#maybe Jut is right and I should start taking cold baths

[pushing500]

Eugh, it's raining blood. What a disgusting start to the day...

It makes the colony look very eerie. And gross.

Kwahu!! Bringing up something as traumatic as eating without a table is NOT a good way to help people feel better!!

Ibter keeps fainting because she's terrified of mechanoids. We tried to get her to go on a caravan trip to one of our outposts, but she literally couldn't finish forming a caravan before she saw another mechanoid and passed out. We gave up after two attempts and crammed her into a transport pod. Goodbye, Ibter; hopefully, the outpost suits you better than here.

Randy Random has decided that he's going to make the RimWorld game mimic my irl Australian summer experience and send a heatwave to make life difficult for the Jones boys and co.

It's been a consistent 39℃ throughout the night for me lately, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to actually melt any day now...

... Although, I haven't resorted to taking an ice bath yet, so maybe it's not thaaat bad. I'm glad Jut has found his own special way of beating the heat, though. Good for him.

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[itrytowrite-things]

Murder podcasts

Spencer Reid x reader 

Summary: Y/N has a tendency to listen to murder podcasts while doing chores, one day Spencer comes in unannounced scaring Y/N into action. (This summary sucks but it’s fluffy) 

A/N: shout out to @with-paint, she helped me form some of this fic so check them out. 

The eerie background music and narrator filled the kitchen as I scrubbed diligently at a plate. I blinked down at it, trying in vain to remember what the hell I used it for that would cause such a stubborn stain of food. Sighing, I squeezed the soap bottle some more and ran hot water over it. Maybe soaking it would help? 

Grabbing a few of the cups I had washed, I spun around from the sink to a towel I had laid out earlier. I scrunched my nose as cold soap suds ran down my arm, hit my elbow and fell to the floor in a sticky mess I didn’t want to deal with right now. 

I was so engrossed in the podcast playing over the Alexa that I barely even processed the grueling chore that was longer than normal. I was lost in the words, that an hour longer scrubbing at dishes seemed almost fun. The dishwasher had completely died a couple of weeks ago. 

Normally Spencer would speed read the manual to figure out what was wrong with the stupid machine. But unfortunately, his case in Michigan was taking longer than he anticipated. So, he hadn’t been home to look into it, leaving me to hand wash the dishes. I didn’t mind, it was a mindless task and allowed me to catch up on my favorite podcast. 

“They found her body a week later, twenty minutes from their house,” I shook my head at that, case freaking solved. Her husband obviously killed her. I mean there’s no way the police didn’t solve this case, come on.

I moved from the towel back to the sink, sticking my hands back into the soapy water. I always believed that I should be a detective. I could solve these cases easily, Spencer claims that suspicion can only take me so far and the reason that they don’t catch the guy is not because they don’t suspect it, but because they don’t have hard evidence. I normally just scoff and give him a kiss knowing that I would get the bad guy in the end, “hard evidence” my ass. 

“Two months later the police came in and found Jeff’s disembodied head laying on their kitchen counter.” My jaw dropped and I turned around furiously, bringing a wet butter knife with me, on instinct I pointed the knife at the device. 

“Oh shit.” I said to the speaker, as if it were relaying the case itself. Well turns out I was wrong. I cleared my throat and lowered the stupid knife. I placed it down and tried my best to look less scandalized. We all make mistakes. So I might have been a little off in my husband theory, but I mean I had only heard half the case at that point so it doesn’t speak anything of my amazing detective skills. I nodded at that and tossed the knife into a little stack of silverware. The metallic sound echoing around the kitchen. I smirked at my good throw and turned back to the sink. 

I quickly got into the true grove of washing the dishes, listening to the more gruesome details of the case. Turns out the killer did quite a number on old Jeff. I was halfway done with the remaining dishes when I felt a tap on my shoulder sending my heart into a frenzy. 

I whirled around quickly bringing the closest item with me as a weapon. The plastic spatula slapped the asalint straight in the face creating an awfully loud twack sound that bounced off the kitchen walls. I blinked in horror at realizing who exactly was standing in front of me. 

Spencer's cheek turned red immediately. 

“Oh my god! Spence! I am so sorry!” I dropped the spatula and brought my other hand to his face trying to soothe his skin. My hand was covered in water and soap suds, and it dripped down his face onto the already wet floor.

“I am so so sorry. You scared me.” I rubbed my thumb over the spot, feeling his heated skin. Jesus, I felt awful. I didn’t hold anything back when I hit him. I figured I was fending for my life, not greeting my boyfriend. 

“It’s okay.” His much larger hand cupped mine removing it from his face. The redness had died down a little, making his skin a rosy pink instead of the previous bright red. He looked adorable which only made me feel worse. Who looks that cute after getting slapped in the face with a spatula? 

Spencer startled me yet again when a chuckle came bubbling out of him. His laugh was like someone bottled the sound of happiness. It made my own laughter arise every time without a doubt even if I didn’t understand what was funny.

“I guess I don’t have to worry about you protecting yourself.” A loud squeak sound emitted from my body unexpectedly followed by more laughter. I slapped him very lightly across the chest, kissing his unharmed cheek. 

“You're lucky I wasn’t cutting vegetables.” I said,  rustling my way into his arms pulling his body against my tightly, loving the way his laughter shook my entire body. I felt the short press of his lips against the crown of my head before tucking my head into the nook of his neck. I inhaled deeply, taking the scent of him with me. The apartment had started to lose its scent with him being gone for so long. I was beyond eager for the apartment to smell like us again.

“I think those podcasts are giving you wild ideas.” 

“They would never find your body Dr.Reid.” I teased, poking gently at his side making him squirm in my grip. Another round of laughter filled the small space, it was only when it died down that I realized my podcast was still running in the background. 

“Alexa, stop,” I shouted into the air stopping the podcast. “The neighbor did it.” I said with coincidence knowing that my answer was correct this time. Spencer let out a belt of laughter, nodding his head, a big grin on his face. 

I pulled back from Spencer taking in his features for the first time. He looked tired, his eye bags had doubled creating a skunk in effect. I could see the trouble in his eyes, the case was hard. It killed me to see him after a hard case, he looked more and more defeated after each one. However, it was what he loved doing and my job wasn’t to erase the trauma of his job, but to ease him back into daily life. I thumbed his eye bags lazily, a pout taking over my face. 

“You wanna take a shower and I’ll start us some dinner.” I asked gently. Not wanting to completely destroy the quiet we created. He nodded slightly looking younger than ever. I quickly pulled him back into me taking all of his weight. “I love you bub.” His hair felt silky against my fingertips as I disentangled the curls. 

“Love you too.” He mumbled, his heated breath warming my skin. I waited a few comfortable minutes rocking our conjoined bodies in the cozy silence of our kitchen, I took a deep breath and said what was on my mind. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

I don’t ever ask Spencer for the details of his cases. He either goes into a tangent without prompting or doesn’t feel like talking about it. I used to think that talking to Spencer about his job would be like listening to my murder podcasts. It honestly was one of the things I was excited for, but I soon found out it’s nothing like that.

When Spencer spoke of cases it was personal. He felt every death that was caused and saw every killing through the eyes of monsters. He held so much emotion in his voice when he spoke of the victims, that I often can’t help but cry. How a person can hold that much pain and still continue to do it everyday, is beside me. 

He shook his head, squeezing my torso before finally pulling back and placing a soft kiss to my lips. 

I continued the dishes, washing the last few. I left the podcast off, listening instead to the shower from down the hall. I scrubbed off the last of the grime before starting the oven. A simple dinner was always best in these situations. I pulled out a pre-made chicken pot pie from the freezer and placed it in the oven. 

As I moved to dry and put away the dishes while waiting for pie to finish. Spencer emerged from the bathroom freshly bathed. He wore a thin gray shirt paired with some soft looking sweatpants. My upper lip jutted out automatically. God I love him. 

“Feel better?” I kept my voice low, not wanting to startle any peace that the shower might have brought him. He nodded slowly. 

“What did you cook?”

“A chicken pot pie, I hope that’s okay.” 

“It’s perfect.” He smiled and returned to my arms, kissing my neck once before tucking his head into my neck. The edge of his wet hair scraped against my skin in an uncomfortable way, yet I only moved enough to rub circles into his back. 

A loud beep emitted from the oven caused me to jump in Spencer's arms. He let out a small chuckle. 

“Pick us something to watch and I’ll plate us some food.” I hummed turning my back to him. I heard him walking towards the living room as I bent to retrieve the hot food. 

Spencer sat criss cross on the couch, Les Enfants du Paradis was displayed on the TV. I handed him the steaming bowl and sat down, sitting close enough for our knees to knock together. I have no idea what Les Enfants du Paradis was, but I would watch literally anything he wanted as long as he was here. 

“It’s in French, but I figured I could whisper the translations to you while we watch. Or I could pick something else?” 

“No! This is perfect Spence. I love it when you translate, you tell the story better.” He let out a little blush highlighting his previous slap mark. I bit my lip and winced slightly, “How’s your face?” 

He touched the spot faintly, he didn’t wince when his fingers made contact which was a good sign. However, I have an inkling that a small bruise would form in the center of the slap which was going to be a fun story to tell his colleagues Monday. 

“I’ve had worse, but you wield a lot of power with a cheap piece of plastic.”

“I am professionally trained in the art of spatula wielding Spence, don’t try that at home.” I stared at him, my face blank before a blast of laughter came out of both of us. One can only be so serious when you are talking about slapping people in the face with kitchen utensils. 

Spencer started up the movie, and we remained there for the rest of the evening. Laughter and dramatic sighs followed by even more dramatic translations from Spencer. At some point he went so off script that even I could tell his story was bullshit. I didn’t call him out though just allowed him to spit nonsense, I would let him create fake French stories until he was blue in the face if that meant we got to stay in this happy bubble forever. 

[babylooneytoonz]

the Vessel [ Pt. 14 ]

— pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader

— summary: You, Geralt and Jaskier are on the road again, and something is on the Witcher's mind. How would you react to it?

— warnings: a lot of fluff🥺

*Please reblog if you like it, do not repost or claim my work as yours.

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

"I'm still here, you know?" Jaskier deadpanned, kicking a stone that came his way, cradling his long lost lute like a baby.

You chuckled at his words and sunk back into your lover's arms, who was seated on the mare behind you, your head now resting against his sturdy chest as you looked up at him and he looked down at you, smirking slightly.

"Come on Geralt, Jaskier's jealous. He thinks you've stopped focusing on him now that I'm here," you giggled playfully as Geralt shook his head, amused and craned his neck slightly, giving your earlobe a bite.

"Well, I'm not jealous, but I definitely feel like a third wheel, and in dire need of an inn—"

"Or a brothel," you added, and Geralt hummed in agreement with you, his thick, veiny arms locking around your now wide girth making you feel ticklish and squirm, "On a serious note, Geralt. Can we stop? I really need to take a piss. And a bath."

"Gosh, [Y/N]." Jaskier pretended to cover his ears dramatically, "You're the Princess of Cintra!"

"So?" You scowled, taking your foot out of the saddle and jutting out your leg so you could kick your friend's bottom but he dodged it, "Do princesses not take a piss? Besides, I am not a Princess anymore."

"What?" Geralt and Jaskier said out loud, together. And you nodded. Whelp. In all the drama, you had forgotten to actually tell them why you had run away. Or that— you had run away.

"Well, I sort of left it?" You drawled, absentmindedly and Geralt nudged you slightly, looking down at you, concerned.

"Why?" He raised a brow.

"Well, it seems that not only did the Witcher had some things to hide," Jaskier began, and you glared at him, "by the looks of it, you have something to tell us [Y/N]?"

You scowled, running your hand sheepishly through your hair and began clearing your throat, when Jaskier interrupted, "Don't tell me Queen Calanthe decided to name your baby Podrick."

You gave him a look of disbelief at first; but couldn't keep a straight face, as you bursted out laughing.

"What's wrong with the name Podrick for a boy?" You asked, wiggling your brows at him, and Geralt shook his head, faintly, silently amused.

"Well, Princess [Y/N], if you have a boy, you are naming him after me. Jaskier, obviously?" He smiled at you, wiggling his brows in retaliation.

"Or maybe, Dandelion?" You began, and both Jaskier and Geralt muttered, "No." At the same time.

"I won't have my son named after a flower, for fucks sake," he grumbled under his breath, and you pouted, pushing out your lower lip as you felt Geralt's palm ghost over your belly, protectively securing his palm over the bulge of it and you smiled.

"What happened in Cintra?" Geralt suddenly asked, manouvring the conversation back to where it had started from, and you looked down at your hands, rubbing them against the fabric of your dress.

"Mother wanted me to marry Foltest."

Upon hearing your words, the Witcher stiffened, his hand slowly pulling away. Suddenly, he tugged at Roach's reins so hard, the poor mare stopped."Ouch," you cursed under your breath, and then tried to pacify the sudden uncomfortable silence between the three of you by making small talk, "What?"

"I'm sorry but your mother wanted you to marry that sister fucker? Isn't that right Geralt?" Jaskier nudged your foot that was in the saddle and you sighed, your shoulders tensing slightly. Geralt was morosely quiet, and although he was a man of few words, you felt like this revelation was going to stop the progress that he was making with you.

"She thought that's the only way to protect me. And this baby. Because a lot of enemies will want to get their hands on me. Although, it's stupid, right? I mean, I have Geralt to take care of me," you muttered absentmindedly, staring at the flock of birds that flew past your mare.

It was only when Geralt cleared his throat, a little to coursely, that you craned your neck slightly towards him and noticed how his jaw had clenched, and he was fisting the reins in his grip.

"Shall we move on? We should reach a village in an hour or two. We can see if an inn can accomodate us," he bluntly added, and you blinked, looking down at Jaskier and giving him a questioning look.

Lucky for the three of you, the three of you reached a nearby village sooner than you had expected. By that time, you were exhausted; your body sore at all the odd spots that you couldn't even put a name to or say it out loud. Geralt helped you get off Roach, his movements being tender, but he did not even once, try to talk to you.

The three of you entered the tavern, Jaskier leading the way in while you waddled through in the middle, as much as your bump allowed you to move. Geralt was in the extreme end, and you couldn't see much of him, or hear from him, except for a few occasional grunts you received.

Geralt got the three of you the last of the two rooms that were available and Jaskier disappeared into the first one, leaving you and Geralt to settle down in your own shared room.

You sat down by the edge of the bed, the bed creaking when you put your weight on it. Geralt placed his sword by the chair, before his hands came to rest against the fabric of his shirt and he started prying it off.

"Are you going to say something?" You finally asked, pulling both your hands together and rubbing them as though you were cold, "You've been sulking ever since I told you about what happened in Cintra."

Geralt grunted under his breath, and instead of replying to you, he moved past you to where a metal bathing tub, big enough to fit in the two of you, had already been set out, the water warm, and steam arising out of it. Geralt lowered his slacks, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped out of it, practically ignoring you. You could hear the sound of him wading into the water.

Sighing to yourself, you slowly lifted yourself off the edge of the bed, and turned to face the witcher, who was now seated against the tub, his arms holding the sides of the tub as he looked at you. Slowly, you let your tunic drop to the floor as you stepped out of it. It would have been a lie to say that you felt sexy, especially with your baloon belly that didn't let you look down at your feet. But you really needed that warm bath, to cure the soreness you were feeling.

Geralt threw out his palm towards you when he saw you step into the bathtub and you were thankful for it. He helped you get in and finally, you settled yourself in between the Witcher's legs, letting the back of your head rest against his sturdy chest, feeling the rise and the fall of it, "You're angry with me."

"Not with you. I'm just angry in general," Geralt retorted, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes at him.

"I'm not marrying Foltest. You should know that. Not after all that happened between us." You stared at the ceiling, while Geralt scooped some water into his palms and poured them on top of your head, trying to give you a head bath.

"When you said that, it got me thinking," Geralt suddenly began, as his fingers began to lather against your wet hair, his fingers rubbing through your scalp, making all the tension and the knots in your body melt away, but what words followed afterwards, only made the tension once again spiral back, "What happens once you give birth? Will you and the baby travel and be on the roads with a fucking Witcher? Who cannot settle in one place?"

"Geralt, where is all this coming from?" You turned to face him, letting your legs slide behind his body, with your baby bump now between you and his body forming a shield around it.

"Just got me thinking.. what kind of a life am I gonna be able to give you?"

Your fingers were now drawing intrinsic patterns over his chest, but your eyes were looking into his, trying to reach out to the man that hid beneath the facade of a cold, unemotional Witcher, "I don't care Geralt, all I know is that I want you."

"I want you too but I am thinking of your future." He said, stroking the side of your face with his wet thumb.

"I don't care if our love's forbidden, all I care about is that I want to be with you, I want us to raise our baby together," you slowly dropped your hand into the water, your hand finding his as you clasped your fingers with his and pulled out his hand. You brought it up to your baby bump, placing your hand tenderly over his. Geralt's breathing hitched, his huge palm draped protectively over your unborn baby and you smiled at him.

"I'm scared I will disappoint you. We Witchers weren't exactly meant to be domestic," He brought your palm up to his lips and planted a warm, chaste kiss on the inside of your palm, "I'm going to disappoint you and our baby. And you're going to hate me for the life I couldn't give you."

"No you won't. You underestimate yourself. You might be intimidating and cold on the exterior Geralt, but you—" Your smile widened, and Geralt popped his brow up, waiting for you to continue, "You are one big softie secretly."

"No, I'm not," he said, sounding fake serious.

"Oh yes, you are. You're a big bear," you playfully pulled your hand away from his, and splashed him with water. His eyes widened when the splash hit him, his lips pursing together.

"Geralt, I — I'm sorry."

"Oh, no love. This is war."

Geralt used his two hands to scoop as much water as he could and splashed you back and you let out a playful screech, "Geralt!"

"What? You called it. Come on now."

Geralt towered over the bathtub, the towel wrapped securely around his waist, covering his manhood, droplets of water rolling down his chest and his calves. He threw out a palm towards you and you whined; the water was too soothing for your exhausted body and you didn't want to get out. But there was no standing against the White Wolf. He slowly helped you up, making you stand, and carefully holding you by your waist so you didn't slip, as the pads of your feet were wet; he waited patiently for you to step out.

"Worried I'll catch a cold? I'm stronger that that." You drawled as you placed your hand into his.

Once you were out, he slowly turned you towards him to face him and wrapped a towel around your frame, using it to tap dry you all over.

"You pamper me, love," you smiled, letting your palm rest against your chest as he now worked to dry your hair.

"This is nothing compared to the happiness you are gifting me with."

You gave him a weak smile as you sat down by the edge of the bed, and slid into your comfortable slip, pulling it over your face and your neck, letting your eyes shut. After a few seconds, you opened your eyes, only to find the Witcher kneeling down between your legs, his eyes on your belly.

"You would never have been possible if it wasn't for your mother," Geralt whispered to your stomach in a tender way, momentarily glancing up into your eyes.

"Mhm, don't listen to the crap this man is feeding you with, Podrick."

"Not with that name again, [Y/N]." Geralt grumbled under his breath, but you could see a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He let his forehead rest against your bump as he fluttered his eyes shut and inhaled your sweet fragrance, his hands holding you from your hips, "Besides, I have a feeling it's going to be a little girl, with eyes like her mother. She is going to take over on you. Not that I would have it any other way."

"Oh, Witcher, my Witcher ," You pulled him up to sit next to you as you leaned in to kiss him, and he slowly arched forward, his lips melting into yours as he mumbled between the kiss, "You might be a future Queen of Cintra, but you are my queen this day forward."

When you pulled apart, licking your lips, tasting the aftermath of Geralt's lips on you, you suddenly grabbed his wrists, and smiled cheekily, "let me do your braids, love."

"Go to sleep," he grumbled, moving away but you caught his hand again, giving him a sad pout, "Please?"

"Fine," he grumbled as he sat down on the floor in front of you, his back turned towards you, his elbows resting on his knees as he turned his gaze to the side, instead of turning to face you completely, "only this once." He turned back around, a small smile playing on his lips. Who was he kidding, he wanted you to braid his hair every single day. He fluttered his eyes shut, letting out an exhale as your fingers dug through his scalp, pulling his hair back.

Geralt woke up rather abruptly.

He sat up in bed, squirming slightly but when he turned towards you, sleeping peacefully on your side, your arm protectively draped over your beautiful bump, his heart swelled twice the size it was. You looked so innocent, so pure and you were his.

Gently, he pried the covers off, sliding his feet to the edge until the pads of his feet were resting against the cold ground. He stood up, and grabbed his discarded clothes that were strewn all over the floor, sliding into his slacks before he pulled his crumpled tunic over his head.

He turned to look at your sleeping form once before he slowly walked out of the bedroom, ensuring to let the door close as quietly as possible.

He dragged himself downstairs. He was starving after the night, but all he needed was a pitcher of ale to set him up. The tavern was empty, except for one or two men who did not have a steady job, so they had found themselves drinking at the tavern. The usual rush came in the evening.

Holding his pitcher in his left hand, he made his way to a table in the back, that overlooked the window. He sat down, huddling in a corner, bringing the pitcher up to his lips, when someone slammed himself in the chair in front of him.

"Rough night?"

"Speak for yourself, Jaskier, " Geralt smirked, as he brought the pitcher to his lips, eyeing him.

"Why on earth do you think I am hiding in a corner like this?" Jaskier blinked, wiggling his brows.

"Jaskier, don't drag me into the messes you create," Geralt hummed, taking a sip of the ale.

"You look different. You have a glow. Now I am curious. Did [Y/N] give you a beauty treatment?" He said smugly, letting his elbows rest against the table as he grabbed a piece of meat and tossed it into his mouth.

When Geralt didn't reply, Jaskier arched his body even more forward, leaning almost close to Geralt and Geralt scowled.

"I see you let her braid your hair."

"Fuck off," Geralt murmured, tight-lipped. He would have said more, but something in the back caught his attention, and his jaw dropped. Jaskier, following Geralt's gaze, slowly turned towards the direction where Geralt was looking at and that's when he saw what he was staring at— it was you.

You were standing by the counter, in a long, flowy dress, a beautiful white flower fixed to your hair, talking to the owner of the tavern. You slowly looked up from whatever you were talking to the owner about, and as though you had felt his eyes on him, you looked right at Geralt, the corners of your lips tugging into a warm smile. Jaskier looked from you back to Geralt, noting the smile that had formed on his friend's lips as you made your way towards him.

"Morning, husband. What do we have in here for breakfast? Your baby is starving," you gave Jaskier a wink, and Jaskier's jaw dropped, as he spat out the ale that he was drinking, splashing it all over the table, coughing and hitting his chest as though something was lodged into his throat.

You and Geralt looked at each other, and Geralt sat back, patting on his thigh as you sat doen on his lap, and Geralt locked his arm around you. "What did you say?" Jaskier asked, standing up, his hands on his hips, "HUSBAND?! You're married now? What happened in that bedroom last night?"

"Words, words, words and confessions?" Geralt's arm held you steady on his lap and you turned towards him, your nose touching his as you bit your lip, "Well, the Butcher of Blaviken declared he wanted to live his action packed life with me."

Geralt grumbled under his breath; and you kissed the tip of his nose, biting it teasingly, "Now husband? Where's the food?"

Geralt smacked your thigh playfully, and you immediately stood up, before Geralt was up too, "On it, woman."

A/N: okay for those who are wondering if they missed a chapter in between, wherein they got married then no you did not. I didn't write their wedding descriptively. They got married at the inn during the night, which I chose not to write because I had no freaking idea how to😂

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Want to be added to the list? Plz let me know via my ask box, inbox and comments. ✨

[imagine-darksiders]

Old Timer.

Chapter 3 - An Old Friend.

----

The maker's footfalls are almost lost beneath the swishing of long grass that sways and whispers in ripples all across the valley, swathes of moonlight turning their blades silver as they flow with the wind. Were it not for the rhythmic thuds sending tremors through your body and coinciding with each step he takes, you'd almost think he was gliding across the vale. You've never known a maker to walk so smoothly.

Unbeknownst to you, even he isn't sure if he's ever trodden so softly before.

Then again, when was the last time he'd held something in his hands that felt as though it might shatter at the slightest jolt or jostle? He can’t help thinking that all it would take is one trip, just one stumble and he might accidentally... A loud gulp disturbs the relatively peaceful walk, and though the sound of it garners your brief and curious gaze, the maker manages to cover it by clearing his throat and keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Your skin feels like silk beneath his inelegant fingertips and it takes more conscious effort than he'd like to admit to refrain from letting his fingers wander up to your bare arms. Even having you pressed gingerly against his pectorals sends an unexpected shiver racing up his spine.

He can't help but beam proudly when he notices that your head is on a constant swivel, staring around at the hills and valley with a look of astonishment plastered on your face, which gets him wondering what in the world your realm must look like. He imagines it must be somewhere beautiful, to produce such beautiful people.

Chuckling warmly, he twitches his thumb against your hip and asks, “So, what're you doing in the Forge Lands anyway?”

