#miles has Several Moments the first time it happens and he realizes what he's idly adding to the sketch

[honeyhobies]

punkflower where lately all of miles' doodles of hobie feature a bunch of little circles drawn over his person. the running joke is it's him picking on hobie's suit for all the times hobie poked fun at his

it's a good joke. because it means miles doesn't have to admit they're actually the spots he's imagined kissing hobie on

[alwaysbeliev]

I Can’t Lose You

Happy Valentine’s Day! This is for the @rdr-secret-cupid adventure this year. Thank you for the prompt, @bloodylove3 and I hope you enjoy!

summary: When Dutch asks you and Arthur to pretend you're married for a job, you're nervous that you won't be able to hide your feelings for the outlaw. You manage to keep it in line, but things go wrong fast.

relationship: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

word count: 3497

link on AO3

“Alright, here’s where we’ll start.”

It was mid-afternoon. The heat from the sun above was overwhelming, burning whatever it touched. Not even the shade was a relief with its cover. Animals all around were burrowed underground, hiding inside of trees, splashing around in the cool river nearby, and doing their best to stay out of direct light. You idly watched a small mouse scurry through the grass, digging at the dirt every now and then before disappearing into a hole. Quietly, you wished you were that mouse. 

For the hundredth time, Dutch was reviewing his next grand plan. There was a tipoff about a decent score, something that would help the gang move to a new camp, and it would be almost easy to pull off. Almost. But he was careful to plan, detailed to a fault, and now you had to sit through another lecture about making sure you were in the right place at the right time. He stood just inside the flap of his tent as he talked. The others were in a loose circle around him and Hosea.

You felt a drop of sweat slide down the back of your neck. What you wouldn’t give to go jump in the rushing water just a hundred feet away, even fully clothed. Imagining the relief alone made you sweat more. You could feel your skin throb, your cheeks turning red, your shirt sticking to your lower back…

“Hey!”

The sharp sound of Dutch’s voice cut through your daydream, snapping you back to reality. Others were snickering as you jerked your head over and tried to pretend you had been listening.

“As I was saying,” the man continued, “there has been a small change of plan.” 

Whoa, Dutch was changing his plan? But the score was just a week away now.

He carried on, “Arthur will be playing the part of your protective, but quiet, husband. You will need to cause a big enough distraction that we can enter without tipping anyone off. Can you handle that?”

“I thought Hosea was providing the distraction?” Your mind was turning, scrambling to remember if that was the original plan or if you were suffering from heat stroke.

“As I had said before, Hosea will be needed outside. It would seem awfully suspicious to outsiders if 5 men all seemed to suddenly rush inside together, don’t you think?”

You supposed he had a point. Outwardly, you agreed with him, but inwardly, your heart was pounding. Arthur? Husband? You barely made it through the rest of the session, managing to excuse yourself as soon as Dutch was done talking. Never before had you felt the palpitations on your chest that you did now at the thought of being with Arthur Morgan. Not just being with him, but pretending to be married. 

To say that you had a crush on Arthur was putting it lightly. From the moment you had met the outlaw, the sight of him caused your heart to race faster than his beautiful horse. You could barely speak around him, let alone carry on any conversation, and you were certain everyone in camp knew about it. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly had approached you just last week to tease you about the way you fumbled over your words when Arthur asked a question. Now you had to pretend to be married?

The group dispersed as Dutch finished his grand lecture, chattering excitedly about the huge score. You felt light-headed and were rooted to the spot. Dutch was right, it should be easy, you had played the actor’s role many times before, but this… This wouldn’t be acting. And surely someone was going to notice that.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

A week passed quicker than any week you’d been through before. You and Arthur had prepared a scene, practicing to get it right, and you were feeling slightly more confident. The cowboy still gave you flutters in your heart, but rehearsed lines were much easier than improvised ones, and you were positive he hadn’t seen the longing in your eyes. It was easy.

But what wasn’t easy was how inseparable the two of you were becoming. Every morning, Arthur approached you near the campfire, offering a small treat, typically a piece of chocolate or a small fruit. The first time, your cheeks had flushed hotter than the summer sun. It hadn’t improved much. You would review your plan for the score, pause for a lunch time meal, and continue in the afternoon. Arthur often seemed to have other ideas, wanting a change of scenery, and you would find yourselves a few miles from camp on some rocky outlook or on a river’s shore, just shooting the breeze while the sun seared high above. Arthur even managed to convince you to leave your horse once, riding behind him with arms wrapped around his chest, content just to be near him. 

Finally, the day arrived. The gang all arose early, gathering their tools uneasily. Nerves always ran high the day of, regardless of how much planning had gone into the score, and your stomach churned. Karen had lent a hat, Mary-Beth a beautiful dress in your most favorite color, and you felt so fluffy and over the top. When Arthur saw you, his face seemed to go slack, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“My, my, Mrs. Morgan,” he drawled, taking a few lazy steps to close the gap to you. “Aren’t you lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’.”

Pouting and embarrassed, you waved him off, brushing a tight curl over your shoulder in a weak attempt to mask the color rising to your cheeks.

“Shut up.”

“Hey, now, I’m only tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He laughed before looking somewhat sheepish himself. “Besides, you really do.”

You paused, taking in his sincere compliment.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t have time to respond as Dutch stepped out of his tent, looking the picture of graceful leadership, commanding everyone’s attention. As you turned your body towards him, you saw Arthur’s gaze lingering on your figure, the dress complementing you perfectly. You focused on tugging on your white lace gloves, trying to turn your ears where it mattered.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“Alright, Mr. Callahan, now, here we are!”

Your voice pitched up, you pointed out the grandest building in town: the bank. Arthur guided his horse to the hitching post before hopping down, turning to help you down, your big skirt catching slightly and flouncing as your feet landed. Grinning at him, you tugged at his arm excitedly.

“Come on, darling, we gotta go get us a loan! That house ain’t gonna buy itself, you know!”

It was clear you were amusing the man at your side. Your anxiety was causing a jump in your performance, pushing you a slightly uncomfortable bit above believable, but you were pretty and young and the men were watching you. That was all that mattered.

With a grand gesture, you shoved the door to the bank open, stepping into the marbled interior with your boots clicking. The teller glanced up from whatever paperwork he was looking at. For a brief second, he studied the two of you, his eyes lingering on you in particular, before a fixed smile appeared on his face. 

“How can I help you?” he drawled. As practiced, Arthur opened his mouth to speak but you butted in before he could.

“Why, hello, Mr…?” You swept forward, extending a hand for him to shake. He glanced at Arthur in disbelief before gingerly shaking your hand.

“Mr. Monaghan.”

“Oh, Mr. Monaghan, how lovely!” You grinned widely, shaking vigorously. “Yes, me and my new husband here are looking to buy a house! Isn’t that just grand? We just got married, you know, just last week! Oh, we had the most beautiful honeymoon, didn’t we, darling? Traveled to see the ocean, oh it was gorgeous! Simply gorgeous! Have you ever been, Mr. Monaghan?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t. Not the way you planned it.

“The birds were so lovely, there were so many of them! Oh, and the food! Simply divine! Have you had seafood before? Crab, lobster, shrimp, oh it was perfect!”

As you rambled, the doors swung in again, allowing entrance to John and Javier. You didn’t spare a look for them, your energy pointed at the teller, and as planned, he didn’t seem to notice them. Your shrill voice and wild theatrics had his whole attention. You carried on as the men got into position.

“They paired the shrimp with-- What was it, my love? This wine, it was a red, wasn’t it? Or was it a white? Mr. Callahan is just hopeless about these things, you know, I’m glad I’m here to help him. Oh we had the most wonderful time together! I thought it might rain one day, there were these horrible gray clouds, but he told me not to worry, even though I wanted to, and sure enough, the sun was out by dinner time!”

The doors creaked again, allowing the last two men in, Dutch and Bill. All 5 men exchanged a look and, in one swift motion, they pulled their bandanas over their faces and drew their weapons. It was satisfying to hear the clicks of a few hammers. Your grin turned wicked and the teller suddenly realized what had happened. 

“We’ll take that loan to go, if you don’t mind.” You couldn’t help yourself. Arthur quickly stepped forward, shielding you with his body so your face was hidden, and you hurriedly moved towards the back of the men, allowing them to do what they needed. It was relatively painless and quiet, the teller moving hastily and without hesitation, filling bags with money and even allowing them access to the room with the safes. You served as lookout, casually standing at the window to keep an eye peeled for the law. Only when you heard Dutch’s signature goodbye did you turn away from it. Arthur made eye contact with you and playfully raised his eyebrows as he strode towards the door and you, ready to make for the horizon.

Without warning, the doors flew open, banging against the wall from the force behind it. Several lawmen were standing, guns drawn, ready to take out the outlaws. Instantly, shots were being fired. You didn’t know who fired first, but you dove out of the way, gripping your hat tightly so it wouldn’t be left behind. For some reason, your only coherent thought was Karen would have my hide.

Men were shouting, the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Flat on the floor, you couldn’t see anything, only heard Dutch shouting orders, police filling the streets outside, the solid sound of bullets connecting with flesh. There was nowhere to take cover. Somebody stepped on your leg and you gasped from the pain. A hand gripped your ankle and dragged you towards a wall. Panicked, you tried to scramble away until you registered Arthur’s voice trying to reassure you. 

“You boys play nice!” a deep voice bellowed from the porch. “We don’t want no hangings, now, y’here?”

“We will play nice when you play nice, Sheriff!” Dutch barked back. 

