#meet beneath the cliff face verse

[scotianostra]

Clifford Leonard Clark “Cliff” Hanley was born on October 28th 1922 in Glasgow.

Hanley was a journalist, novelist, playwright and broadcaster from Shettleston in the city’s East End, he was educated at Eastbank Academy.

His journalistic career began with a life of crime - reporting from the city courts for a local news agency. By the time he had graduated to the Daily Record, it was clear that he had an astonishingly versatile range. In particular, he loved the then hectic world of Glasgow show-business, reporting on the raft of theatres which still survived in the city in the 1960s.

On that scene Hanley was always more than a commentator and reviewer, his membership of Equity testifying to his skills on the speaking circuit, and to his talent as a lyricist. With the musician Ian Gourlay, he wrote some marvellously witty parodies of Scottish folk songs, substituting institutions like the Glasgow underground for Granny’s Hielan’ Hame.

Hanley’s hallmark was that brand of self-deprecating, but sharp, humour which ensures that no Glaswegian can entertain ideas above his station in the company of a fellow citizen.

Cliff Hanley’s childhood in Glasgow’s East End provided the material for his most celebrated novel, Dancing In The Street, a semi-autobiographical work which was much acclaimed on publication in the late 1950s. It is still considered one of the most engaging books about Glasgow, the grittier experiences always leavened and laced with Hanley’s irrepressible humour. Several other novels quickly followed to a similarly warm reception.

I know some of you will still be struggling to recall Hanley’s work, but he wrote the lyric for one of the most famous Scottish songs ever, putting the words to well known bagpipe tunes that we know as “Traditional” Hanley gave us the words to Scotland the Brave, which emerged as the de facto national anthem. It remained so for two decades before being supplanted by Flower Of Scotland, I still remember football matches where they played the tune at International matches as our national team anthem.

Of course, Cliff’s tongue-in-cheek verses were never designed for mass singing, as was evidenced by the confused expressions on the faces of the national soccer team when they struggled to get their bagpipes, heather and glens in the right order. But played at full tilt by a pipe band, the anthem struck the appropriate note of terror into the opposition.

For a while Hanley also worked in radio, but although he continued as a regular contributor, his career as a presenter was relatively short lived. In 1970, he was hired to work on Good Morning, Scotland, the flagship morning news programme, but fell foul of the accent police - at that time received pronunciation was still considered desirable. Thank god we still don’t adhere to the old rules, we would never have the likes of Lorraine Kelly, Dougie Henshall and Ken Stott using their own god given accents on TV

Hark when the night is falling

Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,

Loudly and proudly calling,

Down thro' the glen.

There where the hills are sleeping,

Now feel the blood a-leaping,

High as the spirits of the old Highland men.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

High in the misty Highlands,

Out by the purple islands,

Brave are the hearts that beat

Beneath Scottish skies.

Wild are the winds to meet you,

Staunch are the friends that greet you,

Kind as the love that shines from fair maiden's eyes.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

Far off in sunlit places,

Sad are the Scottish faces,

Yearning to feel the kiss

Of sweet Scottish rain.

Where tropic skies are beaming,

Love sets the heart a-dreaming,

Longing and dreaming for the homeland again.

Towering in gallant fame,

Scotland my mountain hame,

High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

Land of my high endeavour,

Land of the shining river,

Land of my heart for ever,

Scotland the brave.

[wistfulcynic]

as we meet at the fading of the longest day

A new Captain Swan fic? From me? Only *checks notes* one year and nine months since the last one. 

Surprise? 

Actually, the solstice made me do it. This is has been a half-worked WIP for well over two years now and i wanted to finish it but couldn’t hit on quite the right angle. Today i did. A midsummer miracle. 

This is the third and final instalment in the Portable Magic verse, and so i offer a tag to @optomisticgirl​ and @piinfeathers​ because i know they are fans of this verse, along with @thisonesatellite​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @katie-dub​ and @kmomof4​, for what feels like obvious reasons ❤️.

-

He places himself at the cliff’s edge—its very edge; the tips of his toes in their squared-off boots lie flush with the crumbling granite. Wind whips through his hair and waves crash below his feet—far, far below—against rocks that shatter them into froth and fling their fragments through the air. The world spins around him, dizzyingly, but he is not afraid. 

He steps over the edge, and off it. 

When he opens his eyes he’s reclining on a long, low chair with a high back at his elbow and an armrest at his head. The cushion beneath his cheek is coarse-woven of silky fibres and his hand clenches on upholstery of the same material as he struggles to sit up. 

“That was foolish, child,” says a voice from behind him. A gently lyrical voice that pierces his heart with the single word it does not speak. 

His own is rough when he replies. “I had to see you.” 

“I gathered.” 

He turns as the speaker emerges from the shadows. He doesn’t remember her face but he knows it, long and lean, the lips his, the brow his, the eyes his. 

“Mother,” he breathes. 

Her breath catches. “Killian.” 

He’s dreamt of this moment for so long, imagined it in such detail, but now that it’s here he cannot find a single word to say. 

She seats herself gracefully on a chair beside his own and summons a smile. “Tea?” 

He almost laughs. She looks nothing like Emma—her hair is straight and a deep, rich auburn, her pointed chin un-dimpled and her eyes more wise than knowing. Yet in essence they are so alike, his mother and his chosen wife. He thinks they’d like each other. 

He hopes they can. 

“You have a need,” says Alys, as she pours tea from a pot that was not there a moment ago. Neither were the cups that she fills with pale-green brew, but Killian has long since passed the point where such things might astonish him. He accepts a cup with a nod of thanks and takes a sip—there can be no danger to him in doing so—and considers his reply.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.” 

“You’ve lost something,” she murmurs, “or are on the verge of losing it.” Her gaze is probing but not sharp, gentle as she sifts through the layers of his mind. He lets her—he could resist, but what would be the point? He’s here to offer her the very things she seeks. “No… someone.” 

“Aye,” he replies, and lifts the last layer himself. 

Alys gasps; her hand trembles as she returns her cup to its saucer. “She—she’s lovely. American?” 

“Yes.” 

“And a practitioner. How pleasing to see our ways survive, even in that land.” There’s an edge to her tone that rankles him a bit.

“It’s not such a different land,” he argues, then amends. “Well, not all of it.” It’s difficult even to stretch the truth in this place. 

“You’re strongly bonded, you and she,” Alys observes, “and have been so for years. Yet there have been no formalities?” 

“No.” His voice catches on the word. “We—didn’t want to rush things.” 

Alys frowns slightly, then she nods. “Perhaps that’s wise. It doesn’t do to be light-handed with the threads of fate. Or destiny.” 

Killian barks a wry laugh. “That’s what Emma said.” 

“Is that her name? Emma?” 

He nods. “Emma Swan.” 

“Swan.” Her mouth twists. “English.” Of the Angles, she means. 

“By descent. But that was centuries ago. She’s her own self now. One who respects all ways and all people.” 

Alys smiles. “You’ve chosen wisely, then.” 

“I think so.” 

She nods. Her expression turns wistful, longing and so lonely. “I thought you would be angry,” she says. “When you realised that I left by choice.” 

“What choice, Mamm?” asks Killian softly, “Your ‘choice’ was leave or die. I’d far rather have you alive.” 

She swallows; her eyes are misty now. “But you were so small,” she whispers. “You were so small, Killian, it broke my heart to leave you. I wanted more time, and I couldn’t—your father wouldn’t let me bring you along.” 

“I know.” He takes a risk and takes her hand. It’s slender and cool in his, with the faint hum of magic he’s grown accustomed to feeling beneath another’s skin. She goes still for a breath, then two, and then she turns her hand beneath his and clasps it hard. 

Killian feels tears prickle in his eyes. He’s dreamt of this, longed for it, but he knows that desperation alone gave him the courage to take the step. He had nothing left to lose.

Alys knows it too. Her eyes are wet with the same tears. 

“Very well,” she says. “I shall help you.” 

—

The wood is dark, and noiseless. Nothing moves, not even the trees. There is no wind to rustle them, no trill of birdsong nor scurry of animals in the underbrush. Killian’s heart races but his blood is cold; his heart labours to pump it. The air pushes at him, tries to force him back. He grits his teeth and presses on. 

At his side Alys moves without a care, on feet that barely touch the ground. It’s not she the wood seeks to exclude. Her presence grants him some reprieve; not much, but enough. Enough to bring him to the edge of the clearing but no further. 

His mother takes in their surroundings with an almost academic disinterest, curiosity untempered by judgement. “How fascinating,” she murmurs. “What happened?” 

“The baby,” says Killian hoarsely. “All seemed well until—”

“—her pains began,” Alys finishes, when his voice grows too rough to speak. 

He nods. 

“Birthing a fae is always a tricksy thing,” says Alys, “and most particularly for a human. Far better to have the babe born nearer the turn of winter, when the veil is thinnest. At midsummer the lay of things is rather different.” 

“There—” Killian fights to speak the words “—there wasn’t precisely—a plan.” 

“Indeed,” says Alys wryly. 

“Mother…” Killian gasps. The woods twist round him like a vise and he can barely breathe. “Bring her back to me. Bring them back.” He draws a rasping breath. “Please.” 

Alys nods. “Here,” she says, unhooking the clasp of her cloak. She sweeps it off her shoulders and around his own then does it up again. Immediately the crushing pressure recedes. “This should hold the magic off until it’s finished,” she says. “Wait here.” 

—

The hut is simple in appearance, deceptively. Alys observes the spells woven into the structure’s foundation, its walls, its sloping roof. Spells of protection and warding but also practical ones, for insulation, water- and fire-proofing, and fresh air. 

A clever witch, her daughter-in-law, Alys thinks with an unexpected thrum of pride. Her son has chosen well indeed. 

She passes through the door without stirring a breath within the hut but the woman on the bed senses her presence. She lifts her head, sweat-slicked and haggard, and calls out, “Killian?” 

“No, hwegyn,” Alys replies. “He cannot enter.” 

The woman regards her with green eyes still sharp despite her exhaustion, hours of fruitless labour writ plain upon her face. There’s determination too and hope, though this woman knows, as Alys does, that no child of fae and human can be born into this realm without a careful hand to guide her through. 

She knows this, and yet she tried it anyway. Alys shakes her head. Humans. 

 “You’re his mother,” the woman says. “You’re Alys, of Kernow.” 

“I am.” 

“I’m Emma,” says the woman. “Emma Swan.” 

A waiting tension thickens the still air just for a moment, then Alys smiles. “You are well met, my daughter,” she says.

Emma releases the air from her lungs in a whoosh. “Thank the goddess,” she whispers. The air within the hut is gentle now. It cradles them both as Alys approaches the bed and lays her hand on Emma’s forehead. Emma sighs again as cool relief floods her body and she relaxes for the first time in hours. 

“Shall we introduce the world to my grandchild?” Alys says. 

—

As the last rays of the Midsummer sun break across the horizon, split by angles and air and magic into fiery shades of peach and rose, Rowan Alys Swan-Jones draws her first breath in the human realm. She blinks open eyes of the same sharp green as her mother’s, and regards her surroundings as Emma traces the outline of her slightly pointed ears. 

“Babies don’t have green eyes,” remarks Emma, with a sidelong glance at Alys, sat gracefully in a chair at the bedside. 

“Human babies don’t,” Alys agrees. 

“Hmm,” is all Emma says in reply. She’ll have to think on that one. 

Alys smiles and with the tip of a finger ruffles the reddish-tinted downy fluff on Rowan’s head. “Lowen owgh hwi, ow myrgh wynn,” she murmurs. “Hwi bos krev ha bos gwir.”

The words seem to hang in the air above the baby’s head. Emma doesn’t understand what they mean, but she feels their impact as they settle around Rowan’s tiny shoulders like the mantle they’re meant to be. 

Just then, the door bursts open and Killian appears. “Emma?” he calls in worried tones. “Are you all right? The woods have only just let me through.” 

Emma smiles and holds out her hand. “Killian,” she says softly, “come meet our daughter.” 

Killian approaches the bed and reverently accepts the bundle Emma offers him. He tucks it into the crook of his arm, releasing a shaky breath as he strokes a gentle finger down the baby’s cheek. 

Rowan coos. 

“She recognises her father,” says Alys. “All is well.” 

“You’ve blessed her,” Killian observes. 

“I have.” 

“Thank you, Mamm,” says Killian. He looks at Alys and sorrow clouds the joy in his eyes. “You’re leaving soon.” 

“I must.”

“Will I see you again?”

“No, ow mab,” says Alys, with far greater gentleness than is her custom. “You are much too firmly of this realm, and rightly so. But this one—” she tilts her head to Rowan “—shall always have the means to find me, until such day as she chooses to relinquish them.” 

Killian nods. “Farewell then, Mother,” he says. “And thank you.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Emma echoes. “For everything.” 

Alys smiles at her children, bestows a kiss onto each forehead, then takes her leave. 

The breath of wind that carries her home is bittersweet but as she lights a candle to illuminate the shortest night, Alys feels content. Soon—many years yet by human reckoning but the merest tick of the ages to her—she will have a visitor again. A granddaughter, obstinate and tenacious and questioning, and far too clever for her own good. A challenge to everything Alys knows and all she holds dear. 

She smiles at the flickering flame. 

She’s always loved a challenge.  

-

a/n: Killian in this verse is from Cornwall, or Kernow in the Cornish language. Though technically part of England, Cornwall shares a Celtic heritage and language with Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Brittany. The language Alys speaks is my best approximation of Cornish, based on scant internet resources and zero knowledge of the language’s syntax. Apologies to any Cornish speakers for the inevitable errors.  

[libidomechanica]

Knocks on thy Name to his weeps, an enemy

Thus plan that of shatteries were is such to my     bleed. Sorrow on lovely to their lost, and leaves behind thine eyes and dragging Oyle had     made thence: the Blest time show. Is Judgment

of beaten may be gone. Love upon a Saturday     it groin. From dead, half, damn’d death? Temper, that passing hours, better’d in thy could I might     doth scorn; When the went. Upon a hills

seeking sit on for Corydon, hawk, and rain, kill     is it, of old to drowsy sprung from has bull-dogs an azure-lidded greaten gone, has     mischanc’d, let me so. When her e’er wherein.

For one wither loves, and who possess’d for the     languished, teach joy; she vanquish’d for Imagination in war: when leaps, her for through less     face doth brings sadly in; starved blond more

the garden, to meet last for Women, you readers     dancing thus a doubtless gone, play had brough, alas, if the shall those who had his man’s subtless     the brooked up into eternal

Home. Where other change and being me so say,     No! And none. In him, was few, the city bread, on their dream me shoud use, to human what     they go. Of precedent of tall many

a cushion a problem, like a kissed or its     have despair in the Day, misguises stoic, sage yield, heavy Load, oh God in summs of     quaintains him whom Fame defaced darling

pestless so must needs a homeward you art on their     love in love the tale anothers when he, which saints to the lovely to that for the cries,     like toes.—Why head of Arbitrary

laws; such a glass; it seem’d a scarce dark night: good, whilst     I, for such we in before their valley answered me! His graves reprieves the Fools     admired, rough Betty! Who had lost both

workmanships lost, my bed lay the choice of Belial     with vague is no foot retir’d but to David’s Rule Jerusalem, Shimei was might road,     turn she top of Son; swift of court and

ended lord’s gifts the villai the honours have nothing     when the Peoples of nut-brown the assault, with on his grows, of spices. Than hope, the     bones, they with me? I takes him comely.

To my mother face a blunt belch increase, in the     streams from the Cumner grapes, do crowded still, and like a gaol of relief, in bed you my     foolish more, are beauties a versts free

our Fates, and bear, and strength calls me thirst Ferment     jessamined special and thus all than I. To chaste; when teeth gleam like herd bench, Cossacques     for Susan grudge against the she distant

blown; as well—thought complicate tools, and sire     house, the will enjoyed, lo! In his knees her herself about ioys, exild forgot his verse     in sigh celebrated in woe, anon.

Secure thy resting that shades his fair loud of     old glove, blue. Sometimes beneath and good a carpet lies; whose body shape, no my beloved     their education, he cams’t though

she cliffs. Yet still, pluck his Wit comforteth loveth:     I had heart, my Father bodies, the Designs, disliking up to that length delay across     the gate; for every life that sits

upon his life will Europe’s sage, fallen     Madeline! Knocks on thy Name to his weeps, an enemy captain’s lady, nodding hedges,     and such to Saving Kate is near it.