He's rewarded by a fleeting glance from strikingly intricate irises. “That's... a long story,” you mutter.

The maker's chest rumbles with an intrigued hum. “My favourite kind!”

His enthusiasm proves contagious and after indulging him in a smile, you look skywards and reply, “Well, since you ask, I'm afraid I'm not exactly here on purpose.”

“You mean you didn't travel here just to get a taste of the local flavour?” he smirks, flashing you a wink.

In spite of yourself, your exasperated smile only grows. “Lewd. And, no, what I mean is... All right, what do you know about portals?”

Okay, so maybe he doesn't need to know that you've come from another time entirely, but perhaps there isn't any harm in telling him the manner in which you came to be here. You're aware that most species in Creation – Humanity notwithstanding – have utilised portals as a means of travel between the connected realms. An unconventional method of getting about for humans maybe, but commonplace for a maker.

He may even be able to help you figure out what went wrong and why Death hasn't come to fetch you yet. Because you're one hundred percent certain that the Horseman wouldn't just leave you here.

...

Would he?

'No.' You tell the doubting voice sternly, giving your head a shake to throw the thought from your mind. He wouldn't do that to you. Nor would he have been bested by a couple of constructs.

So, that can't be the reason you're still here.

The maker's contemplative hum draws your attention and you glance up at the underside of his beard as he muses aloud, “Portals? Mmm, beyond stepping in them and getting to the other side, there's not a whole lot to them, why?”

“Well, that's how I got here,” you explain, “Through a portal in the woods. It wasn't supposed to bring me... uh, here though.”

“Oh?” The maker raises an eyebrow and steps into the entrance of a long, spacious tunnel, “Where were you expecting to end up then?”

“Well, that's the thing,” you say glumly, “It wasn't supposed to happen at all. I... fell into it.” Just then, you find yourself awash in the soft, blue glow emanating from dozens of glow stones that have been dotted along the tunnel walls. 

Slowly, he nods, his hair shimmering silver in the ethereal light. “Right. So, erm, where did you fall into it?”

You open your mouth, hesitating for an awkward few seconds before you manage to reply, “On Earth.”

“Hmm.” Carefully sliding a hand out from underneath you, he raises it to scratch at his chin. “Well, portals can be fickle things, depending on who created them in the first place. Mostly, they take you where they're s'posed to lead. Sometimes, they take you where you want to go, but then there're those times when they'll take you where you need to go.”

“Oh great. All the portals I could have fallen into, and I fall into the one with a degree in psychology.”

“Hey, you fell into it by mistake,” he points out, “can't blame the portal for bringing you here.”

“No..” You feel him slip his hand beneath your legs again. “No, I suppose I can't.” 

Because you didn't fall into it by mistake, did you? Death had activated it under your feet. He meant to send you... somewhere. For all of his unpalatable qualities, privately, the Horseman is remarkably intelligent. You have no doubt that he did a thousand calculations in those few seconds before he shot you back through time, weighed the pros and the cons, considered all the risks... He's loathe to admit it but he makes it quite obvious that he cares about what happens to you, if not through words then through his actions. He wouldn't have left you here. Not if he didn't think he could get you back again.

“Hold tight,” the maker suddenly murmurs, drawing you out of your thoughts and you instinctively latch onto his thumb, despite being held in perhaps the steadiest hands in the known Universe. As it turns out, he simply steps up onto an elevated section of the tunnel. 

Anticlimactic.

Shaking your head with a snort, you turn your gaze to the far end, where a soft, orange glow is seeping in through the arched entrance. Apprehension has you drawing your uninjured leg up to your chest and you’re quite firmly reminded that this isn't the Tri Stone you've come from, and these aren't your friends. They're strangers. You are a stranger.

You take a couple of deep, nervous breaths, stilling when the maker's thumb bumps hesitantly against your side. “Not nervous, are you?” he asks, teasing.

You are, as a matter of fact. Though perhaps not for the same reason he suspects. Truthfully, the prospect of seeing your friend again after you'd watched him die puts the fear of God into you.  How on Earth will you react? What will you say to him? Should you warn him? What if you say the wrong thing and he ends up disliking you? What if Death comes to take you back and you find you can’t say goodbye to him again?

Swallowing, you wet your lips and admit, “A little, I guess.”

Your admission brings a guttural murmur to the maker’s throat and his hands cup a bit more securely around you. Whether the reaction is conscious or not, you aren't sure. But you decide not to mention it.

“You think I'd pull you out of trouble, just to let you get hurt on my watch? In my village? Some of this lot might be a bit boisterous, but they're good folk, and any friend of mine'll be a friend of theirs.”

“Oh? And who said I was a friend of yours?” You shoot him an impish grin, which he returns, peeling his lips back to reveal the extent of his gleaming, ivory tusks.

“Seem to recall it being you, you little smart aleck. Called me a boddy, didn't you?”

“A buddy.”

“S'what I said.” 

A snort explodes from you before you can lift a hand to catch it.

Encouraged, the giant lifts you closer to his face and continues, “You can laugh, sweetheart, but naming me a friend was your mistake. You'll have a hell of a time getting rid of me now.”

At the back of your mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Death's instructs you not to go and start making friends in a place you'll probably, hopefully, be leaving soon - a tricky feat when you're faced with an incorrigible maker who keeps flashing you charming grins and coy remarks. Besides, you're not going to be cold just because you might not stick around. You're a human, not a Horseman.

Dropping your leg back over the side of his hand, you clear your throat to smother a chuckle and say, “You must have no end of friends if you make them that easily.”

It only lasts for a moment, but you don't miss how the hands you're pressed into go stiff and rigid. Then, as though it had never happened, the maker juts out his chest, chin sticking high in the air. “Course I've got friends,” he declares, “But I'll have you know, I'm very selective.”

You raise a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Aye, really!” Chuckling nervously, his eyes dart away from you and back again and he's a little too quick to point out, “Oh, wouldja look at that! We're here!”

Sure enough, as you turn to follow his gaze, you suddenly find yourself awash in warmth and light. Squinting, you raise a hand to shield your eyes after the tunnel's comfortable darkness, blinking out at a distantly familiar, yet unrecognisable scene.

It's the village of Tri Stone all right, only it looks almost new, at least compared to the village you'd left behind. For one, there's a lot less space between the buildings now. Grey, stone huts are packed almost on top of one another in clusters, running up and down the left and right of the bridge that stretches over the seemingly bottomless gorge below. In the place where Muria’s gazebo will stand, there is instead an enormous, open walled garden, bursting with herbs and flowers that stand much taller than you do. 

There are lanterns and glow stones strung up like bunting over the village, leaving everything bathed in that warm, orange light that drapes over you like a comforting blanket. At the far end of the bridge, you spot the distinct doorway leading to the maker's forge and part of you wants to breathe a sigh of relief, drawing small comfort from the familiarity of the stone face carved out of the very mountain itself. 

The village's architecture, however, is not the reason for the gasp that escapes you. 

Milling about between the buildings – in greater numbers than you've ever seen before – are dozens of makers, all shapes, sizes and ages. There are those clothed in lush, richly coloured robes, those wearing leathers and furs and even some who are fully decked out in silver and gold armour.

Older makers gather in small groups, some of them talking animatedly amongst themselves, though the tones are such an amalgamation of low, gravelly sounds that you can't pick out any specific words from your vantage point at the top of the village. In an instant, you begin to rake your gaze over the crowd, searching with a hesitant desperation for that familiar flash of white beard or sweeping prongs protruding from an intricate headpiece.

Then, you spot something that gives you pause. 

Dashing between the adults, almost lost amongst the sea of vast legs, you catch glimpses of far smaller creatures, and it isn't until one of them suddenly emerges from behind a maker's boot that you realise exactly what it is you're looking at.

Without warning, your jaw practically comes unhinged.

They're.... younglings. Proper younglings - not like Karn, who was only called as such because he happened to be younger than the others. These are quite clearly children. And while they'd tower about you by a few feet, some of them hardly seem to reach their elders' knees.

Enraptured and knowing full-well that you're witnessing something secret and precious, you watch them chase each other between long legs and weave around the huts, brandishing wooden swords at one another, save for a few of the smaller ones who cling to the older giants and observe their playmates with shy reticence, content to wait until they're big or brave enough to join in.

It's a community. An entire community of makers.

Your throat is tighter than a vice when you try to swallow.

There's a soft and proud smile tugging at the maker's lips as he observes you, revelling in the dumbfounded expression on your face. 

After giving you a few more moments to soak in your surroundings, he leans down and lets his warm breath wash over the back of your neck. “Welcome to Tri Stone,” he murmurs.

It's beautiful, in a tragic way, only because you've seen it in its future state, and compared to this - this lively, bustling village – the Tri Stone you've come from seems so much like a ghost town. To think... one day, most of this will be gone, and in its place will stand a comparatively lonely and melancholy place. At some point in the future, though you can't hazard a guess as to when, your friends will lose it all....

A single tear wells up in one corner of your eye, but you're quick to deftly swipe it away before the maker can see it.

“Here.. Why don’t I... ” His thick, smoky voice trails off and flutters into your ear and you find yourself being lifted up. You don’t say a word as he gingerly tips his palm and watches you all the way onto his shoulder until he’s satisfied that you’re situated securely upon it. At the questioning glance he receives, he merely shrugs, explaining, “Thought you’d prefer the view from up there.” 

He neglects to mention that he’ll feel much better the further away you are from the ground, and any, wayward boots that might stomp just a little too close for his liking.  

“Now,” he adds, clapping his palms together and already missing the subtle weight of having you held between them “Let’s go and find -” 

“Ah. So, you've returned, at last.” A rasping and admittedly rather grating voice rings out above the village's gentle ambiance and the maker below you groans upon hearing it, turning himself to face the empty staircase on his right and subsequently giving you a better view of the haggard, ancient being shuffling towards you.

Honestly, you can't help but to stare, having never thought you'd get to see a person who could make Eideard look young.

It's another maker, a very old maker, draped in stark, white robes that wash out his pasty complexion and leave him looking sicklier than you imagine he really is. There's almost no colour to him at all, in fact, as though all the life has drained out of his body and left him as little more than a pale ghost, dragging himself towards you on crooked legs, helped along by a staff that resembles the limbless trunk of a birch tree, all mottled and white like its wielder.

As he draws closer, you start to make out the muffled grumbles spat from his thin, drawn lips. Without really meaning to, you shrink against your maker's neck, one hand squeezing around a lock of his silken hair. Why couldn’t he have worn a cowl for you to duck behind?

“You're late,” the old giant wheezes, coming to a halt in front of him, raising a gnarled finger and jabbing it sharply into the younger maker's chest, “You were told to return before the suns fell. Your duties have gone neglected. Again.”

Undeterred by the accusing tone, your new friend turns his head to catch your eye and throws you a wink, plastering on his signature grin before he faces the newcomer once more. “Ah, Cruim! Just the maker we wanted to see-”

“That's Elder Cruim to you, boy,” the other maker sneers, stroking his nails down the long, silver beard that hangs from his chin all the way to the ground, “Where have you been? No doubt getting yourself into trouble, as usual.”

“Oh, you know me. I can't help myself!” he replies with a shrug, accidentally jostling you on his shoulder and causing you to let out a soft gasp at the sudden motion.

Unfortunately for you, although this 'Cruim's' eyes resemble the colour of sour milk, they manage to find you without difficulty and once they do, they widen in visible surprise, his mouth falling open to reveal crooked teeth and a missing tusk.

Shyly, you lift one of your hands and give him a tiny wave. “Uh... Hi?”

His razor-sharp gaze snaps to the younger maker and he subjects him to a scathing glare, hissing, “What... is that thing?”

“Errr..” Your friend's smile droops and he shares another quick glance with you before he admits, “Actually, we were hoping you might have some idea.”

Gradually, your heart begins to sink as the old maker gives you another, suspicious look, recognition never once alighting in his eyes.

“It's um, good to meet you, Sir,” you venture weakly, trying not to sound as though you're desperate, “We just thought... someone as ol – uh, worldly as you would have seen someone like me before. In your travels?... Perhaps?” Already feeling small, you let your voice fade into nonexistence. 

If nothing else, getting at least a general idea of the epoch you're in might be incremental in getting you back to your own timeline. On the off chance that Cruim has heard of humans before, then you can safely narrow the date down to... oh, within the last four and a half billion years.

You sigh.

One of the giant's wispy eyebrows lifts and he wrinkles his nose, but doesn't otherwise respond to your question, instead electing to squint at you dubiously, sending your heart-rate up a few notches.

“This here's a hoo-man,” the young maker encourages, hoping to perhaps jog his memory, yet all he receives in response is a skeptical 'harrumph.'

“It... it's hyu-man,” you correct him softly, enunciating the word whilst you privately long for the interaction to be over so that you can get back to looking for Eideard, and if not him, then Muria. The pain in your leg may be less severe, but you’re conscious that the wounds still need seeing to.

“A human? Pah! There's no such species!” the old one spits, “Whatever that thing told you, it's lying.”

Beneath your legs, you feel the maker's shoulder tense as he draws himself up, hackles raised. “That thing,” he says slowly, erring on a growl, “happens to be a friend of mine.”

He doesn’t notice the soft, ‘Huh?’ that slips from your tongue, nor the surprised wonder shining in your eyes as you turn to stare at him.

In contrast, Cruim evidently couldn’t care less, and with an exasperated huff, he throws his eyes up to the sky and tuts, tossing his hand out towards you aggressively. “I swear, you always were soft-headed as a youngling. Nothing much seems to have changed with age...” He pauses to reaffix you with a glare, still addressing his younger counterpart as he adds, “It's a glamoured demon, you fool. Nothing more. Now, get rid of it before it causes mayhem in my village.”

Suddenly, a gut-wrenching pit of fear opens up in your stomach. You know exactly what makers think of demons, but just as you try to sputter out assurances that you most certainly are not a demon in disguise, the young maker grunts, twisting himself sideways so that the shoulder you're sitting on is moved further away from his elder, partially hiding you from view behind a waterfall of golden hair.

“Just hold on a whit. This little'un is no demon!” he declares, swelling to his full height until he's looming over the old maker, “You think I wouldn't recognise glamour magic if I sensed it? Now, I might not know what a human is, but I'm inclined to believe that I've met one today - one who needs our help.”

Despite the distant hum of the village, you feel as though you're sitting in a silent bubble of existence miles away from everything else, locked in this one, single moment as the pair of makers stare one another down whilst you watch with bated breath.

Somehow, you get the impression that this isn't the first time they've locked horns.

Your maker stands at least two heads taller than his older counterpart, but the latter has the advantage of being a respected figure, one whose authority is rarely, if ever questioned or challenged. And makers are nothing if not an honourable lot. It's difficult to believe that the younger one is standing up against his own elder in your defence. You, a stranger in their home.

You fully expect him to back down first.

So it comes as a huge surprise when it’s the old one who breaks eye contact and shakes his head, disappointment and contempt radiating off him in tangible waves. “I miss the days when you younglings would listen to your elders.”

“That was 'fore I learned that my elders are capable of being wrong sometimes.”

Cruim's fists clench tightly around his staff, but he takes a step back, levelling the maker with his icy sneer. “Fine. You won't be told... Blind yourself to my warnings. But mark me...” Trailing off to heave his rickety bones around, he begins to shuffle away once more, heading for the staircase that sweeps down towards the lower tier of the village. Upon reaching the top step, he twists his head over a shoulder and calls, “If your little stray causes any trouble, I will be holding you personally responsible....” Then, with a sigh, he lowers his voice and turns away once more, but not before he adds in an uncharacteristically soft murmur, “You can't keep trying to make friends with every creature that catches your fancy. One of these days, your heart will be the thing that gets you killed, Eideard.”

And just like that, with the utterance of a single word, the realm around you grinds to an abrupt and dizzying halt.

The soft-eyed maker doesn't seem to realise that the tiny being on his shoulder has stopped breathing. He continues to watch Cruim descend the staircase until he's out of sight, and only then does he lose his rigid stance.

“Ah, don't pay him any mind,” he huffs dismissively, “Time's made him bitter and suspicious. I know you’re telling the truth.”

But you're barely listening to him. Suddenly, you don't care that the elder hasn't heard of your species. You don't give a damn that you're lost between the fabric of time, billions of years separated from Death and the rest of your friends. Even the ache in your leg is forgotten, drowned out by the cruel knife of grief that lodges into your heart and gives a vicious twist, stealing the breath right out of you. Everything threatens to hit you all at once, disbelief first, then confusion and shock, misery, hope, guilt. It all leaves you numb as your brain tries to sift through the nauseating torrent of emotions until it finally settles upon the one it can most easily comprehend for the moment. 

Apprehension.

Stiffly, with your heart jackhammering against your ribcage, you twist yourself around to face the maker properly, the beginnings of a sob catching in your throat. “Wha...What did he just... call you?”

“Hmm?” The maker pivots his neck in your direction, taking in your haunted stare for a moment before he suddenly realises that... That's right. He'd never actually introduced himself to his new friend. 

“Oh, maker's bones, look at me, forgetting my manners.” Beaming, he fixes you under his warm, blue gaze which is now so, jarringly familiar that you can hardly believe you never recognised it in the first place.

“My name's Eideard, little one. At your service.”

[charmingwords23]

Fanfic: Exponential Growth

Teresa hadn’t been expecting her family to grow by two members in one day. 

- OR - 

Teresa was already pregnant in the finale and I’ll prove it with this fic...

Link

Teresa couldn’t sleep. Each time she would close her eyes and try to relax, something would distract her. The side of the pillow against her cheek wasn’t cold enough, so she’d flipped it. James was too far away, so she’d snuggled closer. Then she was too hot, so she’d shifted away. Her back was aching from lying on it too long, so she’d rolled onto her side. The waves crashing outside the bedroom window were unusually loud - had they always been like that? Maybe they needed noise-reducing drapes. Did those exist? She had tossed and turned so much last night that James had eventually grumbled in his sleep and thrown his arm over her waist in a vain attempt at keeping her still.

By the time the dark of night started to fade to gray, Teresa had tried counting sheep, counting the seconds between the breaking waves, and counting the whiskers between James’s ear and chin (she lost count on that one). When nothing worked, she had mostly just lain with her eyes on the ceiling, mind racing but never settling on a complete thought. So when the clock turned to 5:30 AM and the seagulls outside started to squawk, Teresa gave up and decided she might as well just get up.   

Teresa turned her head toward the sleeping man beside her. James was lying on his side, his right arm slung lazily over the bottom of her ribcage so that his fingertips brushed her hip bone. His soft hair flopped over his forehead and jutted out in different directions, in a disarray still from when she had run her fingers though it the night before. She studied the way his dark lashes rested against his cheek and how his lips parted so slightly with his slow, rhythmic breaths that anyone who wasn’t looking wouldn’t even notice. 

He always looked so peaceful when he slept.

She didn’t know she could love a person so much. Teresa’s chest felt tight, compressed by the overwhelming urge to draw so close she wouldn’t be able to tell where she ended and he began. She wanted to wrap herself under his skin and tie their souls together. 

Instead, she gingerly reached out a hand to smooth her fingers over his brow, careful to keep her touch light as a butterfly wing. 

He didn’t stir. With a silent sigh, Teresa carefully withdrew her hand and slid her body out from under his arm. She perched on the edge of the bed and reached for James’s shirt on the floor. She remembered throwing it off of him the night before, and a ghost of a smile formed on her lips. She shrugged into the shirt and stood up, swiping her hand over the back of her neck to free her long curls from the neckline of the shirt. 

James groaned quietly behind her, rolled onto his stomach, and ran his hand over the bare sheets that were still warm from her body. “What are you doing?” His voice was low and muffled against the pillow where his face was half-buried. 

“I’m going to take a bath,” she whispered, shifting the shirt so that it sat evenly on her shoulders instead of gaping off to one side because of its size. 

James grumbled in protest. He grabbed a hold of the edge of the shirt and tugged at it. “Come back to bed,” he mumbled, never opening his eyes. 

Teresa shifted around to smile at him and shook her head. “Can’t. Too much to do today.” He huffed and buried his face further in his pillow. Teresa leaned down to kiss his bare shoulder once, then padded across the floor to the adjoining bathroom. She clicked the door shut behind her before turning on the light. 

As she drew the bath and added her favorite oils to the water, she drummed her fingers against her thigh - her restless energy increasing. She moved around the bathroom, collecting fresh towels and wash rags to set on the stool next to the tub. 

Today was the day. 

Finally, after four years, her entire family was going to be together again. 

She, James, Kelly Anne, and Kelly Anne’s daughter Lena had lived a quiet, content life together since disappearing from their old lives. They ate meals together, they played in the sun together, and they watched movies together; but no amount of happiness had been able to completely fill the Pote-shaped void in their lives. Since the moment James and Kelly Anne had joined Teresa at the beach, Teresa had felt both a happiness she had never fathomed and a longing for the day when Pote would be reunited with them to make their family whole. 

Teresa had teared up when they got the news last month that Pote would be released with time served in the upcoming weeks. 

In the present, Teresa dipped a hand into the bathwater to check the temperature. Satisfied that it was hot enough to relax her muscles but cool enough to not cause a sweat, she stirred the water around with her fingers and then shed James’s shirt, letting it fall to its most common resting place: the floor. She dipped her toes into the water, then slowly sunk her body in - letting the warmth caress her skin. 

Teresa tried to allow the calming lavender scent she had added to the water relax her. She began massaging her skin with her favorite scrub and making a mental list of what she needed to do today to get ready for Pote’s homecoming. 

She would need to refresh the sheets in Kelly Anne’s room so Pote would have a nice, fresh bed to sleep in. Kelly Anne had already washed the small starter-collection of clothes they’d purchased for Pote, so that was done at least. She wondered if she should ask James to go into town to buy a couple of bottles of Pote’s favorite Mexican whiskey? Teresa had already prepped the meat for the soup she would make tonight - letting it marinate overnight for extra flavor. She did need to bake the bread this morning so the dough would have time to rise this afternoon, but that wouldn’t be too difficult. 

Teresa had been making preparations for Pote’s return for over a week, and still she felt the nagging in the back of her mind like she was forgetting something important. 

She rinsed her face in the bathwater, then massaged her washrag over her forehead and cheeks. 

She had thought of everything, right? She had made his travel arrangements - all at a premium to ensure the highest discretion. Despite Teresa’s mixed feelings on the matter, James had successfully infiltrated the prison and passed off coded travel directions to Pote. Teresa and Kelly Anne had stocked up on Pote’s favorite foods and ingredients, and Teresa had even helped Kelly Anne start compiling a list of potential houses on the island where she and Pote could move with their daughter when Pote was ready. They had started leaving an empty chair at their dinner table and telling Lena it was where her Papi would sit when he arrived home, so she wouldn’t be confused. 

Teresa shook her head. No, she was sure she had covered her bases. Pote would be home today and everything was almost ready for his arrival. 

When she had scrubbed her skin clean and the water started to turn more tepid than warm, she swam her hand to the bottom to unplug the stopper, then lifted herself from the water. She grabbed her clean towel and patted it against the rivulets of water that trickled down her body. Shaking off as much water as she could, she stepped out of the tub and exchanged her towel for the fluffy white robe hanging on a nearby wall hook.  

Teresa made her way to her designated sink at the bathroom vanity and released her hair from where she had tied it up before her bath. The soft strands of curls cascaded over the shoulders and back of her robe. She ran her fingers through it and decided it might need a few spritzes of the leave-in conditioner she kept on hand. 

She scanned the vanity top - eyes passing over her most-used lotions, soaps, and moisturizers. Where had she put it? She glanced at James's sink. The only supply he kept out was his hand-soap, and Teresa knew she wouldn’t have put her conditioner in any of the drawers that held his razor, aftershave, nail trimmers, or any of his other things. Her lips pursed together in consternation as she started opening the various vanity drawers and rifling through them. 

Not with the nail polish; she would have never put it there. 

Not with the extra hand towels. 

Not with the cold medication, ibuprofen, and cough drops on hand for the occasional illness. 

She opened the largest under-sink drawer and began to root through the little shelves that held her blow dryer, hair straightener, and additional hair and skin products. In her digging, she bumped something onto the floor with her elbow. Teresa huffed and crouched down on her heels to gather up the tampons that were spilling out of their box and onto the floor. She made a mental note that she needed to get more of them soon. She’d been meaning to pick some up but - 

Wait. 

Teresa froze just as she was setting the little box back under the sink. She blinked a few times, her eyes flitting to the side, trying to recall a memory. 

What day was it again?

How long had it been?

She tried to count backwards in her mind and felt an uncomfortable crease forming in her brow. 

Wait, wait, wait.

She shut the cabinet door and scrambled to her feet. There was a buzzing in her ear, and she could feel her heart starting to beat against her ribcage. She swung the bathroom door open. James was still lying on his stomach with his face half buried in a pillow. He grimaced at the bright yellow light from the bathroom but didn’t open his eyes. The gray-blue light of dawn filtered through the drapes to illuminate the curves of his exposed back where the sheet had ridden down to his hips.  