“This is a fucking massacre!” John spoke to the room at large. The men that had entered before were all on the floor, blood pooling around them, their guns laying forgotten on the wood. More were shouted outside. They were organizing to block all exits from town. There was no way you were gonna make it out now, you started to fear, and you could see the shared looks of the men with you echoing the same sentiment.

A surprised cry arose from outside as another gunshot cracked through the air. 

“There’s Mac!”

With renewed energy, everyone jumped up and sprang for the door. Feeling marginally brave, you snatched a gun from the floor, hoping you wouldn’t have to use it. Bill led the way out. Javier, John, and Dutch quickly followed, and Arthur made up the rear with you in tow, sticking to him like glue. 

The sun outside was blinding. You barely caught a glimpse of the street before you were rushed down the steps and around the side of the building. Back pressed against the wall, the pounding in your head started blocking out your hearing, and you only felt the vibrations in the air and under your feet. Even with all of Dutch’s careful planning, you were still trapped in this mess…

Arthur shouted your name. He stood, almost pressed to you, eyes burning. You snapped to attention, gun at the ready.

“We gotta make a break for it! Be ready on my count!”

It was all you could do to nod. You saw his horse in your peripheral, antsy and pawing, but waiting. You tried desperately to calm your breathing and gathered your skirts up out of your way. At the mark, you all ran, each in slightly different directions to mount their horses, spurring before fully mounted. Arthur was first and you scrambled after him, latching onto his arm and using the momentum of his horse to swing your leg over, skirts be damned. With a sharp cry, he urged his horse forward and away from town.

For a brief moment, you were free. Pounding hooves sounded behind you but were fading fast. The shouts of men continued to rip through the air, but you realized that they, too, were slowly growing faint.  And then a stabbing pain exploded in your thigh. A scream escaped before you could stop yourself. Trained well, Arthur didn’t stop his horse, but he tried to see what had happened, calling back to you with increasing desperation. You had been shot. The panic, the shortness of breath, and now the pain was too much. In a surprisingly short matter of seconds, black filled your vision and you were gone.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The rustle of the trees. The soft sound of running water. Crackling of a campfire. Low voices outside your tent. Your hair brushing your face. Dull and throbbing pain in your leg. Heaviness in your chest. And, finally, the realization you were laying on a cot and not your usual bedroll. 

Slowly, your eyes blinked open. This definitely wasn’t your tent. These weren’t your blankets. Only the soft glow from the fire and a few lanterns shone on the one canvas wall. It was enough light to see that this was Arthur’s tent, the small table with his journal and flower, his photographs on the wagon side. His smell on the blankets. You breathed in deeply.

A snort by your feet caused you to startle. Sitting up slowly, you saw Arthur slumped in a chair, his hat drawn over his face, arms crossed as he breathed evenly, the occasional snore breaking the silence. An strong and sharp pain made you hiss and, in turn, woke the outlaw from his slumber. 

“You’re awake,” he mumbled, barely awake himself as he sat up. 

“Regrettably…”

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Honestly? Not great,” you said, chuckling a little. “But I’ve had worse. Why am I here?”

“Thought you might like a real bed. Well, realer than your bedroll. We can put you out for the wolves, if ya like.” His teasing tone was back, but it was more strained than normal. He looked absolutely exhausted. 

“No, this is fine. It’s… nice.”

Silence fell again. You stared at a thread on the sheet while Arthur stared at you. Usually there was a party the night after a big score, everyone drinking and being merry. There was a strange lack of boisterous laughter, though, and you had the weird feeling it was your doing. 

“How did we make out?”

“Oh, we escaped,” he said, leaning back in the chair again. “But we’re trapped here awhile, there’ll be law crawlin’ everywhere for a few weeks.”

“How much?”

Not even your fixation on the money got him to crack a smile.

“Dunno.” Shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve been in here, makin’ sure you don’t die.”

Arthur’s behavior was bizarre. You hadn’t seen him behave this way when another gang member was injured, not even when John had nearly been lost last year, and it was starting to worry you. Was there something else you didn’t know about? Was your injury more serious than he was letting on? For a moment, you studied his face, the ache and shadows clear in the weak light, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw the barest sign of a light track down his cheek.

“Arthur…” 

It was such a soft whisper, you weren’t sure he had heard you at first. He lifted his eyes to meet yours. You tried desperately to read him for a second before finally caving.

“Arthur, what happened? Did someone not make it?”

At long last, he managed a short huff of air that might be mistaken for laughter. Shaking his head, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he ran his hands across his face, removing his hat and setting it on his wardrobe. When he looked at you again, he actually had a small smile, and relief had replaced what you had mistaken for grief.

“No, no, nothin’ like that.”

“So what’s the matter?”

He tilted his chin up, exhaling long and low towards the sky, seemingly contemplating something. It was quiet for an achingly long time. Another deep sigh and he brought his chin back down, meeting your gaze steadily.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he murmured. “I heard the shot, your scream… I thought you were gone for sure.”

Okay… you thought, still bewildered. We’ve almost lost people before. What makes me special?

“And I didn’t get the chance to tell you…” You had seen him struggle with words in the past, but this was different. It was almost as if his voice was physically fighting him on saying anything. “I couldn’t stand to lose you, truth be told. You mean-- That is, you’re very important-- That’s, well…”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you realized what he was trying to say. You didn’t dare utter a word, hoping, begging him to just spit it out. You weren’t positive this was happening, as now you were almost certain you had actually died and this was the beginning of your personal heaven.

“I can’t lose you, darlin’.”

The tears spilled over and dripped down your cheeks. You couldn’t even feel the pain in your thigh as it felt like a major weight had been lifted off of you. Arthur was startled, concern growing once more on his face at your tears, but when you started to grin and laughter bubbled up, he relaxed and looked as embarrassed as a school boy, dropping his eyes and smiling himself.

“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me to hear,” you finally said, shaking your head at the silliness of it all. “I can’t lose you, either, Arthur. You mean the world to me.”

Slowly, the cowboy rose from his seat and approached the edge of the cot. You gingerly shifted yourself over to allow him to sit beside you, and he took the opportunity. You soaked in the other’s presence for just a moment. With the softest gaze you had seen from him, Arthur returned his attention to you. He lifted a hand to cup your face, his rough thumb stroking your cheek as he drank in your features, looking truly content for the first time. Gracefully and ever the gentleman, he tilted your face up to meet his as he carefully kissed you. It was light at first. He was testing the waters, not pushing too fast. But when you met him eagerly, he leaned in, hard. 

You didn’t dare breathe for the duration of the kiss, your heart a frightening combination of pounding and not beating at all. The taste of whiskey lingered fresh on his lips and left your mouth tingling. When Arthur pulled away, you shifted forward slightly, not wanting it to end. But, courteous as always, he pressed a lingering kiss on your forehead and then sat back again. Your eyes flickered all over his face. You were still unsure if you could catch your breath.

“Wanted to do that for a long time,” he muttered. All you could do was nod. Wow…

“Can you stay with me?” you blurted out. “Tonight?”

“O’ course,” he agreed. He tugged his boots off as you scooted as far over as you could, lifting the sheet for him to crawl into. Warmth radiated from his skin and it was like stepping into a comfortable bath as he wrapped his arms around you. You sighed into his chest, drinking in his smell with your face buried in him, hands gripping his shirt. The dull sting in your leg was in the background of your mind. It didn’t matter to you, though; you were safe here. And this wasn’t going to end any time soon.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Of Gorgons And Gardens

Fandom(s) : The Mandalorian and Prospect [2018]

Pairing: The Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader/Ezra

Rating: Holy shit uh. Explicit.

AN: That's right. I've done it. It's time for the sex pollen. This is a standalone that's not involved with either of my previous tales related to these fine boys, so we have a Death Watch-raised Mando that takes the Creed incredibly seriously and an Ezra that's well armed. Also I apologize for the constant viewpoint switches. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @hardcorewwetrash @helplessly-nonstop @lackofhonor @oloreaa @theocatkov @jackierey09 @zombiexbody @crookedmoonsaultpunk @pedrosbigdorkenergy @absurdthirst @culturalrebel

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For obligatory dubious consent due to sex pollen, as well as threesome activities, breeding kink and gratuitous bodily fluids. Stay safe!]

The quarry was named Ezra. Not that their name mattered, the chain code was freshly generated. The strangest part was that there had been no image attached to the puck. 

Din had tipped his helmet to the side, narrowing his eyes and tapping the bounty puck curiously. "Somethin' wrong with this?"

Karga shook his head. "No, he's just too slick for us to have any holorecords on him. Somebody from Bakhroma wants him alive."

Undocumented quarry was exceptionally rare, and not usually something that one requested a Mandalorian for. It indicated green prey, a first-time offender. "Bakhroma, huh? Pretty far out." He wasn't an idiot. There had to be a reason why Karga had offered him this one specifically.

"Guy apparently walked off with a majority of someone's aurelac pull. Typical floater squabble, but one of them ponied up the mining points for credits and asked for a certified, card-carryin' Mando." Karga had leaned back in the booth. "How's the kid?"

Din had just grunted noncommittally in reply, gloved fingers scooping the puck off the table. "I have to get back to the Crest."

…

"The target has been on Bakhroma relatively recently. Not sure if he was in the Green or not, but either way he'll probably be a walking biohazard." Mando muttered, turning his head towards you. "So you're staying put."

"Until something happens to you and I have to pull you out of the fire again." You retorted with a smirk. 

"Hey, that was one time." You knew he was narrowing his eyes, though you weren't quite sure how you knew. Something about the way he tilted his head ever so slightly to the right clued you in.