[delimeful]

(don’t) take this the wrong way (7) (END)

final chapter of dtttww :) i had a lot of fun with this verse so i may take requests set in it in the future, and this might receive some more copy editing later, but for now this is the epilogue!

warnings: mild injury, mild hypnosis, for once no miscommunication :)

-

[Several months later…]

Sunlight trickled down through the water in wavy bands, illuminating the shallows and growing fainter and fainter as the distance from the surface increased.

Virgil didn’t spend much time in the shallows, too wary of being without escape, being made vulnerable to human vessels or poachers. Despite his dark and gloomy aesthetic, he couldn’t go too far into the depths either, simply because his fragile fish bones weren't built for it. His eyes weren’t built for it either, and down there where anything could be lurking, he would need more than speed to avoid danger.

So, on an average, sunny day like this, he could be found miles offshore, in waters that were easily too deep for unsuited humans to reach, but still well-illuminated by the light above.

There were a few old wrecks scattered about the ocean floor here, and though they’d probably been stripped by a pod in the past, he figured he’d go through them and check for anything that was left behind. Things that weren’t useful to a pod could certainly be things that were useful to him, after all.

He’d been poking through the undercarriage of one of the larger ships for an hour or two, relaxed as he ever got. He could take his time. The only creatures around to judge him were the shoals of fish and layers of barnacles built up amidst the metal, wood, and rust.

Actually… Virgil paused in his inspection of an old cutlery set to glance around.

What had happened to the fish?

Through a hole in the ship’s hull, he watched as a broad shadow passed over the ground and ships alike, large enough to belong to a whale.

There hadn’t been a single shred of whalesong above.

Virgil edged further back from the hole, eyeing the outside warily as the shadow receded, leaving behind only wavering sunlight on sand as though it had never been there at all.

There was nothing here that was worth sticking around.

He carefully made his way back to one of the other exits, in the opposite direction of where he’d seen the shadow head, the strokes of his fin cutting through the water with barely a whisper. The porthole was easily wide enough for him, and the ocean stretched out blue and vast before him, a promise of safety if he just moved fast enough.

A moment’s pause, to make sure he didn’t hear or see anything out of place, and then he was out, flitting from rock outcropping to bone reef and scanning the seas above. Not for the first time, he wished his scales were a little less distinctive in the day.

Behind him, an ominous creak.

He froze, and watched with mounting apprehension as a shadow spilled over him, looming closer and darker than before. The silhouette of an arm stretched out, heading towards him…

“Virgil, you must help,” a huge voice pleaded, “I’ve been had.”

He twisted around just in time to see a huge arm flop down onto the floor next to him, kicking up a cloud of sand and panicked burrower fish in the process.

It was wrapped in heavy wire netting from fingertips to forearm, and behind it, a giant mer was pouting at him with the best seal pup eyes he could manage, which, considering who his best friend was, were fairly potent.

Roman was huge, and he was a shark, with teeth and claws designed to shred and tear, and hands that could enclose him entirely-- but his elbows were braced against the ground with delicate balance so he wouldn’t crush anything, and he’d never grabbed for Virgil past that first disastrous encounter, and even now, his brow was furrowing with worry.

“Pufferfish status?” he asked, voice lowered from the dramatic plea of before.

Virgil’s mouth pulled up at the corners without his permission.

Roman was huge, yes, but he was also theatrical and eager and witty, full of sharp return quips for every barb Virgil had to offer.

He could hurt him, but he wouldn’t. Virgil believed that much.

“Prickly for a second, but I’m smooth now,” he answered, shrugging away the last of the tension. “Try not to sneak up on me without a warning click?”

“You have my word,” Roman replied, and if someone had told him months ago that he’d dare to ask anything of a giant mer, he’d have laughed in their faces. Now, Virgil knew that just like all the other requests, Roman would do his best to heed it.

“But really, my fingers are starting to feel numb. Help?” he entreated with a tilt of his head, shifting his net-wrapped hand a little closer.

Virgil rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t go away, though it tilted more towards amused now. He darted forward, twisting in a spiral around Roman’s hand to try and see the extent of the damage.

“How’d you even manage this? At least I had the excuse of being caught up in a storm,” he snarked, picking at a loose section with his claws. Roman’s fingers twitched a little, and he shot him an apologetic glance.

“I was… perhaps… trying to get a glimpse of those sailors that Logan mentioned patrolled the coast?” Roman offered, more than a little sheepish.

Virgil’s gaze turned sharp in a heartbeat. “Did they spot you?”

Logan had warned both Patton and Roman several times that not many humans would take as kindly to their long-term existence near human settlements as Logan himself had.

“No!” Roman assured, “I was very stealthy, truly, I was just… so focused on being stealthy that I missed the other vessel and the nets it had dragging along behind it. It could have happened to anyone!”

“I seriously doubt that,” Virgil replied dryly. He’d snapped a few of the looser wires with his teeth, but already his jaw was beginning to ache with the strain. “Well, you get to explain this to Specs, ‘cause we’re going to need his expertise in detangling for this one.”

Roman groaned in answer, dropping his head to plonk against the ground.

---

Logan carefully set one foot in front of the other, all of his focus on the thin strip of rock below him.

If he switched his gaze to even a few inches to either side, he’d be faced with the sight of a vertigo-inducing drop to the waves below, one that would have all but the most experienced tightrope walkers dizzy with panic.

His gaze didn’t move, though, unerringly focused on the ground beneath him, and on his own body. There was no need to look at anything but the ledge, a soft presence confirmed in the back of his mind, because he wasn’t going to fall.

Another part of him was skeptical, seeing as he wasn’t known for a lack of clumsiness by most. There was just so much to get distracted by, and it was so easy to look away and miss a curb or accidentally trip over his own feet--

But not now. Now, he was focused on just this one task, a gentle voice dragging his attention back whenever it began to stray. He was hyper aware of where each of his limbs were and where he needed to put them to continue forward, step by careful step.

Only a little farther…

“Logan!”

The harsh call snapped him right out of the trance, and he was abruptly made very aware of both the distance he could fall and the effects that sudden instinctual terror had on his sense of balance.

“Newton’s fucking Cradle,” he swore, and then wobbled again, precariously close to falling over.

There was the sound of water crashing against rock, and in the next moment, two giant hands had curled up on either side of him like the shells of an oyster. They provided him some much needed stability to lean his weight against, and he struggled to steady his breathing as relief swept through him.

“It’s okay, Virgil, I won’t let him fall! No cliffs, ands, or buts about it,” Patton’s voice was muffled, but not enough to miss the pun.

Logan sighed loudly, but he also shifted to let his full weight rest against the curl of Patton’s left palm, tapping twice to let him know it was alright for him to move.

His stomach still swooped slightly as Patton slowly shifted his hands away from the thin rock ledge, but there were some things that one had to adapt to when living with two very affectionate, grabby sea giants, and being toted around was one of those things.

Before long, he was level with the flattest segment of rock that made up their meeting place, which could be called an island if one was feeling gracious, but was really more of a collection of rocky spires and bridges that stuck out of the ocean.

Logan was barely able to sit up before Virgil pulled himself up at the edge of Patton’s palm, expression thunderous but his hands gentle as he carefully checked him over for scrapes or injuries.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” he grumbled, a phrase that he used much more frequently around Logan for some reason. Logan had already been reassured that it was an exaggeration and Virgil had no heart problems he knew of, so instead of worrying, he bore his friend’s fussing with good grace. “Did we or did we not agree that you need a spotter if you want to play around with bullshit sirensong magic?”

The mer paused. “No offense, Pat.”

“None taken!” Patton replied from where he had sunk further into the water to put himself closer to eye-level.

“I figured you would be along shortly,” Logan defended, and then perked up at the reminder of his most recent experiment. “Besides, one of the things tested in this trial was if the siren song could overshadow significant fear or even terror, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as afraid if you’d been there with me.”

“Aw,” Roman cooed, curling his tail up and leaning against one of the larger rock outcroppings, his posture slightly off.

Virgil dragged a hand over his face with a sigh, and then flapped a ‘go on’ gesture at Logan, distracting him. “So, what’d you figure out this time?”

Logan needed no further encouragement.

“Even the lightest application of a siren’s song can overwhelm other emotions,” he started, recalling the utter honed focus he had experienced. “While in the past I’ve felt distant or removed from my body while under its effects, this time I had Patton focus on requesting a very specific task, and due to the intense concentration it took, I was very present in the moment while fulfilling that task.”

“You didn’t snap out of it until I called for you,” Virgil interjected, more curious than wary. “Was it harder than normal to use the grounding tactics?”

One of the first things Logan had investigated was what it took for him to resist and even break free from Patton’s song, a task that Virgil had demanded in order to let him run any experiments with the siren’s magic. Back then, Virgil hadn’t expected Patton to agree, and he’d outright sulked for weeks to cover up the nerves he felt whenever the siren thralled Logan.

“It was,” Logan said, his excitement growing as he considered the new information. “Without significant outside stimulus, all of my attention was focused on the task, and so I couldn’t pull away mentally to do my normal grounding techniques!”

“I’ve never heard someone so excited about being hypnotized better,” Roman commented wryly.

“He should get a hypnoprize,” Patton added, and Virgil grinned, because he was a traitor who enabled Patton’s wordplay habits.

“Is there an award for smart people doing dumb things?” Virgil mused teasingly. “Logan could be voted ‘most likely to throw himself into danger in the pursuit of knowledge.’”

“That’s why he has us, Finding Emo,” Roman countered, gesturing extravagantly with one hand. “We would never abandon him to the cruel clutches of his own nerdiness.”

Logan couldn’t help but feel a thrill of pride at the casual way that Virgil ducked beneath one of Roman’s sweeping gestures, no trace of the blatant fear or suspicion that had been present as recently as a month ago.

They’d really come a long way from the misunderstandings of that first encounter, all of them.

A glint of light at the edge of the shark mer’s submerged forearm caught Logan’s eye, and he frowned. “Roman, what’s happened to your arm?”

Roman’s prideful grin dropped into sheepishness immediately. “Well, about that…”

“Princey here was abandoned to the cruel clutches of his own reckless dumbassery,” Virgil informed him, ignoring Roman’s trill of offense to drift back and shove at the hand in question until Roman finally lifted it, displaying the impressive collection of netting that he’d managed to get tangled in.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Patton clucked sympathetically, and Roman soaked in the attention like a very dramatic sponge. Virgil rolled his eyes even as he sawed at a few of the looser wires, and Logan sighed in fond exasperation as he reached for his pocket knife.

Perhaps some things would never change.

[meenah-chan]

Safe haven

a Diavolo x GN! MC fanfic

2.36k words

Genre: Angst

Trigger warning: Insane deadly stunt but not suicide, please don't read if you have this triggers. And please don't try this at home... or anywhere

Part 2 (Safe Haven ~Another Story~) | Part 3 (Safe Haven ~Epilogue~)

Masterlist

It is their sanctuary. A place that has everything they could wish for...

if only, fate isn't fickle...

"If I jump, will you save me again?"

"What a wretched soul I have..."

It’s been an hour since they were staring far in the horizon. Dusk is on its way, with the lake gulping the sun whole to bring forth darkness in the grassy land they’re on. That place is secluded, surrounded with trees serving as its walls. As if it were cradling them away from everything.

It's not their first-time watching day turn to night on where they are. They’ve known that spot enough to vividly paint the place on a whim.

It was neither a simple place as it seems. That place is a part of the human realm, untouched by anyone but two persons— them and Diavolo. A place which witnessed how the said Prince dropped on his knees and confessed he likes them. The place they admit they felt the same.

The place where they held hands in their secret rendezvous; times where the Future king would go to whenever he ran away from his endless responsibilities for a day and spend it with them, with words of affections and adorations for each other. It is their safe haven.

The Forget-me-not flowers they planted are blooming around them. As the two sat beneath the shade of the tree, appreciating the presence of the flowers and each other.

Diavolo has a habit of caressing their cheeks, brushing strands of their locks past their ears, as he embraces them as if they were the most precious treasure, he has ever held. Those smiles he would beam; brighter than the sol they always see. "You're the most beautiful being I have ever seen." And they would smile back, with their feelings overflowing so much they would always pour it back to him with a kiss.

But being always in that place doesn't mean they never left it. There are times they would give him a heart attack by literally jumping off the edge of the cliff. The demon prince then would follow them in a snap, before transforming right before their eyes and seizing them.

They knew it was a foolish thing to do. No sane person would ever carry out such dumb, dangerous stunt. They do have a magic or two under their sleeves should Diavolo fail the task. Spells they would feverishly study and tirelessly practice for the sake of the success of the Exchange Student program; for the sake of making Diavolo proud of them. So, they studied hard, yet fools only around their beloved.

So, they kept on flying off to the danger at every given chance. For the feeling during the times they would fall, they had the best view they could ever see in their lifetime. How the demon they ever loved could be so... breathtaking. Turning into his demon form—metamorphosing like a dazzling butterfly, his red locks fluttering in the wind, with such golden ornaments, such golden eyes reflecting the radiance of the sun. And most of all, such playful, thrilled smiles they would willingly lay their life just to see. He seems like the mesmerizing golden red dusk. He may be a demon, but Diavolo is much more divine than the angels in their eyes.

And to think that such an ambrosial prince would hold them in his firm arms, and bury them in his well-toned chest before gliding up in the air. They really love the feeling. Akin to the flowers they cultivate symbolizes, he is their true love.

"Should we land back on the top of the land?"

"Just a little bit longer." Humming, they would place a peck onto the tip of his horn or temple whenever they would request something so badly, which then would receive a chuckle from the Demon. "Hahaha, what a pampered human... Alright, just a little bit longer." And who knows how long they stay in the air. Then they would share small talks back on the cliff, and soon be bombarded with tons of messages and missed calls from the butler and the right-hand man. They would head back home after that, before the said aides decide to search for them and find their secret haven.

It was all they could ever wish for. An everlasting love to carry inside their mortal heart.

They have everything they could ask for, until that day comes. A moonless, rainy night during the celebration of Diavolo's birth.

"I'm glad to finally meet you, the Future King of Devildom." …the day she came. Rosa, a rather respected princess, and the daughter of Queen Rose.

"...N-No, the pleasure is mine." Whether he was flustered by her sudden appearance or not, something was rather amiss. His gaze towards her was different than anything they've ever seen him make. So different yet... familiar. Like the way his eyes sparked of reverie the day they first met, except it was more profound.

Diavolo sighed, "I'm telling you, you don't have to worry. You know you're the one I love." It was nothing, he said. It was only in their imagination, he said. Even so, the connection between the two they perceived every time the two met on business, felt so real.

They were so anxious, so angry they wanted to explode. They want to blame it all on that demon princess who appeared out of nowhere, and brought everything to a big mess! They wanted to lash at her, right from the deepest pit of their stomach!

...Yet, they didn't.

They simply can't. Not when she was like an angel who descended in the land of darkness.

So pure yet so wise, so diligent and well-versed. She is strong-willed and rather capable in every aspect. She doesn't deserve to be blamed for something she didn't mean to do. It was merely a work of two hearts naturally falling for each other. It was inevitable.

Instead of brooding without doing anything, they will fight. They will fight for what's theirs. For what's right. For the specks of affection left inside Diavolo. For their love, they won't give up.

Or so they thought...

"Y/N, would you mind having tea with me later?" Barbatos asked for their attendance.

But unlike the usual afternoon tea they always share with the butler, "Where's Diavolo?" ... the prince is not around.

"The Young master has prior engagement and brought Lucifer in my stead. My apologies if it was not to your liking."

"Ahh, no. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that... having snacks with only you are unusual." It's not unusual. Rather, it never occurred even once. Diavolo tends to postpone the teatime for another time whenever he can't go, as Barbatos always join his absence.

"Actually, I asked you today about an important matter to discuss."

"...Is it related to Diavolo and me, isn't it?" They shouldn't have asked him. They hated themself for asking Diavolo's attendant.

"Yes. To be precise, it is about your relationship and the lady you met during Young master's birthday. I believe you have the right to know this." They held their breath. "I hate to break it to you but the lady you met back then, is the Young Master's... fiancée and his soulmate." The words that came off Barbatos' lips felt like cold water dumped on them.

They just want to end the conversation right there and leave the garden as fast as they can, but they forcefully pull themself together and learn the whole truth, as painful as it is for them. "...Fiancee, you said? And what do you mean by soulmate?"

"For every heir of the throne, there is a prophecy foretelling the righteous betrothed one fated for them. This Oracle has never once failed in predicting who..." Barbatos paused, evaluating whether they could take any more. "...would help the Ruler in bringing prosperity in the Devildom."

After a minute of silence, they spoke. "Does Diavolo know all about this? About her?"

"Yes... but I swear in my name, he has always wanted to be free of the prophecy and achieve prosperity through his own power."

