe it needs to move in a new direction. Once I've refreshed myself on what's there, it's a lot easier to move forward on what isn't.

[lexsssu]

Soft (Vergil)

TAGS: Vergil/Dragoness!reader, smut, breeding, pregnancy, heats/ruts, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

“Moooooommm, my hair’s already okay as it is. You don’t have to keep grooming it!”

“Hush, darling. Mother knows best and if I say that your hair needs to be groomed then it means that it needs to be groomed. Now, stay still and let Mama fix you up~”

Nero grumbled and pouted, but simply allowed himself to become limp in your grasp as you combed his snowy locks for him, a bright red blush lighting up his cheeks that were yet another feature he’d inherited from his father. To be honest, Nero took mostly after Vergil in terms of looks, but he was definitely more expressive than your mate.

“...’m not a lil kid anymore…”

“Regardless of how old you are, you will always be a child in my eyes, Nero. I bore you into this world with my body and nothing can ever change the bond between a mother and her child” You smile and nuzzle the top of the young man’s head, inhaling his scent while bathing him in your own, draconic instincts, particularly your maternal ones, overflowing as you carried another babe within your belly. 

“...Just let your mother be, Nero. Once your new sibling is born she won’t be babying you anymore,” said Vergil eloquently as he sat on his favorite armchair, reading through a well-worn poetry book and looking like painting straight out of a Victorian-era portrait.

“Your father is just teasing you. You’ll always be Mama’s darling boy~” You giggle and place a kiss on your son’s forehead, watching gleefully as his cheeks turn an even deeper red from your affections.

Though seemingly minding his own business, Vergil always had his eye on you both even as he read the ever so familiar words upon the inked pages. There is a softness in the blue of his eyes that is hidden from the world outside of your cozy little home. 

A softness that is reserved only for you, his mate, and all your offspring...and maybe Dante when the devil hunter wasn’t being an absolute insufferable moron.

It’s amazing how meeting you had allowed him to see the world in a different light. To rediscover parts of himself that he’d long thought to have died off on the night his entire life had changed forever and molded him into a man fraught with only the ambition for power.

He could still remember that moment so clearly, as if it happened just yesterday...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you need some help? You looked like you had quite the fall from so high up…”

The eldest son of Sparda blinked, a rare look of incredulity on his normally impassive face as he stared at the small hand being held out to him and the young woman who owned it. 

Mundus’ grotesque form lay upon the blood red ground, a mass of flesh with hundreds of hands sticking out of him that would have struck fear in the hearts of most living and undead creatures. However, the Prince of Darkness was obviously deceased as he lay immobile, gaping wounds and terrible gashes littering his foul body as if his opponent had just tore through him without mercy.

“...Do you know that thing? It kept yapping ever since I dropped in here kinda like how you did and well...I just wasn’t really in the mood to deal with the monologues so I took him out of his misery,” you chuckle at the young man’s astonished expression, quite liking how expressive his reactions were despite having only just met him.

“So ummm...do you wanna go to the throne room with me? That thing’s lackeys said that I should sit on the throne to make my rule as their new boss ‘official’ and well, I dunno about you but any place is better than kneeling on the wet ground”

Still flustered with the turn of events, Vergil could only wordlessly nod and before he could get up on his own, you grasp his free hand and pull him up with surprising strength.

“Great! Since you’re new here too, we both can get a tour of the place!”

The katana-wielder would have normally pulled his hand back by now in disgust and or disdain, but strangely enough he didn’t mind how your utterly warm and soft hand clutched his own. Your hand is so small that he could easily cover it if he took the initiative to do so, but he found himself both reluctant to move and content with...whatever this was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Darling, please...fuck me open. Mate me. Breed me…!” You whine and whimper as you sway your hips tantalizingly, looking back at Vergil who’d activated his Sin Devil Trigger form with complete want and adoration. Everything about his current form aroused your most primal side, wanting nothing more than to have him fuck you until were bow-legged and undeniably swollen with his potent seed.

Though he couldn’t speak up in this form, the low grunts and the way his scaled hands took handfuls of your backside as he pressed his equally demonic-looking cock into your weeping slit had you keening and sighing as he sunk its entire length in one thrust. 

As Vergil had his way with your equally enthusiastic self, you couldn’t help but smile stupidly as thoughts of the future filled your mind. Specifically, the pitter-patter of little feet that would undeniably become an absolute reality soon enough, especially as you feel the base of your mate’s cock inflating in order to lock himself inside your willing cunt.

You always did like the name Nero...

[harumiura]

silly little scene from a silly little thing i wrote................