"You were full of nexu quills."

"One. Time." The Mandalorian growled. "I even said thank you."

"You sure did," You replied, laughing. "Right before you passed out!"

He palmed over the side of your head roughly. "Brat." His grumble was fond, softening the edge of the insult. "Promise me you'll stay on the Crest, Senaar, otherwise I'll ask Omera to take you and the kid for an extended sleepover."

"Fine, I promise." You relented, huffing in annoyance.

He tinkered with his charts for a moment, then tilted his head again. "Where did you go earlier? I got done with Karga hours ago. Couldn't find you."

You stiffened, abruptly absorbed in checking the fuel levels. "Oh you know. Around." You said breezily. 

"Well in the future, when you feel like going around, at least let me know so I don't think you've been abducted." Mando grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. 

"Aw, you're cute when you care!" You cooed, making him scoff and return to his control panel. 

…

In hindsight, he wasn't sure what he was more pissed off about. The fact that this Ezra character had led him on a wild fucking chase over half of a suspiciously verdant moon, or the fact that his brain had apparently decided to shift into overdrive regarding you. He couldn't get you off…

Get you off his mind, that is. Stars, he was so confused. 

He felt like he had been walking in circles for hours, the only noise the steady beep of the tracker. He was too hot. Thirsty. His armor was chafing like it never had before; it was less like an extension of his body and more like a too-tight skin he needed to shed. Din finally bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. 

"You look like shit," drawled an unfamiliar voice while a set of knuckles rapped on the back of his helmet. Djarin jerked upright and immediately staggered, fumbling to grip a tree trunk for support. His vision swam uncertainly, and he blinked several times in an effort to clear it. 

The man in front of him was clad in a utilitarian suit that bore an unfamiliar logo, maybe a mining corporation. No duraplast or durasteel visible, no unnecessary frills, old-fashioned rubber gaskets to seal where glove met sleeve. Din's gaze traveled upwards, past the man's chest to his large domed helmet. He kept his motions deliberate. He had been caught off-guard by this man, but he wouldn't--

What?!

"I'll assume you're encroaching upon my solitude to haul my undesirable personage back into civilized spaces?" The man inquired after Din had taken several long seconds to try and understand what he was seeing. "For monetary compensation, if I had to hazard a guess. There are few lures that tempt a man so far out into the uncharted."

Why does he have my face? Sure, the scars were different. Different facial hair, different hairstyle, and a wild little tuft of blond sprang from amidst the dark locks at his hairline. But it was him. Same brown eyes, same nose, same mouth curving into an infuriatingly benign smirk. Djarin was struck with the sudden urge to punch him, his belly writhing.

"I take it the dust has you firm in its grip. A real pity, that. I'd love to sympathize, but regrettably I am at an advanced state of the same condition." The quarry gestured at his right arm, where a bloodstain blooming on the fabric of his suit indicated a loss of the integrity of said suit. "I'm Ezra, though I'm certain you're already well aware. And you?"

"Irrelevant." Din grated out, clumsy fingers fumbling to get his binders off his belt. 

"A man of action, excellent! I shall acquiesce, but only because being removed from this Centaurian mass is infinitely better than being confined to it." Ezra replied with a sage nod, extending his wrists. "Whither to, my recalcitrant steerforth?" 

"Be quiet." The Mandalorian grunted, his mind still reeling. How does he have my face? Then, a new, far more troubling thought occurred to him.

If he turned Ezra in, people would inadvertently know what he looked like. They wouldn't know, but they would know. What would that mean for him? For his dedication to the Creed? Did things like that count against him? Had something like this ever happened before?

"Tell me you, at the bare minimum, have functional transport?" Ezra asked after Din had relieved him of his blaster, sounding hopeful. It was so strange hearing his own voice with such an odd, imprecise cadence to it. The Mandalorian had worked for years to improve his Basic so that anyone and everyone would be able to understand him through the coarse modulator, though he still ended up sounding hitchy or curt most of the time. 

"How else would I have gotten here?" Din snapped, gesturing the other man forward with the encouragement of his own weapon.

At least now he knew how to get back to the Crest, thank the Maker for his helmet and the tracking protocols he had. Now, observing his previous path of forward motion, he realized with a jolt how much it wound back and forth. He had been walking in circles.

Since when did he lose his sense of direction? Even in unknown territory, he usually had a damn good idea of which end was up. That concerned him.

And on top of everything else, Ezra wouldn't shut the hell up.

"Be quiet." Din muttered for what seemed like the thousandth time. How long had they been walking? Probably his own fault. With how much his head was spinning, he didn't dare deviate from the winding trail he had left. Even if a straight path would have been miles quicker.

Ezra continued to drone, "a toilsome marathon of carnage, I assure-"

"I said, be fucking quiet." 

The target huffed out a breath, but obliged Djarin's terse demand for the moment. Din's head was pounding, his already short fuse shrinking with every word out of the talkative man's mouth. Was this the Maker's hysterically ironic way of compensating for how little a solitary Mandalorian would speak? Making a doppelganger that was ceaselessly chatty?

Din talked a lot more these days, between you and the kid. Maker, you. His head swam again and a low, guilty heat throbbed in his belly. You talking to him, the way your mouth moved around your words-

No. No, stop, he told himself sternly, two fingers sliding idly between the gasket and gorget at his throat just so he could breathe a little easier. This planet's air felt thick, like breathing through tar. 

"I would not indulge that craving, were I you." Ezra spoke up, the man obviously watching him claw at his neck. "The less exposure you have, the better." 

Din wanted to snap at him because honestly how many times do I have to say shut the fuck up-

But then he stopped. Since when did he even do things like breach the seal of his own fucking helmet on an unfamiliar planet?! He flinched, tearing his hand away and hating the low, wry chuckle that issued from the quarry. The other man mused, "It's already too late for me, you know. I imagine I'll have an hour, perhaps two."

"What the hell are you talking about now."

"The dust, my armored associate. It permeates. Sludges the mental processes." Ezra shrugged with only one shoulder. "Among other things."

"How do you know so much about it?" Din gritted his teeth against the buzzing pain in his stomach. "Seems pretty stupid of you to hide out here." Especially if you know the flora is deadly.

"There is naught to do on a freighter slingback aside from read." Ezra's eyes narrowed. "And I could hardly pick and choose which moon my pod decided to give out on, you monosyllabic knuckle-dragger."

"Watch your mouth before I break it." Din snarled.

"Lo and behold, he comprehends! I assumed all you knew how to say was a stagnant variation on the theme of be fucking quiet." Ezra retorted with enraging cheer. 

Din's gloves creaked with the tension of his fists and he barely kept from slamming them into his temples. They were almost to the Crest. Almost. Once they got there, he would throw this mouthy nerf herder into the carbonite and…

And what? And turn him over? And inadvertently compromise his whole identity, possibly destroy decades of loyally obeying the Creed? 

All the deprivation, the loneliness, the weakness of his own heart...

"Be fucking quiet." The Mandalorian muttered, knowing full well that the other man hadn't said anything. Be fucking quiet. Be fucking quiet quiet quiet just fucking be quiet-- 

Din ground the heels of his palms against the curve of his helmet at his forehead, praying for some kind of relief.

Carbonite, he reminded himself.

…

Ezra grudgingly held his tongue, which even he had to admit was a rarity. Unlike the other floaters that had approached him before and met their swift demise, this particular bounty hunter was heavily kitted. The gleaming plate he sported didn't seem to hinder his motion in the slightest. 

Interesting.

Ezra knew when he had been outplayed, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't banking on the other man having a functional ship even before he decided to go peacefully. 

The hunter (mentally dubbed Steerforth, he rudely had not introduced himself) obviously had no idea about the pollen, for all his outward preparedness. Clearly Serpentia was not as well known as Ezra had wished. 

Regrettable. 

He could hope that the bounty hunter hadn't been exposed, he mused. After all, the man was wearing that positively arresting helmet, and his suit seemed of a sturdy (if unfamiliar) weave. Here was an individual that Ezra would have to tread carefully around, if he wished to escape with his life. 

His faith waned a bit as he recalled watching the man 'track' him, winding back and forth through the trees like a drunken mule until Ezra had taken pity on him and turned himself in. 

The hunter was terse in his speech, likely weary from the chase. Ezra could sympathize, he was weary from running. It had almost been a relief when that last hunter had attacked him and forced him to crash the pod on this moon. Though his relief had quickly turned to dismay when Ezra had done a full turn outside his pod and realized just what was making all the pollen in the air.

Serpentia, Serpent's Tongue. He had never encountered the plant in the proverbial flesh, but once upon a time he had been accidentally doused with the extract when a holding tank had burst while he was on a job site.

His skin crawled as he remembered the torment that followed during his solitary confinement. He had been nigh-certain he would not recover, clawing free of the haze that had gripped him with the barest vestiges of his mental faculties. 

This moon's Serpentia population seemed infinitely kinder than the concentrate he had encountered, if only for its soft, creeping approach. It lapped at the base of his brain, dulled the edge of his panic until he was nearly comfortable with the ache that licked hot in his groin. 

But thank Kevva for this bounty hunter lumbering through the brush! With a little luck, Ezra would be able to persuade him to accept a few pearls of aurelac in lieu of dragging him back to face that greatly-exaggerated justice.

...

According to the limited information from the Crest's scans, the air on this moon was perfectly safe to breathe. 

And if what Mando had said was right, he probably would need the ship to himself for a little while to decontaminate. So you had posted up beside the ramp once he had departed, occasionally wiping the sweat off your brow. The atmosphere was humid and you watched as breezes too delicate for you to even feel nudged the thick pollen in the air this way and that. 