“James,” she whispered, a hint of urgency in her tone. 

“Mmm?” 

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday,” he rumbled, his voice heavy with sleep and still muffled by his pillow. 

“No,” she prompted, “I mean the date.” She brought her thumb up to her lip and started chewing on her fingernail - still trying to mentally calculate the passage of time. Out here on the beach, everything moved so slowly that Teresa barely ever kept track of the day of the week, much less the day of the month. The only time she ever really checked was when she knew her cycle must be coming up - 

James frowned and opened one sleepy eye to glance at her. “The ninth.” Teresa’s gaze drifted down, lost in her counting. “Why?” he prodded, voice thick and lazy. 

The answer to the most important math problem she’d done in years - maybe in her whole life - sprung to her mind. It had been 36 days. James must have noticed something in her expression, because he started to shift himself up onto one arm. She swallowed. “No reason,” she whispered in a rush, backing into the bathroom and shutting the door again, resting her back against it for a second. She heard James huff and then settle back into the bed. 

She needed to be sure. 

She rushed forward to her vanity again and threw open the drawer where she knew she had stocked a few pregnancy tests in the back. Lena’s surprise appearance in Kelly Anne’s life had convinced Teresa to always keep one or two tests on hand. After all, she had always been one to plan for all contingencies. 

It turned out she had accumulated three slim boxes. Teresa scanned her eyes over the instructions and then yanked the packages open. 

The three minutes between when she set the last used test on the counter top and when she could pick them up to see the results felt like the seconds were wading through quicksand. Teresa sat on the edge of the bathtub and stared off into space. 

Her mind went back to a handful of weeks ago when she and James had watched from a short distance on the beach as Kelly Anne told Lena about her Papi and how he would be coming home soon. The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she’d even really registered them. I think I want that. James had assessed her, surprise and something else clear on his face. 

“A kid?” he’d asked. She’d nodded. He’d grinned and pulled her into his side, planting a kiss on the top of her head. 

They hadn’t been trying, technically. But they also hadn’t been not trying. 

When her birth control pills had run out shortly after that, she had just stopped refilling them. When the moment had come each time they had sex the last few weeks, they’d just skipped the condom. They weren’t in a rush, but they weren’t preventing anything anymore either. 

She always thought it would take longer. 

James was going to be so smug. 

When the three minutes had passed and it was time to look at her results, Teresa already knew in her heart what the tests would say. She stood, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand, and took the two steps to the vanity where the tests were laid out. 

Two lines. 

A plus sign. 

Pregnant. 

Teresa sucked in a breath and backed up to sit on the edge of the tub again. Her eyes pointed toward the bathroom door, unfocused, and her hand drifted absently to press against her stomach. A baby. A new life to love and be responsible for. Old Teresa rarely let herself dream of the possibility, but here in her new life, she was starting to get used to dreams becoming reality. 

She was going to be a mother. 

A soft knock rapped against the door. 

“Teresa?” James’s voice was gravelly, like he’d just climbed his way out of a deep slumber and his voice wasn’t ready to forfeit the sleep yet. Teresa wasn’t prepared to say anything, so she didn’t. Her mind was too distracted by a barrage of images: tiny toes, teddy bears, lullabies, pink lips and soft eyelashes. 

She heard the door click open and saw James stepping inside while scratching a hand over his bare stomach where the elastic of his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His hair looked like a charming mess, and he squinted his eyes against the light. Her vision was starting to smear around the edges. Somewhere in the depths of her mind she realized the blurriness was a side effect of gathering tears.

“Teresa, what -” She could feel the moment James’s eyes landed on her, and even through her blurry vision she could see him stop his movements. His voice was awake and demanding in the next heartbeat. “Are you ok? What’s going on?”

She blinked rapidly and lifted her eyes to his face. Her chest was starting to burn with something that even after four years, she was only just starting to recognize: joy.

His brow was furrowed and his lips were turned down at the corners. She supposed she’d be worried too if she walked into the bathroom and saw him crying in a robe on the edge of the bathtub. He crossed the distance between them and crouched in front of her. His hand automatically reached up to press the back of his palm against her forehead. “Hey,” he breathed, searching her eyes. “Are you feeling ok? What’s wrong?”

She planted her hands on the sides of his neck, his bare skin warming her palms. Her own lips wobbled into some semblance of a smile. “Nothing,” she exhaled. “We -” she cleared her throat and jutted her chin toward the vanity. “Look.” 

James stared at her for a beat, confusion written on his brows. He stood and stepped away from her grasp. She watched his eyes connect with what was on the sink and stop moving. He spun back around to face her, his eyes wide and his mouth dropping open slightly. She laughed then and clasped her hands together over her heart, the elation that had been bubbling in her lungs spilling over to the surface. “Teresa,” he murmured, turning to the sink again and stepping closer. His eyes scanned through the tests, and his hand reached out as if to grab one of them, but he pulled it back. 

He spun to face her again, taking steps toward her as if in a trance. She felt his eyes boring into her face. “You’re pregnant?” His voice was soft, like the words were a prayer. 

Teresa bit her lip, but even that couldn’t hinder the corners from turning up in a smile. James laughed and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes bright. In a moment, he was crouching in front of her again, his palms smoothing up her neck and his fingers cradling the back of her head. “You’re serious?”

Teresa bent her elbows to grab onto his forearms below his wrists. “Yes,” she confirmed, her voice sounding light and breathless. 

His answering grin matched her own. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers, then kissed her nose and pulled back enough to meet her eyes again. “How do you feel?”

Teresa knew he didn’t mean physically. She blinked again, and the tears building up in one of her eyes finally snuck over the edge and onto her cheek. James wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. “Happy,” she admitted, her smile growing. 

“Me too,” he confirmed, the emotion in his eyes dancing. Teresa moved one of her hands from his arm to his face, smoothing her thumb over his lips and then brushing his hair back from his face. She hoped their child had his deep brown eyes and soft dark hair. 

Teresa leaned forward to capture his lips with her own. By now, kissing James was as familiar as breathing, yet somehow her stomach still turned over when one of his hands fisted in her hair and the other one skimmed down her back to steady her where she still sat on the edge of the tub. She planted one of her hands against his jaw, relishing the tickle of his short beard against her flesh. 

His lips against hers were joy. Adoration. Reverence. 

“We’re having a baby,” she mumbled against his lips, her own curving against his. When he pulled back a few blissful moments later and grinned at her, she mirrored his expression. He laughed softly and tucked some loose curls behind her ear. 

“What?” she wondered aloud, her skin barely able to contain the euphoria bursting forth from deep inside her chest. 

James focused on that same strand of curls and ran his fingers down it, his grin turning into a smirk. He met her eyes again. “I just remembered when you said we shouldn’t get our hopes up because it might take me a while.” 

Teresa wasn’t sure whether she wanted to pinch his side in rebellion or devour the smirk from his face. 

 ---

The morning and afternoon passed in a flurry of activity preparing for Pote’s arrival.  Kelly Anne was a basket of nerves, cleaning and then recleaning every surface in the house - wanting everything to be perfect. James had offered to take Lena swimming after lunch to occupy the little girl, and Kelly Anne had almost cried in appreciation. A few minutes later, James had changed into his swim trunks and had hoisted a cackling Lena onto his shoulders. 

He had squeezed Teresa’s hand and thrown her a wink when the pair passed her on their way outside. 

It was a miracle that Kelly Anne hadn’t noticed the dreamy smile that had clawed its way onto Teresa’s face, but then again, Kelly Anne had other things on her mind, Teresa supposed. 

A few hours later, Teresa decided she needed a break when Kelly Anne asked her opinion on the fifth outfit she had changed into. James and Lena had returned from their swim, and James had headed for the shower while Lena joined her mom and tía in Kelly Anne’s bedroom. 

“Is this one too much?” Kelly Anne was babbling. “It’s too much, isn’t it. Ugh, I knew it.” 

Kelly Anne started tearing off her most recent tank top despite Teresa’s assurances that it looked great. 

“Mommy, when is Papi coming?” Lena whined, kicking her feet over the edge of the bed. 

“Soon, baby. Why don’t you go brush your teeth?”

Lena pouted and flopped onto the mattress. “I did that already!”

Kelly Anne barely spared her daughter a glance in the mirror. “Well brush them again, then.” 

“But I don’t wanna!” Lena wailed. 

Teresa grabbed the little girl’s hand. “It’s ok. I’ll take her outside for a while. We’ll build a sandcastle.” 

Kelly Anne nodded at Teresa and mouthed “thank-you.” Teresa nodded at her friend, then let the tiny brunette out of the house. 

Kneeling in the sand and watching Lena dig around and build her dream castle, Teresa couldn’t help imagining a few years down the road when she might be doing the same with her old child. Lena prattled on about dragons and moats and princesses, and Teresa humored her - helping her decide on the best place for her drawbridge. Once, James had helped the girl build a sandcastle and had insisted that she place her towers and drawbridges in tactically sound places. Lena had no idea what that meant, so now she constantly asked “Here?” before altering her creation with additional structures. They scoured the beach together for shells to decorate the castle, and Teresa relished the feel of little Lena’s hand in hers. 

Not long after, Teresa looked up to see Kelly Anne waving to her from the back porch. Deciding she really did need to run inside and check on her bread before Pote’s arrival, Teresa ruffled Lena’s hair and made her promise to wait right there until her mom got to her. The girl nodded, and Teresa started walking back up the boardwalk toward her house. Kelly Anne gave her arm an appreciative squeeze as they passed one another on the boardwalk. 

When Teresa walked into her air conditioned living room, James set his glass of water down on the coffee table and stood up from the couch to meet her. 

“Hey,” he’d said casually, reaching out to grab her by the elbow gently. She’d stepped toward him automatically, letting her eyes roam over him. He wore a light button-up shirt with polka dots and the pink shorts with tiny lobsters on them she’d given to him for his birthday. His hair was soft and windswept, despite his shower not long ago. He looked as handsome as ever. She signed, a soft smile blooming on her face. James wrapped his arms around her waist, locking her in place in front of him. “You made sure Lena put the towers in the best strategic places, right?”

She threw her head back and laughed. He watched her with a grin on his lips. 

“You doing ok?” he added quietly, a secret smile lighting his eyes. 

She reached up and kissed his cheek in response. “Yes. I’m going to check on the bread.” She patted his cheek with her hand, and he turned his face to kiss her fingers before he dropped his arms and let her step away from him. 

Only two minutes later, just as Teresa was peeking under the dish towel she had draped over the bread dough while it rose, Lena ran into the kitchen. 

“Tía Teresa! Papi is here!”

Eager, Teresa had and made her way to the back door. She could see James hugging Pote just before she stepped out onto the porch. “Welcome home,” she called, her face breaking into a happy smile at seeing her dearest friend again after so long. She approached him and pulled him into a tight hug, the wind tousling her hair. 

“Teresita,” he said, crushing her against him. 

“Hola,” she breathed with a shaky voice, rubbing his back. She had gotten regular updates on Pote throughout the last 4 years, but having him back home with her was exactly the emotional powderkeg she had expected. Her insides screamed between excitement, guilt, happiness, and regret. The happiness was winning. She pulled in a breath and stepped back from him. “You look good,” she pointed out, keeping her hand on his shoulder. 

Pote regarded her with a smile for half a second. “You look different,” he appraised. Something about the twinkle in his eye made her blink. Could he tell? Was she...glowing...or something? She shook her head slightly, her smile basically permanent at this point. 

“Four years,” she mused.

“Better late than never,” he assured her. “Your plan worked, Teresita.” 

Teresa’s smile turned sad. “I’m sorry you missed so much time with your daughter.” For a moment, she thought about her own child. She had always felt remorse over Pote not being around for the first few years of Lena’s life, but now...the thought of James not being here for their child and how she knew it would tear him apart brought a new level of understanding to the pain. 

Pote shook his head and glanced around between the three people standing on the porch with him. “Nah. If something had to go wrong, I’d rather it be on my end.” 

“So Teresa’s plan worked,” Kelly Anne supplied, “We’re safe.” 

Safe. There were only a few loose ends left, and Teresa needed to know they were tied up. She had to make sure it was all really over. She wouldn’t let her child be born into a world where having Teresa Mendoza as a mother could be a death sentence. So she inquired about Boaz. About Chicho and Marcel. Pote assured her that everything was taken care of. No one suspected she was alive, and there were no past enemies left out there who would come looking anyway. 

They were really and truly free. 

Teresa could feel James’s eyes on her. She knew he would be thinking the same thing as her. How today their freedom meant even more to them than it did yesterday. 

When Pote rubbed his hands together and asked to be shown to the kitchen, the group laughed. Teresa’s brilliant smile bubbled up again. “Actually,” she pointed out, “I’m cooking for you tonight.” 

While Kelly Anne explained to Pote some of the biggest changes in their lives, James had pulled Teresa into his side and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. She laid her head on his shoulder and her palm on his chest, letting the familiar beat of his heart drown out the demons that had tried to peek through the crevices of her mind moments ago.  The biggest and most consequential change in her and James’s life was something neither of their friends knew about yet. In time, James and Teresa would tell them, but now was not the moment. 

At dinner, no one but James seemed to notice that she brought a pitcher of a local, tropical fruit juice to the table instead of the cocktail she had mixed up the day before. Kelly Anne and Pote were too distracted about being together to take in much else, but James had squeezed her hand under the table and given her a conspiratorial smile. 

When Pote talked about how happy he was to be eating as a family, Teresa zoned out. If only her past self could see her now, surrounded by her family and preparing to start a little one of her own. She imagined how a year from now there would be a high chair added to the table for family dinners, and she felt her lips tilt up at the corners wistfully. She thought the Old Teresa would be proud of her. 

Kelly Anne and Pote were lost in their own conversation. James, the one who always saw through her, squeezed her hand again and asked if she was ok. The knowing glint in his eye made her think maybe he had had the same flash to the future when envisioning how their family dinners were about to change. 

“Yeah,” she whispered, content, before leaning forward and connecting her lips to his for just a moment. An “I love you” kiss for no reason other than that, that she loved him and she was happy and she couldn’t stop herself. She caressed his cheek softly before leaning away, and he stared at her in the way that always turned her stomach over. Like he adored her. Like he was in awe of her. 

Pressing his lips together to keep his grin at bay, he turned back to the group. “A toast,” he proclaimed, grabbing his glass. Pote and Kelly Anne looked away from one another and grabbed their own glasses. Teresa followed suit. James raised his glass up. “To a new life,” he declared, a sly glance her way. 

Cheeky bastard, she thought, fighting to control her smile. 

---

That evening, Teresa sat side by side with James on the stairs of their private boardwalk. She was pressed into his shoulder, one hand hugging his bicep and the other held gently between his palms. The wind blew strands of her hair against her neck and cheeks. The late evening sun was starting to begin its descent, but she was snuggled close enough to James that the chill of the sea breeze didn’t bother her. 

Together they watched Pote and Kelly Anne play in the waves with their daughter. 

Teresa didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that she and James were thinking the same thing. The notion of parenthood had only lived inside of them for about 12 hours, but already she could see it so clearly. How they would hold their child’s hands - one of them on each side - and swing him or her over the tiny incoming waves. How their child would laugh, and play in the sand, and enjoy the feel of the cool sea water on his or her feet. 

How together they would move heaven and earth to make sure their child was safe, and happy, and loved every single day. 

Teresa looked over at James, and let her smile overtake her. 

This will be us, she said without speaking. 

She knew he would understand. 

His answering smile was one part bashful and one part enamored. She knew with certainty that his dreams of their future matched her own. He rubbed his thumb over her hand that he held, letting his eyes make his promises to her. 

She snuggled impossibly closer and leaned her head against his shoulder. “So,” she started, a hint of humor creeping into her voice. “I guess we need to encourage Pote and Kelly Anne to start house hunting sooner rather than later. I wasn’t expecting our family to grow by fifty percent in one day when I bought this house.” 

James chuckled and tucked some loose hair behind her ear. “Do they call that exponential growth?” 

Teresa buried her nose in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of the sea that now permanently clung to him. “No, you’re thinking of one-hundred fifty percent.” 

He started playing with her fingers in his hands. He didn’t look at her this time, but the corners of his mouth turned up. “Yeah? So what’s that, like 3 more kids?” She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Give me some time and I’ll make it happen.” 

Teresa threw her head back and laughed. When he pulled her in more tightly and pressed his lips against her hairline, she thought exponential growth didn’t sound too bad.

[datawyrms]

Changed Hunt

For Phic Phight 2021! (not completely finished but AAAAfinshnowwww) lowkey Dannymay Day 2 Portal, as well

"That portal is awesome!" Sam says. "Would be so cool if it worked."

Danny goes down into the lab that night to try a few things—it doesn't quite go as he planned.(aka a no one knows au) (Dey’s prompt!)

Danny really wished Sam and Tucker had stayed a bit longer that day. With them around, maybe he wouldn’t have wandered in that portal like an idiot. In his own defense, how could he have known that little panel in there had been an on switch? Who’d put that inside a reality tearing portal device? Jack and Maddie Fenton, apparently. He was just lucky the thing hadn’t killed him! Or at least, managed to overdo it to the point he...survived somehow? He hadn’t really decided what that portal had done exactly. Waking in a pained heap, bathed in a haunting green glow from the now active portal was confusing enough. Looking up and seeing a stranger in the reflective panel nearby just made it worse. Of course he didn’t take it well, or know what to think. If he’d become a ghost, his parents would freak. Fixing their portal by turning into some...evil human hating creature probably wasn't in the plan. At least his terror somehow managed to get him to become human again. Heartbeat and everything. He hoped it had just been a weird one off, or he’d imagined it from trauma. Until he started falling through things. He died so hard  that he got his life back? The portal only managed to kill half of him? He was dead but ‘imitating humans’ was his specialty? Some human that just got to use his ‘soul’ or whatever to be a ghost early? Sam and Tucker might have had guesses- but he knew one thing right away. Whatever happened, he wasn’t all human anymore. He couldn’t tell them. What if they decided that was just too weird? What if they blamed themselves for not being there- thought they’d killed him? It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, he couldn’t let Mom and Dad find out, so he’d be trying to hide any of the new weirdness anyway. Might as well just always do it. Maybe the weird new abilities would just go away. They hadn’t. They just forced him to think about it to keep both feet on the ground. He could deal.

Until other ghosts started showing up. Ghosts that actually knew how to be ghosts, terrifying powers and all. Ghosts that seemed to know what he was. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when a green woman in a hairnet tapped him on the shoulder and asked who ‘changed the menu’. There was a lot of screaming and running away at that, considering she was floating and well. Obviously some sort of dead person. Freaky Fenton attracts freaky ghosts. Of course. She didn’t buy his claim of not knowing why the menu wasn’t exactly the same as fifty years ago (why would he? That’s a lot of years!) and thought setting ovens on fire and throwing them at him was a fair answer! So apparently Mom and Dad were totally right about ghosts being completely terrifying monsters that he should run away from very quickly. Which he did. He only ran into two walls he meant to go through, even. Just more reasons to never, ever tell anyone he might be like that crazed ghost lady. Mom and Dad proving their inventions actually did work sometimes was just icing on the ‘i’m so screwed’ cake. Ghosts exist, they fought one, and the school got shuttered for a week from excessive damage via flying appliance. Fun.

It was dumb to pretend that was a one off thing. It was stupid to think he could keep hiding what happened that day. Even if it felt safer, even if he just wanted to keep denying the portal was open so she could keep pretending it hadn’t done anything to him. Maybe if someone knew, he wouldn’t be hopelessly trapped by a huge glowing robot. Running didn’t work on this one like it did the older ghost lady. He tried, he really did, but the self proclaimed hunter kept tracking him down. Even when he transformed into the strange ghost version of himself he failed to dissuade the robot. Punching metal still hurt as a ghost, and so did getting pelted with little missiles. So much for intangibility being an advantage.

“You’re lucky that you’re a rare creature, whelp. Otherwise I’d be disappointed by how little effort hunting you took.”

Great, flame head thought he was a disappointing freak. More pressing was the net the ghost had shot at him that he couldn’t struggle free of. Even drawing on his weird ghost side wouldn’t let him phase through it. “Pretty sure you can’t hunt endangered species!” He redoubled his effort as the ghost picked up the net, trying to trick himself that his swinging was making him feel ill, not the terror of being carried off by some monster that came through the portal just to hunt him down.

“Hah! If I didn’t take you ghost child, someone else would simply end you.” The blank green eyes stared into his own as the machine pulled him up higher. “You should be grateful to be part of my collection.”

Danny gulped, unsure if he should keep his attention on his captor or the fact they were getting closer to the swirling portal. “How about no thanks? Since you’re such a good samaritan and all. You can just let me go and forget all about uh...this.” Why couldn’t he just squeeze out of the net, or make the rest of him all weird like when his legs decided to vanish sometimes? Pulling with his gloved hands wasn’t working, and the glow just grew  brighter as the lump in his throat got thicker. “Please? You already said I was weak, if you let me go I’ll be stronger next time!” Okay, it was a stupid plea but he’d try anything right now to not get dragged to some ghost world.

“I’m not a catch and release sort of hunter.” The ghost chuckled as his prey shrank back with the denial.

“How can you be the ‘Greatest’ hunter if you just go after kids, huh?” Begging wasn’t working, so maybe getting him angry? He couldn’t go through there, what if being on the other side made him more like this thing, or the other weird green monsters? “More like lamest hunter.”

“Oh you’ll see the sort of creatures I normally hunt, ghost child. Once you join them.” Skulker shook the net hard, rattling what little bravado Danny had managed to gather up right back out of him.

So much for that hope. “This has got to be a mistake, just let me go!” The ghost didn’t answer him, and he couldn’t help closing his eyes when the mechanical monster fired up a jetpack and flew through that portal. It wasn’t as cold as he feared it would be, it wasn’t like the void of space. Just as green as the portal, still a swirling background to everything. He swore he saw faces and doors, but couldn’t keep looking for long. The combined movement of being dragged along with the spinning energy was stomach churning enough, and he had to deal with the fact he didn’t know anything about this place. Even if this ghost decided to let him go, where would he go? Was there even anything to navigate with? He certainly didn’t see anything useful like stars. Would all this green stuff just soak into him and make him not want to find home? Nothing here made sense! It was easier to curl up instead of struggling with the net to stretch out, and the stupid ghost couldn’t see how the tears welled in his eyes as he struggled not to cry.

He should have been braver, should have tried to watch more, but it’d been too much. The crunch of metal against stone jarred him out of his silent self berating, just to be even more confused. He was on an island? That just floated, because islands did that here. Islands that had forests on them, that grew out of what looked like rock. Sure, okay. At least it was a bit of a distraction from the fact he was trapped by some evil robot in a completely different reality! Well. It had been. Seeing the fact the ghost lived in some weird stone skull jutting out of a mountain made him snort despite himself.

“You said my puns were bad, and you live in that thing?” He was pretty sure the green mohawk monster was Skull-something anyway. Mostly tuned it out after he kept repeating the ‘greatest hunter’ bit. “Ghost Zone’s Greatest Halloween Decoration’s a more fitting title.”

“For a terrified whelp, you are very chatty.”

“I think I looped around from terrified when I saw how doomed I am.” He was just joking. Totally. He wasn’t goofing around to try and fend off the engulfing panic of never getting home, nope. Absolutely not. He tried to pay attention to the strange ‘skull mountain house thing’, but the fact it reminded him more like a zoo inside wasn’t helping. Massive, monstrous glowing ghosts leering out and snapping as they passed, smaller sorts that didn’t even look up and several empty cages stained green was not calming his nerves. He couldn’t even describe some ghosts, being such a confusing jumble of parts that didn’t remind him of anything. All he could tell was robo-hunter probably didn’t have any willing guests. Unwilling guests that looked far, far more powerful than anything he could dream of trying. He was so, so doomed. To the point that being tossed roughly in a similar cage was almost a relief so he wasn’t right beside the ghost anymore.

First task was struggling free of the no longer glowing net (deactivated somehow? weird.) which wasn’t too hard, but just left him in his freaky ghost form, in a cage, in the middle of who knew where. The Ghost Zone, that’s what they kept calling it. Not Earth. Fantastic! That’s enough to get a C-, but not enough to get him out of this cage. Reaching through the bars was out, the unexpected shock had him rubbing his hand and grumbling to how having some invisible field between the bars was just unfair. At least let him see it before hurting him more. Now what? Grasping that feeling that let him walk through walls wasn’t letting him through the cage floor, just like how the net wouldn’t let him out.  Floating just reminded him of getting dragged here. So that was it. Why did he have to get stupid dying powers? They didn’t even do anything useful!

Stressing out and not finding a way out was an exhausting way to spend a few hours. He kept thinking of new problems, like he didn’t have enough already. When the robot wandered past, he almost grabbed the bars to get closer. “Hey! Screw head!”

The ghost actually looked at him, the stern face looking more confused than anything.

“Yeah you! You know I’m gonna like, starve to death in here, right?” Danny had no idea how he was managing to say something he was very terrified of coming true like it was a joke. “Kind of a waste, don’t ya think?”