[tup-ika-5385]

Summary:

Taking a nervous breath, Tup approached the hangar bay, gearbag slung over his shoulder, all packed for his new mission. Recently, Captain Rex recommended him as a potential ARC candidate, which had him nearly vibrating in excitement. However, he didn’t have as much experience as some of the other applicants, so he’s been assigned a mission, a trial run of sorts, to see how he’d do fighting alongside someone outside the 501st. All this to explain Tup’s anxious anticipation as he approached the Omicron-class shuttle currently parked in the Resolute’s main hangar.

Chapter 2 Summary:

After some stakeout bonding time between the Bad Batch and Tup, tensions rise when one member goes missing.

Chapter 2:

“So, Tech,” Tup asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled since Hunter left a few minutes ago. “How do you guys typically organize in a standard attack formation? Most configurations I know start with five troopers, so I’m just trying to figure out where I should slot in if this comes down to a firefight.” He wisely didn’t ask about why they were a group of four, or even if they were from the same batch; he figured it’d be a touchy subject.

Wrecker interrupted with a laugh. “Ha, standard formation! Dunno if you noticed, but we’re not very standard ourselves!” He chuckled.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Tup sent Wrecker a grin; the larger trooper reminded him a little bit of Hardcase. If he were here, they would’ve gotten along like a ship on fire.

Adjusting his goggles, Tech nodded at Wrecker’s statement. “Wrecker is correct; as a Commando squadron, our attack formations vary significantly from standard. Instead, we use a series of plans, numbered one through 99, having memorized our positions and responses… well, most of us, that is.”

At this, Wrecker gave a sheepish grin. “Was never really much for studying; but if I’ve done it once, I can do it again pretty easily, so Hunter’ll usually just say “Like that time on Felucia” or something. That, or I can just smash ‘em to pieces!” 

Tup nodded in understanding, making sure to keep an eye on their objective, “Makes sense. One of my brothers in the 501st is like that. Sometimes he has trouble paying attention during our mission briefings, so the Captain would usually send him a quick written comm afterwards, summarizing the main objectives. He’s saved my life more than a few times. A good vod, quick on his feet.” 

Wrecker grinned, “Sounds like my kind of Reg!”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a “reg”?” Tup tilted his head questioningly. Earlier when Crosshair had called him that, he’d been sure he meant it as an insult, but he wasn’t getting the same vibe from Wrecker now.

“Means regular clone, ya know, without modifications and stuff.” Wrecker explained, shrugging.

Tup stifled a laugh, not wanting to come off as rude. “Heh. Most brothers I know would be hard-pressed to call anyone in the 501st regular.”  

“How come?” Wrecker asked.

Tup shrugged, “Probably partially because of our General. Skywalker’s a bit of a loose canon, compared to most jedi, and a lot of the larger battalions kinda imitate the styles of their generals. Plus, Captain Rex is always looking for free-thinkers when he recruits on Kamino, which gets us a pretty interesting mix of vode.” 

Humming in understanding, Tech spoke up. “Perhaps that is why Commander Cody suggested a joint mission. We don’t usually associate with other battalions, but GAR command has been looking to… adjust the leadership structures associated with Commando squads recently. It’s likely that he thought we’d have more luck finding cohesion with less… regular regs.” He considered, thinking to himself.

Giving another shrug, Tup looked back out the window. The Bad Batch was a little rough around the edges, but given what he’d seen so far, he wouldn’t mind working with them again. The group fell into silence again, this time a little more comfortably. Wrecker had taken’s Hunter’s place as the second lookout, aided somewhat by the infrared setting on his prosthetic eye, so Tup spent a few minutes listening to Tech as he explained a few of their more basic plans, sending them to Tup’s comm in case they became relevant.

Peering through his scopes again, Tup let out an excited noise. “There’s a lothcat!”

‘What? Where?!” Wrecker asked, sharing his excitement.

“Over there, on the edge of the supply field!”

Looking through his own pair of scopes, Wrecker grinned. “Aww, look at the little guy, takin’ a nap in the sun! Kinda looks like Crosshair on our mission to Ord Cestus.” 

Tup chuckled at the mental image, noticing the black and white coloring and permanent grumpy expression on its sleeping face.

All of a sudden, Tech’s comm chirped, like Crosshair had been summoned. Tech answered it with a look of confusion. “This is Tech, what’s your status, Crosshair?”

Crosshair’s gruff voice sounded annoyed as he asked, “When’s Hunter going to get his lazy shebs over here? I’ve been waiting for nearly 20 minutes.” 

Like a switch had been flipped, Tech’s form straightened nearly hard enough to snap. Tapping intently at his datapad, he scanned the security footage for his brother. “Hunter left right after we called you. He should have been there fifteen minutes ago.”

“Maybe he got lost?” Wrecker suggested, looking nervous.

Tech shook his head, “Unlikely. Hunter’s modifications give him awareness of a planet’s magnetic poles, meaning he is always aware of his cardinal directions.” 