The moon was liberally coated with lush vegetation; just finding a place to safely land the Razor Crest had been a Herculean effort. You wondered vaguely if there was a lake or spring nearby that you would be able to cool off in. The ship's fresher was functional, of course, but its water had been sitting in the holding tank for a few cycles now and it smelled rusty. 

The pollen covered everything, orange-red substance sticking to your already-damp skin. You grimaced, wondering if maybe you should have put on your suit. But no, the atmosphere was safe. The scans had said so, and you already spent so much of your time in your thick suit…

The sunshine felt wonderful after all the hyperspace travel, like a warm embrace from a friend. You caught yourself wondering what Mando's hug might feel like. Probably uncomfortable, what with all the beskar. You scoffed at your thoughts. You really needed to stop thinking about him like that, he was technically your boss even if he called you his partner. So what if he had passed out on top of you? That had been an infection thing.

It wasn't as if he had stroked your cheek before he dropped, his voice breaking when he called you Senaar... 

So what if you had solicited not one, but two Mandalorians during your last stop on Nevarro? 

It wasn't as if he noticed anything that you did, aside from when it had inconvenienced him. It wasn't as if you couldn't handle your little infatuation with him, even if it did result in you seeking out Mandos that would give you attention.

You propped your chin up on your hand, your eyes half-focusing on the dust floating in the air. It was nice to just relax for once, though there was a little guilty sensation in your stomach. Because Mando was out there working, while you...were lounging around, soaking up the sunlight.

You weren't sure how long you sat there, but you finally got up with a groan and a stretch that felt heavenly. You would investigate the surrounding area, you decided, maybe you could rustle up something fresh. If you couldn't be active on the hunt for the quarry, you could at least restock the larders.

After what only felt like a few steps, you quickly stumbled across thick vines that bore an unfamiliar, violet-hued fruit. The fruit was the size of your fist, and the skin had slight give to it. Light-colored flowers dotted the vine here and there, their tiny stamens crested with heavy crowns of thick pollen. Clearly you had located one of the many sources of the dust that choked the air. 

You picked one of the fruits and propped it up on a flat rock, using your trusty field knife to slice it open. It had orange pulp inside it, and a small hollow in the middle filled with pinkish fluid. The whole fruit reminded you of a sunset. Dimly, you thought that you probably shouldn't be touching this fruit with your bare skin, on the off chance that it might be caustic or toxic. But it looked delicious. 

Surely just a little taste wouldn't hurt?

The pinkish fluid was almost overwhelmingly sweet, and sticky. It dribbled down your chin when you tipped the fruit to slurp it up. You laughed at yourself, tugging your tunic to scrub at your face. 

Mando will love these.

You weren't sure where the thought came from, but obviously it was true. The idea of Mando being alone, slipping off his helmet to eat...the juice from the fruit glistening on his mouth…

Your breathing had quickened. You carefully harvested more of the round fruit, tucking the ripe produce into the makeshift cradle of your tunic. Once you decided you had enough, you turned on your heel and went to make your way back to the Crest. 

...

No.

No no no no no-

Din stared at the partially-ajar ramp on the Crest and he wanted to yell. 

"Oh dear." Ezra murmured faintly. "What a predicament." He had been getting quieter and quieter the closer they drew to the ship, so hearing him talk again sent a jolt down Din's spine. "You left your egress open? How careless of you."

"I didn't." Din snarled, wrapping his fingers around the binders on Ezra's wrists. You. The throbbing in his stomach lurched.

Ezra's eyes widened and he abruptly planted his feet. Din hadn't realized just how off-kilter he was, normally something like a shift in weight wouldn't be enough to make him stagger. But he almost toppled, barely getting his balance back in time. "Is there someone else on that ship?" Ezra asked sharply. 

"Of course." Din didn't even think to lie. "Partner."

"Would they have wandered? Exposed themselves?" The prospector-thief-quarry continued to quiz him and Din resented it just a little. 

"Be quiet," He grunted, tapping at his gauntlet to open the ramp, "and get in the fucking hold."

Ezra abruptly drew himself up to his full height. "I do not believe you actually want me to do that." He intoned with difficulty, his teeth gritted. "Putting myself, yourself and the potential of one more infected person into an enclosed space is a very…" His words faltered. "Oh."

Din whirled, visor traveling up the ramp into the dim hold. And just barely visible at the edge of the ramp, a small pile of what looked like fruit--was that your leg?! He lunged forward, his blaster ready. 

"I would not advise you to approach them!" Ezra barked.

"Fuck you!" Din snapped, striding up the ramp to kneel alongside your body. He crushed one of the fruits beneath his knee, lurid pink juice erupting to soak into his suit. The color was high in your cheeks, your body blotchy with flush. Pollen encrusted your neck and shoulders, drifted through your hair; something pink and shiny coated your lips like a strange gloss.

Din caught himself leaning in and jerked back at the urgency in Ezra's voice when the prospector called, "Do they breathe, man?"

"Be quiet!" Djarin roared. Why hadn't he checked that first? What was wrong with him? He shoved his vambrace against your mouth, his chest clenching in relief when your breath fogged the metal. Stars. 

"I'm afraid this complicates things quite significantly." Ezra said loudly, fidgeting at the base of the ramp. "I was unaware you had a partner of the...other biological persuasion. Had it just been you and I, two masculine-presenting bipeds, things would have been miles simpler."

"What the hell are you saying now?" Din was getting tired of this shit, tired of listening to the other man talk. 

"This plant is...shall we say, heteronormative." Ezra drawled, waving his bound hands in the air to illustrate the cloying pollen. Din cocked his head in confusion. "You know, masculine and feminine? Male and female? Different. Hetero."

Djarin scoffed derisively. "My people don't care about that shit." 

"A noble practice to be certain, very forward-thinking."

"This is the Way." The Mandalorian replied. 

Ezra soldiered on, "Unfortunately, the plant that infests this planet does indeed differentiate. Fruit for the female, pollen for the male." He added hurriedly, "in the biological sense, of course! I will not make any assumptions about your partner. The fruit is a...a catalyst. Are you familiar with the old-Earth religious writings, the ones that mention the Garden? Or perhaps the Greek pantheon may have been more your style?" When Djarin shook his head, Ezra sighed. "The genus name in Basic is slippin' my mind. But this particular iteration is known as Serpent's Tongue, Serpentia. It is Medusine in nature and it inspires feelings of…" Ezra paused, licking his lips nervously. "Heat."  

"Heat." Din repeated blankly, knowing that he must be missing something. 

Ezra ducked his head, breaking eye contact. "As in, being in heat." The man clarified after a moment. 

"Excuse me?" 

"I'm-"

"Excuse me?" Din snarled, running his fingers through the juices that coated his knee. It was thick, sticky like syrup, why was it warm--He bolted to his feet and stalked back down the ramp. Ezra took a step back, and then another, the quarry obviously wary of him. Good. The satisfied feeling took some of the edge off his frustrated panic. "So what the hell is wrong with my partner?" Din grated out.

"Er, to couch it in layman's terms…" Ezra hesitated, clearing his throat. "They are aroused."

Aroused. Aroused. Aroused. "Sexually?" Din hated the way the word came out, all breathy like he was a youngling that had just learned about the wonders of copulation. 

Ezra nodded, grimacing. "From the sound of your tone, I would hazard a guess that the two of you have not been intimate."

"Why would we have been?" Din retorted bluntly.

Ezra raised an eyebrow, seeming as if he was avoiding looking at you. Good. Mine. Din had no idea where the hell that thought came from. "Oh of course, I was foolish to assume so blatantly." The prospector muttered. "That does complicate your own matters further, however. Were you previously sexually intertwined, this would have been much more simple." He suddenly doubled over at the waist, a loud grunt forced from his mouth and a low exclamation of, "fuck, fuck-"

The curse sent a hot flicker down Din's spine and it took him a second to realize that you had made a noise in reply. You sounded dazed, scared. He whirled on the ramp and knelt again, taking your hand. "Senaar, you coming around?" Your eyes looked...wrong, blinking open slowly; your pupils were blown like you'd been spiced. 

You stared up at him for several long seconds before your mouth opened. "Wanted to make lunch." You managed to say. "I don't feel good." 

"Well, you don't look so great either." Din said gruffly. 

"Bastard." You groaned at him, trying to sit up. "Maker, I feel so hot, I...oh! Oh no, you smushed one." You appeared to have noticed the remains of the sticky fruit currently seeping into his knee. "I wanted you to try it. Tastes...tastes...it's so sweet Mando, s'like candy." You saying his name (even if it wasn't his actual name, shit) was like a lightning bolt to his groin. You dragged your hand over his knee, gathering up the remnants of the fruit and then sliding your fingers into your mouth. 

You brought him food. His lungs felt too full and not full enough. Stars, the idea of you feeding him that, smearing it all over his mouth with those pretty little fingers-

No, the helmet. The helmet. He couldn't take off the helmet. The Creed.

He jerked his head up, looking to Ezra. The other man was still doubled over, holding his midsection as best as he could with his hands bound. 

A dark, uncharacteristically evil thought wound its way into Din's mind, sweet and smokey like a good ne'tra gal. "Get in the ship." He grunted. Ezra glanced up and Din was a little startled by the level of emotion he displayed. He wasn't used to seeing expressions play out on his own face. The other man seemed wildly uncomfortable and Din found that grounding, for whatever reason. 