“You will be fine, ghost child. Your pleas for freedom won’t fool me.”

“Wanna bet? Maybe we’re so rare because we all starve to death in this dumb ghost world or whatever.” That and there probably weren’t too many people dumb enough to get shocked to...sort of death. “That and like, you’re some freaky machine man, you probably don’t know anything about eating to start with.”

Skulker kept staring at him, as if doing that would suddenly reveal all his secrets. “Well I prefer live specimens, but I suppose I could always do with another rug.”

Oh gross! “Seriously? Do I look like rug material to you?”

“Wall art?”

Yup, he was gagging now. The very idea a ghost would want to do that just made his spine want to shake right out of him with disgust. “I’d be way out of place, all of the other ghosts here look like animals! You’ll just gross all your hunter buddies out.” Maybe if he pretended to be some know it all like Jazz the ghost would...reconsider making him into wall art? Uurk. What was his life that he even needed to think that?

At least that got the metal monster pondering, massive hand scratching at his chin. “I do wonder if your pelt would only show half of your nature.”

“How about we don’t test that and say we did.” He’d seen some of the knives on the way in and did not want any of them near him thank you very much. Not that he had much of a choice- oh man he really, really did not want to learn why Sam hated the fur industry this way. “Pretty sure I’d just die. More. Or something.”

“Oh, but you’ve seen the other pelts on the way in. They’ve still got enough of a spark to not melt to nothing ghost child. I’m not that sloppy.”

Oh so he could be barely aware wall art. Even better!  What would he do, skin him alive or just crush him? Both? “Humans don’t melt.” It was all he could think of blathering out. Don’t think about what the terrifying ghost guy can do Fenton, just don’t.

“True...unfortunately I don’t have another subject to test on.”

Score one for being a unique sort of freaky ghost kid. Maybe. “Soooo how about you just bring me back and rethink the whole uh. Hunting me thing.”

That just got Skulker laughing. “Not a chance whelp.”

“I’m not a whelp! I don’t even fit in with all your monster-things!” It had annoyed him, really. The other ghosts didn’t really...talk? “I’m not some animal!” 

More chuckling, as if amused by a puppy chasing its tail. “Of course you are, with that stench of the human world on you.”

“You think I smell. With what nose, metalhead?”

“None of your business. Not to fear, any ghost here can tell you’re a hybrid. That human body you insist on wearing can be felt even when you’re in a superior form.”

Oh, was this a ghosts thinking humans were animals thing? Or was this a ghosts are kinda racist to different ghosts thing. Was there a difference? He probably should have paid more attention in civics. “Yeah well that ‘human body’ needs food.” He wasn’t even going to touch the idea that he was ‘wearing’ his own body, eeeeugh.

“I’ll figure out a solution to your hybrid failings, child. I won’t let a prize go that easily.”

Greeeeeeat.

[vannahfanfics]

Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Skyward

Ao3

Chapter 8: Uravium

“Katsuki! I can see the bottom now!” 

The bottom of the long, dark mine shaft slowly yawned up to meet them, blue-black earth shining with the pink light still swirling around their bodies and emanating from Ochako’s pendant. The humming sound began to dim, and Ochako gasped as gravity regained its control of her body. She began to straighten out in the air, her feet coming down towards the floor. The two of them landed with no more than mere scuffs on the rocky bottom, and Ochako exclaimed in fright when the light from her crystal began to retract into the gem and fade. 

“Don’t worry, Cheeks.” Katsuki smiled while he crouched down, flipping open the flap of his bag to look around in it. He procured a small lantern and a set of matches, swiftly plucking one out to strike it on the coarse side of the box. “Just a little more,” he grunted as the faint light petered out, but just as it did, there was a spark and then a little orange flame bloomed in the blackness. It threw orange light over the lines of his face as he leaned down to light the lamp; the oil greedily caught the fire, igniting the wick and sending a puddle of soft light splaying out around them. “There,” Katsuki smirked in satisfaction, then picked up the lantern and stood up. 

“We’re a long way down,” Ochako observed when she cast her gaze upward. The sky was but a circle of blue far above their heads, partially blocked by the half-decayed scaffolding jutting out into the mine shaft. 

“Yep,” Katsuki said, “we sure won’t be getting out that way—but it also means it’ll be hard as hell for those pirates or that Tomura bastard to follow us.” 

Ochako released a relieved sigh, but still shuddered at the image of Tomura’s cold, piercing eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself, quaking from the entire experience, and Katsuki looked at her. 

“Oh, Cheeks, are you cold?” Before she could refuse, he had plopped down the lantern and was shrugging out of his vest. “It doesn't have sleeves, but—” he said while he stepped behind her so he could drape it over her shoulders, “it should keep you a little warmer.” Ochako was warmer indeed, especially her face, which was shining nearly as pink as her necklace had been. She was thankful for the orange hue of the lantern light, as it hid her blush. She slipped her arms through the sleeves of Katsuki’s vest with a shy mumble of gratitude, while he just nodded and picked up the lantern to shine it around. 

“Well, we can’t stay in these mine shafts forever,” he grunted. “We have to find a way out, and hopefully that’ll put enough distance between us and them that we can finally get you somewhere safe, Cheeks.” He started walking, and Ochako followed; for a while, the only sound in the empty mines were their footsteps. She could tell something was eating at him, though. His jaw was set and his eyes burned in contemplation, but she couldn’t tell whatever in the world he was thinking. Just as he was about to ask, he looked at her and said, “Cheeks, I want you to tell me everything about that necklace of yours.” 

“My necklace?” she blinked and reflexively reached up to clutch it in her hand. 

“Yeah,” he affirmed with a nod. “I don’t really care much about the pirates, but we really need to know why Tomura and the military are after it. It’s clear they want the power of your necklace, but what do they have to gain from it? Clearly, it only activates for you.” 

Ochako looked down, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. She didn’t know why Tomura and the military wanted her pendant, but Katsuki was smart—maybe he could see the reason that she had failed to find. 

“Well… It’s a family heirloom,” she began, looking down at the crystal in her hand. She ran her fingers over his curved sides as she spoke. “My family has lived in the mountains far to the north of here for generations, and so has this necklace been passed down, from mother to daughter. Honestly, I never usually saw it except for during special occasions like weddings. We kept it in a hidden compartment behind the fireplace which was covered by a wood carving of our family crest. We were just a simple farming and livestock family,” she said, looking up wistfully. “We were very happy until my mother and father both caught a very grievous illness a few months ago…” Her eyes flooded with tears then, and she reached up with her free hand to wipe them away with the back of her hand. “I’m just like you… I wasn’t allowed in the house because it was so deadly. I didn’t get to say goodbye.” 

“I’m sorry, Cheeks,” Katsuki murmured, stepping a little closer to her. He allowed her to lean her head on his shoulder as they walked. It was warm, both with his body heat and the soft firelight of the lamp, and that did make her feel a little bit better. They were in this together.

“I moved back into the house after the doctors had removed all the illness from it. I wanted to be close to my parents, so I took out the necklace and started wearing it. I didn’t know that it would turn out to be such an important thing,” she sighed, looking back down at the unassuming pendant. She wondered now what her family really was, what the meaning was behind the family crest etched in gold on the pendant’s surface. “A month after my parents died, Tomura and his men came to the farm. They didn’t tell me anything. They just told me I had to come with them. They had guns… I was so scared.” 

“Bastard, threatening a girl like that,” Katsuki growled under his breath. He slipped his arm around Ochako’s waist in a comforting gesture, sensing how talking about Tomura made her upset. Ochako nodded forlornly, still sweeping tears from her face. 

“We were on our way to a military base, he said,” Ochako continued. “We were taking a dirigible. The pirates attacked, and while I was trying to escape, I fell from the airship… And that’s how I ended up in your mining town.” 

“Hmm,” Katsuki hummed, twitching his nose as he ruminated on the strange, puzzling situation. “Sounds to me like Tomura knows more about your crystal and your family than we do. Izuku Midoriya’s gang is notorious for intercepting military transponders, so he probably learned about it that way, so now we have to deal with both of them.” Sighing, he looked back at Ochako with a small smile. “Ah, don’t look at me like that,” he said as she pouted uncertainly. “We’re gonna get through this, Cheeks. Luck has been on our side so far.” 

She wanted to feel better at his reassurances. She really did. But she just couldn’t help but wonder when their luck would run out. 

“Hello,” Katsuki said suddenly, raising the lantern as he looked ahead. Ochako followed his gaze to see that the mining tunnel had widened out into a large room. Wooden boxes, tables, and dusty equipment littered the cleared space—a base camp of some sort? They walked into the room to a table, where musty old papers still littered the desk. Katsuki picked one up, then gasped. “These are research papers about Uravity!” 

“What?” Sure enough, hypotheses about Uravity were written out in neat script on the paper. Katsuki brought the crinkly, stained paper close to his face, struggling to read the faded text. He set the lantern down inadvertently on the edge of the table. They both gasped as the lantern slipped right off. It crashed to the floor, and though it thankfully didn’t shatter, the fire sputtered out. 

Immediately, the room was bathed in a bright pink glow. 

“What the hell?” Katsuki breathed, turning slowly in a circle to look around. Embedded in the walls and the ceiling were glowing pink stones. Ochako breathed out in wonder, eyes reflecting the beautiful sheen of the pink gems— and then she realized that it seemed awfully familiar. She hastily yanked her necklace back out from underneath her dress and found that it too was glowing in the darkness. 

“Katsuki, look!” 

“What the hell is going on here?” he whispered while he peered down at her necklace. He snatched up the document again and used the soft light from the crystals to resume reading it. After scanning the paragraphs for a minute, he exhaled in awe, “Uravium.”

“What?” 

“These crystals,” he said with a gesture around the room and then pointed to her necklace. “And yours, too. They’re all uravium, and uravium is the gem they mined to make Uravity float in the sky.” 

“What? My crystal is related to Uravity?” she cried in shock. Never in a million years would she have imagined that her crystal was something so important! 

Katsuki looked back down at the old document with a frown. “Yeah. I can’t read most of the rest, but apparently, they discovered this old uravium mine fifty some-odd years ago. But the technology to use uravium has been lost, so the miners turned it over to researchers to see if they could find out more. Apparently, all they were able to really figure out is that the uravium becomes more active when Uravity is floating over the mine.” 

“So that means Uravity is somewhere above us right now!” Ochako realized, and Katsuki nodded. 

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Katsuki huffed and set the paper down on the table. “If your necklace is an uravium crystal, then it could hold the key to finally finding Uravity. Uravity was said to be a major power when it was in its prime. There’s no telling the treasure or weapons still on it. If the military got ahold of it…” 

“That would be disastrous,” Ochako finished gravely. She wrapped her hands around her crystal, smothering the light as if she could hide it from Tomura that way. “But why my family? Why me?”

“I don’t know, Cheeks,” Katsuki sighed and crouched down so he could re-light the fallen lantern. “I don’t think we’ll get the answer to that anytime soon. The only thing that I do know is that we absolutely can’t let a guy like Tomura get his hands on the crystal.” When the lantern flared up, the pink lights were snuffed out, and Ochako unwrapped her hands from her crystal to find it inert once more. Feeling a little nauseous, she tucked it back underneath the collar of her chest. However, she could still feel its weight against her chest, and she could almost imagine it throbbing with that secret power. 

Seeing the worry on her face, Katsuki smiled and reached up to lay his hand on her cheek. She leaned into his touch, appreciating the way his calloused, work-roughened hands felt on her skin. 

“Don’tchu worry about a thing, Cheeks. There ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna let Tomura or those bastard pirates get their hands on ya.” 

“I know.” Ochako smiled. There were a lot of uncertainties in her life right now, but thankfully, she had one thing that was certain—she could count on Katsuki no matter what. That was enough for her to keep pushing forward, no matter how scary things might become. Together, they would discover the secrets of her necklace, of her family, and of Uravity.

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

[border-spam]

Troy Calypso’s very nice good time

Accidentally wrote a 6.5k comfort fic with actual nice sibling moment mentions because that’s what they deserved.

( Thank you so much @lazulizard and @artisthicc-nikyri for the feedback and motivation on the initial draft that was 2k that pushed it into this nonsense )

The pile of furs and blankets on the huge bed shifted slowly, messy black hair beginning to peak out from underneath, complete silence of the inky Pandoran night broken by a stuttering yawn as the God King shifted his head out from under the covers enough to nuzzle his face into a pillow.

“Mmmm… You’re a damn genius Troy-boy..”, he muffled sleepily as he breathed into it. The heavy fur blankets were still pulled mostly over his head, and the plush down cushions he usually slept with were comfortably pressed along his bare body under the warm weight. Bliss.

Spending the bit of extra time before going to sleep to fully remove his bracer?

Worth every second of effort. 

It was still pitch black out and the middle of the night, but that was fine. He loved the deep night on Pandora, and that was the best few hours sleep he’d had in months. Tyreen should go off world without him more often… He made a mental note to off handedly congratulate her on a job well done when she got back from this merger trip, maybe he could have few more of these in the future.

Reaching up to gently scratch at the uncovered neuro-port at the base of his skull, he inhaled deeply into the cushy warmth of the pillow, enjoying how loose his normally stiff joints felt, feeling a grin creep across his face.

Fresh laundered sheets. He loved that smell, and it was alllll his tonight, unlike the times there would be that nasty lingering odor of whatever faceless COV fanatic he’d slaked his baser urges with beforehand, all sour and grimy.

His ship, Sanctum, was fully tailored to his tastes and needs, and the custom made bed had been a galaxy-brain move he congratulated himself on. Big enough that he could sleep comfortably without having to curl up to fit his massive 6"7 height onto the mattress like he had always had to do with regular beds, and being able to stretch out lengthwise like this? That was the kind of luxurious shit a God deserved, even if the God in question currently had an atrocious case of bed hair and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged down his cheeks.

No Ty meant no live appearances today. No live appearances meant being able to queue today’s Let’s Flays and Sermon uploads last night, automate his outgoing reports and mark himself on “Holy Respite” on the clergy’s internal echo network.

There would be no high priests organising meetings with him, no sacrifices or tithes to attend, no data to compile or reports to work on, it was all taken care of already. The only light in the room was the slow red pulse his arm’s custom built charging dock integrated in the wall opposite the bed gave off, and he let his eyes adjust to it, enjoying the complete quiet of the Pandoran night bar the gentle whirs and thunks of his homemade fleet of service junkbots running their chores outside his bedroom door.

Just him, his pajamas, gross food, and whatever the hell he wanted to do today. Or this morning. Or.. night? Whatever. Didn’t matter.

He turned onto his back and stretched languidly, pushing the furs down his torso and savoring how free his bare right side felt without the grounding weight of the bracer. A pleasant shiver crept up his spine as he ran his palm down the goosebumped skin of his lower ribs and stomach before letting it rest on the jut of his left hip, smiling to himself as he puffed a breath into the thick black hair that had fallen over his eyes.

It was gonna be awesome.

Shimmying his legs to the side of the bed, he swung them over the edge, then slowly sat up, yawning so wide he felt both cheek clips click as the face mods they held together strained to split open, letting his eyes adjust to the additional slight glow of light the red markings running down his left thigh and calf added. The ship’s auto temperature system kept the dark comfort of his bedroom cool during the night the way he liked, but you got cold quick in it. Judging the distance between where he sat and the doorway in the opposite corner of the quarters that led into the washroom, he rubbed at his eyes and lifted the top fur covering of the bed over his back and head like a shroud, wrapping it around his naked body as he stood up out of the warm blankets.

As soon as he rose, the room sensors automatically lit the paper lantern lights that crisscrossed the low ceiling on long trailing ropes, keeping them dimmed to fill the shadowy darkness of the room with pools of cosy multicoloured light.

He was gross right now. No wash before bed last night, no -time- for one considering all the work he’d stayed up doing to make sure today would be prepared for, and his hair was a state. Still full of styling products and pointing haphazardly in every direction, he tried to run a hand through it and felt his fingers catch in the waxy mess.

“..Bleh…” he groaned, rolling his tongue out to emphasise how nasty this was. “OK.. seriously, fucking shower time you nasty little shit, heh.”

Stumbling over to the black felted wall facing the bed, he tapped a hand to the panel that extended his inbuilt dresser from the recess it was hidden within, rooting inside it for some chillout clothes as one of his personal playlists began to play over the ship’s audio system.

How long had he had these things now he wondered, picking up a long dark pair of sweats and matching tank, poking a finger through a hole near one of the ankles as he slowly waddled towards the washroom. Years probably. One of the first things they had done once they had started making donation income on Pandora was buy clothing and get out of their ancient patched up hand-me-downs, like shedding the skin of your former self and emerging a new being… and he tended to hang on to stuff he found comfortable. Not a crime, right? I mean sure he could replace them, he could afford to replace anything, but you couldn’t buy that feeling of well worn, broken in comfort clothing. You had to earn that.

The whole “Trash-punk Deity” aesthetic he’d designed for himself and Tyreen was based around looking effortlessly sexy in its thrown together accidental style, but it was fucking hard work in reality. That shit was uncomfortable most of the time, so wiggling out of 20 belts and piles of chains and into the comfort of indoor clothes like these had almost become a cathartic ritual once he closed the door to the rest of the world behind him and entered his ship quarters.

He let the fur slip to the ground as he rounded the doorway’s corner and stepped into the washroom, feeling a shiver shoot up his back as his feet touched the cool floor. It was exactly how he had requested when detailing the ship, dark and moodlit like the majority of Sanctum’s décor, tiled from top to bottom in deep grey slate with wall integrated storage and commodities, recessed night lighting set to a gentle soft glow skirting around the inner edges of the ceiling, open shower wall set to match his height, and a floor length mirror surrounded by panels that stored his cosmetics and toiletries.

Dropping the balled up clothing to the floor near the mirror, he leaned forward to reach and switch the wall mounted faucet on, and turned towards the mirror as he waited for the high pressured blast of water that roared forth to begin to heat.

Stepping onto the scale panel on the floor in front of the mirror, he blew a deep breath out and stared at his reflection, looking anywhere but the numbers flickering under his feet, taking in his naked form. All long, lean lines of rich brown skin and dark tattoo work, decorated by the Siren markings that ran like filligree up his left leg and arm, ending where they emerged from the mess of his pitch black hair and curled around his left eye.

He looked ok… didn’t he? His ribs were still clear, shifting under thin skin, but there was some meat on his chest and the faintest hint of defined vascularity across his shoulder and bicep now, and that was a good thing, right?

He didn’t look like he had lost any since last time, he mulled, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he pinched the taut skin of his lower stomach between his thumb and fingers, measuring the thickness. He felt ok, he hadn’t been too tired recently, he hadn’t waited longer than he should have between top ups from Tyreen and made sure to eat on schedule, even if he had lost a little it would be fine anyway, right? He always bounced back even if it took a little while, and he’d been feeling ok recently. He’d been ok..

He closed his eyes and shrugged the tension out of his shoulder, inhaling and exhaling deeply before looking down at the scale readout.

“Oh..”

“No wait, whoah!”

2 pounds up from his last goal point? This was the heaviest he had ever been in his life! He gasped out a shocked laugh, looking back up at his reflection in the mirror and grinning as he failed to swipe his rat-nest of waxed hair back into something remotely respectable, blushing furiously under the streaks of black smeared down his cheeks.

“Holy shit, good job man, look at you! All buff n’ shit.” He boasted, puffing out his narrow chest and aiming a toothy grin at himself through the steam now filling the room.

“You only half look like a teenage girl who got dumped last night, fuckin su-perb.”

Barking out a genuine laugh, he turned and stepped into the blast of piping hot water, squinting his eyes shut as it cascaded down his face and over his torso. He’d have to tell Ty as soon as she got back about the weight gain. She’d totally call him a fatass, she was gonna be so happy too.

Shit like this was exactly what made it all worth it, he thought, watching the water swirl down the drain near his feet with a dreamy smile.

Hot water, any time you wanted, not having to bath in tepid river water because “heating it wastes energy, and ya don’t need it do ya kid, this is fine”. Clothes that weren’t threadbare and sewn from rags that constantly felt grimy because the only soap you had was that awful smelling shit Grouse used to make from animal fat. Food whenever you needed it, never being hungry or too sick and tired to be able to forage. All things you had to have not had once, to fully appreciate having whenever you wanted now. He appreciated everything, he thought. Eyes closed and face directly under the water. He didn’t have anyone to tell, but he appreciated everything.

Opening his mouth and gargling the hot water, he laughed as it spurted out over his chest, then wiped it out of his eyes with his forearm and began to scrub at his scalp with a shampoo bar from the small toiletry storage panel he’d slid open next to the wall mounted faucet. Feeling the caked in styling wax begin to give way felt so good. No need to put more of that shit in today and spend an hour styling his hair, or sit and work on a smokey eye, or make any effort at all with his appearance. He could just be a slob. A clean slob who was gonna go eat his weight in junk food after he finished scrubbing the rest of his body with the soapy suds rolling down his shoulders.

Raising his face into the stream for the last time and letting it finish rinsing him off, he enjoyed one more pleasant shiver under the incredible heat, then turned off the faucet and reached for the body sized towel hanging on a wall hook within arms distance, carefully dabbing it over the sensitive puckered scar and thin skin along his right shoulder and ribs, before vigorously drying his body and hair after.

Tossing the towel into the corner (the bots would sort it out later when they changed his bedding and tidied the room), he hopped one leg at a time onto the soft sweatpants and left them low hung over his jutting hips, pulling the drawstring taut. Walking in bare feet towards the doorway, he tossed the tank over his head and maneuvered his arm in, then flipped his jet black wet hair backwards and over the nape of his neck as he rounded the bathroom entrance and padded across the bedroom’s plush carpeting towards the mag-locked door that led into the ship’s main living chamber.

He could still hear the quiet whirring and beeps of his little “projects” through it even over the ship’s music stream, and felt his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smirked in anticipation, eager to see how they were faring with their custom programed household tasks as he raised his palm to the wall mounted reader and the door began to slide open.

Taking in the organised chaos it revealed, he leaned his lithe frame against the doorway, crossing his legs as he rubbed absentmindedly at his empty shoulder joint, smirk splitting into a wide grin.

“Heyyyy boys, how’s it going this fine night, huh? Miss me?”

A half dozen clunky, pieced together droids of various sizes stopped their assigned tasks and swizzled on junky wheels and mismatched clobbered together legs to beep and screech at him in welcome. Grating chorus quietening down as they returned one by one to their cleaning and maintenance chores, while he walked down the couple of steps that led out of his bed chambers and into the eclectic nonsense that was his home.

Pausing for a moment to let a tiny rat-sized box droid covered in charging ports that wobbled past his feet on rickety wheels, he turned into the small open kitchen on his right. Like the other included luxury ship components, he’d not changed it at all since Sanctum was finished 4 years ago, a fully integrated chrome and glossy black iron kitchenette fitted for his height, underlighting glowing softly around the curved shapes of the wall mounted sleeper cabinets above. All he’d done was… accessorised it a bit with extra features.

The left wall was covered in a grid of hanging potted herbs the droids took care of, having them on hand had proven extremely useful in the last few years. Something you could brew or smoke for joint pain relief was pretty useful for someone in his physical condition, and anything that helped him sleep and wasn’t the cocktail of chemicals he usually had to rely on was welcome. Great shit for seasoning food too, not that he’d brag.

The kitchen itself would be sleek as hell if he hadn’t Troy’d it to shit as Ty would say, but hey, what did she know. The scraps of paper print outs of their first big follower count milestones stuck to the front of the smooth black refrigerator door? That was part of the aesthetic. That homemade automated coffee machine made of of scrap metal and visible wiring? That absolutely fit in with the black glass stovetop it sat next to, she just had no eye for style.

Why would be go buy one anyway, he mused as he poured some of the fresh brew that had been triggered when he got out of bed into the chipped mug printed with a faded “Best Bro” he kept on top of the coffee machine, this one worked fine. The shocks you sometimes got when grabbing the pot? That was a feature!

Ty just didn’t get it, he reasoned to himself, nodding sagely as he sipped the smokey black coffee from the mug, eyes closed, savoring the taste. This worked fine, no reason to junk it just because it wasn’t as she would put it, “classy” or “functional” or “safe to be around without risk of explosion”.

Turning and resting his lower back against the edge of the counter top, he slowly looked around the rest of the living quarters as he continued to sip at the drink.

Sanctum had been fully internally tailored to his tastes and needs straight off the factory conveyors. Twinned to Tyreen’s personal ship and only a digit apart in their serials, it was a luxury cruise vessel with jump capabilities and an array of offensive and defensive addons. Money hadn’t been a factor, even years ago when they had originally commissioned their ships, the twins had infinite funding and nothing had been out of the question. Their personal Sanctums were large enough to give them their own private living spaces, while still small enough to be able to dock together on either side of most of their larger basilica’s cloisters. That configuration allowed them to share the cloister’s internal quarters, while still having the option to return to their ships when needed. Loving his twin didn’t mean he could avoid wanting to wring her bratty little neck 3 times a day, so this arrangement had been a life saver… probably quite literally at this point.