“Well, let’s go looking for him!” Wrecker said, standing up, barely remembering his flimsy civvie disguise. The rest of the group quickly followed. Crosshair met them in the middle, taking the lead; without Hunter, his enhanced vision made him the best tracker they had. 

“There’s signs of a scuffle, here.” He pointed out disturbed dirt, noticing two pretty clear imprints where Hunter’s hands had been pressed into the ground, but they looked different, intentional. 

“Tech. What’s that symbol mean?” He asked their resident genius. Outside of ARC sign, Hunter and Tech had come up with their own shorthand for various status updates, and that’s likely what Hunter was trying to communicate when he got taken.

Tech leaned closer, adjusting his goggles to get a better look. “This one means ‘Enemy off radar,’ and this one… ‘Extreme caution, pursue objective at a distance.’” Of the three of them, Tech was usually the best at keeping his cool in stressful situations, Wrecker and Crosshair could be loose-cannons, but his forehead creased in worry as he tried to decipher the message. 

“Enemy off-radar? What’s that supposed to mean?” Tup asked, and Crosshair shrugged.

With a sudden intake of air, Tech had a realization. “He didn’t sense them coming." Tech's hands gestured wildly as he explained, becoming more animated. "Hunter’s enhancements grant him an awareness of everything within a kilometer of his surroundings, sometimes more. Sneaking up on him should not have been possible without some sort of experimental technology. Perhaps that’s how the medical supplies keep getting stolen!” 

“What about the second one then?” Crosshair asked, expression terse. 

“Well, objective could mean our mission objective, to discover who has been stealing the medical supplies. Hunter being taken implies that we were likely being watched, and if I am correct…” Tech paused, taking out his datapad again to look at the camera feed of the hangar where the supplies should be. “As I suspected, our opponent utilized our distraction to escape with the supplies once again.”

Wrecker let out a grunt of frustration, slamming a fist into a nearby wall. “So all this was for nothin’?”

“Hardly,” Tech said, glancing furtively around the alleyway. “But before I can say more, we should head back to the Marauder. It’s not far from here.”

_________________

Back at the Havoc Marauder, the Bad Batch plus Tup gathered around the holo-table. 

“Alright, what was so important that we had to wait until we were at the ship?” Crosshair griped, jaw tight with worry. 

“I just need to check the Marauder’s surveillance systems to confirm my hypothesis.” Tech said, not pausing to talk. After a moment, he made an affirmative noise before turning back to the rest of the group.

“I had noticed, when looking at the feed of the missing supplies, a strange anomaly that wasn’t visible before, that disappeared during the time that Hunter went missing. Using the Marauder’s systems, I was able to pinpoint the time the anomaly first started, as well as a general location. Using this information, as well as that from the locators Crosshair tagged the supplies approximately six hours ago, I was able to determine a likely location for Hunter. Thankfully, it appears they were not monitoring us when we first arrived, so only some of them were detected,” Tech said, adjusting his goggles.

“Locators?” Tup asked at the same time that Wrecker asked, “How do ya’ know that Hunter’s going to be there?” 

“The second symbol,” Tech brought up a holopic of the signs Hunter had left in the dirt. “‘Extreme Caution; Pursue objective at a distance.’ Hunter obviously had reason to believe that his pursuers were the ones who had taken the supplies, and that our methods to locate them would aid in our efforts to find him. I am a little concerned about this first part, though… especially given Hunter’s likely location.”

“Well, where is he, already?” Wrecker groaned. 

“Given what we know, this is the most likely location. Three of the trackers were likely discovered and removed in-transit, but the last one continued here.” He pointed to their map.

Crosshair jutted his chin proudly with a smirk, glad to finally have an objective. “They always stop looking after three.”

“Indeed,” Tech nodded. “However, I’m not able to pull up any surveillance camera for Hunter’s location, and from what I can tell, the warehouse has some unusual modifications, almost like it’s prepared for an incursion.”

“Let’s go then. We’ve wasted enough time.” Crosshair slid his rifle out from behind him, nearly out the door before Tup spoke. 

“Crosshair, wait. We have no idea what we’re up against. We should at least try and do some recon first.”

Crosshair’s nails dug into his palms; body screaming for action. They needed to save Hunter now! And instead of going where they were needed, he had to stand around and explain his reasoning to some stupid reg? The idea of anyone other than Hunter giving him orders already made Crosshair vehemently angry, let alone a kriffing adiik they’d only met a day ago!

Standing in the doorway to the main cabin of the marauder, Tup’s sympathetic tone felt like a patronizing slap in the face. “Crosshair, I know you want to help Hunter, but we need to make a plan. We can’t just go charging in there. You heard what Tech said; we have no idea what we’re walking into; it’d be jareor. Suicide.”