"I do not dare to." Ezra panted finally. "Just being this close is...immensely troubling. I am not the master of my own body at this moment, Steerforth."

"Is this the target?" You asked softly. Din nodded and he could almost feel your eyes raking over the other man. "What happened? He's hurt."

Shit, he had nearly forgotten. Ezra was still bleeding from his arm. The quarry had obviously forgotten as well, clearly dealing with a much more pressing matter. 

You beckoned to the other man and Din had to rein in the knee-jerk reaction to grab his blaster as Ezra reluctantly approached. He had never been territorial about you before, what the hell was the matter with him? 

Ezra halted a good five feet away from you, keeping his head down. "I am Ezra. I apologize in advance for my untoward behavior." He muttered, his voice gone so low and gravelly he actually did sound like Din. The Mandalorian's stomach pitched uncertainly. "I am not myself at this point in time."

"What happened to your arm?" Your tone was warm, concerned. Din's fists clenched. "Did Mando do that?"

"Oh, no! Of course not. Your compatriot has been nothing if not a complete gentleman." Ezra replied wryly. "I sustained this injury during a previous floater's quarrel."

…

You hummed and you saw Mando stiffen up out of the corner of your eye. What was wrong with him? One second he had been leaning over you, all worry and hand holding. The next, he was barking at the quarry. 

And the quarry was hurt. Ezra, Ezra, his slow drawl making your head swim and your chest tingle. Never mind Mando, what was wrong with you? You felt so strange, like you were hyper-fixated. 

Maker, maybe you shouldn't have eaten that fruit. "I'm sorry." You apologized to Mando, your lower lip beginning to quiver. "I just wanted to give-"

"Be quiet." He ordered, his voice startlingly gentle. A gloved thumb pressed to your lower lip and you stared up at him, opening your mouth automatically even though you knew he was just wiping the juice away. You were startled when he slid his thumb into your mouth, but you obligingly cleaned the juice from the leather with your tongue. Shouldn't this be strange? But Mando just did it, like it was normal. Maybe it was normal. 

Your mind flew back to your sultry encounter on Nevarro, how you had occupied yourself while Mando wrapped up his business with the Guild, and warmth lanced through your stomach as you recalled greedy gloved hands grasping and caressing your bare skin-

"Steerforth, if you are to carry on in that heated demonstration I must plead for the carbonite treatment that you were so hellbent on throwing myself into earlier." Ezra sounded like he was in pain. "I have only endured this once before and it was a torment that threatened my already-tenuous sanity. Have fucking mercy man, I implore-"

"Be quiet." Mando snapped, "we have to treat your arm, right?"

"Fuck." Ezra swore again, the sound writhing through your belly. "Hurry then."

"Get in the ship. I'll turn on the filters."

"Do not leave me alone with them, I implore you!" Ezra cried, that domed helmet finally tilting enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face. "I am not the master of my own body, Steerforth." 

His eyes were dark, impossibly dark, and frantic as he argued with Mando. His skin seemed tanned or olive through the sun-struck dome of his suit's helmet. Short brown hair was plastered flat to his forehead with sweat, and the lower half of his face was coated in a somewhat unkempt mess of facial scruff. Too long to be five o'clock shadow, but too bedraggled to be dubbed anything else.

Roguish, you decided, wanting to laugh at yourself. He looks roguish. What a ridiculous thought to have! Not obviously dangerous like Mando, but still dangerous. Was that your heartbeat throbbing in your ears? You sighed softly, taking a step towards the other man without meaning to. 

Mando's hand was suddenly on your arm. "Hold it. Treatment. We have to treat his wound." He said gruffly. 

You nodded. Of course. Who knew what he had been exposed to through the breach in his suit? "I was going to help him walk?"

Mando shook his head. "You get the kit. You've got no gear on. He's contaminated." He reasoned. "Get me the kit and then seal yourself into the cockpit so we can filter the hold." You nodded again and his hand found your cheek, gloved fingers grazing your neck before he jerked back. "S...Sorry." he apologized.

"It's okay." You whispered.

…

Ezra, helmet discarded and suit stripped to the waist, flinched away from Din's touch yet again. "Stop. This is a bad wound. It'll get infected if I do this wrong." Din snapped. He rarely encountered blaster wounds that didn't self-cauterize, even though that tended to come with its own set of problems.

"I do not mean to tear free." Ezra protested. "Blood flow has increased. I am…" He paused, biting his lower lip. "Sensitive. Surely you have a handheld? One of the burners? Just burn it shut man, Kevva, I cannot even endure the graze of your fingers." 

"If I give you a burner patch, it'll seal in the infection." Din reasoned, flushing the wound again. "Focus on something else."

"I cannot." Ezra said sharply. "There is only one matter my brain currently wishes to focus on, and it is not the dire straits of my wounded arm." 

"Them?" Din asked, keeping his voice low. 

Ezra shot him a guilty look from beneath his sweat-matted fringe of brown hair, finally nodding. "It is ludicrous, but I feel as though I can taste them." He confessed. "Gods, I wish I had never landed on this accursed moon. I wish I had never encountered the Serpentia."

"What will happen?" Din did his best to maintain his vocal level as he bandaged the other man's wound.

"Arousal. Sheer, unadulterated arousal. You ache, like the worst fever you've ever had. I've heard it is even more excruciatin' for those of the other human biological persuasion, due to their genitals being internal. Though it is Medusine in nature, so it has a...failsafe, of sorts. You are seized with the primal instinct to mate, conquer, claim. It does not stop until you have buried your...until you have sheathed yourself in an orifice." Ezra was gasping for air. Obviously just talking about it was enough to cause him distress, either that or Djarin was being rougher than he thought. "Steerforth please, I-"

"This will cause them pain?" Din asked slowly. 

Ezra nodded jerkily. "I have been told it's like a sickly, stabbing heat. Fingers are not enough to…er, extinguish the flames." His cheeks flushed. "The tongue soothes, but not overlong. Internals require certain length, and...rigidity." Din didn't miss the way his eyes flickered down to the beskar that covered his upper thighs. "When last I encountered this damned flora, I suffered the effects alone and I felt as if I would go mad."

Tongue. Fingers. Rigidity. Din's mind reeled. "Specifics." He gritted out, his body awash with heat in his armor when Ezra made a pitiful noise.

"Kevva, have mercy on me Steerforth."

"I said. Specifics." Din fisted a glove in the other man's hair, tilting his head back and forcing him to look up. Ezra moved, albeit reluctantly, the Adam's apple of his throat bobbing when he swallowed. "Specifics." Din repeated himself, a little softer this time.

Ezra shuddered all over. "They will seek you out. To be fucked." He said, cringing a bit as if he disliked using the word. "You must open them up with your tongue first, dissolve the Medusine barrier with saliva. That's the failsafe, you see, an individual of that biological persuasion who is suffering cannot be penetrated without tender effort. Ease into it and perhaps they will not loathe you when this madness has run its course-"

"I can't." Din interrupted. 

"What?" Ezra gawked at him. 

"I can't. T-Tongue. Not allowed. Forbidden." Din felt like he was drunk. "Helmet."

The other man's brow furrowed. "You can, I presume, take off other portions of your plate?"

Din shook his head, wishing that he could explain it better. "Technically yes, but it's frowned upon. Exceptions happen. And under no circumstances can I take the helmet off." 

"How in the Fringe have you ever-"

"I...inspire feelings in people." That was probably the most delicate way he could have said I cater exclusively to bipeds with a predator/prey fetish. Din grimaced. "I'm large and imposing. Usually that's...enough. No need for warm up." He said awkwardly. "Armor stays on."

"What a bewildering existence!" Ezra tilted his head in disbelief. "So you have never removed…?"

Din shook his head. "Not in the presence of others. The Creed forbids it."

"Your dedication is admirable, but unfortunately it leaves your partner twisting in the wind." The quarry pointed out. "I would offer my services, but I am an unknown and-"

"Yes." Din gritted out, that dark thought slithering back through his mind. 

"Yes?"

"Your services." Din took a deep breath. He didn't bargain with quarry, but this man had his face. He couldn't turn him in without jeopardizing everything he had sworn his life to. "In exchange, when this is...when they no longer require your services, I'll let you go."

Ezra's eyebrows bunched together. "I'm afraid I don't follow, Steerforth."

"I don't want them to be in pain." Din's voice grated in his throat and he watched Ezra's eyes widen in comprehension. "I don't want them to hurt."

"You...this is not just the Serpentia. You have a prior attachment to them."

"It doesn't matter what I do or don't have." Djarin muttered dismissively. "Because of the Creed, I...I can't. But you can."

"You can't give them your mouth, certainly, but there are-"

"If it's what makes it possible, you have to do it!" Din interjected sharply. "I don't want them to hurt."

"I need you to comprehend what you're askin' of me!" Ezra shot back, his bound fists clenched tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "They don't know me from Job, and you're all but demanding I violate their trust-"

"I don't want them to hurt!" Din roared, startling himself with his own furious reaction. Whatever else he was about to say was cut off by your staggering descent on the ladder. You looked unwell. Ezra skittered back a few steps, falling on his ass with a muffled swear. 

"Mando?" Your voice wavered and you swayed at the ladder. Din lurched forward, tucking you into his arms as you sniffled, "I don't feel so good. I think I'm sick." You were radiating heat that he could feel even through his suit. Your tunic was soaked with sweat.

"Osi'kyr." Din cursed under his breath after he swapped to his infrared and saw just how brilliant your signature was. "Listen to me, alright Senaar?" He murmured, simultaneously loving and hating the way you nodded in a docile manner. "We know what can fix this. But it's not…" he paused, searching for the right term. 