"Where is he headed to at the moment?"

"..." Barbatos' silence tells them everything. He is with her. That's all that they needed to know.

"I... see... Thank you for telling me this."

"I— no, I don't deserve such words from you." They shook their head, "You still disclosed this even when Diavolo wanted to keep it a secret from me. I'm sorry I brought trouble to you."

"It was my own choice. I'm just doing what I think is right."

"Thank you, really..."

They left the castle, thinking a lot of things but also finally enlightened.

They never had Diavolo's heart from the start.

He is the future of the Devildom, the future of all the demons who could easily outlive them. And for that he needs an Empress who can fully support him and bear another long-lived heir. His soulmate, his forever, his other half. Everything that they could never be.

Their life is short. His' is not. He could never fathom the extent of his life like they could. That is also the reason why they could love him until the day they cease to exist, a mere blink to him.

As obvious as the glaring sun that blinds them atop that cliff, his love... is gone.

They could see it in his eyes. Every day he spends with them, his mind is somewhere else.

Even in their favorite place, his embraces were still as cold as the mountain's peak. His smile is too forced, like a one man playing before their eyes. His kisses were prickling and painful. And his gaze... He is suffering.

Like they were.

"Forgive me." It was for the Devildom, he said. His head hangs low, wearing that distressed expression.

"Hey, lift your head? The future king shouldn't bow to anyone." They smiled, cupping his cheeks to raise his face.

"Look, I understand." It was a surprise they didn't shed a drop of tear, as they pat his head gently. "Follow your heart. You'll become a great king."

He made a wise decision, to choose his bond that suddenly came that day. Someone who really owns Diavolo's heart per destiny's decree. The heart they thought he offered back then, with the trees, and the cool breeze, and the swaying leaves, and the sunset as their witnesses. The heart they thought were already theirs. The heart that slipped from their fingers as he let go of their hand when Diavolo locked eyes with his fated one.

Diavolo's love is fleeting. Or maybe it was never love from the start, but a mere curiosity on his end. A misconception, but it doesn't matter anymore. They already knew the answer.

He already achieved his true love, holding his Empress in white. He wears that smile, much, much brighter than anything they have ever seen.

The bells sing with the crowd in jubilation. It is a merry occasion, with the official new rulers of the Devildom. All were so elated.

Except for one. "What a wretched soul I have..." they uttered under their breath. They couldn't take the sight. With the man they so love to be happy in someone's arms. Rage was boiling inside them. Staying there for a second longer and they would definitely ravage everything. So, they fled the scene, escaping to their secret place surrounded by the lake and the sea of trees.

They wanted to let it all out. Pain, sorrow, rage, envy. They were overflowing with emotion more than they could take. It should be them, placing a ring on his finger! the one smiling and crying of happiness as he makes a vow! The one who should be kissing him in front of thousands of witnesses!

"WHY?! What did I do to deserve this?!" The swaying blue and white Forget-me-nots they took with utmost care came to view. "What useless plants!!" They cried out, yanking and tearing everything off the soil. "True love?! It was only me from the very start!!"

All they could do was cry. Scream until their throat goes dry, until their voice disappears.

When all energy left their body, they slumped in the grassy land they’re on. In that secluded place, surrounded with trees serving as its walls. As if it were cradling them away from everything. Hiding their wretched self from everyone.

Dazed, they stared at the sky for an hour. As its hue turns from light blue to red, their mind gets clearer. That's when they heard a familiar sound. They followed it on the tip of the cliff.

It was the roaring waves beneath the land mass. It seems like it's continuing the cries they couldn't do anymore. Roaring like it was spilling the emotions inside them.

"If I jump, will you save me again?" They spoke to the man who is no longer in that secret place. It will never be a safe haven for them anymore.

"I want to be saved by you one more time." I want to be embraced by you one last time.

They faced their back to the rim of the cliff, and took a step backward. A foot standing on a void. And so, their body tipped, losing the other foot from the ground. As their balance disappears, they see nothing but the golden rays of the sunset and the redness of the dusk. So red like Diavolo's locks, golden like his eyes. There's nothing but only traces of him; of the man who doesn't really love them as he promised.

This is foolish... They thought. They're all alone. No Diavolo will fly down and save them anymore.

"I should go home..." Dying here would only hurt him... They whispered as the firm breeze swirls beneath, ready to catch them. After all, no one will save me but I... thinking of that, another pang spiked their heart.

But the wind spell they casted couldn't catch them. When they should have been falling, a hand appeared and pulled them in an embrace.

"Please don't do this..." it was not the warmth they were expecting. Yet, streams began flowing down their cheeks, in comfort of another’s arms. With their hoarse voice they sob the sorrow of losing their safe haven.

Part 2 (Safe Haven ~Another Story~) | Part 3 (Safe Haven ~Epilogue~)

Masterlist

[mythicamagic]

Snake Charmer: Sesskag fic

Summary: Sesshoumaru is extremely amused by the prey currently trapped in his den. Kagome just wanted a vacation. Naga Sesshoumaru fic. Sesskag AU.

Rated M

Read on Ao3, fanfiction.net or Dokuga

AN: Sooo I might make a series of stories featuring Monster! Sess or Monster! Kagome. I've already written a vampire one and a werewolf one. Shall see! I hope you enjoy this. 

Snake Charmer pt. 1

Impossibly blue skies free from clouds stretched out above her head that bright and cheerful morning. It was hot. Uncomfortably so, but Kagome welcomed it despite the sweat beading at the back of her neck. Clad in a two-piece bikini hidden by her cute blue summer dress, the cotton thankfully thin and breezy, she drank in the sunny scenery greedily.

Hawaii sprawled out, with its rolling hills, high cliffs and exotic greenery. True, it was a little tourist-centric where they were staying, but the Japanese college students could hardly complain.

"I'm so excited for cliff diving~" Eri grinned, practically buzzing as they walked down a road beside the ocean. "Kyle said he'd meet us there, right? Do you think he'd be more attracted to a confident girl, or should I pretend to be scared?"

Yuka rolled her eyes, adjusting the strap of her bag over one shoulder. "From the way you were flirting last night at the hotel, I don't think he'll care either way."

"Maybe just fake a dizzy spell so he can catch you in his big strong arms~" Ayumi giggled.

"And what about you? I'm sure his friend will be there."

"Oh, don't get my hopes up!"

The three laughed, noticing their friend's silence once the girlish giggles died down.

"What's wrong, Kagome?" brows knitted with concern, Ayumi gently tapped her shoulder.

Shaken from her reverie, Kagome dragged her distracted gaze away from the ocean. "Hm? Oh… nothing," she smiled. "I was just thinking about what that man tried to say to us."

"You mean the Native we saw earlier?" Yuka arched a brow. "Forget it, none of us know Hawaiian and when he switched to English it was a lost cause. None of us can string a sentence together."

"It's true, I forget most of mine when we left school," Ayumi sighed mournfully.

"I flunked English," Eri smirked.

Shaking her head, Kagome folded her arms and frowned, "maybe so, but I could pick out a few of his words. 'Water' and 'no' with some kind of motion with his hands. He approached us while Kyle was talking to us about the cliff diving location with that map. Maybe it's a dangerous area, and the man was trying to warn us?"

"If it was a warning, Kyle would have told us. He said it was fine, just that we should be wary of any rocks, but he knows the area. It's standard stuff," waving this off, Eri quickened her pace, heels clanking on the hot road.

"He knows the area better than a guy who lives here?" Kagome drawled, sharing a glance with Ayumi. Her more sensitive friend bit her lip, giving a weak shrug.

"Let's at least check it out," she said, adding more under her breath; "Eri is really excited. We can humour her a little by meeting with Kyle again today. None of us has to jump."

Releasing a breath, Kagome set her concerns aside for now. It wasn't like she wanted to be a wet blanket about it. Still, the man's wide, imploring brown eyes continued to nag at her mind. Such an expression could bridge the gap in communication. She'd practically felt his concern.

---

Kyle was a tanned, brown-haired boy travelling around the world. He struck Kagome as the adrenalin junkie type. Eri fawned over him, positively smitten. It was rare for a foreigner from London to be so well versed in Japanese, and they'd met through an online dating site, organising a get together while he was in Hawaii. Thus Kagome and the others had been dragged along. Kyle was practically their tour guide and means of verbal communication with English speakers.

His friends were less fluent in Japanese. The three shirtless blonde-haired young men flustered both Yuka and Ayumi, talking in broken sentences.

Kagome couldn't say she minded the male attention as they walked together to the cliffs. Obviously, they weren't up for anything permanent, just fooling around. Kagome had indulged in that sort of thing before. Unfortunately, it was quickly becoming boring. Men just couldn't get a clue. Whether it was a long-term boyfriend or a one-night stand, a playboy or attentive virgin, she found her experiences frustrating on a level she couldn't quite understand. It was lacklustre.

Perhaps today would be different. It would've been nice to hang out with Kyle's friends and get to know them if she could just rid herself of the man's warning.

"This is the spot," Kyle grinned, showing his dimples.

The group had stopped atop a cliff with a few trees littered near the edge. Yuka peered over the lip of the side, holding onto a branch.

"Wow, that's uh… quite a drop."

Kyle rolled his shoulder, muscles coiling. "It looks worse than it is. So! Who's going first?" he grinned wider, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

Eri laughed nervously, hugging his arm, "shouldn't you go, oh fearless leader?"

"I believe in ladies first," sea-foam blue eyes strayed to Kagome, who remained a little uncomfortable.

"What about your friend?"

"Ah- she's a little afraid. I don't think she'll be jumping," Eri dismissed.

"Aww c'mon," Kyle broke away from her to gesture to Kagome, inviting her closer. "At least take a look. No point in walkin' all the way here and not seeing the view at least."

"I can see it fine from here," Kagome gave a smile that showed her teeth. "Thanks anyway."

"Kagome."

Judging from her friend's expressions, they clearly wanted her to act more respectful.

Biting back a sigh, Kagome forced a more amiable smile upon her lips and stepped closer to the edge, peering down.

To Kyle's credit, it was a stunning view. She'd never seen water so crystal clear and blue. She couldn't tell how deep it plunged, but the waves rolled pure white, not a blemish in sight. No deadly rocks either.

What had the man been warning us about?

"What do ya think?" a playful voice rasped close to her ear. Kagome felt the heat of his body draw near.

Her lips pursed, "it's beautiful," she allowed. Maybe she was being too much of a stick in the mud, it wasn't like her.

"Then- why not take a closer look?"

Hands shoved.

Blue eyes flew wide as Kagome felt her body careen forward, hair swooping back. Letting out a fearful scream, Kagome felt her feet drag and fly free from solid earth. Gravity pulled her down.

Falling was surreal, disorientating. She'd pretty much left her stomach back with her friends it lept so violently. She couldn't tell up from down, but the ocean swooped in closer and closer.

Instinctively, Kagome sucked in a huge breath.

Making impact with warm waters, she plunged deep beneath the surface, bubbles obscuring her vision.

Almost immediately, still, serene waters swirled into motion.

Kagome's heart thundered with alarm, bracing herself. She mindlessly kicked her legs out of instinct the second something started pulling her downwards. Trying hard to break away from the current, her efforts proved to be in vain as it swept her up like a whirlpool.

Kagome closed her eyes. It became impossible to know where she was, how far the surface lay beyond her reach. Her lungs strained.

Getting desperate, Kagome abandoned all logic and started to swim with the current rather than fight it. If she was going to die, she'd rather it be while doing something. Staying motionless didn't suit her.

Aching lungs grappled for air, and Kagome felt herself weaken. Desperate motions slowed. Her mind hazed with fog, becoming dizzy.

Gradually, she began to resemble a motionless rag-doll.

Something strong and sturdy wrapped around her waist, pulling her body.

Kagome weakly felt the sensation of being yanked. Shadows entered her murky gaze like she'd passed through a tunnel, lights soon reaching her again. And then she was suddenly flicked up and released.

Gasping the second her head broke free from salty waters, she sucked in sharp breaths and coughing violently. Kagome then promptly collapsed.

She blearily noticed the dim lighting and smooth rock she found herself splayed upon, shuddering. I almost died.

It took a few moments to adjust and control her breathing, but eventually, after laying there and recovering from the experience, Kagome shakily roused herself enough to sit up. Looking around, she found a cavern of sorts awaiting her. The layout was spacious. Rock walls sprawled around her, a single circular opening high above in the ceiling allowing a circle of concentrated sunlight to pour down into the ocean pool she'd surfaced in.

Kagome pulled herself onto a rocky platform, following a walkway around the water and leaving wet footprints on cool stone in her wake. Thick shadows lay beyond the opposite side of the pool, with a multitude of paths in the rock-face branching off in different directions. They looked as though they'd been hollowed out by a huge earthworm. Kagome wagered they were a maze of sorts.

No way am I going in there.

Glancing up at the natural skylight, Kagome bit her lip. Such smooth rock would be too steep and slippy to climb, and she doubted a helicopter passing overhead could spot her inside. She wasn't even sure how far she was from the mainland. Silence reigned within the lonely cavern, save for lapping water within the glittering pool. She couldn't hear any tourists or speedboats outside.

Kagome swallowed.

The pool.

She didn't exactly like the idea of chancing another swim. However, diving in again to reach the open ocean could be her only chance of finding help.

Putting it off for now, Kagome wandered around the edge of the pool, rubbing her arms absentmindedly. She felt shaken from the high fall alone, never mind nearly dying from a random whirlpool.

"That's what that man was trying to warn us about," she mused to herself, glancing at the water. "I hope Kyle doesn't push anyone else in. That bastard!" she seethed. She'd always been a strong swimmer, but if he had pushed in Ayumi, even with regular waters, the situation could've been dangerous. The idea of it only pissed her off even more. "When I get outta here, I'm giving him a piece of my mind. I bet he'll say - 'ohh it was just a joke.' Ha! You can tell that to my fist, buddy!"

A shadow moved to her left.

Kagome jumped, snapping her gaze to it. Sweat pricked at the back of her neck.

"H-hello?"

Nothing.

Well, it had been out of her peripheral vision. What a convenient time for her mind to start playing tricks on her.

Taking a deep breath, Kagome let the air whoosh out of her lungs. "And now I'm seeing things," she rambled, grasping her hair and wringing out excess salty water. "That's not unusual though, heck I think I see things passing by in the kitchen all the time. Totally nor- AH!" Kagome started badly, looking directly at the shadows. A sleek, long thing swept out into bright sunlight across the floor before retreating smoothly. It had been pale, covered in a sheen that resembled scales.

Was that a… tail?

Kagome took one step back. Then another. Whatever it was, it had been quite large.

She didn't want any of that. None.

Pivoting sharply, Kagome hurried directly towards the pool. Climbing down a rocky incline, she bent her legs, muscles coiling and springing free as she leapt, body arching into a dive.

She made it into warm waters, kicking her legs madly. Gliding down from rippling surface to murky bottom of the pool, Kagome swam towards an opening in the rock wall. Something large and solid slid beneath her stomach then- closing around her waist and yanking.

Kagome's mouth opened in a gasp- pulled from the water with a hard tug. She coughed the second she surfaced, spitting out saltwater and holding onto the thing wrapped around her waist.

The tail.

Kagome's eyes widened, squirming and trying to get free as water dripped from her body, watching the pool drift further away as she ascended. The white scales felt smooth, warm beneath her touch.

Gritting her teeth, Kagome tried to dig her nails in, only to find them repelled by deceptively firm coils.

"You do not possess claws nor fangs sharp enough to cut through my hide, little human."

Kagome jolted, whipping her head up.

Half-lidded, piercing golden-yellow eyes stared back.

She gaped.

Slit pupils dilated.

The man observing her with a wry smile possessed beautifully ethereal features. Pointed ears, exotic magenta marks slashing across his pale cheeks. A silver fall of long hair spilt down over broad shoulders, hanging off the high rock he lounged upon that overlooked the pool. He'd propped both elbows on his bent tail, resting a strong chin upon one hand. The tips of his fingers resembled long, frighteningly sharp claws. Kagome blinked, trying to make sense of his form. His head and torso resembled a human male- physique impressive. From the waist down, however, an impossibly long snake tail sprawled out. She wasn't sure how vast it spread, a little preoccupied.

"Listen pal, I don't know what stage play I've stumbled across, but great effects. Top-notch. The puppet feels really lifelike," she minded some slick hair from her face. "The contacts are hot too, but I'd really like to be set down now."

"Would you?" he purred silkily, tail twisting to flip her upside down. Kagome gasped as black hair cascaded in front of her face, hanging towards the distant pool. "Unfortunately, this one has no interest in releasing you. It has been some time since prey has willingly stumbled into my den like a lost filly."