He pushed past Tup with more force than necessary, glaring ice-cold daggers at him. “If you disagree with it, shove off and go back to the 501st. We don’t need you dragging us down.” He snapped bitterly, smacking away Tup’s careful hand. 

Tup straightened defensively, refusing to take this lying down. Crosshair could get his whole team killed if they went in blindly. “Whether you need me or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and I’m here to help. So if you’ve got a problem, di’kut, don’t take it out on me!”

Softer, he continued. “We’ll get Hunter back, but not like this… we’ll do some surveillance, maybe even call reinforcements, if we need them.”

Turning back around, Crosshair’s shoulders were tight as a cord as he adjusted the toothpick in his mouth, voice hardening to hide the shard of helplessness in his chest. “And why shouldn’t I take it out on you?” He asked casually. “Because it’ll hurt your feelings? Because it’s not fair? Because you think you’re worth something, you ARC wannabe?”

He faced Tup now, shoving him as he spat out a toothpick, broken in his anger. “Let me tell you something, reg ,” he sneered. “You and your opinions aren’t worth a kriff . You think you’re an individual? That you’ve got something to contribute? We’re clones, products, replaceable to the last gene; Even our squad, Clone Force 99, could be wiped clean on a whim if it suited the GAR. To anyone outside of this room, Hunter’s as good as worthless, just like the rest of us, and I’m not waiting for nat-borns to sift through their kriff while he bleeds out in some cell!” 

Crosshair knew better than to hope for reinforcements; Clone Force 99 was on their own, just like they always were. One friendly reg wasn’t going to change that.

As Crosshair hissed the word “product,” images of Umbara came up in Tup’s mind. Sense memory came unbidden, and something inside Tup snapped. “You think I don’t already know that?!” 

“I-If any of us were worth something, battles like Teth, Kamino, Umbara wouldn’t have turned into complete FUBAR’s, and my batcher wouldn’t still wake up screaming, thinking he’d been taken away for doing the right thing! I figured all that out long before you got here, but getting yourself killed isn’t going to help Hunter!” 

He refused to let his eyes tear up like they wanted to, focusing on his anger rather than the crushing helplessness he always felt when a brother was taken from him. 

A small warning bell went off in Crosshair’s mind, alerting him to the fact that he’d overstepped. He wanted to ignore it, kriff he really did, but at some point during their argument, Tup’s hair had come undone and seeing another flash of brokenness in a face so similar to Hunter’s was something he couldn’t do, not right now.

So with a put-upon sigh, Crosshair extended an olive branch in the only way he knew how. He turned to Tup, no longer angry and attacking, and asked, “What did you have in mind?”

Chapter 1 Link: Here

[boyfrillish]

When you feel like you barely slept at all, and also woke up with cramps, naturally the logical solution is go and write a very superduper selfindulgent little fanfic of your OTP featuring your trans headcanon

...nevermind that I still haven’t actually shared my first-ever HopVic ffic I wrote for Valentine’s 😅 buuut I’m getting to that

[iatethepomegranate]

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, chapter 33

After Aeor, Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, learns to be a person separate from the trauma that shaped his life for so long, and begins the arduous process of preventing what happened to him from happening to anyone else. It gets far more personal than even he could have anticipated.

Chapter content warnings: references to deceased family members, dissociation, references to drowning

Chapter summary:  In the aftermath, Caleb has no choice but to slow down and let his busybody (affectionate) friends take care of him.

Chapter notes:  Chapter title from Mars by Sleeping At Last.

***

Chapter 33: Let the brokenness be felt ‘til you reach the other side

Caleb returned to his living room, with Nico having already gone upstairs ahead of him. Every limb in his body was heavy. He sat on the couch and let out a long breath. Today had been… a day.

There wasn’t anything else for Caleb to do right now, except sit there and stare at the shimmering door he had designed to keep his new family safe. If pressed, he probably could have thought of a dozen different things to occupy his attention… if not for the fact his brain felt like a series of rusted gears no longer fit for purpose.

He was aware of time passing, as per usual. Counting seconds, minutes. Right… counting. He could still do that.

He found his component pouch. Essek had taken to complaining of the impracticality of using components instead of a focus, but Caleb was still being stubborn about it. He found pearls and counted them. One, two, three, four. Essek, at last count, had the other four. Various bird feathers: three from a raven, two from a duck, one from a sparrow. Five caterpillar cocoons. A small handful of copper wire pieces: one, two, three. His cat’s cradle. Three carefully-wrapped pieces of phosphorous. His piece of obsidian for the Resonant Echo spell. His collection of bat guano, good for another five fireballs before he would need to restock.

“Caleb?” Essek’s voice.

Caleb returned his component pouch to its pocket, pulling himself out of what felt like a trance. “Ja, hello.” His voice felt rough as if he had not used it in a very long time.