While both ships had the exact same internal layout, the twins had customised their own over time to the point where it would be hard to notice the ships matched perfectly originally.

Troy’s decorative tastes were.. jumbled, he’d guess would be a fair description. Life on Nekro had been relentlessly uncomfortable. Nothing was soft, everything was hard, rough. Sleeping on anything there chafed your skin or bruised delicate ribs. It made sense in a way now that he loved comfort so much. If he spotted a really nice piece of textile in a returning war party’s haul, looted antique wall tapestries or lush woven rugs, they had a habit of vanishing from the offerings and -somehow- ending up on this ship. Almost every inch of floor was covered in overlapping thick rugs, some of which he was pretty sure were probably treasures of some lost civilisation, but hey, they were nice on the feet.

Patterend textiles in various colours hung in sheets across the ceiling, giving the illusion of the ship being some kind of huge tent structure, sometimes with the odd resting bot perched in a hanging loop.

He tended to pick shit up too, much to Tyreen’s constant disgust. Pandora just had some really cool skulls laying around, was it really such a big deal to want to hang them around above doorways? Alpha skag skulls were so his vibe! Why waste ‘em by leaving them out in the desert. Same could be said for all his “project” droids. Tyreen gave him the stink eye every time he found a new busted piece of junk he was sure he could fix up, so he’d been sneaking them home for years now. If they were too far gone, no problem, meant spare parts he could use for the others later.

Most of the wall space that wasn’t hanging textile was covered in shelving he’d tacked up across the ship, and he loved to hoard nostalgia. The wall shelves around the living quarters were covered in things he attributed memories to, like plants from different planets they’d sat through hours of boring merger meetings on with the usual designer suit-clad pissants who looked down their noses at the twins while simultaneously trying to kiss their asses, crystal rocks he’d found on the long cross Pandoran trips required for attending various COV districts and bestowing their holy grace upon the rabid swarms of their followers, photos of him and Ty on their very first visits to different regions, all of which were so old now he noted, shrugging off the quick pang of sadness that shot through his throat. Spaces between the shelves were filled with sketches of things he had no captures of, like landscapes they remembered from Nekrotafeyo, Mom, or Eridian architecture he still glanced at times in dreams of a childhood long gone.

Finishing off the coffee, he took in a deep breath through his nose, pressed the mug against his stomach, and leaned his head back against a wall mounted cabinet behind him, letting his eyes flutter shut. The ship smelled of everything that always relaxed him, fresh oil from the workroom on the other side of the herb wall where he focused on his tech projects like his arm rig, bots, and more stupid shit to put around the ship and annoy Tyreen with. Remnants of spray paint fumes from the art station in the corner across from his kitchen where he worked on propaganda wall art pieces on huge canvases, splashes of colour smeared across the walls and floor surrounding it, and the homemade sheet metal shelving next to it that stored his cans and supplies. The warm spicy scent of the herbs currently being watered awkwardly by a Hyperion vacuum droid teetering on shaking, mismatched legs he’d made it when he couldn’t find the right parts to fix its internal rotor, it all merged together into a scent completely unique to where he lived. His home.

Opening his eyes again, he glanced down at the mug and absently ran his thumb along the slightly raised Best Bro print on the side, Tyreen had got him this as a joke on their birthday at least 6 years ago now, and he’d managed to keep it intact since. Without her knowing of course, that would be embarrassing, she’d never let him live it down.

He wondered how she was faring, and lifted his head to take in the huge curved window facing out the front of the ship, the Pandoran night skyline twinkling through it. The ship’s small cockpit and pilot seat was suspended above the recessed recreation area that faced the glass, railless spiraling steel stairs leading to it from just behind the semi circular couch that curved around the piles of blankets and cushions that covered the rec area’s floor. He should check up on her, just to be sure, just to know she was ok. Had to earn that title of Best Bro afterall.

Carefully returning the mug to the top of the coffee machine, he started to slowly walk towards the window, stopping to curl his toes in a particularly plush rug’s pile and consider his sister. Twins, despite total bullshit others had told him his whole life, were -not- psychic. He had no “magical link” to Tyreen’s mind, no super mystical sense that would kick in if something was very wrong, so when they were apart there was always the slight fear in either’s belly. Was he unwell? Was she in danger? Was he hurt? Was she upset? There wasn’t a secret twin power that allowed them to know, even though everyone else seemed to think there was. So, they had come up with more functional ways to reassure each other, and as he resumed walking towards the rec area, he reminded himself he could use one of those systems right now.

Dropping a hand to the edge of the recessed couch, he vaulted over the edge and onto the seat cushions, immediately jolting up straight backed with a wince as he landed on a sharp crumpled up beer can lodged in the recess of one.

“Oh COME ON guys!” He yelled over his shoulder in the vague direction of where he could hear the bots still working behind him, leaning to the side as he rubbed his ass.

“Hhhhhf.. ow. Mannn.. you have to pay more attention on cleanup duty, fuck, that could have cut.”

Pulling the can out from underneath him, he tossed it backwards over his head and into the waiting little clamp hands of his earlier version of C.H.A.7, janky old H.8.N.K. Watching it sputter away on a shaky thruster and float towards the work room behind him to recyc the can brought a flicker of warmth to his chest.

H.8.N.K was nearly 7 years old now, one of the first bots he’d made himself, and still had its uses, even if a bit slow nowadays. That reminded him actually, he’d need to do a bit of work on the prosthetic tonight.

Turning back to face the window, he lifted his arm and gently pressed fingers into the recess of his missing shoulder, hitching in a quick sharp breath as he brushed across a pain point, eyes unfocused and trained on the floor in front of him.

That piston in the bicep’s inner side had been too tight for a while now and had been causing the weight to sit incorrectly, putting extra strain through his bracer and onto the shoulder edge.

Leaning forward slowly, he continued to press into the pain, now dry hair falling past his shoulders and brushing along the right side of his face. The tightness around his eyes loosened as he breathed out, carefully rubbing across the spot in a circle with his thumb, pain beginning to ebb away. He had all of tonight and today, he could get that fixed up fast, nice bit of tinkering to look forward to later!

Now to check on Tyreen, the window control tablet was right next to him but he heeded his.. where were they?

Leaning back into the plush couch pillow behind him, he rooted his hand around in the recesses of the seat cushions, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he swapped his hand from the recess on the right side to the left.

“Where.. are.. those fuckin.. Ah!”

Pulling out his prize, he flicked his wrist forward to open the square glasses’s arms, then fitted them over his ears carefully, straightening the frames on his nose. Not going to get a headache from looking at the screen without these tonight of all nights, not when he had so much relaxing to look forward to.

Reaching down to the control tablet next to his left thigh, he muttered under his breath while tapping command panels that popped into life on the tablet display.

“Okayyy.. showtime.”

The massive curved window he was facing flicked from the inky black view of the Pandoran night outside, to a solidly opaque monitor view of cascading analytical data. A live feed of current viewer numbers on streams, finance reports organised into a sidebar overlay, and on the bottom right next to rows of app thumbnails, a small portrait icon of Tyreen.

Tapping the tablet rapidly to move the selection across to her icon, he smiled at the picture. No makeup, back when her hair was still deep brown and before she started bleaching it her iconic white on top, tongue out and giving the camera the peace sign. He remembered taking that, it had been her reaction to being called a little bitch after she’d asked him for a hand with setting up their stream gear. That same fucking joke she made at least once a week and that had never at any point been remotely funny.

“Bet you aren’t laughing now Ty-die, stuck in a merger meeting with a a shower of assholes while I enjoy myself, hehhhhh”

His momentary gloat was interrupted by the Hyperion Vacuum droid tapping his left knee with its front panel, drawing his immediate attention to the 6 pack of Bandit Brew balanced on its flat top, spindly little scrap legs shaking under the weight.

“Oh! BRO!” he barked out with a laugh, leaning quickly to scoop the cans against his chest with his arm and relieve it of the weight.

“Awww haha, thanks pal. Great timing!”

It made a distorted chirp in response and turned to waddle away, while he dropped the cans to the couch by his side. Tapping the tablet once more and waiting for the app to open on screen, he placed a can between his knees and then popped the tab with his thumb and forefinger, jumping slightly when it sprayed pressurised foam over his hand and arm.

Bot must have shaken these up a bit while bringing them over, not that he’d berate it he thought, eyes still on the main screen while he licked the foam off his forearm and fingers.

Not its fault he’d only been able to retrofit legs for it instead of a new rotor.

Wrinkling his nose at the awful taste of the beer, he started reading through the display Ty’s app was now showing on screen, lifing the can from between his legs to chug it in the hopes of not having to let his tongue touch it too long.

Heartrate calm, vitals all fine, no chem spikes, safe and sound off at her merger. Not asleep, so his guess was right, probably bored shitless in a meeting right now. Great, can scratch that little itch from his mind now and focus on him, Best Bro responsibilities met.

Reaching down and dropping the empty can near his feet, he grabbed a couple of the blankets strewn across the floor within reach and pulled them up and to his side, then reached for another brew and popped it open between his knees again.

This shit was vile. Awful stuff, like piss and vinegar, but they had an unlimited supply of it and it got you wasted fast. Some licensing deal he’d organised a couple of years ago, and a pretty decent one he figured considering how successful the sales were, raising the can to give a cheers to the massive split-jawed Skag skull that sat above the window monitor before chugging it and dropping the can next to the first by his feet.

Ok, right, so what was he going to watch.

Tapping the tablet again to cancel out of Ty’s app, he selected the the media streaming icon from the app list and started scrolling through what was up.

Man, there were at least 5 series he was behind on right now that had had updates, and the lengths he’d gone to to avoid spoilers were a joke. Know how hard it is to not see any when your entire existence was based around being on the echonet 24/7? There were followers who had been executed over not correctly spoiler warning before posting on public social media.

Clicking through the updates, he started to queue some into today’s playlist. “Ancient secrets of Eridian science” nice. “Murder he yote” real life serial murderer documentary slash comedy? Perfect.

He paused on the icon for that terrible romcom Ty liked, 2 new episodes unwatched. Glancing down, he clicked the option to bookmark it on the tablet for her. He hated romcom’s, found them intensely cringe, but Tyreen.. well. She had her reasons for enjoying them so much, he knew. He never complained if she wanted to watch one with him. He got it. He got why. He was probably the only person she knew who did.

Just two cans into this crap and he was starting to feel it, he puffed a deep breath out as he leaned back and pressed his hand into the solid line of his lower belly. Time to actually eat something, or his stomach was going to start kicking his ass if he kept drinking. Turning his head to the side, he yelled back in the direction of the kitchen while still watching the monitor and the show descriptions he was scrolling through.

“Yo, guys, any of you, can you reheat that pizza in the fridge from the other night?”

Concerned beeping came in response.

“Nah, n-no it’s fiiiiiine, it’s only a couple days old, just reheat it!”

A single long, resigned beep in reply.

Great. Food on the way he thought, smirking and turning to face the screen again. Time to check the Echonet fan uploads while he waited, tabbing out of the stream app and into the Echonet, quickly searching for anything tagged COV. This stuff was always hilarious.

The very first result broke him into a snorting laugh, a vid titled CALYPSO LOVELIFE UPDATE: NOT SINGLE??, the thumbnail a terrible edit of Ty’s face looking shocked, surrounding by crying bandits. He hovered his finger over the bookmark option again, then thought better of it when he felt a slight pang of remorse for laughing. That would actually just upset her, he realised, making a mental note to run a takedown request on it soon as he was finished with the shows.

It didn’t count as work if it was to make sure Ty didn’t see something that would hurt her, even if she would be furious with him for assuming (correctly) it would, so he’d get it done tonight.

The squeaks of nearby wheels broke the negative mood, and he turned so his left with excitement as good old Janky clunked awkwardly into view, pizza box held in front of it haphazardly on its single kitbashed spindly arm.

“I got it, hold on!” He laughed, reaching to take the box from the droid as it angrily grumbled at him in crackling honks, single red lens eye set into it’s sleek black box body flashing in irritation as the mismatched wheels he’d found for it snagged on the rug underneath.

Rustling in the box on his lap, he pulled out a slice of pizza, some kind of spicy sausage thing, covered in mixed herbs and slices of vegetables he didn’t know the name of. Tasted great, but he wasn’t too sure he wanted to find out what that meat actually was, he decided, shoving the whole slice into his mouth and wiping the grease from his fingers onto his pant legs before realising the angry Vladov bot was still stuck on the rug.

“Hold on, heh, c'mon Jank, it’s not that bad!” Troy reassured as he leaned forward to press a palm against the smooth front of its box body and push it past the snag its front wheel was spinning on, irritated beeping and honking growing louder.

“Ah man, look I’m sorry about the wheels, but at least you can move! Not perfect I know but excuuuuuse me for not having replacement leg parts specifically for a.. freaking… junked ”Prototype Vladov steward-bot “ in stock.” he gestured towards the grumbling bot’s welded on chassis and tripod wheels with the second pizza slice he’d just grabbed.

“I know this ain’t like, what you were made for but fuck it dude, you work right?”. The bot let out a conceding soft honk as it pivoted in place, then trundled away awkwardly on the mismatched set of wheels.

Troy twisted to face the screen again, reaching for the 3rd can of piss-ale and slamming it between his knees with more force than was needed, angrily snapping the tab open as he muttered under his breath.

“.. Fucking ungrateful really. Wish someone had cared half as much about trying to fix me.”

He wasn’t enjoying the gut feeling that interaction had left him with, unpleasant memories stirring in the back of his head as he slowly slid down the back of the couch, legs stretching further out across the floor as he finished the third can and dropped it with the others.

Screw it.

More beer, plenty of pizza to shovel into his face, and trash to watch. Speaking of which…

Tapping the control tablet again, the screen flicked into the start of the latest episode of some semi fictional biographical series on Handsome Jack. It could be completely factual honestly, some of the shit Jack supposedly got up to sounded like it had been written by a complete moron, but had actual real life witnesses to attest. What had happened in the last episode, something about killing a guy with a spoon? He should take notes honestly, Troy thought with a smirk, shaking the lingering feelings of self pity out of his head.

He was slouched low enough for his chin to touch his chest now, alternating between pushing whole slices of pizza into his mouth and sipping on the 4th can of swill he’d just opened, hair having fallen mostly over the right side of his face as he slowly sank down, and too comfortable now to bother fixing it.

The ridiculously over the top actor playing Jack was currently loading a group of.. scientists? Into an airlock while monologuing about the dangers of trusting others in a corporate setting. Bit out of Troy’s lane, but the campy energy the actor was throwing into the scene was enough to keep him snorting out laughter between swallows of pizza.

Rummaging his hand around the box far down his lap for the last slice, he absentmindedly clicked apart his face mods, letting the split maw fall open as he lathed the elongated prehensile tongue out across the bare skin of his chest to mop up the crumbs it was covered in, retracting it and resetting his jaw without even moving his eyes from the screen as his fingers hit the last slice and dragged it out of the box and into his mouth. Complete normalcy, well, for Troy.

It was starting to catch up with him now, he realised as each blink felt like it was starting to take longer and longer. He’d only had a few hours of sleep and the comfortable weight of food and beer in his belly was making it hard to keep his focus on the show. He could just shut them for a bit, this scene was fucking boring now anyway, Jack sure did seem to really get off on talking shit about himself for far too long..

He didn’t open them again, breathing evening out as his head tilted to the side and knees leaned together, glasses slipping off his nose as the show continuing to play on the monitor. Jack singlehandedly massacred his way through camps of filthy bandits while Troy dozed.

The tiny squeaks of Jank’s wheels didn’t wake him as it carefully removed the pizza box from his lap and pulled one of the blankets by his side over his lap, then muted the monitor as it trundled away as quietly as possible.

Let him sleep. He can wake up when he’s ready, the whole day is his.

[ryder-s-block]

Jaig Eyes (Ch 69)

Jaig Eyes (69/?)

Summary:

Kida, a former slave who now thrives as a bounty hunter, finds herself sucked into the war she advised Jango Fett against. Now that she’s involved, she has to finally mourn the loss of Jango, seeing his face in the clones that man the GAR. What happens when she allows herself to get attached to one, not for his resemblance to her former mentor, but for his heart?

————————-

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Death Watch

I was on a ship, but it wasn’t the shuttle Senatorial shuttle I’d left Mandalore on. Nor was I in the well-worn boots and leather jacket I had on. Instead, I was in rather familiar tan garb.

The slave clothes I wore when I was owned by Jabba the Hutt.

“Kida.” I glanced up with a start, seeing Dirk, Jabba’s right-hand man. Or….Rattataki. “You seem to be feeling better.”

Right. I hadn’t been feeling well on this trip. I’d been terribly anxious to the point of nausea. I suppose that must have been my Force sensitivity trying to warn me of what was coming.

If only I’d understood it then.

“Not really,” my mouth responded for me, following the memory, “But I’ll be fine. I know how important this is to Jabba.”

Dirk hummed. “Yes, your master would be very displeased if you were to fail.” Ugh. This guy was such an ass. He loved rubbing it in that I was a slave.

Even if I had as much value on this mission as him, if not more. 

I guess that was what he hated most.

Still, I said nothing in response, letting him bathe in his false glory. I didn’t care. Slaves never got glory anyways.

I flinched when the ship jolted suddenly, but I already knew what was happening. We were being boarded...and I was going to be stolen.

“Get to the hold,” Dirk commanded, worry coloring his features.

I obeyed, the vision shifting rapidly to get me into the hold faster.

The ship shuddered again, cries pouring from some of the other terrified slaves. I hushed them in their native tongues, reliving the memory clearly. “....Mandalorian ships,” I overheard one of the guards saying. 

I lifted my head, glancing at the familiar female Zabrak known as Amiru. Her skin was a soft brown, two horns jutting from each side of her forehead. She, unlike many Zabraks, had long hair that covered most of her scalp, the grayish-blue locks pulled back in an elegant braid. Despite being a guard--and thus, paid and not owned--she was always kind. Firm, but gentle. She understood we were slaves, but never held that against us. To her...we weren’t property.

When she saw me looking, she slowly left her conversation and joined my side. “We’re being boarded,” she said quietly, but like she was reporting it, “We need to move.”

“Can we fight them off?”

“They’re Mandalorians.” Already knew that, but I suppose that should have been answer enough.

“Fett?” one of the Rodian twins, Yumi, asked.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Amiru responded firmly. I agreed with her. Jango had too much at risk if he attacked one of Jabba’s ships. He would never jeopardize his connection with one of his top employers.

The ship shook beneath our feet again, Amiru taking it as a sign to get moving. She touched my shoulder gently, leading myself and the other slaves from the hold. In the halls, there were sounds of fighting, but the ship was big and the halls echoed easily.

It was hard to tell which direction the sounds were coming from.

“Get down!” Amiru cried, all of us diving to the ground as shots zipped through the air. The Zabrak ducked against the wall, firing into the smoking corridor blindly. I grabbed my friends’ hands--the Rodian twins Jabba allowed to travel with me on translation and courier missions. They were like...my attendants. The people who got the work done when I dictated it in Jabba’s place.

Realistically, it was ridiculous how much power that Hutt granted a slave. A young slave, at that.

In the smoke, it was hard to see as our eyes stung and watered. We heard a cry and more blaster fire. And then silence.

Slowly, Amiru emerged, clutching her bleeding side. I raced forward, catching her as she collapsed forward with a strangled cry of pain. She’d avoided being shot, but something must have exploded, since shrapnel was protruding from the rough hide shirt she wore. 

“Amiru!” another voice cried, this one deeper. I glanced up, seeing some of the other guards finding us in the smoke. The Torgruta who had spoken kneeled beside my Zabrakian guard, helping her to her feet. 

“Talon,” she replied weakly, finding some of her strength again at the sight of her friend. “What’s going on?”

“They’re taking the bridge,” Talon explained, glancing at the rest of us. “We need to get to the escape pods.”

I nodded dutifully, turning to gather the slaves that were present on the voyage. Some were Jabba’s and only there to attend to either myself or the guards. Others were gifts and payment for the client.

None were being left to the mercy of the pirates ransacking our ship.

We raced through the halls, myself and the other slaves ducking into cover whenever a fight would break out. Amiru stayed with us as our personal guard, mostly because she was slowing down more and more the longer we fought. 

She hadn’t stopped bleeding and our only supplies were in the medbay….on the other side of the ship. 

But we were almost to the escape pods. We could make it. Then we’d get her help.

And then we turned the next corner, a blaster shot burning through Talon’s forehead in a second. I screamed in horror as he fell, Amiru renewed with rage. She leapt forward, blaster firing….only to fall herself after only succeeding to hit one of the attackers in the leg.

Even so, with the beskar, the man hardly seemed fazed anyways.

I collapsed to my knees, feeling the loss of my friends all over again as the other guards fell around their still forms. Through my tears, I heard one of the Mandalorians say, “These ones are slaves. We’ll take them as our own spoils.”

There was dark laughter from them and only tears from us as we were gathered and dragged over the corpses of our friends and guards. Bile climbed in my throat at both the sight of my friends’ murders and the thought of what was coming. 

I threw up on myself.

One of the guards struck me for ‘making things stink’ before I was hastily doused in water and dragged, soaking wet, to their ship. I was gagged to ensure I wouldn’t vomit again. And if I did, I’d choke on it and die, rather than make it a burden for everyone else.

No one would speak to us after that, other than to enforce obedience and silence. I huddled close to the Rodian twins, Yumi and Unreeti, shivering in the cold of space. We couldn’t speak, but even without the Force I could have felt their questions filling their heads. Dirk wasn’t among us, meaning he was dead, too. I didn’t mourn him, like I did the others.

The Mandalorians told us nothing until we arrived on their moon and were forced to our knees before their leader. Even then, I knew he was a skanah. He glared us all through his blue helmet, his blade sheathed at his side.

My eyes followed it, my breathing heavy with fear.

Suddenly, the memory altered from what I remembered, the blade igniting near my face. It kissed my cheek with a dark laugh, my skin bubbling painfully. 

I screamed, the images shifting from the cackling face of Vizla, to the smiling face of Mina Bonteri. I saw flashes of her speaking in political rallies. I saw her helping me to my feet, a motherly scolding on her lips, despite not knowing a thing about me. I saw a Dathomiran Zabrak, his face long and hollowed, his horns untrimmed and gnarled. 

They became too much. I forced myself to surface before I drowned.

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

My eyes snapped open suddenly, my hand flying to my face to touch the scar that still accented my left cheek. I’d received it shortly after I’d gotten the one that slashed down the opposite side of my face, along the temple and down to my jaw.

Why had that dream surfaced? Now of all times? And why all the extra images? Mina? And was that Zabrak who I thought it was?

I shook my head as R2 beeped beside me worriedly. Maybe it was my brain still trying to work through what Krell had done. He made me feel like a slave, again, in some weird way. He stirred up a lot of old memories.

Yeah, that must have been it.

I forced myself to focus, pushing past the haze left by the….taser. That’s right. I had a face to punch. I stood, wobbling only slightly. A quick glance told me that my weapons and armor were gone from their usual stow.

My nose crinkled as I sneered. “Damn the debt,” I muttered darkly, “I’m killing this kid.” I glanced out the window, surprised to see snow and trees in bloom. “Where are we, R2?” I asked, rubbing my forehead to try and chase away the remaining fog from my rather unexpected nap.

The astromech beeped back dutifully as I looked out the front viewport, seeing Bonteri’s back outside the ship.

“Carlac,” I repeated what R2 said with a sigh. “Of course it is. See if you can find my things. Especially my lightsaber. They’re on board, I can feel it.” 

R2 beeped again, both in agreement and to ask what I would be doing.

“I’m going to go kick Bonteri’s ass,” I growled, exiting the cockpit. Considering the snow I’d seen through the viewports, I stopped off at the Senator’s closet and donned one of her giant shawls, the dark olive fabric coming up to wrap around my head and face. 

The Carlac air was brisk, but not unbearable. I trudged into it with determination, my boots crunching in the snow. I saw Bonteri, the boy standing with his back to me as he watched the horizon, as if expecting an arrival.

Wonderful.

“Bonteri,” I called as I drew closer, the boy turning only slightly at the sound of my voice. “Have you lost your mind?” I stopped just behind him, crossing my arms. I wanted to punch him, but something told me not to. There was an apprehension within him that set me off-balance. “What are you even doing out here?” I asked finally.

He turned to me, his eyes sad. “You should have stayed on the ship.”

I became aware of new presences….and some familiar. I jumped as figures clad in beskar appeared around us, descending from the sky with their jetpacks. They circled us, my back turning against Lux’s immediately.

“Hey kid,” a familiar female voice greeted Lux, making me turn to see the painted helmet of Bo-Katan. “You’re late.”

I lowered my head, letting my face dip into the folds of the shawl’s hood. “Deathwatch,” I whispered hoarsely, both with anger and fear. I hated them, sure. But what I’d endured as their slave were memories I preferred not to face or relive.