Kagome's mind raced. Prey. Shit.

"I-I didn't stumble in. The whirlpool-"

"Ah, yes," he hummed, rising from his perch languidly. His form moved smoothly, top half easing closer without fear of toppling from the rock his larger half wrapped around.

"Hn… few mortals are foolish enough to jump from that cliff at noon."

"I was pushed," Kagome seethed, bristling as he prodded and turned her like prized meat hanging off a hook. "Hey! Watch it!" She swiped an arm out, cheeks flushing. "Put me down this instant!"

The Snake-man tilted his head, "curious that of all people, my prey this time happens to be a woman from my homeland."

Kagome had been too startled to really think about it, but they were indeed conversing in Japanese.

"So you're a Japanese demon, huh?" she squeaked. "Awesome. We can talk more about that when the blood isn't rushing to my head. Put. Me. Down," a growl hissed free from her teeth.

His lips spread into a half-smirk, half sneer, exposing sharp, glistening fangs. He turned her upright once more, only to coil more segments of his strong, pale tail around her. A part of it twisted and slid around her knees, parting them.

Something twinged between her legs- a bead of sweat, hot and salty where it rolled down her thigh in a lazy trickle.

Kagome's eyes widened as the moving tail constricted beneath her chest, restricting the use of her arms and squeezing the air from her lungs like he'd trapped her within a huge fist.

His body loomed close, face hovering near. His touch felt oddly human upon her chin: grip as firm as any other arrogant male's.

"The harder you struggle, the tighter my grip," he uttered, gaze and voice almost gentle in their rich cadence.

Kagome fought to keep her breathing even, becoming still. He seemed intelligent and well spoken. If that was the case, talking her way out of the situation might be her best bet.

"For the record, I'm Kagome," she said, trying not to tremble. "W-what's your name, Mr Snake man?"

Ivory lashes fell shut and swept open in a slow blink. His lips parted, hesitating, as though out of practice with speaking it aloud.

"Sesshoumaru."

The Killing Perfection.

It sounded like a bad omen.

Kagome swallowed and kept blabbing. "Oh, that's cool. Your parents must've been anticipating a nice blood thirsty baby. I'm sure they're very proud."

His expression darkened, and Kagome quickly shut up. Clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say.

Sesshoumaru tipped his head to the side, breath fanning over her ear. "For the record," he uttered, archaic speech clearly unfamiliar with the term but imitating her, "my kind are not referred to as 'Snake Men.' I am a species of Naga."

"I-I see, sorry for using the wrong term," Kagome jolted as something flicked out close to her ear, nearly brushing the shell.

His tongue. Was he tasting the air?

Sesshoumaru made a low, pleasurable noise in his chest.

"You know… unless you're into playing with your food, maybe there's a reason you haven't eaten me yet," Kagome was ever the optimist.

"Pray tell: what would that reason be?" he asked, nose brushing and gliding into her hair. She felt his body roll as he inhaled deeply, having a ripple effect down his entire tail.

Kagome shivered. Oddly, the heat of him wrapped around her sent thrills racing up her spine due to every movement being intimately felt. The anticipation, fear and adrenaline mixed into a cocktail of absurdity. She felt its effects pour liquid heat into her lower abdomen.

"You want someone to talk to. Even people called 'The Killing Perfection' can get lonely. A-am I right in thinking you're the one who pulled me from the water?"

"Indeed."

Though she knew it wasn't out of any concern for her, Kagome nonetheless felt a stab of gratitude. "Thank you for that, I mean it. You're terrifying but much preferable to drowning."

Golden eyes danced. "Your compliments leave much to be desired."

Kagome's lips twitched. "Do you see what I mean, though? Maybe you just want a delightful conversationalist."

"Hn, perhaps," Sesshoumaru adjusted her, so that she loomed above him, his head dangerously close to her chest, "or perhaps I do just enjoy playing with my food."

Kagome jolted and gasped as a regal nose glided up the valley between her breasts, lips skimming, a teasing drag. She tried to squeeze her thighs together- prevented by a segment of his tail that rose and undulated slowly against her core, rubbing. Shamefully, Kagome moaned. Her wet dress, plastered to her form- pitifully could not hide the hard peaks of her nipples as her body heated.

"You respond quite enthusiastically to me, woman," Sesshoumaru purred, tongue flicking out to lick a long, wet arch up her chest, collarbone and neck. "Have you considered...you might enjoy my 'playing' with you?"

Panting, she quickly stopped her squirming hips. "L-let's talk about this," she swallowed, catching her breath. "We could make a game out of it. A real one."

Thankfully, his tail stopped.

"I am listening."

Okay, keep talking Kagome. She shifted, looking at the glittering slashes of magenta cutting over his tail like stripes. It was safer than getting distracted by his enchanting eyes.

"Is there a way out of here other than the pool?"

His silky voice caressed her hearing. "Yes."

"T-then let me run for 15 minutes. If I find the exit- you let me go. If you catch me, then fair enough, I'm yours to eat or... or whatever," Kagome muttered, cheeks heating. "But I can and will defend myself during the run."

Sesshoumaru's claw-tipped fingers grasped her chin, turning her face back to look at him.

His eyes were hypnotic in their richness of colour. Slit, inhuman pupils only drew her in instead of repelling. They smiled even as his lips remained still.

"Nothing would please me more," he purred, free hand gliding down her stomach, making it twitch. "You possess a silver tongue, girl. I have not met a prey that could hold a conversation before."

"Thanks, you're not so bad yourself- when you're not talking about eating me."

Chuckling with rich tones, the Naga loosened his tail, unwinding it so that she slid over his coils down to the walkway next to the pool.

Standing on her own two feet again, Kagome righted herself, glancing up at the looming Naga.

"Run along, little filly," he uttered languidly. His soft, masculine voice oddly put her at ease even as she prepared to run for her life. Perhaps this was how he lulled prey. Kagome chose not to examine why she'd responded so... favourably to him. It was the humidity. The adrenaline.

Kagome headed for a tunnel, realising half-way her mistake. It was pitch black inside, and she had no light.

Almost as immediately as she'd stepped inside- green flames flickered to life upon the walls. Torches lit her way, scattered further ahead.

Steeling herself, Kagome took a breath, bursting into a run.

[fallin-4-ya]

The Follies and Vices of You

cedric diggory x reader- part iv of series 

based off the novel and film ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen

summary: Being the beloved sister of the incredibly wealthy Mr. Potter, you felt no need to rush into marriage. But one day, when you come to meet a new acquaintance, the proud Mr. Diggory, your views of love and follies change.

warnings: a bit of angst & tension! (gif is not mine, credit to owner!)

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v

���Maybe it’s that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others, or their offenses against me. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.’ -Jane Austen 

The month of January passed dreadfully slow, as you waited for something interesting to happen. As the snow fell softly onto the ground, thoughts wondered through your head rapidly, most of them involving Mr. Diggory. In fact, he occupied your mind most days. How dreadfully awkward that poor man is, you pondered, and yet how confident. His character never made sense to you, as awfully as he appeared on the outside, you could tell there was much beneath his many layers. But your thoughts were soon interrupted by a knock on the door, it was the post.

‘From Miss Ginerva, Miss Y/N.’ You smiled and nodded thankfully. Excited, you ripped the letter open and the inside read,

My Dearest Miss Y/N, I hope my letter find you very well. How dreadful these past few days have been, for all of this snow has made me think of nothing besides summer time. I was invited to stay at my brother Bill’s until the end February; Miss Hermione Granger will be attending alongside me, to encourage sisterly bonding. I am sorry to hear that Mr. Malfoy has resided back to his home up north, but I do hope that he continues to write you such pretty verses. I shall be home before the flowers bloom. Be well.

Much love, Ginerva

You sighed thinking of how even more boring the next few months would be without the company of a most dear friend. 

Now that Mr. Malfoy was sent back home, the house was quieter than ever. Between Harry managing the estate, Sirius writing business proposals and Mr. Lupin locked up in the library; you felt most unentertained and gittery. Letters began being sent to you the day after he left, expressing a fondness for you, which kept your boredom to a minimum. You thought long about the letters exchanged between you and Mr. Malfoy; Ginny was certainly right in saying the verses were beautiful. She also urged you that there would soon be a proposal on the line if he kept with the letters, though you secretly hoped it wouldn't be anytime soon.

The next evening, to much of your excitement, you were joined by Mr. Fred and George Weasley for dinner, who were in the company of nobody other than Mr. Diggory. Reaching a hand out for each of the Weasley men, they took it graciously planting a kiss upon it. Extending out to Mr. Diggory as well, he ignored your gesture and simply bowed in your direction. After the questionable gesture from the latter of the men, you lead them to the dining room, where the rest of your family awaited.

The evening was going splendidly, much laughter and wide smiles reigned. That was, until a letter arrived addressed to you from Mr. Malfoy. You excused yourself from the table, to retire to the parlor to read it.

Blushing profusely and smiling at the beautiful verses addressed to you, unaware of the floorboards that creaked viciously behind; you sat on the armchair nearest the window of the parlor. You heard a throat clear at the doorway and shot your head up.

 ‘Mr. Diggory! I am so sorry, I mustn’t have heard of your following.’ Humming to yourself, you gazed out the window, ‘I do love this time of the year, Mr. Diggory. The snow is nothing short of lovely.’

‘Yes, Miss Potter, I do agree that the snow is very beautiful but I must interject and beckon you about some-‘

‘He’s thought to propose, you know. Mr. Malfoy that is. Quite strange, isn’t it; how young girls go to young women with only a proposal.’ You unknowingly interrupted in your dream state.

‘Miss Potter, I truly cannot help but to interject; however, there is a matter of urgency I’d like to discuss.’ Mr. Diggory huffed. Being pulled out of your trance, patience grew thin, you turned your head and snapped, ‘What is it, Mr. Diggory, that you feel so inclined to interrupt me for?’

‘Its addressing Mr. Malfoy. You see I am afraid I must interject on a most sensitive discussion topic.’

‘If you have anything negative to say about Mr. Malfoy, I must urge you that I'm the last person who would be inclined to hear it! And if you have some here to ruin my evening, I am afraid I won’t allow it.’ 

With that you grabbed your coat and trekked out into the falling snow. Footsteps not far behind you, you sped up; unwilling, or rather unwanting of hearing what anybody had to say. The crunching of snow only following you farther, as you followed the angelic pathway to the stone pavilion in the graden. You threw your back against the wall, sighing out deeply. Without a moment of peace Mr. Diggory entered your presence.

‘You cannot marry him’

You were taken aback by his sudden bluntness. Exasperated by his cultivated occurrence of strange actions you cocked your head at him.

‘May I ask you why, Mr. Diggory?’

‘The Malfoy family is least cordial, completely unattached and deranged from society. They are completely unsuitable for a family such as yours.’

‘A family such as mine?! Have you come here to separate an engagement or to insult my family, Mr. Diggory? Or rather, does your sudden interest in my affairs have anything to do with your dislike towards Mr. Malfoy; because believe me, Mr. Diggory, I know well of your disputes with the poor gentleman and will not stop an engagement from happening due to your pride and arrogance.’

‘No, Miss Potter! You know perfectly well that I find your family most respectable. I just find their family uncommony stiff for your reckless behavior.’

‘Reckless behavior! How dare you insult not only my upkeeping but a personality of another. Have you forgotten the follies and vices of you, Mr. Diggory? For who are you to judge another?’

‘Miss Y/N, has it ever occurred to you that you may be too harsh on me or perhaps my light on you may have been caused by the misjudgment of one’s character? I beg of you to enlighten me on why you find me the most disagreeable man.’

‘Well then, I beg you, Mr. Diggory, why you wish to separate a young couple who have grown quite fond of each other?’

‘Because I love you.’

There was a lull and Mr. Diggory halted. ‘I love you most ardently and I could not have you go another day more without you knowing of the likeness I have for you.’

You stood in silence, snow falling ever so godly on you both, speechless. Words clouded your mind, and you wanted to scream, and cry, and love, and erupt all at the same time. But rather than doing any of them, you looked back on him with a haze in your eyes.

‘I would not marry you if you were the last man in the world.’ You said walking away, allowing a tear slip silently from your face.

The next day there was a knock on your bedroom door early in the morning. Mr. Diggory walked in humbled and shy, ‘Miss Y/N, I’ve come to leave this for you. I hope you do me the honor to read it. Thank you much for your time.’

You had not even reached his gaze, for he spoke for too quickly and you were far too angry. Staring at the enveloped with a tear stained face for nearly an hour, you decided to open it.

Dear Miss Potter,

I hope my letter finds you in good health. I do not wish to impose on you again what I have said last night; for I am writing to you today not to remind you of said words, but rather converse upon the accusations you have brought upon me. I urge you that everything in this letter is the truth and have many to testify upon it.

Mr. Draco Malfoy and I had been connected since infancy, for his father, Lucius, and mine worked exceptionally close together. However, as Mr. Malfoy grew he became reckless; he gambled a large portion of his father’s money away and took no responsibilities seriously. Soon thereafter, his father wrote him out of his will, leaving nothing to his son. Mr. Malfoy became desperate for an inheritance; my father later offered him a job which he begrudgingly took. However, not more than seven months of work, he confessed a most passionate love to my sister. It did not take long for us to realize that he was only after her fortune for she was to inherit seven thousand pound a year. She was thirteen at the time and utterly heartbroken.

When my sister had gotten sick mere months later, my mother and I moved to London alongside her to get the best medical help. Unable to access our money without my father present, Mr. Lucius graciously lent us the sum of the bills. Unfortunately, my sister passed with just two months of treatment; she was truly a remarkable young woman. After the mourning, we paid what was due back to the Malfoy family; but for Mr. Draco Malfoy it was not enough. He hounded me for more money; knowing his dispositions I had given him the sum of his ask in hopes that he would become something of himself. He gambled the money away in two weeks. After that, I refused to give him anymore money, cutting him off for good.

Miss Y/N, I am terribly sorry to force the burden of the truth onto you, but I just felt that you ought to know. Please do keep the affairs containing my sister private, as I believe it be a disgrace to her memory to attach her name to one like his. Thank you for the time we have shared.

Yours, Mr. Cedric Diggory

(author’s note: oh my goodness! end of part 4!!! ending on a bit of a cliff hanger... i can't wait for you all to read the final chapter, which will be out soon! as always, let me know if you’d like to be part of this tag list! thank you as always for reading!)

tag list: @freddieweasleyswife @truly-insatiable @annasdani @mullthingsoverinthehotwater

[allycryz]

Duende - Uri & Haurche :3

PG because Haurchefant makes innuendo, set during early Stormblood.

The first draft of this was super easy to get out. The edits were a little harder because Urianger’s voice is very different from mine, but a good challenge all the same!!

‘Tis expected of a Scion to battle as expertly as one might pen a treatise. Urianger schedules two ventures per day to hone his physical talents: a bracing run before dawn and a lengthy solo training session at dusk. For the latter, he takes to the rocky shore along the coast line. The precarious climb to his preferred spot (providing both privacy and space) is part of his regimen.

Urianger picks the times when visibility is low and most residents occupied. Small talk is not his wont, nor is he at ease with those not in his immediate circle. There is something about his unmasked, unhooded face that gives strangers tacit permission to approach.

His position and decorum dictate that he engage somewhat in chatter during his errands. The residents do not press overmuch, for which he is grateful. Still, the task fits him worse than the too-small aldgoat leather gloves Lyse gifted him on his last Nameday. (Except, those he could not put on as easily as he might a polite demeanor. They refused to go past the breadth of his palm.)

There are days when the convenience of sunrise and sunset for sundry reasons, prove incompatible with other needs such as visibility and safety.

The unexpected rain pours down as he wends his weary way up the cliffs. It sluices through his hair, running rivulets over his brow. For the dozenth time, he swipes at his face and squints against the onslaught.

His feet remember where to place, his hands where to grip for balance. These are his cliffs and his winding, narrow path. No one knows it better. Should that memory etched into his muscle fail, a fall here would not be deadly.

‘Twould be painful though, and impact his duties for the next few days. For that latter reason–above all–he takes longer than usual along the rain-slicked terrain. 

There, he thinks as he nears the safety of the plateau. Urianger blows out a soft breath of relief, relaxing muscles he has kept tense during the arduous journey. For this stretch he has always found it best to walk sideways, arms spread for balance. It has never been a treacherous spot, simply steep enough to warrant caution.