Essek came down the stairs, floating after several hours of avoiding it. His skin had been scrubbed, but parts of the makeup still clung at the hairline, which was still partly coloured blonde.

“The Nein have returned,” he said, sitting beside Caleb on the couch with a small handspan’s space between them. “They will come looking for you very soon, if you would like to avoid or facilitate that.”

Caleb didn’t have it in him to do either. The prospect of making a choice made his head hurt. Gods, why had he asked Nico so many fucking questions?

“Of course, the most expedient solution is to sit here and wait for them to figure out where we are,” said Essek, leading back into the cushions. “There are only so many options here in the house, after all.”

Caleb found himself nodding through the haze in his head. He was beginning to notice the various points of tension in his body, strange ways he was holding himself due to whatever the fuck was going on with him. It was easy enough to copy Essek and relax into the couch, which largely solved the problem without having to give it much thought. Then, it felt good to relax. So he kicked off his boots and curled up with his head on Essek’s shoulder. The citrus-floral scent of his evening primrose soap, from his Dynasty stock, was familiar and soothing.

That old instinct rose within him to reject any comfort that he felt he did not deserve, but he really didn’t have it in him to go through with it. Deserving or not, he was too tired to be an asshole to the people he loved. Then Essek wrapped an arm around him, and any notions of moving away blew away like smoke.

Soon enough, thudding and voices sounded from upstairs. Caleb braced himself for the force of the Nein’s presence. Welcome, if at times exhausting.

“They’re not in their room,” came Beauregard’s voice.

“Caleb likes to be in his study after a hard day,” said Veth.

“You go up, I go down?” asked Jester.

“I like your thinking, Detective.”

More thundering footsteps, and a blur of blue hurried down the stairs.

“Hello, Jester,” Essek said, giving Caleb a little squeeze. “Could you tell the others we are sitting quietly down here, if that’s all right?”

She nodded vigorously and thundered back upstairs. Essek’s hand found the base of Caleb’s skull and gently scratched his scalp. Caleb’s vision blurred and he shut his eyes. Warm tears spilled down his cheeks. At Essek’s gentle nudging, Caleb shoved his face into Essek’s shirt.

The footsteps returned, this time the thudding of several pairs of boots.

“Oh, nooooo,” said Jester. “He was fine when I left him!”

“Rough day, man,” Beauregard replied.

The cushions dipped beside Caleb, small fingers squeezing his arm. “Hey, Lebby. We’re all here, all right?”

Caleb reached for her hand, unfurling a little so she could climb into his lap. The space she vacated was immediately filled by someone else. Caleb took a few deep breaths, catching on long-awaited sobs, until he felt steady enough to face the others in the room. It was Jester beside him, wriggling closer until Veth was practically in both their laps. Veth grabbed a yellow-white polka dot handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at his face.

“Is this okay?” Essek whispered. Caleb nodded. He had already allowed the space for others to care for him, and it was hard to say no to these two. He didn’t want to anyway.

A pair of hands found his shoulders. Leaning back, he found Beauregard looming behind the couch. She squeezed. It was nice. Yasha, beside her, caught the end of his braid and weaved a few little purple flowers into it.

“It’s no broadsword shave, but…”

“Thank you, Yasha.” Caleb’s voice came out little more than a whisper. He had half-expected no sound to come out at all. It was hard to think, move, speak with all this weight bearing down on every inch of his physical and mental being.

Caduceus arrived with Fjord and Kingsley in tow, each carrying a wooden tray with steaming mugs. Setting them down on the table, they began to press them into everyone’s hands. Caduceus cupped his hands around Caleb’s, squeezing until his muscles responded to hold on. Caleb found it in himself to mumble his thanks.

The world narrowed to the simple mechanical task of raising the mug, blowing on the surface, taking a sip, swallowing, and lowering the mug again. The warm water spread down his throat and into his gut, leaving a floral, bitter taste on the back of his tongue. The others were talking, but listening felt like too much effort. Raise, blow, sip, swallow, lower.

Hands on his back of differing sizes. One rubbed circles. Another pressed into the backs of his ribs. Another, smaller, hand gently pressed into his sternum. Caleb found himself breathing deeper into the pressure. Raise, blow, sip, swallow, lower.

Words, intermittently, made their way through the fog in his brain. He couldn’t quite identify who said what, only that they were his friends.

“...calmer…”

“...good idea…”

“...stay…”

“...hear us?”

“...later.”

Somebody gently squeezed the back of his neck. It felt nice. Raise, blow, sip, swallow, lower.

He came back to awareness slowly, at pace with the diminishing tea in his mug. By the time he tipped his head back to finish off the dregs, he had graduated to understanding full sentences once again.

“Fuck, I’m hungry.” Deeper, rough, Beauregard.

“Louise gave me some cookies.” Deeper, gentler, Yasha.