Bo stepped closer, her focus on Lux. “You get us what we need?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bonteri replied dutifully, “And I have the information with me.” I reached up casually, tucking my hair behind my ear. In the same motion, I securely tucked the shawl over the lower half of my face, disguising me as best as I could at the moment.

Unfortunately, the movement, though small, drew Bo-Katan’s gaze. “Who’s this?” 

My back straightened immediately, my mind in overdrive. I couldn’t say friend. That invited too many questions. Wife could imply terrible things, and I wouldn’t put anything past Deathwatch. I had to find something that protected me from the members of Deathwatch, but also kept me out of their watchful gaze.

“I’m his...betrothed,” I settled on with a forced smile, linking my arms around his. I looked up at Lux, giving him my best doe eyes I could muster.

“Um, right. Right,” he managed with a stupid grin, a small dusting of a blush coloring his cheeks. Ugh. Men.

Bo tilted her head, seeming unconvinced. “Betrothed?” She walked around me, her fingers reaching to pull down my mask. I swatted her hand away, acting like it was violating for her to take it off. After all, some cultures felt that way. Bo only grunted a hum. “A little skinny, isn’t she?” she asked finally, giving my butt a firm slap.

It was hard enough to shove me forward, my senses kicking into overdrive. I whirled, absolutely intent on kicking her ass, but found Lux instead. 

“She serves her purpose,” he said easily, making me want to punch him in the back of the head now too. Still, he had stepped between Bo and I, keeping me from both blowing my cover and probably getting us killed.

Okay. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

A whistle turned my gaze to see R2 rolling through the snow, his mechanical hands holding my lightsaber and one of my pistols. He’d found where Lux had hidden my things.

Not a great time, though.

I shook my head at him, the droid immediately drawing my weapons into his internal compartments to keep them hidden. It was in just enough time, as the Mandalorians turned to see the droid shifting awkwardly in the snow.

“We leave now,” Bo-Katan called, her men moving into action immediately. “The snow is coming.” The stepped away, shoving her shoulder into mine mockingly as she passed.

I grabbed Bonteri’s shoulder when he moved to follow, pulling him back to whisper, “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s all under control,” he dismissed. Bo reappeared with a speeder and speeder bikes, the men stepping forward to board.

“This is Death Watch,” I growled, forcing him to listen to me. “They will kill us--”

“You coming?” a soldier interrupted.

Lux glanced at me before following with a firm, “Yes.”

I cleared my throat, shifting awkwardly with R2 behind me. “I should look after our ship.” I didn’t give them a chance to answer, turning away with my hand on R2’s dome.

“No,” the soldier spoke again, making me stop with a grimace under my shawl, “You’re coming, too.” R2 beeped wildly in a panic when two members of Death Watch hoisted him up onto the back of the speeder. I followed shortly after onto my own speeder bike, my arms wrapped hesitantly around the torso of a Mando.

Wonderful. Now even if I managed to sneak back to the ship, my weapons were with R2. Though, I suppose there were benefits to my weapons coming along with us. I’d be needing them, I was sure.

Their encampment, thankfully, wasn’t far. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could have ridden on the speeder while holding onto a member of Death Watch without….well….without stabbing him.

I was off and away from the soldier before the speeder even came to a full stop. I couldn’t fight off a squad on my own before, and now I was in the center of their very full camp. Great. Loved it. What an amazing break away from the war.

“Dance, droid. Dance!” I glanced over at the sound as Lux’s speeder slowed in front of me. Across the yard, Death Watch was torturing poor droids that looked like they’d already been destroyed and repaired countless times.

R2 was lowered from the speeder, the poor astromech shaking in his coils. I stopped beside Lux as Bo-Katan landed. “The boss will see you in there,” she instructed, gesturing to the tent behind her.

I swallowed thickly, flinching when Bonteri’s hand clasped mine firmly. He was practically pulling me into the tent with him. Dammit. I did not want to see Vizsla. 

He dragged me into the tent, the flaps falling closed behind us. “Don’t ruin my plan, okay?” Lux whispered into my ear.

I shoved him away with a scowl. “What plan? Suicide?”

“This is a holo-trace device,” he explained, pointing to a mechanism on his wrist. “It can identify the origin of any holo transmission.

I rolled my eyes. “I know what a holo-trace is. I’m a bounty hunter, you idiot.” So accusing Dooku was just a way to get his location. I’d tell the boy he was clever if I wasn't so pissed off at the moment. And we needed to get the hell out of here.

“A bounty hunter who can use the Force,” Bonteri muttered softly, his eyes widening. “You’re the hunter Ahsoka told me about.” His Force signature blossomed a bit with warmth at the mention of the Torgruta. Ah. I suppose he was expecting her beside Padme, but found me.

That explained the disappointment.

“You fight in the war. You understand Dooku must fall. If Death Watch moves fast enough, we can destroy him!” His fervor was almost enough to falsify my own beliefs. But I knew Death Watch better than most. “Is that enough of a plan for you?”

I stepped forward, shoving the young man in the shoulder. “These are not mercenaries or just an idealistic group. They will take the information you brought and then kill us both. Or worse.”

Lux glanced away, unconvinced. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

My jaw tightened as I scowled, grabbing him by his shirt to force him to look at me. “No. You don’t understand. These people are slavers and murderers. I will not stay here and be--” My words were smothered by Lux’s lips pressing against my own.

They were sudden and uninvited.

And I’d been wanting to hit him anyways.

So I pulled away from Lux’s face, his arms still wrapped around me firmly. Twisting in his grip, I lifted my fist and connected it to his jaw, sending the boy spiraling backwards.

“Get the shab off me,” I growled.

“You always were quick with languages, but I didn’t think you’d still be whoring yourself around. Never thought you were a fan of that bit.”

The voice behind me sent chills down my spine, gluing me in place. My muscles were frozen in fear, my breathing short. Lux’s kiss had pulled the shawl away from my face.

Not that it mattered, considering the owner of the voice already seemed to know who I was. And how to push every button I had.

A glance over to Lux revealed the boy finding his feet again, rubbing his aching jaw. When he saw the man behind me, he straightened, but his expression was confused. He wasn’t sure why I already seemed familiar with Death Watch….and they with me.

Slowly, I turned, knowing it was inevitable. Vizsla stepped forward from the entrance, his helmet dark and imposing in the shadows. He moved into the light, dipping his head to remove the beskar helmet, revealing his newly scarred face, the blond hair buzzed to practically bald.

His mouth twitched in an evil smirk as my blood went cold. His voice lowered, his tone mocking while he looked directly into my eyes. “Welcome home.”

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

MANDO’A

Skanah--- ‘very hated person’....equivalent to ‘fucker’

Shab-- fuck

[thewhumperinwhite]

FBI AU: Visitation

Art Lange is not in a great place to receive visitors.

Previous: Rescue / Interrogation / Awkward / Painkillers / Father / Flashback

@whumpitywhumpwhump

Did I write this because my own not-injury-related hip pain was off the fuckin charts and i thought i might as well Use It In My Art? You can’t prove a thing.

TW for: explicitly referenced noncon, aftermath of noncon, hospital/needles/drugs, body horror, mention of body dysmorphia, mention of suicide, mention of neglect/abuse, Stream Of Consciousness From An Idiot Who Isn’t Taking Prescribed Medication, Guilt.

It is. Possible. That Art has made a miscalculation.

At the beginning of the day— at what he thinks was the beginning of the day, he turned the TV in his hospital room to a channel that seemed to be having some kind of Friends marathon, because the only clock in the room is analog and he hasn’t been able to think straight enough to read analog time in— well, in a while; but he knows an average sitcom episode with commercials is thirty minutes, and he… 

He’s been told, vaguely, that he must have spent a total of about four days in Micah’s fucking sex dungeoun. Minus however long it took them to kill him, in the middle. But he—he doesn’t have a good grasp of how much time it really was, because it was— dark, and he remembers only patches, an hour of Micah in front of or on top of or inside him and then three hours of nothing but cold stone against his bare ass and legs and rough wallpaper against his bare back and his arms bound above him by cold metal until he thought both would pop out of their shoulder sockets. And he remembers— seeing Tenor, thinking after the tenth or twentieth or hundredth time Micah fucked him that he’d settled into a subterranean mental place and had no more energy left to be scared but then seeing Tenor and looking at the size of him and thinking no there’s no way no he’ll tear me apart— he remembers that, remembers thinking that pain was the worst until his hip tore apart with a bright hot sear of agony that he made him scream like he had never screamed before, ever, like he didn’t think people could scream in real life. He remembers all that, but he doesn’t know where it fits in the timeline, doesn’t even know if that was before or after they killed him in front of Karim, which, for the record, he doesn’t remember well at all, except for starting cold and ending even colder.

All of— all of that to say. Friends episodes all look the fucking same but he thinks, if his math is right, that it’s been… seven hours since his last dose of painkillers. And it is possible. That his strategy. Is maybe backfiring a little bit.

His head does not. Feel particularly clear. At this moment.

The thing about hips is. He’s never really thought about them before, which is crazy, because they’re, like, central to. Walking and everything, and he hasn’t thought of his hips at all except to look in the mirror when he was locked in his bedroom in his father’s house— and he thought he was starving then, ha-ha, what an idiot, thinks one meal a day because you’re too tired to eat sometimes is what starving feels like, hilarious— and looking with disgust at how sharply his hip bones jutted out from his concave stomach, how fucking disgusting and alien he looked, like that was the thinnest he was going to get— he doesn’t know how much he weighs now but knows without checking that it’s half what he weighed then, literally just the weight of his bones. But anyway, the thing about hips is— the thing about bones is, that they’re all connected, that they’re all wrapped up with muscles you wouldn’t even think of when you think “hip,” so it isn’t just his hip that throbs like a rotten tooth, it’s his lower back on that side twisting up around his spine like a vine with thorns on it; it’s his thigh down to his knee alternating between spasms that make him shake and arch his back and numbness that scares him down to his marrow. And there are positions where it’s— where it’s almost bearable, where he can bear it, but—

But he spent fucking four days chained to a wall and he can’t stay in one position for— for even the length of one Friends episode.

He stopped being able to tell time at about ten this morning. By early afternoon he can’t tell Joey and Chandler apart. By this point he thinks— the light slanting in the windows looks like afternoon, it must be afternoon— he doesn’t think he could reliably form sentences if called upon.

He doesn’t want to die. He spent, whatever, three years, crafting more and more elaborate crime scenes in his head, planning where to locate his corpse where it would most incriminate his father, hoarding pills and blades and comparing bridges, but now he— doesn’t want to die. Feels strongly like he… can’t, promised not to, has to—

He can’t— remember what he has to do, exactly. The volume on the TV has been down all day and at this point his eyes are closed, so he can’t tell whether the voices he’s hearing are on the TV or in the room with him. It’s— they don’t sound like sitcom voices? One of them is— familiar, but wrong, like it should feel like honey on his skin but it’s raw and desperate and sad in a way he hates so much that it lets him force his eyes open.

Karim is sitting in the chair next to Art’s bed with his head in his hands, and he’s shaking.

Art exhales, and Karim’s trembling and the hospital band on his wrist and his thin and pallid hands are so entirely incorrect that Art, without thinking, reaches out to him and tries to sit up.

Everything goes red. He doesn’t hear his own scream, but he feels it scrape his throat on the way out and knows it must be loud, and it’s deeply wrong also, that will hurt Karim, Karim will be sad, but he can’t stop the whining coming from between his clenched teeth because his hip is radiating fire into his blood and it’s going to tear him apart.

He flails his hand, and someone takes it, their hand large and warm enough that he knows it must be Karim’s, and he holds onto it, tries to think of nothing else, though the pain is blinding and white-hot; he holds on to Karim’s hand and feels his muscles moving without his permission, hears Karim yelling, and— 

Warmth rushes through him suddenly, like sliding into a warm bath, and he exhales, feeling the fire go out in a slow slide, and his head flops back against the pillow. He wants to wrinkle his nose, but doesn’t remember how.

“…don’t…. want that…” he mumbles, thought it’s unlikely anyone will be able to understand him. A warm hand is brushing his hair from his forehead, too fast and desperate to be soothing, but he feels like it’s the only thing holding him to the earth— so of course it’s jerked suddenly away and replaced by more immediately familiar gloved hands pushing him down, pulling his eyelids up. 

“Give him back,” Art growls, forcing his eyes open. The nurse blinks at him, startled, and then looks over her shoulder and frowns, and waves Karim back into his view. Karim is crying, which is fucking terrible. He’s also lost at least thirty pounds, which is even worse.

Karim ignores the chair this time, drops immediately to his knees, mumbling a nonsense litany that filters slowly into Art’s consciousness as Art grabs greedily at his hand and pulls till Karim brings it up to his face.

“sorry I’m so sorry Art god Art I’m so sorry Art I’m sorry”

“Stupid,” Art mumbles, pressing Karim’s hand against his face— Art has been cold since they took him from Karim’s bed and Karim is blessedly warm and alive and here. “Not… your fault.” His lips are entirely numb by now but those are the important words so he makes sure to enunciate them.

“How can you fucking say that,” Karim says in a horrible broken voice. “He only took you because of me, if you’d never met me you wouldn’t be— you wouldn’t— “

“Dead,” Art says, and forces his lids back up to glare at Karim. “…’d… be dead. You saved me, rmm-m’ber?”

Karim squeezes his eyes shut, and drops his head onto the bed next to Art, which is… still wrong, but does put Art at an angle to slide his needle-studded hand into Karim’s curls; Art lets his head fall back on the pillow and closes his eyes with his fingers scratching Karim’s scalp and it’s real and Karim is real and here.

“I’m so sorry, Art,” Karim says, and Art, gathering all his frayed concentration, makes a fist in Karim’s hair and pulls as hard as he can, earning a startled gasp.

“Don’t… say that again,” Art growls, feeling his grip relax whether he wants it to or not; he can feel himself sliding away on the drugs he didn’t ask for. “Or I’ll… give you something… to cry about.” 

He hears about three seconds of a woman’s hysterical laughter, and then he loses his fight to stay awake.

——

So. That doesn’t entirely answer Rona’s question about unhealthy relationship dynamics. And clearly Art Lange is some kind of terrible masochist for letting his pain get so bad it caused a fucking seizure or whatever the hell that was. It’s a mess. But clearly they are both messes, and Karim Mun’s apocalyptic distress at Art’s pain is, in her expert opinion, embarrassingly genuine.

Mun is still kneeling beside Art’s bed, now cupping Art’s bandaged face in his hand and speaking soft words to him, and it’s all very Romeo and Juliet. Or Hallmark channel, possibly.

But— she doesn’t mind admitting to this— Rona likes Art. Likes that his reaction to being beaten and violated is varying levels of incandescent rage. It’s… familiar endearing. And in a very strange way, when Karim Mun kneels beside Art’s bed and cries she can tell that he’s Farah’s son. Farah is a no-nonsense FBI Boss almost all the time, but Rona has known her to recite poetry when she’s drunk, and sigh with secondhand happiness on the one occasion a coworker has been sent flowers by their significant other. It’s enough for her to include Karim in her amused affection too, and Rona thinks, they’re going to tear these idiots apart, and Rona thinks, I’m not going to let them.

[theoverlyenthusiasticwriter]

Wondrous Misfortune

Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

This is a acotar fanfiction set a few years after acofas. The bone carver’s prediction is not all that meets the eye and so the next generation of warriors must navigate in the world that their parents built for them.

*****

Three years later:

Nesta brushed off the chill of winter as she stepped through the threshold of her home, hanging her coat up by the door. Cassian had stayed home today, claiming to be “dying” and “puking up buckets.” He only had a small cold but Nesta secretly knew he wanted to watch the twins.

So she’d asked Azriel to make sure they didn’t tear down the house and to keep Cassian in bed for “healing.”

Nesta followed the sound of giggles into the family room, and started to wonder if having Azriel over was the best idea.

Titus and Aralyn were butt naked and covered in batter. Cassian and Az tried to corral them, their own arms covered, to no prevail. Nesta watched in amusement as Titus clung to the ceiling fan, his wings fluttering delicately, lips wobbling. Aralyn, however, darted under her father’s legs and ran, squealing like a newborn hog, up the stairs, bringing Az thundering after her. Both Aralyn and Titus had changed eye color so the hazel remained their only similarity. Aralyn’s blue eye was now the same shade as Nesta’s, but Titus’s was the Illyrian violet that Rhys had.

Titus, noticing his mother’s return, leapt from the fan. Nesta caught him expertly, holding him away from her as she examined the strawberry batter covering him.

“Sweetheart!” Cassian said. “You’re home early.”

“I thought I told you to stay in bed and Azriel to give them a bath.”

In her arms, Titus cringed, reaching to cling further to his mother.

Cassian echoed his cringe. “You see, I was feeling better so I was going to bathe them myself, but they are very slippery. And then I promised we could bake cupcakes as bribery, but they were having a little too much fun.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes, setting Titus down on the plush carpet. He only latched on to her leg. “Sick people aren’t supposed to be baking.”

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed on their son. “Like I said, I was feeling a little better and I wanted to surprise my mate.”

From upstairs, there was a loud shriek, and Azriel came down, holding a squirmy Aralyn.

“Mommy!” Aralyn cried, trying to wriggle free of her uncle.

Nesta sighed, kissing her brow once, which was enough to calm her down. Titus, noticing the kiss, reached his arms upward. “Kiss! Kiss!”

Nesta knelt and kissed his brow too. Went she straightened, she eyed her mate. “Get them cleaned up and dressed. We’re having dinner at the House of Wind tonight.” With that, she handed off Titus and strode up the stairs.

Running her hands over her face, she made her way to her bathroom, pulling out hair pins as she went. She twisted the faucet above the tub to as hot as it would go and poured in her favorite oils. Soon, she was naked and sinking into the delicious heat, groaning louder than was appropriate.

It was still amazing that she could even use the tub. Could bathe in it without the nightmares flooding in. Though, she supposed it was Cassian who helped her with that. He’d installed a shower but when she asked him to, together they faced the bathtub.

Opening her eyes at the sound of the door, she saw Cassian there, a quiet smile on his face. He sat by the tub, finding a pin she had somehow missed in her hair and tugging it free. “How was work?”

Besides helping Feyre, Nesta also worked at the Palace of Thread and Jewels, managing the pounds of money they got in a day.

She sighed as Cassian poured some of the water over her hair. “I was the only one in my department there today, but I supposed it could have been worse. It would have been better, however--” She glared at him. “--if I’d come home to clean kids and cupcakes.”

He winced. “The cupcakes are in the oven now.”

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes again, letting the steam waft against her face.

He leaned forward to kiss her lips, gently, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I hope you know that Aralyn wants a bath now that you’re in here.”

Nesta made a face. “She can bathe in her own bathroom, thank you very much.”

Cassian let out a low chuckle.

She tugged on his hand. “Az is watching them downstairs, right?”

“Yes.”

“Join me.”

He gave a devilish grin and levered himself into the tub, clothes and all.

Nesta buttoned up Aralyn’s coat all the way to her chin and put her gloves over her fingers. Cassian was busy wrapping Titus in a scarf too big for his small neck.

Az, munching on a cupcake, watched rather unhelpfully.

“Can we leave?” Aralyn groaned. “It’s too hot.”

“It’s a very cold flight. Uncle Az is gonna carry you two,” Cassian said, trying to fix a cap over Titus’s midnight hair.

“I can fly!” Aralyn shouted, trying to get her wings free to show him.

Nesta put her hands on her shoulders. “We know, darling, but the cold can hurt you.”

She pouted, jutting out her lower lip.

“Let’s go.” Azriel stepped forward, lifting first Titus, then Aralyn. “No squirming,” he said to her and she froze, memorized by the shadows swirling around him.

They stepped out into the street and Cassian gathered Nesta into his arms. Beside them, Titus looked positively green. “I don’t wanna go,” he cried, reaching for his parents.

“I’ll give you an extra cupcake,” Cassian promised and launched into the sky.

Nesta clung to her mate, eyes on Azriel as he flapped after them. Aralyn’s teeth were already chattering.

They made haste to the House of Wind, Cassian’s lips chapped against the cold. He landed gracefully on the balcony, Azriel only a few steps behind him. Titus was shivering enough that Nesta took him and held him against her chest while as she walked inside.

Feyre and Rhysand were waiting inside, Amren scowling at Varian over the lip of her wine glass. Mor swept a giggling Aralyn away, showering her in kisses.

Feyre, however, took Titus, cooing at him and nearly biting Rhysand when he tried to take him.

Nesta knew how much Feyre and Rhysand loved the twins, but Titus held a special place after the loss of their own son. Nesta knew, that with his violet eye, he was quite possibly the boy from the Bone Carver’s image.

Nesta shrugged out of her coat. “Where is Elain?”

“She’s on her way,” Feyre answered, tickling Titus’s sides. His squeal might have been the loudest sound Nesta had heard him make.

Nesta nodded, watching as Amren swept Aralyn away from Mor. Mor squaked in protest.

Cassian, having wandered over, tapped Nesta’s bum lightly. She hissed at him.

“They’re fine,” he reassured her, leaning in for a kiss.

“I would have thought,” she said flatly, halting his lips, “that you were satisfied for the night.”

“I’ll show you just how satisfied I was.” He nipped her ear.

“We’re in public.” But it seemed the entire court was occupied with their children. He gave a playful growl when she tried to bat him away. “You won’t comfort your sick mate?”

“My sick mate who couldn’t manage to get two kids into the bath. Maybe you should have stayed home if you’re that ill.”

He huffed.

Aralyn, breaking free of Mor, collided with his legs and he went down with a dramatic "I have fallen!” She giggled, climbing over him and sitting on his chest as she sipped her apple juice from a wine glass.

Elain appeared not long after, hooked on Lucien’s arm. Her daughters, Paris and Tigerlily, were at their sides. Paris was eight and Tigerlily seven but they both had more sass than the three Archeron sisters combined.

Paris hugged Aralyn first, the girls squealing, then went to tackled Cassian again. Tigerlily stayed clung to her father’s side until Nesta opened her arms for a hug and she took full advantage.

Nesta smoothed down her unruly scarlet curls, pulling her back to see those auburn eyes. “Hello, Tiger.”

Tigerlily blushed but smiled and damn Nesta if it wasn’t beautiful.

They all sat down to eat, Paris teasing Titus with his food till he cried. The High Lord was the first to comfort him and Titus sat balanced on his knee for the rest of the meal. Nesta kicked Cassian under the table not once, but twice when his hand traveled dangerously up her thigh. Conversation buzzed, kids were tapped lightly on the nose, Elain even produced cookies for all of them.

The night stretched until Titus’s eyelids drooped, Aralyn already collapsed with Tigerlily and Paris in Cassian’s old bedroom. Nesta collected her son, taking him off to the room with the girls. She set him on the large bed, clicking her tongue at Paris who snored rather loudly. With care only a mother could have, she laid a heavy quilt over all of them, tucking it in at their toes.

When she turned back around, she saw Feyre watching her, eyes sad. “He would have been there too,” she whispered as a tear trailed down her cheek.

Nesta led her from the room. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

[wilwywaylan]

For want of a book...

Fandom : Les Misérables

Hogwarts AU, Bahorel & Feuilly & Jehan, kinda shippy, 4004 words

Written for the same prompt challenge on AO3 ! (so yes it’s on AO3 too !)

It's not very usual for Bahorel to find himself in the library. Okay, that doesn't mean he's ignorant or stupid, of course not. Some papers require an extended use of books, especially those pesky potions ones that had him slave on his parchment until the small hours of the morning, with the only company of a dying fire in the common room. But when he has the opportunity of not spending his time surrounded by dusty books, he takes it wholeheartly and grabs his broom to go and fly as much as he can. Nothing like the wind going through his hair and the feeling of freedom instead of being stuck inside.

But right now, sadly, he has one of those papers looming over his head. He's not late, not yet, but he's only half-done, and he can't remember to save his life what the effects of mandragora are. So as soon as he's done with his breakfast, he makes his way to the library, dragging his feet all the way. He tries not to look outside, at the sky so perfectly blue it looks painted on. It's a perfect day to fly, with a hint of breeze, and he can't go and enjoy it. There are even birds chirping outside and his fingers start to itch, he can almost feel the wood of his broom under his fingers, the wind going through his hair, and the sun, warmer and warmer as he goes higher....

The library door is cold and hard, breaking his reverie in little pieces. He knows he has to push it, set himself to work, kick his own ass, or he's going to fail that class and maybe his whole year, and he'll never hear the end of it. Not only his parents will be on his case day and night, but Feuilly will probably gloat like there's no tomorrow. Damn squirrel, with his brain full of stuff that breezes through exams like it's nothing while Bahorel barely passes. And of course he flaunts it. More or less. At least that's how Bahorel sees it, and he's sure he's right, Feuilly likes to rub in his face how he's more clever than him. Of course, Bahorel retaliates by rubbing in his face how Feuilly is as graceful as a log when put on a broom, and he can't get higher than three inches. Low blow, maybe, but he started it. Maybe. He doesn't remember, really. After all, it goes all the way back to their first year ; they started fighting for a stupid reason, and never really stopped.