Today, treachery comes at last. He takes a step up the incline, shifts to lift the other foot. The slippery grass beneath his boots gives way and both feet shoot out from under him. He has enough presence of mind to throw his gravity forward rather than backwards.

The impact is unpleasant but survivable; naught but his palms and dignity scraped. Dirt and mud bespatter the front of his shorter training robe. The cotton garment ends below his knees, the boots just above. Thus the joints are spared injury besides a dull ache. He chooses an ignominious crawl up to the plateau rather than risk another fall by rising on the sodden incline.

The rain is not so courteous as to clean his garments. It does offer some reprieve as he turns his stinging palms up to the sky and rubs the rainwater against the creases of grime and grass.

Ah, well. Rain is uncommon enough that he should be glad when it comes. Should his comrades ever summon him to battle in such precipitation, he shall be well-prepared. Lord Haurchefant oft speaks of how training in winter climes these five years have better forged him for difficult conflict. (Urianger suspects it is not only snow and ice that stood in the knight’s way.)

He finds himself smiling, thinking of his new colleague. Though their base is near underground, ‘tis not wholly cut off from the outside world. Vents let in sunlight, rain can be heard pouring upon the streets. Like as not, Haurchefant put a kettle on soon as he perceived the change in weather. 

The Waking Sands are enchanted to remain a cool temperature. If the sun does return in full force, they shall not overheat drinking cocoa.

Befouled, bedraggled, and besodden; he returns to the outskirts of Vesper Bay. The twilight and the rain have not put off the residents. A knot of people gathers near the market stalls, the hum of their voices rising just above the thrum of rain upon roof and stone and sea. The citizens hold cloaks and hands over their head as shields, one has a parasol meant for sun and aesthetics. 

‘Tis a lovely pink one with expensive-seeming trim. A shame it is likely ruined.

The reason for their cluster becomes apparent. Lord Haurchefant is the focus upon which they circle, tallest among them save two other residents. His silvered head is bent to them as they harken to his low voice. This eve, he has garbed himself in a long scarlet coat over his usual apparel. ‘Tis the first time he has donned sleeves since his arrival.

 (For all the good it did me to be tempered by winter, his lordship had said. It does make me rather pitiful in a desert. I shall do my best to acclimate to Thanalan.) 

They all gaze upon him with utter rapture. It has ever been so, since his lordship’s residence began in the Waking Sands while Urianger’s comrades and Haurchefant’s love continued on to Gyr Abania. Their adoration is not due solely to his fair countenance or noble title, though both must aid the cause.

There is an...openness in him that beguiles all he meets. Urianger has witnessed the surliest residents and most peevish of vendors open like blossoms to the sun when Haurchefant turns the glory of his attention upon them. Such an unusual power he has seldom witnessed and never from so kind a soul as this knight.

There is no avoiding this throng, even would it not be unconscionably rude to avoid his guest. At least there is a smaller chance of strangers engaging him in conversation. Not with a beacon such as Haurchefant seizing their attention, both intentionally and involuntarily.

“-suppose he will be alright, he knows the land better than I.” He hears Haurchefant saying as he approaches. His noble brow is drawn down, his battle-sculpted arms folded. “But do let me know if you see him. No one expected this rainfall.”

Doth he….speak of me? Urianger wonders. As if attuned to his thoughts, his lordship turns his way. Surprise, then relief, and then rapture all pass across his handsome features.

“Urianger!” He exclaims. “Thank the Fury. I was worried–I know you favor treacherous paths,and with the dark and the rain…”

“I am well,” says Urianger. “Thy concern is much appreciated and noted. ‘Twould have been a perilous journey had I not been close acquainted with yon cliffs.”

Haurchefant steps towards him, gaze sweeping up and down. Lingering on his bare face, throat, and collar. “It seems it was perilous for your clothes. Let’s get you inside and taken care of, yes?”

One of the crowd smiles at Urianger. Mara, he recalls, the tall Hyur woman who hawks fruit.  “Well, we’re glad you’re alright, ser. I was just telling June that I worry when I see you go off in the dark.”

“Ah,” he says, trying to recall which is June. The baker. Yonder woman with the braids who oft gives thee extra tea biscuits. “Tis not my intent to cause worry. I am well versed in the land and how best to scale it.”

“Even knowing that, do be careful.” Mara gives an imperious nod. Others nod as well, their eyes on him and not the handsome knight.

He can only nod again, bearing and smile stiff. He does not recall all their names. It makes him feel the most ill-mannered of scoundrels. He sweeps into a bow towards them, hoping it goes to some measure in repaying their concerns. “I shall endeavor to have a care, my lady. Your solicitous care bringeth warmth into mine heart, ‘tis only right I do well by all gathered.”

She smiles and pats his arm. This seems a signal for all to disperse, more residents bestowing upon him pats and nods. It is a wholly alien experience, and he considers he may be lying at the bottom of the cliff in the midst of a delusion. Surely he is not dear to all these people with whom he barely speaks.

“Come friend,” Haurchefant says. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and have something warm in your belly.”

“Thou art just as sodden,” says Urianger. “Pray also attend to yourself. Thou shouldst not catch sick for mine sake.”

“Ah but I would have done so gladly if I had to save you today.” The knight’s smile is wide again, fair dazzling in its potency. Again, Urianger is astonished any resident would look at him with Haurchefant there. Do they not sense the charm radiating from his very core? “I do thank you, for arriving when you did. There are much better games we might play in the dark than hide and seek.”

Urianger near trips on the steps up to the door. Of course, Haurchefant is there to catch him, strong hands righting his balance and smoothing over his back. 

“I beg thine pardon,” says Urianger. Regretful that he has no mask or hood to hide the heat upon his cheeks. As Lord Haurchefant is cheeky himself to everyone, he is likely used to it. ‘Tis not the first time Urianger has witnessed or received innuendo delivered so warmly from this man. “Mayhap I used more energy than I surmised, during my exertions today.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant nods, opening the door. “All the more reason for you to come relax with me once you have cleaned up. I shall not have you burying yourself in work when you have earned respite.”

“For a little while,” says Urianger. He glances back at the streets, at the residents seeking shelter in houses and under awnings. At the way some of them look at them–at him. Relief and concern and warmth in their gazes. He frowns and cannot lose the change to his mien, even in the warmth and dry of the building.

Haurchefant pauses at the top of the stares, giving his shoulders a roll before beginning his descent. ‘Tis late and his friend is often tense in his upper body by the time supper comes. He will need help working the knots loose again. Perhaps Urianger might put off his tasks even further to repay Haurchefant’s worry and concern.

As to everyone else in Vesper Bay, he is at a loss on how to make recompense.

His friend reaches the door to their sanctum and turns back, looking up at Urianger still upon the landing. “Dear Urianger, what is the matter? That’s a rather pensive expression.”

“...I didst not realise the depth of their regard for mine person. Yon residents and I art not particularly close.” He shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Haurchefant, that entrancing smile returning to his mouth. “Do ask me an easier one next time.”

Facetiousness is not Haurchefant’s way. The ironic reply seems out of character. “Yes, I am aware the reasoning seems difficult to determine-”

“‘Tis not.” Haurchefant’s eyes crinkle with laughter. It does not sting–there is no malice in it. He doubts such a quality resides in the knight. “You are quite charming, even when cloaked. It inspires others to take interest in you.”

For the second time, Urianger says “I beg thine pardon? I am not given to using mine wiles-”

“No, no. We should all be in trouble should you do it apurpose. But you have a natural draw that leads people to want to know you. As you signal that is not what you want, they have kept their distance.”

It is an absurd supposition that Haurchefant says with all the conviction of his noble heart. So much does he seem to believe it; that Urianger wants to also trust it, if only for his friend’s sake. “I am...uncertain of the validity of thy premise. However, thy kindness and belief warms my heart. Wouldst that every man hath such a friend as you, my lord.”

At this, Haurchefant lets out a clear, ringing laugh. Again, there is no mockery in it. The sound is joyful and pleased, as seductive a sound as every part of the man. ‘Tis a wonder such a man as he thinks his draw is mirrored in Urianger.

“So I must endeavor to convince you of it, till you are no longer agreeing to humor me.” Haurchefant opens the door, shivering at the blast of magically cooled air upon his wet person. “Well, I look forward to the process. One could do far worse than spending an evening convincing a beautiful man of his charms.”

To that, Urianger has no answer. Nor does Haurchefant expect one. He winks and enters the Waking Sands, door closing behind him.

It occurs to him and the rapid beating of his heart, there is a reason he perceives Haurchefant as charming and beguiling and the one who everyone should desire. Projection has not been a key failing of his, but he has fallen prey to it before. And presently, it seems.

And Haurchefant is correct in one thing: there are far worse ways they might spend the evening. Perhaps Urianger shall put his work on hold tonight, to see the knight’s endeavor in full.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

A Muppet Family Christmas

Day 13 of 2018′s 31 Days of Christmas.  Note: new for 2020.  Credited as 2018 for organizational purposes, & back-filling the prompt.

Thanks to @doctorroseprompts for the prompt list!

Prompt: Holiday movies

Rating: T (sexual themes, alcohol)

Pairing: TenxRose (AU)

Summary: Despite being mid-January James and Rose have a Christmas-movie watching date, and open up about old grief amidst being childish with the Muppets and Mario Kart.  Part of the Cosier With You ‘verse.

2018 31 Days of Ficmas Masterlist  |  Cosier With You ‘Verse

AO3

---

With a final swipe of gloss across her lips, Rose returned the lipstick to her purse, fluffed her hair, and knocked on the door.

“It’s open!”

Pushing the door open, she grinned at the sight that greeted her.  Hair still obviously wet from the shower, her boyfriend of three weeks (and counting!) stood on the far side of his kitchen island, preoccupied with a popcorn popper that was spitting out perfectly popped corn.  “Hey!” he greeted her warmly, as she dumped her stuff and came around to his side.  “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning,” she laughed, kissing him hello. “Mm, you taste like butter.”

“I had to make sure it was good,” James shrugged, gesturing to the half-full bowl catching the freshly popped corn.  “Only the best for you.  And yes, but we were at your place of work, surrounded by people.  I much prefer when we’re alone.”

“So do I.”  Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rested her head on his bicep.  “Remind me why we’re watching Christmas movies in mid-January?”

James eased out of her arms as the popper wound down, dumping the last of the kernels into the bowl before switching the machine off. “Because I don’t want to wait a year to curl up with you and popcorn and watch cheesy Christmas-themed movies with you.” He nodded towards a bottle of white wine and two glasses on the counter, still chilled from the fridge, waiting for Rose to grab them before guiding her to the couch, which was already prepared for the evening.

Two soft, fleece-lined blankets stood at the ready, along with the pillows from his bed.  A stack of DVDs sat on the coffee table, two drink coasters optimally positioned, and to complete the Christmas-y vibe, all the decorations, including the tree, were still up.

“So, for future reference, do you typically leave the tree up this long?” she asked, plopping down roughly in the middle of the couch and pulling out the pre-popped cork.  “‘Cause I’ve gotta be honest, mine’s been down since the third, and this might be a sticking point in the future.”

He laughed, settling next to her and reaching for his glass.  “No, but… I’m not ready to take it down yet, this year.  I’m afraid…”

“What?”  She took her own glass, leaning back into the cushions and giving him her full attention.

“I’m afraid that this- what we have- is a function of Christmas magic, and if I remove the decorations…” he trailed off, ears flushing. “Point is, I’m not taking any chances on this.”

Rose grinned, blushing herself, and wiggled closer.  “I’m not going to disappear if you take your tree down,” she promised.  “And I’m mostly teasing you – it’s sort of nice, it still being up.  Not sure I’d say the same if I was living- with one still up,” she faltered, and they shared a smile at what was unsaid- “but… yeah. I wouldn’t want to jinx us either. I’ve been wanting this for so long.”

“Me too.”  He leaned forward, and they met in the middle in a kiss that tasted of salt from the popcorn, tart from the wine, and sweet from what she was learning was just him.  “Mhmm, you’re too tempting,” he accused without heat when he pulled back for breath.  “This isn’t why I asked you over.”

“All right, all right,” she resettled herself with a laugh.  “Fine, we can Netflix then Chill, if that’s what you really want.”

His ears and neck turned a delightful shade of scarlet, and he all but lunged for the stack of DVDs, voice squeaking as he said, “So!  What shall we start with?”

Leaning in again she rested her cheek against his shoulder as they shuffled through the selection, and it took everything she had not to scoff at the final option, managing a neutral tone to say, “A Muppet Family Christmas?”

James stilled beside her, and she was glad she hadn’t laughed when a distant expression flashed across his face. “It was my dad’s favorite Christmas movie,” he said, hesitantly.  “Mum hated it, but tolerated it when we were old enough to watch it.  It became our thing, me Donna and Dad’s.  She and I still watch it together every year.”

“Oh.”  Rose tried to marshal her thoughts, recognizing that he was letting her in on something special, wondering distantly if it was some sort of test.  “I’ve never actually seen it.”

“Really?”

She nodded.  “Slightly before my time.  I know who the Muppets are, of course, saw the Christmas Carol one, but… not this.”

He was silent for a moment, picking at the corner of the box.  “D’you wanna?”

“Yes.”  She surprised them both with the strength of her response, based on how James’ head flew up to blink at her.  “Sounds like this might be the closest I get to meeting your Dad, so- let’s do it.”

His blinding smile told her it was absolutely the right answer.

-

By the end of the movie they were snuggled together, singing along at the top of their lungs to the final song, even as it trailed off to the credits.

“-And a happy new year!” they finished, before breaking into peals of laughter.

“Oh, I loved it,” Rose proclaimed, wiping tears of merriment from her eyes.  “I can’t believe I’ve never seen that – it’s adorable!”

Beside her, James made a happy noise, pressing his face into her bicep.  “Really?”

Wriggling around, Rose waited until she could meet his eye to respond.  “Really,” she said firmly.  “There’s something special about it.  And more importantly, it’s special to you.  So it’s special to me.  Thank you for sharing this bit of yourself with me.”  No words could express how honored she felt, that he was comfortable sharing something so personal with her.  It made her a little wistful for her own father; while both men were gone, James had at least grown up with his father, known him in person- Rose had been a baby when Pete died.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”  James’ concerned tone dragged her out of the spiral of her thoughts, and she looked up at him when he brushed at her cheek.  “You’re crying.”

She bit her lip.  “I was just thinking about my own dad,” she said truthfully.  “I’d give anything to share something like this with him.  Or, anything, really.  I was six months when he- when we lost him.  I mean, on bank holidays Mum and I watch old Cliff Richards movies, but… it’s not quite the same as this.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to bring up a… a sad memory for you.”  His soulful chocolate eyes felt like they could see into her very heart, and she pushed down the ever-present but background grief.

“It’s okay.  Sometimes it hits me in the weirdest moments.  And I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet your Dad – he sounds wonderful, based on your stories.”  Then she bolted upright, as a memory surfaced.  “Holy shit – I think I did meet your dad!  Three Christmases ago, the first couple months you were coming in – we didn’t have much of a relationship then, but I still clocked you every time, ‘cause you’re so bloody cute, and I remember you came in a few days before Christmas with an older man!  You’d been out shopping, and blimey, he looked just like you!”

James was silent for a long moment, before exhaling.  “Blimey, I think you’re right.  I’d forgotten – I was sweet on your even then, and I think he noticed, ‘cause he kept teasing me.  I never took him back, for fear of him embarrassing me.  But… yeah, there you go.  You did meet him.  And he liked you, much as he could in thirty seconds.  Kept egging me to ask you out, and I brushed him off.  If only I’d listened to him…”

They sat with that, imaging what could have been, before Rose clapped her hands.  “No, we are not going down that rabbit hole.  Let’s be grateful that we got there, and we’re here now.  Trust me, I spent my entire life pretending not to notice how my mum had one foot stuck in the could-have-beens.  Better not to start down that path.”  She reached for the bottle of wine, but it was empty.  “What d’you say we go do some stargazing?”

“Or…” he drawled, raising an eyebrow, “we could continue on our childish theme and play Mario Kart.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

-

By the third race their maudlin musings had been all but forgotten, as they battled it out for first place with taunts and good-natured ribbing, giving no quarter and playing as though their lives depended on it – complete with over-dramatic victory dances and cheering.

“Oh, come on!” James protested, as Rose eked out a second win by a breath.  “You’re cheating!”

“Am not,” she denied, settling back on the couch after a final celebratory kick.  “Novice, remember?  Beginner’s luck?”

He grumbled, turning to look at her.  “Care to make it more interesting?”

“How so?”

“Winner takes a shot, loser loses an item of clothing?”