“Ugh, I ate too many of those already.”

Caleb found himself able to move his body, if slowly. Veth was still in his lap, so he handed his empty mug to Essek. At Beau’s prompting, he slowly became aware of a gnawing sensation in his stomach; he hadn’t eaten much at the wake. Nor had Nico.

Oh. The tower was still here. He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten?

Caleb rubbed his face, clearing his throat. “I made the tower.” He reached for that space in his mind that was tangled up in the magic, and just barely found the means to open the door. The shimmering doorway appeared once again.

Beauregard clapped Caleb on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Oh, fuck yeah!” She vaulted over him and ran into the doorway.

“Fjord, why don’t you wash the dishes?” said Caduceus.

“Kingsley, why don’t you help me wash the dishes?” said Fjord.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “I would love to… Captain.”

“Would you like to come into the tower?” Veth asked Caleb; it was her hand on his chest. He reached up and squeezed it.

“Ja, let’s go.”

Veth hopped off him. Caleb scooted forward until he could transfer some of his body weight to his feet. He was present, capable… but drained. A little shaky. His feet took his weight, but he would have to move slowly. That was fine. He didn’t want to be fast right now.

Jester and Yasha helped him up, sandwiching him between them for the approach to the door. Then, instead of letting him go, they pivoted sideways and crabwalked inside. Veth, Essek and Caduceus followed.

In the entrance hall, Caleb reached for Essek. “We should get the rest of this shit off you.”

“Please. It irks me.” Essek tucked Caleb’s arm around his and led him to the platform. They headed to the chambers that were nominally Caleb’s, with touches of Essek’s folded within. Except, when they arrived, the chambers were as bare as they used to be in the early days of the tower’s use. No stained glass window, barely-there nondescript furniture. Caleb had been distracted when he envisioned this iteration of the tower.

Tears sprang to his eyes. This didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

“Caleb.” Essek’s breath ghosted over his ear. “Come on.” Essek tugged him out of the room and down one floor to the room that used to be Fjord’s, prior to the amalgamation into Jester’s chambers. Mercifully, this change had carried over. The door was that red-purple vermaloc from Xhorhas. Essek shoved it open with a Mage Hand, dragging Caleb inside through the first two chambers and into the bedchamber. The four-poster vermaloc bed was in the corner with satin sheets in deep purple and black satin pillowcases that were kind on the hair. Closer was a small loveseat and a large cushion for trancing, depending on Essek’s preference on a given night. A brass tub of steaming water sat in the other back corner, alongside a washbasin fitted out with Essek’s favourite soaps, serums, creams, washcloths and soft towels.

Caleb shook himself out of his bullshit and lathered a face cleanser on a washcloth. Evening primrose, to match what he had already used. “Herkommen,” he said, waving Essek over. Essek placed himself in front of Caleb and closed his eyes.

“Be gentle. These Xhorhassian good looks do not come easily.”

Caleb wasn’t quite in the mood to laugh, unfortunately. He narrowed his focus to searching out the stubborn pieces of Jester’s makeup that still clung to Essek’s skin and wiping them clean. Essek had dropped his float, putting him at about a head shorter than Caleb. It had been a little while since Caleb had seen him close-up with enough light to count the dusting of starry-white freckles across his nose. Or the white eyelashes just barely kissing the tops of his cheeks. Plenty of things to count here. Plenty of things to keep him from spiralling again.

Essek had done a fairly good job on his own, but it was simple enough to clear away the final bits of makeup. His hair was still blonde-tinted.

“The dye is stubborn,” Essek grumbled. Caleb ran his fingers through, casting Prestidigitation. The colour lifted, just a little bit. This was going to take some time. Essek lifted Caleb’s hands from his hair, tangling their fingers together. “I think this calls for an old-fashioned bath. Shall we?”

***

Essek’s hair, after a fair amount of scrubbing and spellwork, was more or less returned to its natural white. Caleb, washed clean of the stress sweat and tears from the day, had dozed off in the bath. He woke up in bed close to an hour-and-a-half later. Essek was curled up on the couch, paging through his spellbook.

Caleb rolled over, hugging his pillow, and watched the little scowl of concentration as Essek carefully annotated a page. Essek was dressed in a silvery silk robe from the closet; Caleb had a weak recollection of the cats gathering their real-world clothes to be washed. An inkwell floated at Essek’s side. Caleb, still boneless from sleep and the general catharsis of a good crying jag, let himself reminisce about Aeor. About the times he had fallen asleep in the library over his desk, only to wake on the couch with a blanket and Essek curled up nearby, still hard at work. Back when they still hadn’t quite unearthed this thing between them.

Caleb looked back on those times fondly, even the difficult moments. The injuries, the chases, the periods of convalescence, the T-Dock. The measures they’d had to take to get the Dynasty off Essek’s back after several near misses… at times less so, but worthwhile in the end.