"Appropriate." Ezra supplied loudly. 

"I feel awful." Your whimper made Din's stomach ache. His cock rubbed against the confines of his compression leggings. 

Ignore it.

"I know you do." Din pressed his palm to your forehead. "Listen to me. We can fix this. You trust me, right?" Your nod was immediate and Din barely stifled his groan. "Ezra knows what's wrong. Ezra can help."

"He can help?" You echoed blearily, looking past Din. "Okay. He said something about the fruit before, right? I shouldn't have eaten it. M'sorry. Was it poison?"

"Poison may have been simpler to endure." Ezra muttered. "It is an aphrodisiac. Do not blame yourself. The fruit is visually appealing for a reason, otherwise the plant would not be able to propagate."

…

Aphrodisiac. Your mouth was flooded with that sweet taste at the sound of Ezra's drawling voice, the groan that followed burrowing into your blood. 

You had never felt this way before. Your body ached and twisted, arousal pooling uncomfortably in your pelvis. Everything felt like it was trapped, your tunic sticking to your skin with sweat. Aphrodisiac. 

"Please pay attention." Ezra sighed. "I understand this is incredibly distracting, but I have a limited window of coherence." He was trembling slightly, still avoiding your eyes. "Your partner has requested I aid you where he cannot. I will not harm you." He said with gravity. "This is a situation which bodes exceptionally poorly and I am...I am truly sorry for dragging you into this mess."

"Oh, it's okay. Mando gets me into messes all the time." You brushed off his apology and Ezra choked out a bitter laugh. 

"I fear you may change your tune once the pain truly starts." He remarked.

"He says it'll hurt." Mando murmured. "Like stabbing."

You knew your eyes widened with fear because Mando was quick to envelope you in his arms again. He had never been this touchy before. It was...strangely nice. The coolness of his armor felt wonderful on your skin and you moaned in relief. Mando went stiff at your noise, his gloved fingers clutching the nape of your neck. Up until this point, you had just felt some minor throbbing. Distracting, but negligible.

This was different.

...

Your breath hitched in your throat and your fists curled into his suit, knees buckling as a low, wavering cry left your lips. Din jerked at the sound. He had never heard you make that kind of noise before, not even when you had been shot--

Oh he was fucked. He was so fucked. Was he excited or terrified? "Easy, you're okay, you're okay," he soothed, clumsily brushing the hair back from your face. Who was he even trying to convince?! 

"Make your choice expediently, Steerforth. Am I to be thrown in carbonite or put to work?" Ezra queried through gritted teeth. 

"You know I would never do anything to hurt you." Din said to you, ignoring the other man for the moment. "I won't let anything happen to you. I need you to trust me for right now, alright? We can fix this."

Your grip on him tightened even further. "I don't like how this feels." You whispered. 

Din closed his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off his own self-loathing, pressing your cheek against his breastplate. "I know, Senaar. I'll be right here with you. I just...can't give you what you'll need." He stuttered, offering on a desperate whim, "I-I can hold you, if you want." You nodded frantically into his armor. 

"If you have a...a blanket. A sheet. Something for the floor, we are going to make a mess and I am uncertain if we will be able to protect your partner's modesty." Ezra muttered, his bound hands resting surreptitiously over his groin. "They may be more enthusiastic than one would anticipate."

Din patted your elbow, trying to gentle his voice. "Go get your pillow." 

"O-Okay." You gulped. 

Din tore into one of his many lockers once you released him, the armored man frantically digging around for his extra bedding. Ezra staggered to his feet, moving in close to Din. So that you wouldn't hear him speak, no doubt. 

"There is still time for you to freeze me, Steerforth. I am not a man without morality, tattered though it may be." He murmured, and Din noticed that his weary brown eyes were surrounded by the same deep lines and cracks that Djarin's own face sported. The Mandalorian hadn't ever paid much mind to just how many expressions he still made beneath the helmet, probably because he knew no one would see them.

Din grabbed the other man's shoulder, searching those eyes. Ezra stared at his impenetrable visor, probably confused by his silence. "I need your help." Din rasped seriously. He didn't trust this guy as far as he could throw him, but he could live with the uneasy truce if it would…if it meant that he could…

Stars, this was all so damn wrong. 

Ezra finally nodded. "I will do my best to assist with the...emotional aftermath. This is not your fault, or theirs. This is merely an unfortunate side effect of a hazardous occupation."

"Thank you."

Ezra's eyebrows shot up, but other than that he gave no indication of his surprise. Din elbowed him to the side, unfolding the thick blanket and spreading it out carefully on the floor of the hold.

…

This was certainly an odd predicament. 

Ezra could not say he had ever been in such a charged scenario, despite his checkered history. His jaw worked thoughtfully as he watched the armored man devote an obscene amount of care to smoothing the wrinkles out of his blanket. 

Arousal swirled around him like the thick pollen outside, but it was tempered by the terrible memory of that singular past experience where he had rubbed himself bloody on the inside of his suit. He knew he was worse off than Steerforth. No, what had you called him? Mando. 

Curious. 

A Creed that prevented the devout from showing the world their face.

Curious. And familiar, somehow. Ezra spooled his mind back, trying to recall why it was familiar. He couldn't focus however, his own breathing becoming too distracting. 

Mando hadn't gotten nearly as much of the pollen as him. The other man seemed unbearably, impossibly calm in the light of what was about to occur. Maybe it was an illusion afforded by that unreadable helm, or brought about by his lack of prior experience.

Ezra was wildly jealous all the same. "What is their name?" He asked softly. 

Mando fixed him with a look and Kevva, that helmet was indeed imposing. "I call them Senaar. It...it means bird." He sounded reluctant, like he didn't even want to give up that much. "Names are sacred in the Creed. I couldn't give them mine so they didn't give me theirs, but I had to call them something."

"No names in the Creed, either?" Ezra asked incredulously. 

The armored man shook his head. "To outsiders we are all Mando. To us, we are Mando'ade. This is the Way."

"A veritable legion of nameless, featureless warriors." Ezra muttered, mainly to himself. He rattled his restraints after a moment. "Am I to remain bound during this frotfest, Steerforth?"

"I'm not stupid enough to give you free range. Be grateful I didn't secure them behind your back instead." Mando snarked.

"I will not harm your little bird." Ezra protested.

"I know." Mando leaned in slightly, broad shoulders made even more intimidating by the blue-steel pauldrons that graced them. "I would kill you before you got the chance."

Oh, such confidence! Ezra wished he was in his right mind, he would obliterate this smug cretin--

His breath caught in his throat as you returned from your excursion. Gods, he had nearly forgotten what he was being called to do. He warred with the obscene urge that dragged his gaze to the crux of your thighs. "A divine sight." He murmured, not lying for once. This entire day had been remarkably truthful. 

You actually gave him a ribald wink, and that eased his conscience slightly. Perhaps you were not the unsullied, blushing virgin he had feared you might be. Obviously you had used the time you took to grab your pillow wisely, maybe even given yourself a bit of a pep talk. 

"Have you done this before?" Ezra asked, half-joking. He heard Mando audibly gulp in that damn bucket when you nodded, a pained smile curving your lips. "Not under the effects of such altering substances, I pray?" 

"Nah, nothing like that." You replied, shaking your head. "It was back on Nevarro, I-"

"Nevarro?" Mando hissed. "You disappeared on me for hours. That's what you were up to?!"

You shrugged weakly. "It doesn't really matter but...there were two Mandalorians, and I wanted, um, something that seemed familiar, I guess." You admitted, your tone remarkably cool for the subject matter. 

Ezra hid his grin. He was hardly immune to the allure of saucy gossip, and there was nothing quite like gossip that had no particular bearing on him. "Two?!" The armored man's voice squeaked even through the thick modulation and Ezra burst out laughing, the binders knocking his jaw when he tried to stifle his mirth. 

"I meant more whether you had engaged in copulation in general, but I suppose that would have been a pertinent question as well." He mused once he got himself under control, the low buzz in his stomach blossoming into an excited thrum. "How fortunate that you would be so generous when it comes to your partners, little bird."

"What do you mean, familiar?" Mando carried on over him, obviously agitated by the fresh knowledge that his partner may or may not have some...tendencies. Ezra almost wanted to laugh again; you were nothing if not painfully transparent. Seeking out others like the armored man to have their way with you? Clearly you harbored some sort of affection, kept secret and safe by the walls that humans build around themselves.

But Serpentia had a funny way of sliding that dastardly pink slick through all defenses, leaving the body raw and exposed.

"I mean familiar." You replied, your pillow like a shield between yourself and Mando. Ezra settled back to watch the show, well aware that his smirk was probably insufferable. "I have needs, you know." You continued primly. 

Mando's fists clenched on his thighs before he pointedly flattened them back out, fingers dragging over the plates. "I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't...I'm sorry." He mumbled, patting his leg. 

You wavered again and nearly fell. The armored man caught you, settling you down with a cautious tenderness that fired a thrower shot of arousal directly into Ezra's gut. He had always been a weak fool for chivalry, though he was able to display precious little of it in his own life. Oh, this was the best kind of story. 

...

Your face burned with embarrassment; why had you told him about your rendezvous with two other members of his Creed? It was like the words just fell out of your mouth, like your brain itself was against you. 

You could still remember the way the larger one had pressed his forehead to your own and then encouraged you down his chest to his groin, the way his helmet had tipped back--

A new flood of warmth swept into your cunt and you bit down on your hand to stifle your noise at the pain that followed. Mando paused, then laid your pillow between his open legs. "Lay down on your back." He muttered, patting his leg again. "This way you can see me. I'll be right here."