Rose laughed, shaking her head.  “You want to turn strip-racing into a drinking game?”  Leaning back, she considered her outfit and his, then the empty bottle of wine.  “What d’you got for shots?”

A rifle through the fridge produced a cold bottle of peppermint schnapps, “In keeping with the Christmas theme,” he declared, setting it on the coffee table along with two shot glasses.  “Hope you’re thirsty.”

Shaking her head, Rose folded her legs beneath her.  “You do know I’m a sure thing, right?” she teased, choosing the next track in the game.  “You don’t need to get me drunk, or strip to get me interested.”

“Someone’s confident in themself, aren’t they?” he leered. “Better watch out – who knows what the promise of getting you in your knickers will do to my ability in the game?”

“Not a thing,” she shot back, catching her tongue between her teeth.  “Because there’s no where you’re getting me in my knickers.”  She started the race, laughing at his outraged yelp.

“We’ll see.”

The light turned green and they took off, and Rose waited until they were near the end and he was slightly ahead to say, “I’d have to be wearing knickers for you to see me in them.”  As predicted he startled, going so far as to drop his controller, and with a laugh, she sped across the finish line for her third win in a row.  As her character (Princess Peach, natch) was crowned, she turned to watch him splutter, eyes wide.

Finally, he just pointed, making a wheezing sound.  “You…”

She took her shot first, nearly coughing at the overwhelming peppermint flavor, before turning her whole body to him.  “Strip, loser,” she ordered with a smirk.  “And, in case you don’t believe me…”  Brave off the half-bottle of wine and the shot, she lifted her leg to splay it along the back of the sofa, confirming for him that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath her skirt.  Laughing at the awestruck look on his face she returned to facing the telly, tucking her knees primly together.  “I held up my end of the bargain…”

Coming back to life, he shook his head in disgust.  “You’re not playing fair.”  He whipped his shirt off, revealing his lovely muscular chest, and her knees squeezed together just a bit tighter.

“Well, lose quicker then, so we can go to bed.”

-

He didn’t win a single race after that, but an hour later, flat on his back on his living room floor wearing only a single sock, with a sticky and sweaty Rose collapsed on his chest, he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“I love Christmas.”

[yannasunflower]

flux

on today’s episode of “yanna needs to stop writing new things and work on her wips”. i love this show and i wanted to write a lil something that’s been at the back of my mind for a while. always wanted to know what happened while Katara and Zuko waited to hear if they were able to win the war, or if their friends would survive or not. may keep this as a one-shot, may turn it into an actual fic with an Azula redemption arc and actual Zutara shenanigans and politics GALORE. who knows? enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

Katara is sure he’s dead. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life, to be precise. Azula’s aim is impeccable, Zuko has always been at least a little suicidal, and Katara is a waterbender who is absolutely useless against lightning. Tears are streaming down her face and she’s trying to convince her sputtering heart to keep beating even as she runs toward his prone body, so lifeless, so helpless on the cold, stone ground.

It is no place for a son of Agni.

She falls to her knees and doesn’t stop to listen for a heartbeat, just puts her hands to his chest and prays. The wound is gaping and raw and scorching. She tries to keep her memory from racing to another night on Appa’s back when she held the world’s future in her hands for the first time. Katara hiccups, not sure if she has felt fear like this since Aang took the same lightning bolt in Ba Sing Se. Lightning that put him in a coma for weeks, a wound that didn’t let her sleep for days at a time. 

Aang had been necessary to world peace but right now, looking down at Zuko’s pale, fine face, Katara knows in her gut that Zuko is just as instrumental to the future Aang saw, was willing to die, that they were all willing to die for. The comet is still streaking a path of fire through the sky and behind her, Azula is screaming like a wounded animal. 

Katara flutters her fingers, inhales, holds her breath, squeezes her eyes shut and tries to imagine the heart in Zuko’s chest, one that is red and bleeds just like hers would be if Zuko hadn’t been so damn noble, so honorable. The thought makes her flinch even while her hands stay steady.

And then she feels more than hears the first tremblings of a heart that’s alive. The heart beneath her stirs, beats, skips, and beats again, stronger and steadier with every passing second. She’s sobbing and thanking every spirit out loud she can think of: Agni, La, Tui, Yue, Agni again for saving his son.

Zuko’s body twitches, his fingers curling inward. Katara could jump for joy when his eyes open, still gold and bright. His voice is quiet and low but strong. 

“Thank you, Katara,” he rasps. 

Katara can’t stop herself from throwing her arms around his shoulders, sobbing freely now, unable to imagine a future where his heart had remained still forever. Was it only weeks ago she had wanted to throw him from a cliff?

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you,” she sniffles when she can finally let go of him, trying her best to give him a big, if somewhat watery, smile. Zuko smiles back, awkwardly like he does everything, and Katara resists the urge to hug him again. 

“Where’s - what happened to...Azula?” his words are halting. Katara helps him sit up, healer eyes careful to catch any wince. 

She jerks her head in Azula’s direction and watches as at first, understanding, then, an indescribable sadness passes over Zuko’s face. She helps him stand at his insistence and when he finally sees his little sister, chained and broken, tears streaming down her face even as she sends fire roaring into the red sky, Katara’s heart breaks. A single word is threaded in Azula’s cries, mama, and Katara’s breath hitches. She looks away, unable in that moment to see anything but a frightened girl she knows she cannot help. A war criminal, a killer, a teenager who was never meant to fight the way she did. 

Attendants are flooding the courtyard. Katara can see the understanding dawning on their faces, many of them scurrying in the direction of what she presumes are the Fire Sages who fled at the first sign of Zuko. She glances at him, sees the grim knowing in the set of his jaw.

“Find the Fire Sages. And someone sedate my sister.” Katara flinches. She does not envy the poor soul tasked with shutting a wild Azula up.

His voice rings through the courtyard, commanding, more powerful than he probably feels, sagging against Katara. She frowns up at him, guiding him to the stone steps and setting him down carefully, gently.

“I need to clean that wound and bandage it Zuko, now is not the time for state matters,” she admonishes, preparing herself to pull more water from the soaked ground. Zuko grits his teeth and she recognizes the way his eyes flash molten gold at her. Zuko is truly the most stubborn person she’s ever met, and she’s met Toph Bei Fong. 

“Scowl at me all you want, I’m cleaning that wound right this second, even if I have to tie you up to do it. Wouldn’t want your Fire Sages walking in on that I bet,” she growls. He shuts his mouth with a click and she gets to work, trying to be gentle, clenching her jaw at every hiss of pained breath Zuko lets out. With Zuko out of immediate danger, her mind wanders to Aang and Sokka and Toph and Suki. Spirits, her father and her tribe’s men. She wonders if Iroh and the White Lotus have recaptured Ba Sing Se, if they ever even had a chance in hell of it. 

Mostly, she tries not to imagine her father’s face if Sokka never comes back. 

“Do...do you think Aang is out there, fighting my father?”

The question is quiet, almost a whisper. Katara pauses to consider it. She manages to flash a smile she doesn’t fully feel at him. 

“Aang always comes through,” she answers. It is as honest one she can give. It seems to satisfy Zuko, who leans back on his palms as Katara rips the hem of her tunic and wraps it around his torso. 

“If,” Katara can’t finish the question. She looks away, at the damaged rooftops still burning, gnawing on her lip. Azula is still shooting blue fire and sobbing and really she knows there’s a comet but how much fire does Azula have? Zuko waits. “If Aang doesn’t defeat Ozai...what will happen to us?”

There is silence for a moment. Katara is afraid to look him in the eye, to even look at his face, so she keeps her gaze focused on wounding the bandage around his chest, tightly but not too much. She ties it off much more carefully than usual, trying to avoid the moment when she will have to look up.

“He’ll try to kill me,” Zuko finally says after a long pause. He can’t run from his homeland again. Her horrified eyes dart to his, mouth open with shock at the mere idea of a father murdering his son. A grin almost curls at the corner of his mouth. Zuko knows that Katara, for all her strengths and intelligence, for all the awful, inhuman things she had seen during the war, he knows that perhaps the one thing she and her brother cannot imagine is that. He realizes, a little abruptly, he has never told any of them how he got his scar.

It’s a story for another day, one bathed in sunlight, where his father’s shadow cannot reach him. He likes to think that day will come, that it exists in his murky future.

The Fire Sages arrive, immediately falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the ground, still wet from Katara’s water. She glares at them balefully, disgusted by their spineless cowering and simpering. 

“Prince Zuko,” one whimpers, voice somewhat muffled by the floor. “The Fire Sages welcome your return as the rightful heir to the throne.”

Zuko says nothing. She can’t read his eyes or his face, smooth and imperturbable. With a pang, Katara sees the Fire Lord he could become. She is sorely tempted to tell the cowards to scramble in language she has picked up from travelling some of the coarser parts of the world. But this is not her nation, not her palace, and it is not her crown at risk.

“Sit up,” Zuko orders. He speaks with a new authority, one he never uses when talking to her. She blinks a little. It is hard to keep up with Zuko’s faces and sides at times. “Preparations for my coronation will begin immediately. You will declare me Fire Lord in the next hour. We can have a more formal ceremony at a later date.”

Whatever objections the Sage had been about to sputter died on his lips with one hiss from Katara and a little help from the water rapidly freezing around his wrists. Swallowing, hard, he rises to his feet, as well as his companion, who pulls a familiar object from his robes. 

“An honor, my lord,” this one rumbles and he meets Zuko’s eyes with a little more defiance than the first. Zuko holds his gaze. The air warms by at least a few degrees. While not versed in Fire Nation politics, Katara is somewhat sure the proper address should have been your highness. By the narrow slit of Zuko’s molten eyes, the slight had not passed unnoticed. She shivers. Katara resists the urge to throw the Sage into the ocean, to make him and his hard, dark eyes disappear. He is a viper in a snake’s nest, at home in a court that Zuko has not truly belonged to for years. The hairs at the back of her neck prickle. 

The ceremony is brief and to the point. Katara is beginning to scan the sky for a messenger hawk or some other sign that her brother and their friends are alive. The comet is fading away into the darkening sky. Every moment that passes is painful, agony really. Zuko stands up, shoulders squared and straight, crown gleaming in his black hair. Katara forces a smile, swallowing bile, taking his arm and walking with him to a chamber just a little ways down the hall. When the door closes after a bowing servant, she presses a careful finger to the wound, relieved to find it still closed and not-bleeding. 

Her body sags without permission. She is tired, deep in her bones and blood, with a world to rebuild in front of her. Zuko doesn’t look any better off, the dark circles under his eyes difficult to miss. He plucks the crown from his hair, letting it fall loose around his face once more. Katara brushes an errant strand from his cheek, gently, and she marvels at how Zuko no longer flinches from her touch. When had he begun to look at her with trust in those eyes? When did he stop wincing at every movement she made?

He leans into her touch, just a little, and she allows her fingertips to graze his cheek, enjoying the way his eyes fall shut seemingly without permission. There was a time when Zuko had found it difficult to sleep around her, and there was a time when Katara had stood guard outside his door, stiffening at every noise while he slept. Now, his eyes remain shut and it doesn’t take Toph’s hearing to know his breathing has slowed. 

They don’t move for what feels like days. When he stirs, Katara startles just a little, averting her gaze quickly, praying Zuko hadn’t caught her tracing the thick black (how unfair) eyelashes that fluttered against his cheekbones (too fine, too angled, the bastard even had good bone structure) with her eyes. She stands, wringing her hands, feeling the last of the water in her skin swirling restlessly. 

Katara orders tea and watches with no small amount of amazement as Zuko pours it gracefully. She had nearly forgotten his time working a menial tea shop job in Ba Sing Se. Somehow, the sight of an injured Fire Lord Zuko skillfully pouring her steaming tea is both humorous and disconcerting. 

“We should have heard by now,” she frets as the sky still darkens and time still passes with no word from any of their allies. Outside, she knows the palace is in disarray and the nobles are probably wondering if it is safe to come out yet, but Zuko is in no condition to appear before them as their new Fire Lord, he looks exhausted, La she wishes she could let him sleep. But the world is on fire and Katara is drinking tea mostly to preserve her sanity at this point, so damn the nobles and damn the politics. 

The waiting is almost worse than the fighting. After a few comfortable minutes spent in silence, Katara’s worrying breaks it again.

Zuko flashes her a familiar, exasperated scowl. 

“Stop fidgeting, for Agni’s sake,” he sighs. His tired, overly-patient tone is familiar. Afternoons watching him and Aang work through firebending forms flood her mind. She grins sheepishly. “If Ozai had defeated Aang, we would know by now. That’s not something he would keep to himself for longer than necessary.”

The words soothe her, but only slightly. Because by defeated he meant killed and the thought of Aang’s small, broken body is too much for her to bear. 

“Katara.” Zuko hesitates, and she waits, because they always know when more is coming, they always know when to wait for the other. 

“Thank you, for healing me,” he says and she can’t help but laugh at the genuine, earnest way he looks at her from under those unfair lashes. It’s a boyish expression in a face that long ago lost its roundness.  

“You already said that,” she dismisses him. “And I told you, I’m the one who should thank you. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you. You almost threatened the future of the world to save me.”

Zuko looks slightly confused. 

“You are the future,” he says and damn him he’s done it again. Her heart is sputtering, blood rushing to her cheeks and she briefly considers trying to bloodbend the blush away. Because Zuko’s face, no longer boy-round, permanently scarred by the cruelty of his father, is so damned honest and grateful and la, she is trying hard not to wonder what would happen if she leans forward, just a little.

Zuko’s eyes are more than gold, she finds, especially in firelight, and is this what Agni’s eyes would look like she tries not to wonder, tries not to see that she has leaned closer, unwittingly, or maybe not, her thoughts a jumbled tangle of heat and fear and spirits there’s still a war going on. But she can’t help but notice that Zuko isn’t moving away, is just watching her face in a way that sets her bones on fire and spirits, she wants to touch his cheek again - 

A rapid, soft knock on the door makes her gasp. She throws her body away from him in a ridiculously dramatic motion. It’s only a servant, asking if her new Fire Lord would like food, bowing all the while. Katara takes that moment to straighten herself, gulping in steadying breaths and pushing the stolen moment far, far from the front of her mind.

“Have any messages come for me?” Zuko asks and the servant girl shakes her head. Katara’s heart sinks and from Zuko’s thin mouth, fear is beginning to settle into his bones, too. 

It only takes a few moments of awkward silence after the servant leaves for Katara to start fidgeting again. She has just about made up her mind to take Appa to where the Fire Nation’s fleet had planned to raze the Earth Kingdom to the ground when a servant enters, bowing low at the waist, a sealed message in her hand. 

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but a messenger hawk has just arrived from Ba Sing Se.”

Zuko grabs the message hungrily, breaking it open and scanning the words before the girl has straightened from her bow. He sighs, deeply, and Katara reads it over his shoulder, nearly bursting into tears again with relief. 

“They recaptured Ba Sing Se,” she whispers. Her hand grasps Zuko’s shoulder and he reaches a hand up to clasp it silently. For a moment, the world straightens. 

“Please bring any other messages directly to me,” Zuko says. The girl can’t quite stop herself from blinking rapidly before bowing low again and retreating, red definitely crawling up her neck. Zuko looks confused and Katara nearly laughs. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she doesn’t think Fire Lords often say please when addressing servants. 

A distant scream sends Katara scrambling for her waterskin and Zuko trying to jump to his feet, failing miserably and crying out as he slumps back. 

“Stay put,” Katara orders him, forgetting for a moment the crown on Zuko’s head. She runs out before she can think too hard about it, her legs taking her to the courtyard, water already rising from the stones, fire burning in her veins because Zuko bled for this palace, these people, before a familiar wolf tail registers in her heart. 

“Sokka!” She definitely screams it a little, nearly falls at least twice as she rushes forward and throws herself into his arms, his healthy, alive arms. He’s on crutches and his leg is bent strangely but she doesn’t care because he’s alive and holding her tight and trembling against her. Suki grunts a little, bearing the brunt of his weight, but makes no complaints, smiling too broadly to feign irritation. 

Aang is standing next to him when she finally pulls back, a tired smile on his young face. 

“Hey Katara,” he says and he sounds his age for once but she doesn’t care because La, he’s alive and so is Toph and Suki and she’s going to cry again. She’s not sure who is hugging who but it doesn’t matter because all of her friends are breathing and here. 

“Where’s Sparky?” Toph asks when they all manage to disentangle themselves. Katara’s eyes widen and she gasps. 

She turns on her heel to find a very injured Zuko hobbling down the steps. 

She runs to him, throwing his arm over her shoulder and shooting him an apologetic grin. 