Essek gestured at the page, a precise Prestidigitation to clear excess ink. Caleb typically resorted to blotting paper or simply accepted a little bit of smudging when precision was less important, much to Essek’s annoyance. Then Essek gently closed his spellbook and slid it into his Wristpocket, capping the inkwell with a wave of his hand.

Caleb wasn’t ready to get up. He shoved his face into the pillow and yawned widely. A soft chuckle came from Essek’s direction. A rustling of fabric, padding of bare feet (he still wasn’t floating). Then the mattress dipped and a soft hand rested between Caleb’s shoulder blades. There was a single callus each on his thumb and middle finger where he tended to click his fingers to produce friction for somatics; he worked them down with pumice every few weeks, but no longer had reason to remove them entirely save for personal preference.

“Sleep well?”

Caleb turned his head to speak, leaving his eyes closed. “Ja. Think so.”

Fingers brushed hair aside. Lips on the base of his neck. “Time to get dressed, I think. Dinner will be soon.”

Caleb, begrudgingly, rolled onto his side and sat up. Essek pulled him close for just a moment, before placing his freshly-laundered clothing in his hands. They dressed and headed down to the dining room. The Nein were already clustered around the fire, with a half-demolished charcuterie board on a rug between them.

“Look who’s awake,” said Beauregard.

“Arguably,” replied Caleb, who was still a little groggy.

Caduceus was looking at him with his usual veneer of serenity, but Caleb knew him well enough by now to know when he was judging. “Mister Caleb… may I suggest stepping out of the bath before taking a nap?”

Caleb leaned over to Essek. “Did you tell everyone?”

Essek slowly shrugged, with a sheepish grin. “I think we have established that I cannot lie to these people.”

“He panicked a little bit,” said Jester. “It’s not his fault.” 

“Jester, I did not panic.”

“You panicked,” said Beau.

“Yeah, he was all like, ‘What if I dropped him, Jester? Can you check he’s okay, Jester?’ It was very sweet, actually.”

Essek sighed. “Jester, could you fetch Nico for dinner, please?”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Jester hugged the pair of them as she went. “Glad you’re feeling better, Cay-leb.”

Beauregard swiped a tankard and jug from the nearest table. She poured some beer into the cup and passed it to Caleb. “Here. Glad you didn’t drown, man.”

“Was it really that serious?” asked Caleb.

“I may have overreacted,” admitted Essek.

Beauregard snorted and passed him a beer as well (not his favourite, but they’d successfully corrupted his palate enough that it was drinkable for him). They settled around the central dining table, where the cats had placed some lightly toasted bread alongside bowls of chopped chives and quark–a soft acidic cheese made from fresh milk.

Caleb could feel his appetite finally coming back. The appetiser was quickly portioned out, setting aside a plate for Jester and Nico each, and the food rapidly devoured by the group.

Jester and Nico arrived in time for the main course, a hearty vegetable stew portioned out into bread bowls. Nico’s hair was a little tousled, as if he had also woken from a nap. He took the empty seat next to Caleb and wordlessly spread quark and chives onto his toast and shoved it into his mouth with a few large bites before starting on the stew.

A moment of quiet had come over the group upon Nico’s arrival, but soon enough:

“Veth,” said Fjord, “have you seen my compass?”

“Oh, have you lost it?” replied Veth. “You should really take more care with your belongings.”

Caleb had a good enough angle to see Kingsley fiddle with a small, round metal thing beneath the table. They locked eyes for a moment, and Kingsley winked before returning the compass to his pocket. It would find its way back to Fjord eventually.

Regardless of whether Veth knew where the compass had gone, her response was a masterclass in attracting suspicion. Beauregard took a bite out of her bread bowl to hide a smirk. Caleb shoved a spoonful of potato, green beans and carrot into his mouth. Ooh, the base was a stout ale. A mix of memories struck–wine was expensive, so his mother had made a similar stew many times. His father’s laugh over a hearty bowl, dunking toasted leftover bread, or dropping in potato dumplings, or pouring it over whatever grains were available at the time. The pair of them cleaning green beans together while Una prepared the stock. And he’d sought that taste of home at the beer hall many a time in Rexxentrum.

He wasn’t sure who had requested the meal from the cats, but he assumed the bread bowl was Jester’s influence. The quark was a mystery–possibly Yasha and Caduceus given they spent so much time at the market together.

Different, but similar enough. Caleb missed his mother and father.

Before he could fall into the memories too much, he glanced at Nico out of the corner of his eye. The boy was several spoonfuls in already, keenly focused on the stew, only looking up to grab the cup of water in front of him. Good enough for now, and Caleb honestly didn’t have it in him to do much more than that, either.