"I'm-"

"Don't apologize, please." Mando cut you off. "Once this is over, once everything is...over, I...listen, we'll operate as a sealed unit. This maneuver is scrubbed from the start. I never found the quarry. Nothing that we say or do here will ever be mentioned again. Understood?"

Your breath caught in your throat. He was giving you an out. Or himself, you were uncertain. You nodded slowly and his shoulders drooped a little, but whether he was relieved or disappointed…

Well, some secrets were meant to stay that way. 

Ezra nodded his own agreement. "It is best to have certain protocol already in place when engaging in uncharted waters." He muttered. "Decidedly militant, but I must surmise your Creed taught you that."

"This is the Way." Mando said firmly. 

"If we are operating under burner infantry orders, then I must voice my trepidation about this engagement," Ezra confessed to you. "I have endured this crisis once before and it was not a pleasant experience. I do not envy the pain I am certain you feel at this moment, but I also know that you are in a...compromised and sensitive position. I...if any advance is unwanted, I trust you will inform me. And if I do not respond, if I am too far gone, please have your associate rescind my invitation." He gestured at Mando with his bound hands. 

"Wh-What are you going to do to me?" You asked, your voice high in your ears even as you let Mando maneuver you down to the blanket.

"I am going to do for you what your companion cannot, little bird." Ezra's tongue dampened his lips nervously. "And only that, if I understand the situation correctly."

"What he…" you trailed off as a thought occurred to you. Ezra hummed quietly as if to confirm and the sound reverberated through your core, making you whine and squirm restlessly. "Oh, what, stars, you mean-"

"My mouth, little bird." He had a tiny section of blond hair on the right side of his head, the tuft residing rakishly just at his hairline. You hadn't noticed until now, but the whimsical little patch seemed to soften his stern features. "You will need the saliva, regrettably. I am certain that the idea of the mouth of a lowly aurelac harvester on you is a repulsive one, but it is the only way to get the proverbial ball rolling." 

"Wait, you have to eat me out?" You asked in confusion, trying to get back up. "Hang on, I should shower, I'll-" Agony raked down your spine and you spasmed, a breathy sound of pain forcing itself past your lips.

Ezra's incredulous chuckle soothed the sensation back down to a manageable level. "What an unexpected offer, little bird! I cannot recall the last time someone bathed specifically for me. You will wholly ensnare me if you continue such considerate behavior." 

…

Din's body felt like it was on fire in his armor. 

You had gone looking for people like him. 

You had gone looking for Mandos because you wanted familiarity. The idea of you sussing out more of his brothers or sisters because you had needs-

Din wasn't sure if he would survive this particular encounter. He was gripping his cuisses so tightly that the leather of his gloves burned against his fingertips. Mandalorians weren't celibate by any stretch of the imagination, but the Creed could make things...more difficult than they needed to be for a variety of species.

Ezra, despite his hands being bound, was remarkably capable. The man had coached you through the pain when you had tried to move, his voice obviously helping you somehow. Djarin wasn't sure if he was jealous or grateful. Maybe both.

The fact that this was causing you to suffer had him loathing how stiff his cock was in his compression leggings, even though from what he had gathered he couldn't actually help that particular reaction. 

"I must beg your assistance in disrobing." Ezra was saying softly, tugging at the overly-knotted waistband of your loose pants. "Please, little bird."

"Right, yeah, of course." You mumbled and Djarin could hear the pain in your voice, could feel the twitchy little flinches as you tried to follow Ezra's directions. 

Hesitantly, the Mandalorian moved his hands up until they rested on your shoulders. You exhaled a breathy little moan, nuzzling your cheek against his glove in what he had to assume was thanks.

"Better." You gasped, seeming more sure as you struggled to undo the sash at your waist. 

"Well done, Steerforth." Ezra praised, causing something warm and wet to pour into Din's abdomen. The armored man's breathing stuttered, was this what Ezra had been feeling the entire time they had been walking? Stars, how had he even managed-

His cock lurched against the tight hold of his leggings, precome dampening his stomach. Without meaning to, Din's fingers tightened on your shoulders and he grunted quietly. 

Your eyes shot up, locking with his visor. He knew you couldn't actually see him, but at that moment he felt exposed. "You alright?" You asked quietly, your breath hiccuping when Ezra brushed the stubble of his jaw against your naked thigh. Din ached to do that himself, Maker he wished-

"I'm fine." He choked, like he wasn't roasting alive from the double-edged heat of artificial arousal and jealousy. His left hand slid down, resting at the hollow of your throat. It soothed his ego a little to see that your eyes were still on him, despite what the quarry was about to do. 

Ezra, he reminded himself. This man wasn't prey anymore, for all that he was keeping the binders on. Din at least needed that level of control. He needed the stability.

That recurrent devious thought surged forward again, dark and heady. Utilizing Ezra, he could indulge vicariously in the hazy desires he had fought for cycles. The wish to bury his face between your legs and eat you out until you cried, like in the raunchy imagecasts he picked up on rare occasion. Putting his bare hands on you, stars-

Din Djarin was a man of extreme self-control. So far, he hadn't overstepped or shamed the Creed, unless you counted the time he was loaded out of his mind with bacteria-laden quills. He hadn't realized just how many of them were embedded in his back until his vision started getting blurry as he was standing over the nexu's dead body. Served him right for letting the feline get the drop on him before he put his backplate on.

You had been so worried when he returned. You were patched into his coms so you obviously heard the struggle he had dispatching the creature. Heard how ragged his breath got and how hard he had to actually fight. 

Din vaguely remembered flopping down on his belly with you hovering over him, pliers in one hand and bacta shot already buried in the meat of his shoulder. Stars, it was great to have a partner sometimes. If he had come back to just the kid like that, he'd probably be dead from an infection. You didn't even make him take off his suit, you just worked around it. 

You ended up removing thirty-seven quills of various lengths, most of them bearing nasty hooked barbs. The pain had hit different because of the infection, leaving Djarin trembling boneless and silent on the floor of the hold while you wriggled quills out of his back. He had never felt more helpless, more vulnerable, beskar be damned. 

"It's alright. I'm glad you made it back." You had said calmly. "I'm not letting you go alone next time, though."

"Thank you, Senaar…"

Din's face flushed when he recalled how badly his voice had cracked when saying the name he called you by, less speech and more a plaintive cry. The way his glove had slipped over the skin of your cheek, and how he had longed to remove that glove...

Maker, he sullied the Creed with his inability to reconcile over lack of touch. The hunger for skin-to-skin contact that reared its ugly head every time you were out of your heavy exosuit and durasteel served as a painful reminder, one much more poignant than the simple weight of his helm, that he was a Mandalorian.

But this doppelganger loophole was a gift to be thoroughly exploited and he wasn't about to waste that opportunity. 

Ezra buried his face between your legs and Din felt the way your entire body coiled up in anticipation, another trembling cry leaving your lips and your hands twisting frantically into the blanket beneath you. "Mando-!"

His name, his name, you were saying his name even with another man's mouth giving you pleasure. Djarin couldn't help the satisfied little growl that left his lips and made its way through his modulator. He heard Ezra chuckle, the other man pausing to shoot him a sly wink over the length of your body. Din nearly laughed.

"Ezra," He said instead, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Make them cry."

He stopped caring about how wrong it was.

…

You gasped at Mando's words, already inches from bursting into tears. Ezra's mouth was slowly coaxing you open, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw rubbing your thighs. Every pass of his tongue, every gentle press and suckle sought to untangle the knotted ball of heat in your belly, but you were certain you would lose your mind before you managed to disperse the agonizing feeling.

You were too full, almost too aroused to handle Ezra's mouth on your cunt but you were positive if he stopped licking at you, you would die. Heat felt like it was sloshing in your belly, there was so much of it...

Ezra placed a series of delicate kisses on your clit, each one lighter than the last. His hands, still secure in their binders, clutched your right thigh for purchase when he pulled back to gulp air. His expression was dazed, eyes managing to focus on the armored man that loomed over you after several long seconds. "Will you not indulge, Steerforth?" He sounded like he was almost begging Mando, voicing what you couldn't bring yourself to say. "They ask for you, how can you sit there so damned impassive?"

Your breath caught in your throat when you heard Mando exhale raggedly, the bounty hunter muttering, "M' not impassive. There's nothing I-"

"Touch them, for fuck's sake!" Ezra cried, pointedly rattling his cuffs. "I cannot do both. We must work together!"

The Mandalorian lurched suddenly up onto his knees, then sprawled over your body, slamming one hand down to support his weight before wrapping his fingers in the neck of Ezra's tattered thermal shirt. "You don't call the shots here, quarry." He snarled in That Voice, the one that he reserved for his bounties.

Your hands crept up to his hips, hyper aware of the sweet taste in your mouth and how good this would feel. 

…

Ezra stared at the pitch-black visor inches from his nose. Felt the strength in the gloved hand that threatened to do much more than stretch his shirt.

The prospector took a mental inventory of his body at this juncture, a bit surprised and entertained to find that he was thoroughly invested in this new direction the encounter had taken. Mando was no doubt glaring at him from the safety of that impregnable helm, the other man's hackles obviously raised by the jab from the prospector.

It mattered very little at this point in time, however, as Ezra heard a zipper fly open. Mando flinched so hard Ezra felt it in his back, and the sound you made was enough to get the devil to start sweating. "Seems that you may be outnumbered, Steerforth."