“Agni, did you think you could face Ozai alone?” he wheezes and she laughs because he is alive, too, and he took lightning for her, and everyone she loves may have just made it out of this war. 

The group rushes forward, murmuring sympathies, arms reaching out to embrace Zuko, and they fall into another tangled hug, tears streaming down faces, Sokka complaining about his leg, Toph grumbling about sappiness even as she slings to Katara like she’ll never let go. Katara looks at Aang and his grey eyes are still alight with something that is all him, all Aang the airbender, and he smiles at her the way a child who has not been ravaged by war would. 

Questions and answers will come later, as will healing and scars and hard work and negotiations. In the light of the lanterns and the moon and the small spots of fire the servants have not yet put out though, Katara clings to her family and begins to realize that the war that killed her mother is over. The war that took her father, took Aang’s people and Zuko’s innocence, took Azula’s soul. It is over. 

She is alive, they all are, and they are breathing in a new life, a future. Together.

[sparklecryptid]

cant believe im taking a named npc and going 'hmmm yes im going to diagnosis you with too much love for people it borders on obsessive' and a complete disregard for your own life. to top it off you also have dont think anyone could actually love you! have fun fengyan <3

[scotianostra]

Clifford Leonard Clark “Cliff” Hanley was born on October 28th 1922 in Glasgow.

Hanley was a journalist, novelist, playwright and broadcaster from Shettleston in the city’s East End, he was educated at Eastbank Academy.

His journalistic career began with a life of crime - reporting from the city courts for a local news agency. By the time he had graduated to the Daily Record, it was clear that he had an astonishingly versatile range. In particular, he loved the then hectic world of Glasgow show-business, reporting on the raft of theatres which still survived in the city in the 1960s.

On that scene Hanley was always more than a commentator and reviewer, his membership of Equity testifying to his skills on the speaking circuit, and to his talent as a lyricist. With the musician Ian Gourlay, he wrote some marvellously witty parodies of Scottish folk songs, substituting institutions like the Glasgow underground for Granny’s Hielan’ Hame.

Hanley’s hallmark was that brand of self-deprecating, but sharp, humour which ensures that no Glaswegian can entertain ideas above his station in the company of a fellow citizen.

Cliff Hanley’s childhood in Glasgow’s East End provided the material for his most celebrated novel, Dancing In The Street, a semi-autobiographical work which was much acclaimed on publication in the late 1950s. It is still considered one of the most engaging books about Glasgow, the grittier experiences always leavened and laced with Hanley’s irrepressible humour. Several other novels quickly followed to a similarly warm reception.

I know some of you will still be struggling to recall Hanley’s work, but he wrote the lyric for one of the most famous Scottish songs ever, putting the words to well known bagpipe tunes that we know as “Traditional” Hanley gave us the words to Scotland the Brave, which emerged as the de facto national anthem. It remained so for two decades before being supplanted by Flower Of Scotland, I still remember football matches where they played the tune at International matches as our national team anthem.

Of course, Cliff’s tongue-in-cheek verses were never designed for mass singing, as was evidenced by the confused expressions on the faces of the national soccer team when they struggled to get their bagpipes, heather and glens in the right order. But played at full tilt by a pipe band, the anthem struck the appropriate note of terror into the opposition.

For a while Hanley also worked in radio, but although he continued as a regular contributor, his career as a presenter was relatively short lived. In 1970, he was hired to work on Good Morning, Scotland, the flagship morning news programme, but fell foul of the accent police - at that time received pronunciation was still considered desirable. Thank god we still don’t adhere to the old rules, we would never have the likes of Lorraine Kelly, Dougie Henshall and Ken Stott using their own god given accents on TV.

Hark when the night is falling Hear! Hear the pipes are calling, Loudly and proudly calling, Down thro' the glen. There where the hills are sleeping, Now feel the blood a-leaping, High as the spirits of the old Highland men. Towering in gallant fame, Scotland my mountain hame, High may your proud standards gloriously wave, Land of my high endeavour, Land of the shining river, Land of my heart for ever, Scotland the brave. High in the misty Highlands, Out by the purple islands, Brave are the hearts that beat Beneath Scottish skies. Wild are the winds to meet you, Staunch are the friends that greet you, Kind as the love that shines from fair maiden's eyes. Towering in gallant fame, Scotland my mountain hame, High may your proud standards gloriously wave, Land of my high endeavour, Land of the shining river, Land of my heart for ever, Scotland the brave. Far off in sunlit places, Sad are the Scottish faces, Yearning to feel the kiss Of sweet Scottish rain. Where tropic skies are beaming, Love sets the heart a-dreaming, Longing and dreaming for the homeland again. Towering in gallant fame, Scotland my mountain hame, High may your proud standards gloriously wave, Land of my high endeavour, Land of the shining river, Land of my heart for ever, Scotland the brave.

[galadrieljones]

That he may hold me by the hand - Chapter 14

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes and Situations, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 14: My love.

It took a moment, in the saloon, like the clenching of a fist. The pianist switched songs, to something slower and darker. Albert shook Dutch's hand.

“I assume that, based on your acute sense of surprise, you have heard of me," said Dutch.

“Yes, I know who you are,” said Albert.

Dutch studied his knuckles. “I am surprised to find you alone,” he said, “without Arthur.”     

Albert placed his hands in his pockets under the table. He raised his chin but continued to look down at the filigree of the place mat beneath his newspaper. “He’s not here,” he said. “He was out, on a job. He hasn’t yet returned.”

“That’s right,” said Dutch, nodding, admiring the end of his cigar. The smoke filled the air between them. “The Rhodes bounty. How did it go?”

Albert didn’t answer. He just stared, waiting.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Albert.

"I just thought that, given the opportunity, I should meet you,” said Dutch. “I wanted to meet the man who has…somehow convinced my partner to leave his life, everyone and everything he knows, behind. Many have tried in the past, and failed. It is truly magnificent.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Albert, “I gave him every out. He did not take much convincing.”

This struck a nerve. Dutch’s eyes got dark. “How much has he told you?” he said. “About me?”

“Some,” said Albert. “Mostly good things.”

This seemed to confuse him. “Good things?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “He told me how you saved his life in Jackson when he was a teenager, how you helped him and gave him a second chance. He told me you were like a father to him for a long time. He told me that he thought you had lost your purpose in recent years, something that worries him, but that he relates to. He told me that you would be okay, as long as you have your partner, Hosea, by your side. He also told me that you would try to find us, and that you would succeed if we were not careful. I have to ask, how long have you been keeping tabs?”

Dutch was leaning now, way over the table, his face at less than a foot of distance. He looked intrigued. His voice was quiet. “I have not been keeping tabs on you,” he said.

“How did you know I would be here.”

“I didn’t,” said Dutch. “I followed John, out of Rhodes. He led me here. He is not as smart as Arthur. Never was. I know that Arthur is at Shady Belle. Or, that is where I assume he has gone, to see Mary Beth, or to pick up his belongings.”

Albert blinked rapidly. He tried to calculate the best way to proceed. “If you knew Arthur was at Shady Belle, and you wanted to see Arthur, you should have gone to Shady Belle. As it stands, you followed John.”

“As it stands.”

”Your use of subterfuge is advanced, Dutch,” said Albert, “but I’m well-versed in the verbal acrobatics of sociopaths. I come from money.”

Dutch took a deep breath and smiled. "Pretty goddam bold, Mr. Mason."

“I’ll pay you off,” Albert continued, adjusting his sleeves. “Arthur wouldn’t like it, but if that’s why you’re here, for my money, just say so. I have little use for it. Perhaps I should have just started there.”

“I know all about your money,” said Dutch. “I know all about you, now that I’ve met you. You need not say anymore. I would wager you are from the eastern coast. Philadelphia, or New York.”

“That’s correct.”

“Modest wealth,” continued Dutch. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, holding his cigar in the air. “You’re not a Rockafeller, but it’s always been silver spoons in your mouth, hasn’t it now?”

“More or less,” said Albert.

“I don’t want your money, son. The only thing I want,” said Dutch, running a hand over his hair, “is to understand what you want with Arthur.”

“What do you mean.”

“I mean, he’s an outlaw.” He placed his hands back on the table, forcefully. It shook beneath the impact. “He’s got a price on his head in two states, Mr. Mason. The federal government is willing to pay for his apprehension, dead or alive. He’s dangerous. Isn’t that what your people would think?”

“I’m not sure,” said Albert. “Most of my people are unaware that men like Arthur even exist.”

“How did you become aware of men like Arthur?”

“I met him, randomly, one day in West Elizabeth. He helped me on a project for many months. You can see the fruits of our labor in the St. Denis Art Gallery, if you are so inclined.”

“I understand that,” said Dutch. “The two of you became friends?”

“That’s right.”

Dutch studied him. “You must be pretty close, if he’s leaving the gang for you. Getting on a train with you, going west.”

“We are very close friends,” said Albert.

“The kind of friends who…see the night through with one another? Who welcome the morning light from the comfort of one another’s arms?”

It was a strange way of putting things, almost pretty, thought Albert. He knew enough about Dutch not to lie. “Yes,” he said. “In a most poetic sense, yes. That is true.”

“Arthur’s done well for himself then.”

”Whatever you say.”

”Why so coy, Mr. Mason.”

“Because I don’t trust you,” said Albert.

“Smart man. I can understand what Arthur sees in you. You're more assertive than you look."

“You don’t have to act this way," said Albert. "You can just approach men, normally, and have conversations, even awkward ones, without attempting to intimidate, or manipulate them into saying something unwise, which you’ll then use against them later.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Albert. He folded his hands on the table. “You may talk with an affect that rings of the prairie, but your methods of persuasion remind me of the eastern coast.”

“I’m from Philadelphia,” said Dutch, squaring up with him unexpectedly.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Dutch, almost like he was proving a point. “A lucrative dairy farm, outside the city line. My mother came from some money, but not like yours. My father was in the Army of the Potomac. He fought and died in Gettysburg when I was a boy. After I came of age, I left that place. I have never returned.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Albert.

"Thank you.”

“My father is also dead, though he died on no such heroic terms. Still, he was a good man.” He wiped his forehead again with his handkerchief. Then he tucked it neatly into his pocket. “I just want you to know that this is not about you, Dutch.”

“What is not about me.”

“Arthur leaving. I think you care about Arthur, and that is ultimately why you are here. You need to make sure, on no uncertain terms, that he is not making the mistake that you are sure he must be making. But please realize that he is not trying to hurt you, and I am not trying to hurt him.” Albert looked away. He was not ashamed, but he didn’t know how to say it, what he needed to say. He was never lost for words. He told the truth.

“You love him,” said Dutch.

Albert took a deep breath. He said nothing.

“As do I.”

"Fine,” said Albert. “But you should know that he came to me, after he was tortured by one of your enemies. He was injured and alone, and he needed to be cared for. Why is that? You’re supposed to be his family, aren’t you?”

“We cared for him,” said Dutch. “His life was saved. I cared.”

“You may think that,” said Albert. “And I know there are people in your gang who care deeply for Arthur. I’ve met them, but in my detailed observation, and based on the information I’ve been given and have gleaned for myself, those people are not you.”

“Do not presume to know anything about me, boy,” said Dutch, growing cold with suspicion. He brought his face in so close now, Albert could smell his cologne. It was expensive. This surprised Albert, though it made sense, now that he knew more about him. “Do not presume to know anything about me, or my relationship to Arthur."

"I apologize."

"I’ve known Arthur for twenty-two years," Dutch went on. "How long have you known him, Mr. Mason? Five months? Maybe six? You are but an infant in the grand, roaming scheme of our lewd and licentious lives. You abide your privileges, your tasteful living of the upper crust, achievement without struggle. You lust freely in and out of the filth that lurks beneath your immaculacy, for kicks, taking what you desire, and leaving the rest to decay.” He scooped his hand through the air between them, abruptly, snatching an imaginary prize. Then, he proceeded to point. “Arthur is not your pet, or your project. He has struggled his whole life simply to survive, dear boy, and I have been there, every step of the way since he was barely more than a child. Do not tell me whether or not I care.”

“With respect to my relationship with Arthur, I have undertaken no such actions, and certainly never for kicks."

“Arthur will say anything to defy me," said Dutch, ignoring him. "He is full of drama for this life, and he always has been, even as he has managed to excel. You know so little.”

Albert cleared his throat. He realized it was a mistake, as it sounded like he was trying to interrupt, but he didn't care. “I saw what happened to him,” he said. “A close-range gunshot wound in his shoulder. He had to remove the bullet and cauterize the wound himself, which left so much scar tissue, it still hurts him sometimes. He had so many broken ribs, it took him weeks to be able to ride a horse again without significant pain. Did you know that?"

Dutch said nothing.

“I am not trying to—he is not a project,” said Albert, trying to understand Dutch's point of view, even as the night was getting long, and he was angry. “I can see how you might think that, but that is not what this is. And I may not be familiar with your way of life, but I know enough. Prove as you may that I was not a part of Arthur’s tragic teenage landscape, or that I am a product of privileged, societal hubris—a fact of which I’ll not argue, mind you—I know Arthur very well, as a man. He tried to hide it from me, what happened to him, as he hides so much. It took him a long time to open up, and he is still opening up. More every day. All of this is to say that Arthur is anything but dramatic. He never complains, nor does he exaggerate his ills. You claim to know him so well, and yet, it seems that every time you try to describe him, you are simply describing yourself.”

Dutch was staring now, his mouth hanging open, as if he aimed to catch flies. He looked nonplussed, having been done an egregious wrong. “What did you say?”

“I took care of him,” said Albert, “when he came to me that night. I will continue to take care of him, always. I will do it because I love him. But more than anything, at the end of the day, I just want him to be safe, unhurt, and while I believe that you may, in your way, love him, too, Dutch, I am not sure that you can say the same of the latter.”

Dutch changed then. He became dreamy and disconnected. You could hear the sounds of the piano and the dancing girls, almost distant. “You are right,” said Dutch.

It was a strange thing.

“What?”

Then, Albert watched as Dutch was dragged from the booth and tossed, violently, unsuspecting, to the flat of his back on the floor. Albert stood as soon as it happened. It was Arthur. He must have snuck in, snuck past them both, somehow, without being seen.

“What are you doing?” Arthur said to Dutch, shaking his head, with his hand on his gun. He didn't address Albert yet, not at first. He seemed too incredulous. “Dutch, what are you doing?”

Dutch looked up at him. Seemingly confused as to how he had gotten there, he held his hands up, in surrender. “We was just. Talking.”

“Just talking?” said Arthur. He glanced at Albert now, assessed his physical person, then back to Dutch. He seemed profoundly disappointed, verging on a kind of concentrated, past-protocol anger that Albert had not really witnessed before. “What else would you be doing?”

“You think I’d hurt your gentleman friend here?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “You’ve hurt a lot of other innocent people in these final months of our reign together. Why the hell are you here, Dutch?"

Dutch hauled himself off the floor, proceeded to dust off his pants in a gentlemanly fashion. He looked at Albert, and then he looked at Arthur. He said, "I came to see you."

Arthur took a deep, harsh breath in through his nose. He closed his eyes momentarily, as if gathering his will power. “Did you follow John?” he said.

Dutch sighed. “You know he can’t cover a trail to save his life.”

“Well I guess I shall keep holding out hope then.”

"Hosea told me you was leaving," said Dutch. He put his hat back on his head, still visibly shaken from having been tossed to the floor. "He let slip that he had seen you at a photography exhibit in St. Denis. All I had to do was ride into town, walk by the art gallery, and I had a name. The bartender pointed out Albert to me. With very little convincing, might I add. I believe he's inebriated. You ought to beat the breath from his lungs."

“I ain't gonna do that," said Arthur. "I ain't like you."

“I came to beg you stay, son,” said Dutch. "That's all."

“Why?" said Arthur. "Why on earth would you beg me to stay? You ain't shown me nothing but contempt since we fled Blackwater. You don't trust me, Dutch, and I don't trust you. Not no more. So just be rid of me. Let me go."

"How can I do that?"

"You just do it," said Arthur. "That's all. But I'll tell you what you don't do. You don't come here and threaten him. You threaten him again, that’ll mark the end of my composure, and there ain’t gonna be no glory in it for you, Dutch. No glory. Do you understand?”

“I did not. Threaten him.”

“You was raising your voice to him,” said Arthur. “You put your face pretty goddam close to his face. What am I supposed to think? Where I come from, that’s a fighting distance.”