Bahorel finds himself a spot at the end of one of the long tables, put down his stuff, and sits. And stares at the table. And stares. He knows he doesn't have all day, that he'll have to leave soon for dinner, and then his other homework (because of course, he does have other homework that he left on the side for too long, and will probably take out a huge chunk of his night), but it still takes him at least five minutes just to start. And he stops again after only a few words. No matter how hard he tries, he can't recall any useful information. They went over it during several lessons, but he must have zoned out. As he always does. What can he say, potions isn't really his forte.

But he needs a book, to help him. Which means getting up, finding where the books about the use of mandragora are, then localizing the right one that may give him the informations he needs, and then finding the right pages, and then arranging them in something vaguely coherant, and then.... Just thinking of it exhausts him, and he almost leaves, mandragora be damned. But he can't, not when his whole year hangs in the balance. So he slowly gets up and makes his way to the shelves.

He watches them intently, trying to see if there's not a glowing "Mandragora this way" sign somewhere that could guide him to the book he needs. But besides a few half-erased words painted here and there, no sign, no indication, nothing. He's alone to face this task. The novels he used to read as a kid come to his mind ; they were rife with explorators travelling to dangerous countries, and all those adventurers always used a native to guide them through the myriads of dangers awaiting them. He should have brought a native too, grab the nearest Ravenclaw and force them to come with him.

His mind toying with the idea of making his Ravenclaw guide carry his backpack, Bahorel enters book territory. And immediatly gets lost. There's no indication inside, just rows and rows and rows of leather-bound books, pressed together so tight you could barely pull them out without bringing all of them down on you. It's dark between them ; the few lanterns supposed to light the room are hanged way too high to effectively dispell the darkness accumulating between the high shelves. The more Bahorel advances, the more the atmosphere weights on him. The walls formed by the books seem to close on him, the thick air getting even thicker with the dust floating in the dying glow of the lamps. The leather swallows each and every sound, and the silence is almost deafening. Bahorel could be lost in the maze, hours from the nearest source of light, of air, of freedom... and he wouldn't know.

He turns left, hoping for an opening, or a map, something, but there are only more rows of books. He glances at his left, to see if he's getting closer from the shelf he needs. But the books seem to be about history ("The Great Goblin War of 1812", "Wands through Time" and "Influences of the Muggle Revolution on Laws and Regulations of the Wizarding World", who could read that ?). The ones on his right cover what seems to be Care for Magical Creatures, or at least that's what he thinks "Baby Dragons of Slovenia" and "Crests : an unknown menagerie" mean. But who knows. The only thing he knows is that he'll never find what he's looking for, and bonus, he'll probably stay here forever, unable to find his way, cursed to stay among the books until he dies and his skeleton turns to dust.

He's starting to think that maybe, he should swallow his damn pride and ask someone for help, maybe those first years looking at him and whispering, when he hears voices just across the corner. And not just some voices, but at least one he recognizes, sadly. Not even here is he free from Feuilly and his squirelly nuisance. Well, it's logical, since he's a Ravenclaw and therefore the most likely place when one could find them is in the library. But still, can't he really come here without having to endure his presence ? But the second voice is Jehan's, and Bahorel likes Jehan. A lot, in fact. He's smart, he's nice, he's not a know-it-all. And he has gorgeous eyes and long, beautiful hair that Bahorel would like to slide his fingers into, not that it plays a role.

He turns the corner and here they are, standing in front of a shelf, looking up. A lantern is shining on Jehan's beautiful hair, and Feuilly's too, bathing it in gold. It looks soft, on both of them, which is weird because Bahorel never thinks about Feuilly's hair. But right now, while they are standing side by side, they look strangely alike, with the same copper hair that curl at the ends and freckles dusting their faces and hands, and they are even wearing the same Muggle plaid shirts in gaudy colors. Almost like twins. Or siblings of different age, because Jehan is almost as tall as Bahorel.

- Hey nerds.

At the sound of his voice, Feuilly jumps and spins, and glares at him like he's trying to chase him away by the sole force of his will. Jehan just turns and smiles.

- Hello, Bahorel. What are you doing here ?

Bahorel bites down on the scathy answer, because it's Jehan and you don't want to make Jehan cry, even if the question is stupid. Some people say it brings bad luck. So he just shrugs and answers :

- Looking for a book, as you can see. You ?

- What do you think ? Feuilly says, through gritted teeth.

- Don't let politeness strangle you on the way out, Squirrel.

Feuilly scowls and growls, but doesn't utter another word. Jehan answers for him :

- We need a book about the emergence of tranformation potions during the XIXe century and how they were outlawed.

- And what do you need that for, exactly ?

- Just for our culture, Jehan smiles sweetly.

Bahorel is not reassured in the least by that smile, but he decides not to dwell on it.

- Oh well... maybe it should be somewhere around ? he says, gesturing vaguely towards the shelf.

Probably in the magical land of books that perfectly fit what you're looking for, he muses, trying not to laugh at "magical land" too much. But count on those nerds to find the weirdest books on this library.

- oh, it's not a problem, Jehan explains. We've already found it. But we have a small problem. It's there.

He points upwards. Bahorel follows his gesture, but all he can see is another row of books, undiscernable from the others he's seen on his way in.

- That one, Jehan insists. The red one.

There are several red ones, but the one that he needs is probably the one sitting a good two meters above their heads. Of course.

- Can't you just... accio it ?

- Wands don't work in the library, Feuilly answers in a tone showing clearly that he considers Bahorel an idiot.

- So what, Squirrel ? Climb.

Feuilly glares at hims and turns away. For a second, Bahorel thinks that Jehan is going to scold him, but he just frowns slightly.

- We tried.... well, not climbing, of course, but I tried helping Feuilly up, and we...

His voice trails off.

- It failed ? Bahorel offers.

Feuilly glances at him, and Bahorel notices the bruise on his cheek.

- Go on, laugh, the redhead growls.

Bahorel shrugs. There's a joke all ready about squirrels and falling from a tree that offers itself to him, but strangely, he doesn't really feel like taking it. Instead, he joins them, fists planted on his hips, and cranes his neck to look at the book too. It's innocent-looking, just standing on its shelf like any other book. It's even jutting a little, at least an inch, almost calling to be grabbed. Sadly, it's still way up above, at least one meter above Bahorel's grasp, if not more.

- Isn't there a damn ladder in that place ? he mutters.

- We tried to find one, Jehan answers, mimicking his posture. We couldn't find one.

- And trying to climb...

- Doesn't work, Feuilly completes. We tried. Everything.

- You tried to climb the shelf, you ? Bahorel asks, a little amused.

Feuilly shrugs, but there's the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He's proud of himself for trying to climb the shelf. And here, Bahorel always thought he was way too respectful and well-behaved (but he'd rather use the word "uptight") to do something that was forbidden by the rules. And here he is, destroying his illusions. Bahorel tries not to smile too broadly at the idea of scrawny Feuilly trying to climb the shelves like a giant ladder. Instead, he looks at the book again.

- You know what ? he suddenly says. I'm going to be a good dude and help you.

Both redheads turn to look at him. Jehan seems curious, Feuilly vaguely hostile.

- And how you're gonna do that ?

- I'm gonna lift you.

Feuilly immediatly takes a step back.

- You're going to what ?

- C'mon, Squirrel, don't be shy. Or are you afraid ?

The accusation hits home. Feuilly may be level-headed most of the time, but after several years, Bahorel knows how to push his buttons. And an accusation of cowardice, from his archenemy, is the perfect starter. He marches to Bahorel, until they are almost chest to chest, looks straight in his eyes. The air gets thicker suddenly, and Bahorel finds out breathing has become harder suddenly. He tries not to show it on his face, and it's not easy, with Feuilly's eyes so close. They are icy, they are burning, they are huge, with little shards of gold shining in the warm brown, and Bahorel can feel the heat slowly climbing on his cheeks. He blesses the darkness that hides his blushing.

- So, Squirrel, he says, noticing with a hint of satisfaction that his voice isn't cracking.

- Lift me, is the simple answer.

Bahorel wants to discuss, bites back that he doesn't take orders, but he figures that it may not be a good idea. He bends down instead, interlaces his fingers to make a footstand. Feuilly watches him silently for a moment, probably trying to figure if it's a trap or a real offer, and if Bahorel is not going to propel him over his head.

Finally, he puts his foot in Bahorel's hands. Bahorel lifts him with ease, giving him the height he needs to reach the book.... almost. His fingers stop at a few centimeters.

- Godda.... Higher. Please, he adds like an afterthought.

- Can't. You're heavier than you look.

- Ha, ha. Very funny.

- I know.

Bahorel tries lifting him higher, but his arms start protesting. Good, now he's going to be sore too. He manages to give him two centimeters more. Feuilly stretches, the points of his shoes digging in Bahorel's palms. Painfully. He should have asked him to step on his shoulders. It would probably hurt less.

Jehan walks to him, and puts his hands under Bahorel's. With a smile, he pushes upwards, taking a little bit of the weight from his arms. Bahorel welcomes the relief with a sigh. They only won a little bit of height, but it seems to do the trick. Feuilly's fingers barely brush the book, but it's enough to hook one under the leather and pull.

The book doesn't move. Of course they are way too squeezed on that shelf, and it doesn't slide out easily. Feuilly pulls, and pulls again. Finally, a pull harder than the others is enough to dislodge it. But it's enough to break Feuilly's balance too. He waves his arms around, tries to grasp the shelf to break his fall, and he would certainly have managed if he was standing on a regular stool. But Bahorel's hands don't offer a regular support, and he falls down. Bahorel notices something is wrong when Feuilly starts stomping on his hands, but it happens too fast for him to do anything else than hold his arms out in an awkward fashion and brace himself.

He kind of catches Feuilly, without breaking both arms, which is a feat. But the collision sends him to the floor, hard enough to take his breath away. And one half-second later, Feuilly falls on him, effectively squeezing all the remaning air out of his lungs. He expects the book to smack him on the face, or maybe the whole shelf to fall on them, or hell, even the ground swallowing them both. But nothing moves and the world doesn't end, and no one comes to expel them on the spot for damaging a precious book. The only thing he can hear is Jehan's hurried step besides him.

He opens his eyes and gets up on his elbows. His ribs protest, but nothing seems too hurt around there. He'll probably have a bruise or two to remember this adventure. Maybe more since he can't breathe properly. But that's due to Feuilly still laying on top of him. Bahorel wants to push him away, but Jehan is already kneeling beside them, his brows furrowed in worry, and he doesn't want to look like a brute by slamming Feuilly head first in a shelf.

Feuilly sits up, apparently unaware that he's using Bahorel as a giant cushion, then goes to get up. And immediatly falls back holding his leg, with a scream of pain that Bahorel echoes because he just fell down on his stomach again and that damn squirell is heavy. Jehan manoeuvres his friend around until he's sitting on the floor, then gently unties the fingers knot around Feuilly's ankle. He moves it gently, and Feuilly gasps in pain.

- I think it's twisted, he finally says. Did you land on it ?

- It hit the shelf, I think, Feuilly answers.

- Do you think you can walk ?

Feuilly tries to get up again, falls down again, luckily not on Bahorel anymore.

- No, he deadpans. I don't think so.

They both turn to Bahorel, who has sat up by now and is watching them. He doesn't know why he's staying, it's not as if they still need him, since the book came down with Feuilly. He should leave, go and do something interesting like finding his own book, and still he's sitting there. But it seems they are not down with him.

- I'm afraid you're going to have to carry me.

Bahorel is so stumped by his gall that it takes him two seconds to react.

- You want me to what ?

- To carry me. I can't walk.

- And why ?

He's already ready to fight back the accusations, to point that Feuilly wanted that damn book and some help and he got both, and he even caught him, it's not his fault he hit his stupid foot. In fact, he probably even saved his life. So why should he repay him ? But Feuilly simply nods towards Jehan.

- Jehan can't carry me and the books and the bags at the same time.

Oh. It's logical. Very logical. And so not agressive that Bahorel can't really refuse. Of course Jehan can't. He may be tall, and not weak at all despite being built like a twig, but he still has only two arms. Bahorel muses about it for an instant. Feuilly and him have been bickering and fighting for years, there's no reason he should help him. On the other hand, he did ask. Not really politly, but at least he didn't swear. And Jehan is watching him with those impossibly huge, mismatched eyes, and he can't really say no now, does he ? He kneels down beside Feuilly and mutters more than he says outright :

- Go on, climb.

Feuilly doesn't move.

- I'm not carrying you as a princess, just so you know. So climb.

The two redheads look at each other, and seem to decide that there's nothing wrong there. Feuilly finally moves, loops his arms around Bahorel's neck. It takes a minute to move him around without jostling his foot too much, but soon, he's perched on his back. Jehan grabs the book, their bags, and away they go.

The way to the Ravenclaw dormitory is quite long, and if Bahorel doesn't have too much trouble carrying Feuilly because, let's face it, he's not that heavy, it gives people far too much time to stare. And they do stare. Of course, they are probably wondering why he's carrying his archrival on his back and why his archrival is cuddling him. Because Feuilly is really, currently, actually cuddling him. He's holding Bahorel tighter than needed, his head is resting in the crook of Bahorel's neck, his hair tickling his neck, in a way that's absolutly not normal for someone who hates him with the burning passion of a few hundred suns. Bahorel should dump him on the floor, throw him away and let him deal with his leg and his book and the rest. But he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps walking, hoisting Feuilly a little higher. He's rewarded by the arms around his shoulders tightening a little.

Finally, after a flight of stairs that seems to take at least an hour to climb without falling over, Jehan gives the password, and they can make their way to their room. Bahorel is almost sure that Feuilly has fallen asleep on him. But no, he stirs when they reach his bed (it's his bed, Bahorel is sure, you just need to look at all the books scattered around, and the drawing tools stacked on the nightstand). Bahorel puts him down as gently as possible. Immediatly, Jehan fusses around him, fluffying the pillows, finding a cushion for his ankle and arranging his books and notepads around him. Finally, he settles beside him, his own notebook on his lap.

Bahorel just watches them. There's a pinch of something around his stomach, he doesn't really know what, and he's not sure he wants to look at it closely. Maybe it's jealousy rearing its ugly head at the sight of Jehan being so comfortable with each other. Or maybe it's due to seeing them together, at ease, caught in their little world of books and learning and knowledge, where he doesn't belong. They don't need him anymore. Or maybe it's just seeing them like that. There's something in the air, something heavy that makes it difficult to breathe. Like when Feuilly was looking at him, so close, but the feeling is stronger, ten times stronger. Suddenly, everything is so precise, turning into a painting, a carving, in so much detail that jumps at his face, pervasive, overwhelming, occulting everything. The light is so blinding, highlighting everything in sharp yellow, drowning the rest in thick shadows, dancing on their hair, turning it in short scraps or long strings of copper and gold. He can't move, he can't breath, and he can't look away from them.

Jehan looks up at him and smiles, and the spell is broken. Except that Bahorel's heart is still jumping wildly, and it's even worse when Feuilly looks at him too.

- So, guys, he tries, hoping that his voice doesn't sound too weak. I'll leave you to your books.

Good. Just hightail out of here before you do something stupid.

- Thanks, Feuilly mutters. For the lift. I owe you one.

- Don't mention it.

- Sure ? Jehan asks. Because we stole your time, took you away from the library, and you were nice enough to help us. If we can do something, you just have to ask.

Bahorel wants to play it cool, but that never did anything good for his grades. So he explains :

- In fact, I may need a book. About mandragoras. For a paper. I went to the library for one, but I couldn't find any. And then...

- And then we happened, Feuilly completes. Bring the paper. What ? he asks when Bahorel doesn't move. Do I have to take it myself ?

- I just need a book. I'm sure Jehan has one. (Jehan nods.)

- Sure. And your grades are stellar, we all know that. Come on. We'll help.

Bahorel wants to argue that for someone who hates him, Feuilly sure knows a lot about his grades. But as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he needs help. And he'd be foolish to not accept it when it's so freely given. So he takes his own bag and makes himself confortable. It takes a bit of adjustement, because as large as their beds are, they are still a bit too tight for two tall boys and an average one. At the end, they have gathered at least ten pillows on the bed, Feuilly is almost seated on Jehan, and his ankle is now mysteriously resting on Bahorel's leg. Jehan is passing around cups of tea he pulled out from seemingly nowhere. Books are open everywhere and they all have rolls of parchment on their laps. This is the exact opposite of how Bahorel likes to spend his afternoons, but Feuilly and Jehan are talking about plants, gesturing wildly while they get lost on details that mean nothing to him, Feuilly's arm and leg are warm where they are pressed against him, and he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

“Crests : an unknown menagerie” comes from l’Homme qui Rit. Baby dragons of Slovenia exist and they are adorable :D (google “humanfish” for cute salamanders / axolotls)

[pokii-jonas]

Accepting Deceit: Chapter 2

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AO3

(QUICK NOTE: i’m so happy you guys are enjoying this so far!!! I wasn’t expecting so many people to like it, considering it’s my first fic! thank you so much!)

WARNINGS: food mentions, talk of unhealthy thinness, depressive thoughts, angst, sympathetic deceit, fighting

(i'm bad at warnings, so i tried my best to think of what i should warn against. please tell me if i missed something!)

Virgil immediately regretted closing the door.

Complete darkness filled the room, and Virgil was afraid of taking any step forward, least he stumble and fall.

Not to mention the dark. He hated the dark.

As if sensing his anxiousness, Deceit slowly leaned over and turned on his light.

The room was suddenly bathed in a soft, yellow light that left only the very corners of the room in the dark. Pictures of Thomas’s life filled one wall, with everything from his happiest to his darkest moments. In the corner of the room sat an aged piano that had been well cared for and had definitely seen a lot of use in the past, but now sat covered in a layer of dust. The closet hung open, revealing Deceit’s usual outfit along with a variety of dress shirts, waistcoats, and sweats. The bookshelf contained all of Thomas’s favorite books, along with a few original works.

Looking around, he couldn’t help but see how similar to Patton’s room it was, if just slightly less cluttered.

His eyes then traveled to the bed. Disheveled and worn, it seemed to have been used a lot. The bedside table next to it had a TV and the light that was currently supplying the room a soft glow.

Deceit was on the floor, and Virgil was instantly taken aback.

He was far worse off than Logan has previously stated.

His eyes were bloodshot and swollen with dark circles underneath. His skin was pale and his scales dull. His bones were popping out of his skin, turning Deceit’s usual jovial and mischievous facial features into those of pain and suffering. He was leaning against his bed frame and wrapped up in many blankets, attempting to hide his frail body that was shaking uncontrollably.

It wasn’t working.

Within seconds of spotting Deceit, Virgil was on the floor with him.

“Woah, you’re worse off than I thought.” Virgil said, trying to chuckle, but his eyes revealed his fear and concern.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re me.” Deceit whispered and Virgil had to strain to hear him, even though they were only about one foot apart from one another.

Virgil pursed his lips.

“Why are you on the floor?” he asked as normally as he could manage.

“I… fell.” he said, getting even quieter. His eyes closed as a cold chill passed through his body.

“That’s okay. Let me help you get back into bed, okay?” Virgil asked gently.

Deceit nodded and Virgil put his arms under the other and picking up his thin body far too easily. Virgil could feel the bones of the other jutting out as he placed him into the bed.

Deceit curled into a tight ball and let Virgil cover him in more blankets and adjust his pillows.

Deceit didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know why he let Virgil in. He didn’t know why Virgil cared about him. He didn’t know why anyone cared about him. He was just… a snake.

Deceit felt a sob escape his body as he began crying.

Why was he here, why was he worrying everyone, why did Thomas need him, why didn’t he just disappear, why was he crying, why was he alive, why-

The thoughts that had been tormenting him all these months abruptly froze when Virgil suddenly laid behind Deceit and threw his arms around him, cuddling and hugging the hurting, sobbing, broken side.

Deceit’s sobs slowly dispersed and his breathing evened as he reveled in the warmth the other body emitted. Slowly felt his eyes close, as he fell asleep for the first time in days. Virgil, still hugging Deceit, sighed contently as he pressed his forehead into the sides back and let his eyes close, also getting some much deserved rest.

***

Logan looked down the corridor as Virgil entered Deceit’s room and closed the door behind him.

Logan let out a sigh of relief, thankful that Virgil was doing what he had planned to do that night. He figured Virgil would be better at comforting Deceit than he would.

Logan looked down at the book he had brought to offer Deceit as a sort of “peace offering,” if you would. It was a well worn, but cared for copy of ‘The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.’ A favorite of Logan’s. He always did enjoy detective stories, and this one in particular had really catered to his tastes.

Logan turned around to head back to his room, hesitating slightly to look back down the corridor towards Deceit’s room.

‘They’ll be fine by themselves. No need to get involved.’ he reminded himself and started to walk back towards his room.

“Really Roman? You have to work now?” Logan heard being shouted behind the door to Roman’s room.

“It’s an amazing idea! If I don’t work on it now I’ll forget it, and that would be the true crime! Thomas can sleep later!”

“Yeah, you always say that, don’t you? Well fine, you work on your stupid project. See if I care when you come running back to me at 3 in the morning!”

The door to Roman’s room swung open as Remy stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

“You’ll see! This is my best idea yet!” Roman shouted through the door, not seeming phased by Remy’s anger.

Remy growled, but stopped when he saw Logan.

“Hey.” Remy said, anger and fury still filling his voice.

“Hello.” Logan responded cautiously, not wanting to further anger him.

They looked at each other a moment before Logan cleared his throat and said, “Another fight?”

“Pfft, yeah I know, what a shock.” Remy replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t this the third one this week?” Logan asked, though he already knew the answer.

Remy only glared in response and pushed his way past Logan, opening the door to Logan’s room and letting himself in.

Logan followed and found Remy sitting in his usual chair in the corner of the room. Knowing the routine, Logan moved to sit down at the edge of his bed like usual.

Once Logan settled into his spot, Remy got straight to his point.

“I could punch him, I swear. Maybe then he’d finally sleep.” Remy said viciously.

Logan remained unfazed.

“What was the idea this time? Another original character?” Logan asked.

Remy rubbed his eyes, which Logan knew to mean yes.

“I get he has an idea, but does he really need to push me away and act like he’s more important than me? What’s his deal! He acts like we’re not even togeth-I mean…” he stopped himself and started to blush furiously.

He did this every time. Every time Roman went on one of his creative outbursts when he should be letting Thomas sleep, Remy would get upset and vent to Logan. Why Logan? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he hypothesized it was because he would agree with him from a logical viewpoint that Thomas needs to sleep.

Then, he would proceed to get all tongue tied about his feelings toward Roman, often forgetting he isn’t actually dating Roman except in his dreams.

Remy often got confused between dreams and reality, mixing them up and getting confused when told otherwise.

Logan sighed and pushed his glasses up.

“Why don’t you just tell Roman you have feelings for him?” he asked, already knowing the answer he’d get.

“It’s harder than it sounds! Sure, to you it’s ‘simply conveying information to one another’ or whatever, but there’s way more to it then that!” Remy exclaimed, jumping up and moving his arms out dramatically.

‘He’s been spending too much time with Roman.’ Logan thought to himself.

“Besides, telling him my feelings doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t reciprocate them back.” he continued, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Feelings, the bane of my existence.” Logan mumbled to himself before straightening himself out and addressing Remy.

“What else am I to say? We’ve had this conversation precisely eleven times now and it always ends the same way.”

Remy looked at Logan as if he wanted to retaliate, but instead he sighed and sunk back into his chair, curling his legs up to his chest.

“I know, you’re right. I just… I can’t tell him. Not right now.”

They both went quiet as they heard Roman singing down the hallway, still keeping Thomas wide awake.

“Especially not now!” Remy exclaimed as his annoyance at Roman ran through him, dampened slightly by the strange love he held for Roman.

Logan just couldn’t comprehend his counterparts anymore.

***

Patton was humming quietly to himself as he tidied his room. Not something he did often, but in times of worry he tended to find himself sorting through his room and organizing.

‘Logan would be proud.’ he thought, smiling at the thought of his logical complement.

‘Then again, maybe he wouldn’t approve as much since it’s so late at night.’

He smothered a yawn and straightened up, listening for Roman.

‘Yeah, he’s still up.’ he thought as he heard a few bars of Sing Sweet Nightingale make its way into his room.

Patton chuckled. Roman was worse than him sometimes.

He could only imagine how annoyed Remy was just now. He was already hard enough on Virgil, but he was even worse when it came to Roman.

Patton walked over to his bed and went to lie down when he heard people talking outside.

He paused a minute, curiosity of who was still awake at this hour beating his desire to preserve the privacy of whoever it was.

He slowly tiptoed over to his door and pressed his ear against the crack.

“Just tell him how you feel, Remy.” he heard Logan say.

“Yeah… Maybe later.” Remy said.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so hesitant. Roman loves romance. He’ll be dating his sword soon enough if no one comes forward.”