Essek bumped their knees together. Okay. Caleb could make it through dinner, for Nico’s sake. Neither of them were likely to stick around for long afterwards.

The Nein chattered across the table as they usually did. And, also as usual, Veth climbed on the table to throw something: a spoon at Beauregard. Of course, Beauregard snatched it out of the air without blinking and held it hostage until Veth crawled across to physically wrest it back, cats shifting dishes out of the way before they could spill.

The cats caught Nico’s attention, and he watched them skitter around righting the dinner table. “Uh, Caleb? Why cats?”

“Oh, boy,” muttered Beauregard. Jester snickered, and Fjord hummed loudly and stared at the ceiling as if that would hide his lack of composure.

“Why not cats?” replied Caleb.

Nico watched a cat, Mitzi, bring out a fresh jug of beer and swapped it for the empty one in the centre of the table. Then Johann refilled Nico’s cup of water and stared at him, tail flicking, until Nico scratched under his chin.

“You make a fair point,” Nico mumbled, as Johann headbutted his hand for additional pats. “I had not considered non-humanoid servants before.”

“They give very good cuddles,” said Jester.

Nico gave her a thin smile and went back to his stew. Silence threatened to descend again. Caleb didn’t have the ability to do anything about it beyond eating and hoping it would pass.

“Oh, Essek!” Yasha said with her usual grace and tact. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Beau says there might be a trade treaty between the Empire and the Dynasty soon. Should I watch the markets for anything you’d like?”

Essek smiled at her, though it was closer to a grimace. “Well, I am partial to an evening primrose skin cream designed for drow skin, but I cannot imagine that would be in demand here.”

“Any produce?”

“Well, there is a white asparagus grown without sunlight.”

“Oh, they have that here,” said Caduceus. “We’ll bring you some next time we see it.”

“Oh?” Essek blinked. “Uh, Caleb?”

“Oh, ja, it’s pretty common here, though a bit sensitive to the cold, so it is only grown a few months of the year.”

“Maybe Xhorhas has different seasons?” said Jester.

“It’s finicky,” added Nico, looking up from dinner once again. “It needs to be fresh. Some tunnel farms further south might still have it.”

“Oh, what about the rice?” said Yasha.

“Yes, I suppose if you notice more varieties at market, I would appreciate some,” Essek replied. “Any root vegetables or mushrooms would be nice, though I know you already have your fair share here. It’s hard to say, really.”

Caleb also knew that Essek often tried really hard not to think about all those things from Rosohna that he may never see again.

“All right,” said Yasha. “We’ll keep an eye out for anything different. And we’ll get you some fancy skincare stuff, so don’t worry about that.”

“Some of it pops up in Nicodranas these days,” added Jester. “We could take another field trip!”

“That is very nice of you, Jester, but not necessary right now.”

“So,” said Nico, “you really cannot go back?”

Essek took in a slow breath, blinking upwards with an odd smile that usually covered up something else. “Yes, it would appear so.”

Nico also took in a breath, and let it out through his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. I only have myself to blame.”

The Nein erupted in a cacophony of protest at that. Caleb was glad for the pushback. He was working very hard on finding the seam between his responsibility for what he did, and that of his manipulators. It was hard, and some days he genuinely could not find it… or could not bear to look. But the effort was something, more than he’d once had. Essek deserved that opportunity as well.

Soon enough, stew and bowl were devoured both. The Nein picked at a tray of sticky pastries, provided at Jester’s insistence, and a fruit and cheese platter. Nico rose after finishing the bear claw Jester had made him eat.

“I think I will go to bed,” Nico said quietly. He nudged Caleb’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Thank you.”

“I will return to the Material plane for a bit,” Caleb said. “If you need anything. Felix may Send to one of us tonight.”

“Right. Plane shit.” He bumped his knuckles once more and then departed.

Caleb settled in with a handful of grapes, loosely watching the Nein dissolve into a food fight. The grapes were excellent projectiles, and it soon became a game to see whether anyone could breach Beauregard’s defences. Caleb clung to his grapes for dear life, lest the group run out and not wish to wait for another platter from the cats.

Essek leaned against him, watching Veth scream, Jester cackle, Beauregard yell, and Kingsley needle Caduceus into participating (it took very little effort). “Ah, yes,” he said sagely. “The heroes who saved Exandria from a relic of the Calamity.”

“The finest assholes on the continent,” Caleb replied, the final word distorting around a yawn. “Think you can stop them from killing each other?”

“I can certainly try.”

Caleb ate his second-last grape and passed the final one to Essek. “Here, should you need the ammunition. I need some quiet.”

Essek gave him a kiss on the cheek and let him go. Caleb stepped out into the central chamber and let it carry him to the salon. He was aware, in the back corner of his mind, that Caduceus blatantly watched him leave.