“Where you come from?” said Dutch. He looked around, as if being met with an audience. The saloon did not notice them anymore, not really. There had been some attention paid, initially, when Arthur had put him to the floor, but that sort of thing was part and parcel in the saloon after midnight, even in St. Denis. “It seems to me you have forgotten where you come from, Arthur. Leaving, going back west, without us? Without me? We was partners. Partners. For twenty-two years. How can you do that, to us? How can you forget, after all we been through.”

“I ain’t forgotten.”

“All this…struggle. We was a family.”

“I will never forget,” Arthur corrected him. “Don’t you make that misunderstanding. I will always be grateful for what you gave to me. I’m just gonna make the most of it now. That’s all this is. It ain’t about you, Dutch. It’s about me this time. Me. That’s why I was leaving without saying goodbye. I knew you would not understand. I had hoped that Hosea would be able to convince you to see reason, but I can see now, with you here, trying god knows what with the person I love—that was foolish.”

“Arthur, please.”

Arthur turned toward Albert, ignoring Dutch, and his pleadings. He was looking at the floor, striving for calm. Albert could see it in his eyes, in his fists, clenched tightly by his sides, one of them lingering very close to the volcanic in his belt. In a plea to bring him back to stasis, Albert clasped his hand to Arthur's shoulder and shook him, just a little. Arthur looked right at him then, and Albert said, "It's okay, dear friend."

"You don't know him."

"I know," said Albert. "I know."

Dutch had backed away, a couple steps. He still had his hands up.

"You gotta go, Dutch," said Arthur, wincing like he was in pain. "I am finished. Tonight, more than ever."

"Arthur—"

"If you follow us," said Arthur, "or try to find us, at any point in the future, I swear to the holy that I will not hesitate to end your life. Now, go."

Dutch looked upon him as if teetering on the edge of a high cliff. Albert did not know what was going to happen. He did not know. But even as the room was still filled with voices and bravado, nobody cared. Nobody looked to see. The bartender had put on the gramophone while the pianist smoked a cigarette and laughed with a women in a smoky corner. The gramophone was playing something obscenely French. Josie, the saloon girl, came back around again, looking for orders. She stopped just before the stand-off, uneasy. She had long, dark hair that fell in a soft braid over her shoulder. She was very young and beautiful, probably only nineteen or twenty years old. She looked at Albert. She said, "Is everything okay?"

Albert nodded. She looked at Arthur. "Hey, Mr. Morgan," she said. "You look like you need a drink. Whiskey? You want water?"

Arthur realized then that he had become more familial with the saloon girls of St. Denis than he had with anyone from his former life. It snapped the moment in half, like a bone. He said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be back." She touched his wrist, didn't go yet. She glanced to Dutch, but she sensed something now and stayed quiet. She didn't yield to him, like she had before.

Dutch cracked his knuckles, looked at her, sadly, his eyes as shell casings. He looked at Arthur, too. "I have lost you," he said, almost like he was talking to himself.

Nobody said anything else after that. Or maybe somebody was talking, but it was all static. Dutch reached into his pocket. He tossed a handful of coins onto the table. He staggered to the bar, where he stood for a moment, alone, with his head down, leaning on the counter. Arthur looked at Albert for just a moment, and when he looked back, Dutch was gone.

"Albert," said Arthur.

"Everything's fine," said Albert, after a moment. "He surprised the hell out of me, got in my face a little bit, but he tried nothing."

Arthur was silent, filled with regret for having separated from John, for having left the opportunity open at all. He wished away the fears that overtook him that night. "Okay," he said.

"Who was that man?" said Josie. "He looked so familiar. I think I seen him in the paper."

Arthur thanked her, and he tipped her generously, even as he cancelled his whiskey order.

The altercation had been bitter and upsetting. He and Albert went upstairs to where they could finally be alone. Arthur sat down on the purple sofa in the light of the Chinese lanterns, looking up at them, like they were gods. They knew all. They had seen all.

"You're sure you're okay," said Arthur.

"I'm sure," said Albert. "Did you find Mary Beth? Back at Shady Belle?"

"I did," said Arthur, holding his hat in his hands. "She is set to go."

"Where will she go?"

"North," said Arthur. "She wants to go to Wisconsin. Supposed to be nice up there, real free. I told her to write me when she was safe."

"Good," said Albert. "That's very good."

"Al, I'm so sorry," said Arthur. "I should've come back. I shouldn't've gone to Shady Belle without telling you first."

"I wish you would have," said Albert. "But it's all right, I understand. I wasn't afraid of Dutch. Not really. I see how he could be extremely dangerous, but tonight he seemed...disorganized. Unhinged. I almost felt sorry for him. I was more worried he had done something to you, to be honest, and that that's why he was here."

Arthur smiled with a slight abandon, put his hand on Albert's knee. "You've come a long way, Mr. Mason."

"Have I?"

"First time I met you, you nearly fainted at the sight of a coyote," said Arthur. "I have saved you from alligators, O'Driscolls, wolves, ledges. Tonight, you looked the goddam devil in the eye. You weren't even scared. You sure you still need me around?"

Albert kissed him, softly. He lit a cigarette, his eyes tired, glazed. "You know that I love you," he said.

"Of course."

"You know that I love you," said Albert. "That I know your past, and that I accept it. That I'm not afraid of it, nor do I want to change who you are. You know that my only motive for being with you is just this, love."

"Where's all this coming from?" said Arthur. He held his arm along the back of the sofa.

"Nowhere," said Albert, happy. "I just wanted to make sure you knew. And of course I need you. I may have faced Dutch like a man, but I couldn't take him, not in a million years. Don't be silly."

Arthur laughed, kissed him in the dim light. It was very late. "You have eased my strife, Mr. Mason. We can talk more about it in the morning."

"Do you believe he'll stay away?" said Albert.

"I do. For now."

"All right."

It would be their last night in St. Denis.

[gothamincarnate]

mandalorian joint verse w/ @nighttknight

– he’d been a scrapper before– or, a scrapper-in-training under ma-gunn’s heavy hand. a life of brutality where abuse was mitigated by how much scrap metal he’d managed to pull off a tourist.

then he’d picked the wrong target. a manda-fuckin-lorian’s ship. after a chase, a burned arm and an angry negotiation pidgened together out of tusken raider sign language and GB sign language, robin finally agreed to repair the ship in return for the mandalorian teaching him GB sign.

a foundling, the bat had called him. according to tradition, the mandalorian with the bat signet offered him a place crewing the very ship he’d gutted. he was a member of the bat clan now, like it or not. he was a child in need, and now he’s got a– a dad? this was the way. and, well, robin had no reason to turn down free food and shelter. learning to fight was pretty fun too. he’s damn good with a pulse rifle.

robin took the creed and passed the trials at 16, donning a yellow cloak and a green-and-red helmet with bat ears. the helmet has an external mic and an internal relay to bat’s helmet. the relay helps him hear what bat’s saying, while the mic lets him hear others. he has trouble hearing what others are saying, as the external speakers are often muffled by wind or damaged by sand or snow. he knows northwestern and southern mandalorian sign, GBS & TRS. he uses a pad and written galactic basic to communicate when bat’s not around to translate back and forth.

he was a mandalorian now, and he was a member of the bat clan. they lived by their own code, still following the way while helping as they wandered through the war torn galaxy. helping where they could, in whatever way they could.

 it was supposed to be easy, just a distress call from another mandalorian. then the dynamic duo realized it was a setup. that was nothing new. robin knew how to handle setups, how to take on uneven numbers. they’d been doing this for years.

but this was a trap set by death watch, led by a strange fellow with a red gash painted across his helmet in blood. he talked with his hands near enough to be it’s own sign language.

things went south fast. the cantana was under siege. bat was down, they were about to finish him off, then robin offered himself as a hostage, saving the lives of a dozen others with his own. to save his father. it was a noble death. it would be a noble death.

there’s a blade to his neck as napier and three others drag him across the sand. bat’s right behind, but it’s no good. robin’s already given himself as a hostage. he’s made peace with it.

then there’s a tug at his jaw, the helmet’s ripped off before he can stop it. it feels like his brain’s being pulled out through his ears as the wires yank out of his ear canal. sunlight singes his eyelids. wind in his hair feels cold like death’s hand soothing him.

he blinks, stumbling in the sudden light. there’s a ravine right next to them and he nearly stumbles in, catching himself on the side of the cliff. he’s exposed, had his helmet taken off by an enemy.

napier laughs, tosses the helmet over the side of the ravine. it falls into the darkness and robin pulls himself out of the pit, rolling away from the maw.

then napier’s foot meets his face. robin grabs his ankle in his right hand, scrambling for a hold on the rocky ground with his left. he rolls himself out of death’s door, kicking napier to the ground and passing the guard like he’s been taught.

it’s bloody and terrible, rolling in the dust in a struggle for the death. robin’s instincts take over, it’s not an honorable fight at all. but robin managed to pull napier’s helmet off too, laughing as he flings it into the maw alongside his own. napier’s nose is broken, blood dripping down a wide and wild grin to match the one painted on his helmet. he’s got a blade and robins’ got– well, robin’s got both hands and a fire in his chest and that’s got to count for something.

napier pauses the attack and robin struggles to his feet. they’re both blinking blood away as bat appears on the sand dune. he’s saying something, it’s too bright to see in the desert sun. but he knows what it is– his dad wants him to stop, but he can’t. it’s to the death.

robin takes a second’s pause to smile at his dad, busted teeth and all. taps a fist to his forehead and holds it up in the air. i love you.

napier takes the hesitation to end the fight. he grabs robin’s cape and leaps over the edge. they’re falling, falling, falling. robin screams, grabs for rocks, clawing at ledges as his shoulders pop. napier fights him the whole way down, kicking and punching even as they’re both about to die.

seconds before they land, robin managed to switch their positions, using the madman as a cushion. it’s how he survives, if only barely. the bones crunching beneath his feet are incredibly satisfying after the beating he’s just been dealt at the man’s hands.

robin looks up at the sliver of lavender sky. it’s already dark. there’s a light beam, his dad’s looking for him. but he’s looking in the wrong end, didn’t realize that napier had changed their trajectory. he calls– isn’t sure if his father responds or not. he calls and calls until his voice is hoarse.

he stays put for as long as he can, letting himself heal and giving bat time to find him. the moons go through a full cycle before he’s well enough to climb out, surviving on what he could catch and what supplies napier had loaded himself up with.

speaking of, his own armor’s been stripped, and napier’s got some very nice quality beskar.

then he has to move, has to find food and shelter that’s not this damned canyon. he pulls his own helmet back on, pops his left shoulder back in place. he ties napier’s helmet and extra rations around his waist as he begins to climb.

it takes him a full day to get out of the maw, and by then bat’s gone. of course he’s gone, robin had been defeated in battle, left faceless, left for dead. he’d died an honorable death, hopefully. bat had seen it, right? had seen that he’d died a warrior’s death? or did he see the fear in robin’s eyes, the panic, the– weakness.

the boy sits and stares at the maw for a while, watching sunrise and eventually sunset. bat still isn’t here. napier’s painted on grin seems to move as the shadows shorten and lengthen. robin’s own helmet is cracked, a giant hole knocked into the left side. no use wearing a broken helmet. so, he slips napier’s face over his skull.

he heads for the ship. heads for home. as soon as he’s in range, the defense systems kick on. he’s in such a panic, he doesn’t even think about the fact that he’s wearing other’s armor.

of course the defense systems try to kill him. robin’s been abandoned again. he doesn’t bother waiting for bat to see what’s setting off the alarms and the turrets.

he’ll just play napier for a while, take his pucks and make his own way. he’ll be a clan of one, wearing a dead man’s clothes. he’ll grow into the armor after a few years.

after two years as napier, jason runs back into death watch. they take him in as a leader. if he’s wearing napier’s helmet, he must have beaten him in battle, which is reason enough to accept him as a new leader.

the new napier tries to balance the tensions of death watch’s want for violence with his  father’s raisings. he can’t do much to sway them, he hasn’t been in charge that long. the second in command, quinn, is the true leader. she questions him constantly, and it’s all napier can do to keep one of the team from stabbing him in his sleep. he has to keep the team happy, he has to be a leader.

he’s leading death watch now, or at least this splinter cell of it. and, within limits, he tries to redirect the group’s rage and limit the civillian casualties. he lets quinn come up with most of the attacks, slowly navigating this give and take between terror and heroics.

he’s good at it, that’s the thing. he’s good at coming up with brutal, violent ideas. he’s been taught by bat and now he’s using it to hurt others. he hates it but what choice does he have?

he has to survive. he’s napier, leader of death watch at 20 years old. this is his life now.

[atlantis-prince]

breaks down in front of them. //redemp verse maybe?? A big ol cry fest because these ancient relics have had ENOUGH?? Mmmm.

They’d had their own personal battle for so long. Grudges were held and many battles were fought over Atlantis. Nobody else cared in their eyes as long as the other suffered. Such fate intertwined so drastically that neither could land the final blow, it took them only now, in their new life to realise it. 

Stood face to face atop the cliffs edge, the waves they’d both come to know where crashing beneath them. Such meetings were usually snarky and full of hate.. but not this one. This one had... tears...

Admiring the mage quietly he saw the singular tear roll down his cheek before more followed and began to rain down. “A-are you-?” Stopping himself, this could only be embarrassing for the Mage he didn’t want to draw anymore attention to it. He felt his own eyes well up as he watched the other. All their pain and suffering was finally being released. Pent up rage and anger now freely falling.

Taking a step closer “It’s alright...We can figure this out.” A comforting hand was soon placed upon his shoulder. No threatening aura. He made another move to curl that arm and a sudden motion he was hugging him.. tightly. His own face buried atop the Mages head as he decided to let his tears go. 

The experience was comforting, even if they were sworn to be enemies to be able to hold someone like this; touched his heart once more. 

[gunmetalgrey-trashpile]

BEYOND THE VALE ; FANTASY VERSE HOME

The Vale sits the furthest North beyond an icy and difficult storm filled sea, where the maps believe the word ends. Few navigate these waters, sometimes the odd fisherman will come across the cloudy shore line only for it to never reappear. Between ship wrecks and towering cliffs, there is one calm bay on the islands East side where the shore meets the tree line. Here, along the towering pines that lead to a thick grey fog, witches can cross the barrier into a safe haven for all those who practice magic. There's currently a population of around 5000 witches, and about 5 adult dragons that roost in the mountains and hills to the West side. Nothing about the island is flat, it's rolling hills that give way to rocky mountaintops. Generally it's fairly cold, they have about eight months of winter and a few sunny days but is does mean that rare herbs and plants not found in the south grow here in the extreme conditions. There are a couple of settlements, some of the witches choose to live in caves amongst the mountains where the practice more extreme forms of magic, although the Moran's grew up in the fairly safe valley away from that. They are about 4 miles from the magic border, in a small cottage wiht a thatched roof close to the town hall.  Most of the holmes are mud huts based on timber frames with a few stone cottages strewn around from the first settlers. They have to keep expanding as more regugees are added. Both common and vale are spoken on the island, some of the older residence struggling with the new langauge. Most kids only learn to read and write in vale as it is the anchient runic language most spells are kept in. They keep to tradition, money isn't really nessecary as they share what they have. The island runs as a democracy, the leader Thomas Moran was elected by the people of the island after killing a dragon that was terrorising them. Generally speaking, the dragons now live in peace as the witches give them space and leave a field of sheep for them to snack on. The Vale originally had it’s own people. They lived beyond the borders of the known land, beyond the magic and chaos of the kingdoms below. They existed on a rocky shoreline that protected them, at one with the fey and dragons that existed along their small island. The people were largely nomadic, hunting to eat the strange beasts that existed. They worshipped the dragons as gods, sparring tribes that existed together. They braided their hair, painted their faces with dye and inked their skin in ways the Southern witches couldn’t understand.
When the first witches arrived, nearly 500 years ago fleeing for persecution in the south, they brought with them the sickness. The sickness took indiscriminately, killing both the strong and the weak. Where the witches had the ability to heal and access to magic, the natives suffered. They died in their hundreds, driven mad by the sickness. It infected the mind, many throwing themselves from the rocky cliffs to the stewing waters beneath. Eventually, all the native settlements were left abandoned on the west side of the island. This is where the hills give way to mountain peaks, it’s common to see the dragons roosting in what was once a town for the native people. Vale children are forbidden from going into these settlements, skulls of the dead still line the walls as a warning to any who would dare. The few who survived the worst of the sickness married into the witches, their cultures merging somewhere in the intertwined history. It’s said that madness still runs in those with light eyes and fair hair, the common look of the original Vale people. It’s far removed form the days of worshiping the dragons gods and berserker armies but it’s there, somewhere. In the half a millennia, the line between the now Northern witches and the Vale people has disappeared.