Remy laughed and said, “Yeah yeah.”

Logan wished Remy a good night, which got a small, annoyed laugh from Remy who was probably thinking about Roman who was currently keeping them all awake in the other room.

Patton waited a minute and then tiptoed back to his bed, lying down and covering himself with his blankets.

He chuckled and smiled as he thought about the confession he’d just overheard.

‘Remy and Roman, huh?’ he thought and felt the warmth inside him grow.

‘I love my children… Including Dee.’ he felt the warmth inside him twinge at the thought of Deceit being alone in his room all this time and no one had questioned it.

Patton turned to his other side and closed his eyes.

‘I hope he’s okay.’ was his last thought before he fell asleep.

***

Virgil and Deceit were both roused from their deep slumber when they felt Thomas wake up.

Virgil still had his arms wrapped around Deceit, who was curled up in the same ball as when they had fallen asleep, but he had at least stopped shaking.

Virgil looked over at Deceit who was looking at Virgil’s hand on his waist.

Feeling his face go red, Virgil unwrapped himself from Deceit and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Deceit rolled over to face Virgil, still not getting up from his lying down position.

They looked at each other for a moment, before Deceit looked down at his hands.

“You doing okay?” Virgil asked the other, voice husky from the deep sleep that hadn’t fully worn off yet.

Deceit didn’t answer. He simply moved closer to Virgil and wrapped his arms around the others waist.

Virgil was only slightly shocked at this behavior, as it wasn’t how Dee usually conducted himself. However, Deceit hadn’t been acting the same way as he used too, hence the worry towards him to begin with.

Neither noticed the slight blush that spread across both of their faces as Deceit put his head on Virgil’s leg.

Vigil started to play with Deceit’s hair. An action he himself enjoyed Patton doing as it brought him some comfort, and he figured Deceit could use some of that right about now.

Deceit responded to Virgil’s touch by curling up closer to the other and closing his eyes.

They sat there like that for some time, simply enjoying the company of one another.

Eventually, Deceit just had to ask something that had been itching at him this whole time.

“Why do you all care?” he said quietly, voice still raw and a bit dry, causing his words to come out scratchy.

He cleared his throat.

“I mean, I’m the-” he paused briefly to cough.

“I’m the villain. No one should care…” he trailed off, lost in thought.

Virgil’s hands stopped combing through Deceit’s hair briefly, the shock of hearing how Deceit viewed himself and how he thought the others viewed him trying to register. He looked down at Dee’s head on his lap and smiled when he saw that his bags had decreased considerably since the night before.

“Look, I know we’ve all had our issues in the past. We never been there for you and it sucks being the bad guy. I’ve been there.”

Deceit looked up at the other’s face and saw his eyes unfocused, staring at the opposite wall.

“But trust me, disappearing doesn’t really work.” Virgil’s eyes refocused and looked down at Deceit, who was still looking up at him. Virgil smiled.

“There’s always going to be at least one idiot who comes after you.” Virgil finished, winking down at Deceit.

Deceit felt a light blush on his cheeks and gave a small smile back towards Virgil before taking a deep breath and attempting to sit up himself.

As soon as his head lifted off of the other’s leg, he felt the world shift around him, making him dizzy and causing his vision to blackout.

He continued sitting up despite the dizziness and leaned his head against his backboard, clamping his eyes shut and inhaling sharply at the pain sitting up had caused.

“Woah, slow down there Dee!” Virgil exclaimed, startled at the sudden movement of Deceit, who had turned an even paler shade as the blood rushed out of his face.

Virgil stood up and readjusted Deceit back down into a lying position, whos sight slowly returned as his head stopped spinning.

Virgil put some blankets on top of him and adjusted his pillows before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry about that.” Deceit mumbled quietly, embarrassed at how weak he had become over what? Not fitting in? He felt ridiculous.

He wasn’t supposed to fit in. Virgil had tried to tell him otherwise, but Deceit couldn’t see how else he could be seen. How would he be able to help Thomas if he wasn’t the bad guy?

Virgil smiled at Deceit, not knowing that his words hadn’t reached him.

“You haven’t eaten in a while, right? Why don’t I make us something for breakfast?” Virgil asked him, still smiling.

Deceit couldn’t help but smile at the other, even though he felt undeserving of his attention, let alone the genuine smile he was giving him.

“Sure.” he replied.

“Okay then. I’ll be back in a minute. You better not lock that door behind me.” Virgil said while standing up, looking over his shoulder at the other with his last remark.

“Fine, but only as long as you don’t let anyone else come in.” Deceit said, coughing and wincing at the pain speaking so much had caused.

Virgil nodded in agreement and walked over to the door.

“I’ll bring some water and tea as well.” he said, smirking at Deceit before leaving and closing the door behind him.

***

After closing the door, Virgil paused for a second, listening to see if Deceit would lock him out. After a minute and no sound being made behind the door, Virgil relaxed and walked down the hallway, making his way toward the kitchen.

He couldn’t help the twang of sadness that went through his body when he thought about how long Dee must have been suffering for. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t tell them all sooner.

‘It’s not like you’re the best example of opening up either.’ he thought.

Entering the kitchen, he saw Logan making a cup of coffee.

“Patton and Roman not up yet?” Virgil asked, walking over to the fridge.

“No. I’m afraid Roman had a rather late night.” Logan said, clearly tired.

“Ahh… So you were with Remy.” Virgil said and nodded in understanding, patting Logan’s shoulder.

“Yes. As per usual.” Logan said, turning and leaning against the counter, taking a sip of his coffee.

Virgil went around the kitchen, making scrambled eggs and toast for him and Deceit. He put on water for tea and finally turned to look at Logan, who was watching him.

‘“I’m the villain.”’ Deceit’s words suddenly made their way into Virgil’s thoughts.

“What is Deceit’s function in Thomas’s mind?” Virgil blurted out, taking Logan by shock.

After a moment, Logan finally responded.

“That depends on what you mean by your use of the term ‘function,’ however I can only assume you are asking if he brings more to the figurative table than just deceit.”

Virgil nodded and Logan set down his coffee cup, crossing his arms across his chest after adjusting his glasses.

“Put simply, Deceit acts as a form of a mental filter for Thomas. Anything he thinks will upset Thomas and hurt him, he will keep a secret from him as long as possible, or at least until he believes Thomas can handle the truth. He sees what we don’t see, recognizes the lies and truths in Thomas’s life. He is the embodiment of self preservation.”

Logan picked back up his coffee mug, letting this information sink in.

The more Virgil thought about it, the more it made sense. They knew that Deceit, despite his name, could tell the truth just as the other sides could tell lies.

Deceit wasn’t Deceit’s whole purpose, though of course deceit played a big role in his job. His job which was to protect Thomas… just like the rest of them.

Virgil turned away from Logan and closed his eyes, putting his hands on the counter and leaning into it. His mind flashed with images of Deceit, unable to even stand properly, all because…

‘“... I’m the villain. No one should care…”’

Virgil felt his stomach clench as he recalled all the awful things they had said to him. The awful things they had called him.

‘The awful things you’ve called him.’ he thought.

This is all of their faults.

‘“Who said I want to be alive?”’

Virgil felt tears spring into his eyes.

‘This is all his fault.’ he realized as the kettle began to whistle and the toaster dinged.

TAGLIST:

@hghrules  @the-doctor-demigod-wizard  @asexualsinner  @unisaurioamorfo

[allthephils]

Echos

This is the third and final part to Reverberations. You can read part 1 here and part 2 here. And you can read this on AO3 here.

Word count:1111 Rated E (smut, strangers to lovers, mostly sex but not pwp)

A subtle shimmer on Dan’s skin reflects the street lights. He’s shivering, his light jacket not nearly enough for the cold London night. He can smell the bath on his skin, lemon verbena, and lavender. He rings the bell and hears heavy footsteps running down the stairs before the door swings open.

“Dan?” Phil stares wide eyed.

“You said come back.”

“I did. I just didn’t know you’d come, like, now.”

“Oh.” Dan scratches nervously at his neck. “Sorry. I can go.”

Before he can make a move, he’s pulled off balance, propelled forward, his hand in Phil’s. Without the alcohol and all the kissing, there’s less stumbling this time. Soon the door closes behind them and Phil just keeps walking. In the bright light of Phil’s room, they pause long enough to take off their shoes before colliding and fitting their lips together.

Sometimes a great romance doesn’t start with love at first sight. Sometimes it’s lust and attraction and a little liquor. He didn’t know who he was but he knew what he liked and that was a start. Maybe they don’t know each other at all but somehow their hands just fit together. The way his lips feel on his and the way he sounds when he kisses that spot he remembers from before, there’s something to that. The way he laughs when he fumbles and they don’t miss a beat.

They should talk, share a meal, act out the mating ritual of the young British male. There’s no time for that though. Phil doesn’t know where he stands but he knows how a little too much is just enough for him. And Dan knows there’s care and compassion, kindness and humor in every touch and nibble and kiss and caress.

Phil is good. Good at this, good looking, good smelling. He tastes like sleeping late and breakfast in bed and clean sheets. He’s good.

He’s a little impatient but he takes his time anyway. Drunken confidence and reckless surrender are beautiful things but so are caution, and exploration, and hands and eyes moving slowly over one another.

He stops to makes sure, he reads the signs though how could he possibly know them. He does, he learned. You can’t fake a touch this knowing. You can’t manipulate when it’s new and clumsy and it still feels like heaven.

He speaks his name with such honey on his tongue. “Dan”. You can’t fake that either.

There’s a glow radiating, pulled from his skin when they press softly to one another. Phil’s hands roam over Dan’s smooth shoulders, his sensitive nipples, his soft belly. His eyes glint as they take it all in and Dan marvels. He’s never felt so lovely as he does now, watching those eyes.

Silky hair slips between Dan’s fingers, nails trail over his side, scratching, and he shivers. Hands move over taught skin and stop to pet the bruises there. Dan looks down to see him press full lips to the tender flesh he marked so beautifully the night before.

That image, black hair and fingers and kitten licks and his eyes flash toward Dan, impossibly blue. Familiar lips find new places to kiss and he learns some more.

“God, Phil, yes.” He’s lost, enveloped, happily imprisoned here for all eternity. Surely this is it, there’s nothing more than this. But Phil’s voice wakes him from his revelry. Phil’s voice, so deep and sure, punctuated with laughter and humility.

Tell me what you want, Phil. Tell me anything, just talk to me.

“Come here.” He’s on his back now, reaching out and Dan climbs on. He rolls the condom on, he strokes his gorgeous length and he leans forward. They kiss and Dan opens for him, pushing back little by little until there’s nowhere left to go. He sits up and rests his hands on Phil’s broad chest, taking a moment to rake through dark hairs there.

Dan’s hips move in ways he didn’t know they could, so taken are they with this new occupation. He breathes a rhumba and they dip and roll to the gorgeous rhythm of it.

“Fuck Dan, It’s so good, you’re so good.”

His fingers curl now, digging in to pliant flesh, and Dan arches his back into the grip.

Hips rock, shallow and fast and Dan strokes himself, spreading moisture over the head of his cock, chasing his orgasm, eyes locked with Phil’s.

“Phil, say my name.” His heart flutters with embarrassment until Phil does say his name and it’s worth it, so fucking worth it.

“Dan.”

“Dan, don’t stop. Fuck you’re so hot.”

“Phil…” He means to tell him he’s going to cum but the words are choked by a high pitched moan that he’s not the least bit embarrassed by. His body pitches forward as Phil’s hands fly to grip tight to his hips. Phil fucks up into him and he could stay here forever, with the salt of Phil’s skin and the stubble on his jaw and the jut of his adam’s apple.

Phil, phil, phil.

“Phil.”

Phil fucks him hard and fast for just a few more seconds before Dan kisses him deep and wet, swallowing the loud, low groan of his orgasm.

There’s an awkward moment after sex with someone new. A moment when you both come down from the high of cumming and you’re just sticky and naked and exposed, looking for an exit strategy. That moment never comes.

Dan’s knees nearly give way when he stands to go clean himself up. When he comes back, Phil is sat up against the headboard, looking dreamy and fucked out. Dan’s never seen anything so pretty.

The bed is soft, the sheets are different from last night, at least he thinks they are. He climbs in and Phil lays back down. Soon he’s wrapped up in arms and legs and sighs.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Dan shakes his head no.

“Are you cold? You feel so warm.”

“I am warm.” Dan answers, pushing his forehead into Phil’s chest just to feel the firm give of it.

“You’re going to stay right?” Phil asks, quietly.

“Yes. I’ll stay as long as you let me.”

They’ll wake up cold, on opposite sides of the bed. They’ll find each other before they open their eyes. They’ll fill hands and mouths and bodies with each other before they even start this new day and they won’t get out of bed until after they’ve napped.

Real life will beckon so they’ll make plans because this day is all used up. They’ll say they should get to know each other but there’s just no time. They’re too busy already knowing.

[unholyhelbig]

Bemily Vampire Au part 2??

[A/N: Yeah dude, for sure, if you guys haven’t seen part one, it’s here]

Emily had read somewhere that sometimes, only sometimes, people could use sleepwalking as an excuse for the actions that they take. Leaving cabinets open, forgetting to lock the front door, even murder. Her psychology professor called it somnambulism. Killing while asleep.

She wasn’t going to take a life, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing standing in front of a giant black door. Maybe she was sleepwalking. Maybe she was supposed to be tucked away in her bed, with her childhood bear curled into her chest. Maybe she was meant to just turn around now. Instead, she knocked.

It was cold outside, her breath forming in the air as the front porch light bathed her in a warming glow. She had been here for parties before when more than one shot had already been downed and makeup had already been greatly applied. But now she was in pajamas with little ducks on them. Now she had no idea what she was doing here.

“Emily?” The boy who answered the door rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, his sweet and supportive eyes that were lined in red. His white t-shirt was stained with Cheeto dust and his fingers carried the same orange coating. “What are you-? Is Beca okay?”

“Beca is fine,” Emily said, pushing her way into the Trebles house.  

She glanced around for a few moments. The house was mainly quiet, and a glass of half-full water was resting on the granite counter. Jesse glanced around too, letting the door close softly behind him before he turned around and scratched the back of his neck.

“That’s not very convincing, Em.”

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t’. Benji and I are playing a rousing game of Call of Duty. Couldn’t’ sleep?”

She hesitated then, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. She averted her gaze and shoved her hands into her duck pants. She was wearing mismatched socks and sandals, there were bags under her eyes, and she knew she looked like a mess. A different kind of mess than Jesse, but a mess.

“No, not really… I uh, Can I ask you something?”

Jesse grasped the glass of water before raising it to his lips. He took three big gulps, lifting his eyebrows. He didn’t’ bother to catch the liquid that dribbled past his chin and soaked into his already stained shirt. He reminded Emily of one of those gamers on television that would marathon a certain point and click adventure. She wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact that they had broadcasted the event or the fact that she ate up every second of it.

“When you and Beca were dating, did you notice anything weird?”

“I thought you said Beca was okay?”

“Oh no, she is. Trust me, she’s fine. I mean… not really fine, I guess. Because if I’m right about all of this than she is way far from fine and just-“Emily took a steadying breath and Jesse wiped his mouth on his arm like a child chugging fruit punch. “Can you answer the question?”

He hesitated again, chewing on the inside of his lip. Emily was beginning to think that this was a bad idea. The worst idea. If Jesse had to think this hard about his ex-girlfriend being odd, then it wasn’t noticeable enough to be a problem in the first place, right? That meant that Beca very much had a beating heart and Emily could chalk this up to sleep induced actions.

“Everything about Beca was an enigma.” He finally sounded out, “I should have known that from the second she said she didn’t’ enjoy movies. I mean, what human doesn’t like Spielberg?”

Emily didn’t’ think this was the right time to bring up the fact that she preferred Wes Anderson. Instead, she sat there patiently and examined his words. “What do you mean by human?”

“You’re funny. I have to tell Chloe to ease up on your Cardio and let you get some rest.”

The young girl didn’t find any of this funny, not remotely so. Instead, she let out an exasperated sigh and plopped down in the leather bar stool while Jesse set his glass in the sink with a dull thud. She could faintly hear the sound of shots being fired upstairs, maybe even the rustling of chip bags. He stopped chuckling when he got a good look at Emily’s deadpan expression.

“Look, Legacy, I like you okay? But I think we both know that this is something you need to let alone.”

“Is there something to ignore, then? Jesse, I need to know that I’m not insane. I need you to tell me that I’m not crazy.”

“If it eases your mind at all, you’re not crazy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He let out a heavy sigh and ran his finger through his mane of hair. It jutted out in crazy odds and ends but he didn’t seem to mind. Emily had only seen Jesse with nothing but composure, and maybe even an aloof moment here and there when he got a couple of drinks in him. But never this, never this stressed and panicked feeling.

They sat in a stalemate for a while, the sink dripping every once and awhile while Emily’s eyes continued to stay directed at the counter. “I thought I was crazy too, you know?” He spoke, “at first, I thought that I was absolutely insane for falling as hard as I did.”

“What?”

“For Beca- it’s okay to fall for her, you know? She’s charming that way, and she’ll let you down easy.”

“That is not what I’m talking about in the slightest.”

“It’s not?” Jesse shot his eyebrows up “Then what are you talking about?”

Emily narrowed her eyes before shoving her chair back. It was loud, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. She cringed away from the sound and stood quickly. Jesse watched her with curiosity, scratching at the back of his neck. She shouldn’t have come here- it was a mistake, just like sneaking out and spying on Beca had been. “I should be going.”

“Alright, that’s alright.” The treble eased out before leading her to the door. She felt the chilled wind, smelled the impending snow in the air. She hugged herself closer out of instinct as Jesse ran his hand against the wooden frame. “You know, I went to Professor Clive too.”

“I’m sorry?” Emily asked.

“When I first started to feel things were off. I went to him and he said that I was too much into the lore. Too much into my own mind.” He laughed dryly “I think the exact words he said were you’re not in a teen movie, Mr. Swanson. There is no such thing as vampires.”

Emily’s breath caught at the words. She hadn’t exactly said it, not since Beca shoved a stake into the bark above her shoulder. Because it was something of lore. Beca didn’t sparkle in the sun, and she certainly didn’t burst into flames.

“What did you do?” Emily finally asked, voice hushed.

“I left it alone. Just like you should. Let it go, Emily.” He sighed “Just let it go.”

[saywhatjessie]

BOOMERANG

Klaine Advent: Day 5 - Exclude/Ribbon (Ao3)

It was 12:08pm, Blaine needed to meet his husband in an hour, and he had a pouting child on his hands.

“It’s not fair.” Cian grumbled, arms wrapped around his knees underneath the kitchen table.

Blaine needed to have had the kids dressed and ready to go ten minutes ago but here he was on his hands and knees trying to reason with a four-year-old. This was a circumstance he hadn’t foreseen.

“Cian, buddy, your hair’s not long enough to wear it like Rosa. Please come with me? We’ll be late to see Daddy.”

Rosa, for her part, sat happily by the door, waiting for her papa and brother to be ready so they could go see Daddy’s play. She was in her favorite dress with leggings for the cold, her hair tied back with a shiny pink ribbon.

A ribbon which her older brother was extremely jealous of.

“I want a ribbon!” Cian stomped his foot, nearly toppling his tiny body with the fierceness of his stamp.

Blaine sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “It won’t stay on your head, sweetheart. You don’t have enough hair. What if I tied it around your wrist?”

Cian shook his head, his lip jutting out in a way that told Blaine they were seconds away from a meltdown.

“Okay, Cian. I have a green ribbon right here. I can try and tie your hair, okay?”

Cian narrowed his eyes at his father, distrustfully.

Blaine sighed again, standing up to grab the ribbon off the counter to show him. “See? Right here. Will you come out now so I can make you pretty like your sister?”

Cian nodded slowly, wiping away the few tears that had escaped, before crawling out from under the table and collapsing into his father’s lap.

Blaine let out a relieved breath, instructing his son to turn around so Blaine could do his hair.

It wasn’t that Blaine was trying to exclude his son – every boy should be able to dress how they want. It’s just that a) Cian’s outfit was already complete. With his tiny button up, jeans, and suspenders, he was better dressed than Blaine was. But b) Blaine really had no idea how to do this.

Cian’s hair was a lot like Blaine’s had been at that age. Perhaps a bit less curly, but just as out of Blaine’s wheelhouse. He didn’t even know how to do his own hair for most of his life! That’s why he wore it flattened into a gelmet.

But for his son, he had to try.

He knew that Nick Jonas used to wear headbands. Nick Jonas’s hair was about this curly and short. Maybe just tie the ribbon like a headband?

Blaine draped the ribbon over Cian’s head, ready to tie it in the back so it looked like a headband.

Cian hit his leg. “No, Papa. You have to put the bow in the front so people can see it!”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Blaine shook his head, rolling his eyes behind his son’s back. He was so much like Kurt sometimes.

Blaine pulled the ribbon around the base of Cian’s skull, bringing the two ends around to the top of his forehead where he tied it into a bow

It sat like a headband, pushing Cian’s bangs back and up.

It looked… well…

It didn’t look great but Blaine really didn’t have time for anything else.

“You look beautiful, my son. Now Daddy’s show starts in two hours and he wants to see us before he goes on. Which means we have to leave right now.”

Cian nodded, all business now that he was beautiful. He grabbed his father’s hand.

Blaine nodded, relieved, helped Rosa up, and they made their way out.

 They took the Subway because, while Blaine could have afforded a cab, they really didn’t have the time to navigate lower Manhattan traffic.

They got to the theater only five minutes later than they probably would have if they’d left when Blaine wanted but Kurt was still annoyed.

“Daddy!” Rosa yelled, climbing down from Blaine’s hip and running at him.

Kurt redirected the annoyed look he’d been aiming at his husband and smiled down at his daughter. “Rosa, honey, hello! Are you excited for Daddy’s show?”

Rosa nodded, giggling at the at her father’s spiky aquamarine hair.

He stroked a hand over her hair, too. “I see Papa hasn’t made too much of a travesty of your hair. I like your ribbon.”

“I have one too, Daddy!” Cian said running over, pointing at his head.

Kurt winces when he saw it. Blaine was subjected to That Look again.

“He insisted.” Blaine said, weakly.

Kurt sighed. “Cian, you’re radiant. But how about Daddy fixes your hair, huh?”

Cian’s lip pouted out again. “Can I keep my ribbon?”

“Of course!” Kurt gasped, dramatically. “The ribbon is essential. I’m just going to make it look better. Okay?”

Cian nodded, slowly, not sure to trust Kurt or not. but he let Blaine lift him into Kurt’s makeup chair without fuss.

Kurt carefully untied the ribbon and lay it down gently on his makeup table.

“First thing’s first, sweetheart: A brush.”

Blaine gasped softly. “You’re going to take a brush to his beautiful curly hair? Kurt.”

Kurt waved him off. “It’s bath night tonight, whatever damage I do now will be undone by morning.”

Kurt brushed their son’s hair back off his forehead. They kept the sides of Cian’s head shaved to stop it from brushing his neck and ears. They learned early on that it was a trigger for his adhd. But he threw a fit when they thought they were getting rid of his curly hair which made him look like his papa so they left it long on top. This meant his hair was long enough on top that, when brushed out, it could make the tiniest of ponytails on the back.

Which Kurt tied with the green ribbon.

“See, buddy?” Kurt said, turning Cian to look in the mirror. “Just like Sokka!”

Cian gasped, looking at himself in the mirror.

“Boomerang!” He yelled, thrusting his hand in the air. Rosa clapped her hands and Kurt and Blaine laughed, Blaine making boomerang sounds with his mouth.

“Yes, very handsome.” Kurt leaned down and kissed Cian’s head before lifting up Rosa and putting her next to Cian in the chair. “Let me get a picture of my beautiful children and their ribbons.”

They both giggled, smiling wide for Kurt’s camera. Kurt and Blaine had a firm policy against posting their kids’ faces on their instagrams, deciding they would let their kids pick for themselves whether they want to be on social media, but that didn’t mean Kurt didn’t have thousands of pictures of them theys hared with their friends and parents every day.

“Perfect! Now who’s ready to see The Little Mermaid?!”

“Me! Me!” The kids shrieked, giggling and falling into each other.

Blaine grinned, putting an arm around Kurt and kissing his cheek. “Thank you. Sorry I was late.”

Kurt sighed, dramatically, leaning into his husband. “We can’t all be perfect at everything, I forgive you.”

Blaine chuckled, nuzzling Kurt’s ear. Kurt shoved him away.

“Now go to your seats before Geoff tries to blackmail you into playing Eric again.”

Blaine hummed. “I might let him convince me one of these days.”

“Wait your turn.”

Blaine laughed. “Yes, Flounder. Come on kids, wish Daddy good luck,”

“Break a leg, Daddy!” They both said, obediently, like the superstitious children of theater people they were.

“Thank you my loves. Enjoy the show!”

Both kids fell asleep before act 2.

But it was after the majority of Kurt’s stage time so it was fine.