"Target rich--environment-" The armored man snarled. "Senaar, y-your--mouth, fuck-"

He stuttered. He stuttered. Ezra latched onto that weakness with a filthy grin, easily twisting out of the other man's grip to duck his head back down and taste you. Mando's other hand hit the blanket as you undulated your hips up to meet Ezra's mouth. Ezra could only imagine the noises you were making around the other man's cock. He knew you were making them by the way Mando's arms quivered. And wasn't that a sight, a man in full armor rendered helpless by the power of a warm, eager mouth on his cock. 

"Watch me now, Steerforth." Ezra crooned, tilting his face up to make presumed eye contact. "This is how you make them weep with pleasure." He was sure that his chin was dripping pink at this point and he knew, even without seeing the other man's face, that Mando was barely hanging on. He had to salute the armored man's dedication. A less devout individual would have given out before they made it to the floor.

The Medusine barrier that the Serpentia formed was slowly weakening under the gentle assault of his mouth, Ezra was pleased to notice. Of course, he wasn't exactly rushing, simply going at a steady pace to keep your pain to a bare minimum. You had begun to leak around the barrier, your arousal even warmer than he had expected. Ezra couldn't tell whether it was because he was under the effects of the pollen or whether it was reality that you tasted immaculate, but he reasoned that it didn't particularly matter. 

He was hungry enough to cope with either happenstance. 

"Little bird, fuck my face, won't you?" He requested sweetly, chuckling at your enthusiastic response. "Grind yourself to completion on my tongue, break the barrier so that your associate can sheathe himself balls deep in this delectable pussy and give you respite." 

...

"Fuck." Din rasped, his eyes wide behind the visor of his helmet. The way that Ezra spoke was like fucking music, the man wrapping filthy words in flowery, incomprehensible syntax. 

The Mandalorian's fingers tangled resolutely in the blanket, the armored man panting as you urged his aching dick even further down your throat. Your hands grappled with his thighs, shoving them wider and then taking two hungry handfuls of his rear to encourage him.

"Senaar-" he started to warn you off, but stopped dead when you moaned around him. Stars, he wondered how you could even breathe-- 

You pulled back, coughing and gasping. "You're doing so well, little bird." Ezra murmured from between your legs. Your only reply was to take Din's cock back into your mouth and oh fuck you weren't stopping-

Your hand found Djarin's in the blankets and you tugged on it, forcing him to try and figure out how to redistribute his weight so you could have the appendage. He managed it of course, he was a fucking Mandalorian after all, but there was a moment where he nearly lost his balance.

You guided his hand to your neck and Din couldn't fight back the groan he let out when he felt his cock bulging through your throat. Fuck, no one had ever been able to take this much of him into their mouth before, halfway was usually the stopping point. 

Djarin grunted and tilted his head down to watch you struggle, finally wrapping a hand around his cock and easing it back out of your mouth. Strands of saliva connected the engorged head of his dick to your lips. Din sighed stupidly at the sight, fisting his dick and coating his glove with your spit. "You're good at this, Senaar." He said gruffly, knowing that it wasn't really praise, not like how Ezra said it. But words had never been his forte. 

"Keep speaking to them Steerforth, they leak at every word out of your mouth." Ezra encouraged from between your legs. "That's right little bird, just a bit more…"

Din was startled, to say the least. You liked when he talked? "I…" he hesitated, then his brow furrowed. "Can't wait to fuck you, Senaar." You whimpered, your hips shuddering. "Fuck you until you don't remember your own fucking name." Din growled. "Breed you like a good Mando should, pump you full of my come just like my Creed-siblings did, right?"

You nodded against his thigh, your sweat seeping through his flight suit to meet his own liberal perspiration. He was so hot, his armor had never been this hot--

"Kevva, that's a kink I didn't anticipate." Ezra panted, pink slick smeared all over his nose and chin. "They certainly like it though, if I understand correctly."

Din could smell you, smell the sweet scent of that fruit mixed with your own arousal. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Ezra's neck and he nearly headbutted him on reflex, barely reining the power back in time. Ezra seemed confused at first, the other man obviously dazed with heat and just sort of allowing Djarin to shove his face against his helmet. 

…

The helm was so cool, Ezra couldn't restrain a relieved sigh when he made contact. Mando appeared to be rubbing your essence all over his helmet, utilizing Ezra's face as a paintbrush. Unorthodox, but effective.

"Oh," Ezra realized, "you've got some sort of olfactory sensors in there, don't you. You lewd creature you!" He teased breathlessly. "If you think they smell sumptuous, I regret to inform you that their taste utterly puts that to shame." Words were heavy in his mouth, the prospector having to work harder and harder to put sentences together. It wouldn't be long before his senses wholly abandoned him, he was certain. "Release me, Steerforth, I must…I must carry out my end of the bargain." He groaned, struggling free. "We are almost at their climax."

Mando was nearly vibrating with anticipation, gloved fingers clawing at Ezra's hair. "Careful," was all the armored man said hoarsely. 

Ezra nodded, once again touched by the bounty hunter's surprising display of consideration for his partner. "When the barrier breaks, they will need your cock immediately, Steerforth. I will...not be coherent for much longer." He mumbled against your cunt, giving up on speech after Mando nodded.

With one last sweep of his tongue, the barrier dissolved. You sobbed out, your voice breaking as you writhed beneath your large companion and bucked your hips up against Ezra's eager mouth. Slick fairly poured out of you, leaking down your thighs and soaking the blanket beneath you. 

Ezra didn't remember wriggling his bound hands beneath your rear, simply returning to his senses with your legs over his shoulders and his lungs burning for air but you tasted so good, he felt raw with hunger. 

Mando's gloved hand covered nearly the entirety of his face, easing him back from his feast. Ezra watched the other man's chest heave in a daze until he suddenly remembered what he was doing. "I apologize, I...I am too far gone." He murmured in contrition, lowering your hips back to the floor. 

"Ask nicely to fuck their mouth." Mando ordered, his blunt words digging into Ezra's groin. "You said it hurt you last time because you were alone. You helped them not to hurt. If they don't want to let you to fuck their mouth though, I'll…" he hesitated, "I'll figure something else out. Nobody has to hurt."

"'Something else'?" Ezra repeated, stunned. What on earth could this armored man possibly be offering? Those gloves were remarkably soft, the leather worn smooth from a lifetime of use, no doubt- "Oh."

…

The pain had eased, only to be replaced by a searing emptiness. You squirmed beneath Mando, tangentially aware that he was engaged in a discussion with Ezra. Your hand flew to your pussy, the drenched area making an embarrassingly loud noise when you thrust two fingers into yourself in an effort to quell the ache. 

"Maker, please, please, Mando!" you begged, barely aware of what you were saying. The heat concentrated in your pelvis was burning you alive, desperate tears pouring down your face.

Mando stood to his full height, towering over you, just watching you quiver while you pleaded deliriously. He fairly ambled around your body, moving until he stood between your spread legs. His boot shoved your ankle, opening you even further, exposing every inch of you and the mess that covered the blanket under you. "Senaar." The low burr of modulation made you rock your hips up, whimpering and nodding when he stroked his cock like he was showing off.

Somewhere, deep in your soul, you prayed that he liked what he saw even without the strange pollen instigating. 

He knelt, gloved fingers curling beneath your chin to pull your eyes up from his thick, perfect cock and the puddle of precome it was currently weeping onto your pubic mound. His touch sent flickering trails of electricity through your body, and you could barely focus on what he was asking.

"Ezra...mouth?" 

You nodded rapidly, making Mando bark out what could have been a laugh. He cupped your jaw again, and then his hand stroked your hair in a way that was almost tender. 

"I'll make you feel better." He promised. Ezra was a mess, he looked like you felt. The quarry simply let Mando shove him down onto his knees, his eyes half-lidded. "Undo your suit." Mando ordered and Ezra shakily attempted to obey. He was having a difficult time with his hands still in the binders so you reached out, batting his hands away impatiently to unzip the lower portion of his exosuit.

His thermal leggings were threadbare like his shirt, the waffle-weave fabric soaked through. His cock visibly twitched when you exhaled sharply. "Do not tease me, little bird, I feel as if I am on death's doorstep." The man pleaded through his teeth, "I am raw and agony gnaws at my skin; please take me in your mouth." 

"I have to get your pants off." You tried to explain, fumbling with the article of clothing. The noise of despair he made had you frantically clawing at the pants, finally dragging them down low enough that his cock was freed. It slapped against his belly and he moaned, bound hands digging helplessly into your hair. 

"May I please have your mouth?" He requested raggedly. "I will not take it if you do not give it freely but please, little bird." 

After he had worked so hard to get you to come? You were nodding hurriedly before he finished speaking, and his deep, drawn-out groan of relief was like music to your ears when you swallowed him down. 

…

You were radiating warmth, your hips twitching and shifting restlessly even as you tried to get Ezra's dick out of his suit. Din had to hand it to the other man, he did ask nicely. 

But there were much more pressing matters to attend to. Mainly, your neglected cunt that was currently leaking all over the underside of his cock. Djarin took a steadying breath, and then slowly sank himself into your waiting heat.

Your cry of relief was fucking primal, a hungry, feral snarl that slithered hot and seething in his stomach under the beskar plate. Din was wholly, entirely lost, finding himself mentally shattered at the first stroke into your body. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips and then your legs fell open, like you didn't have the strength to hold them up. 

Shit, he knew he should say something, he knew he should be reluctant about this, but it was like every cell of his body needed you to fucking survive. 

Maybe he always had. 

Din bared his teeth and growled back at you, his attention divided between watching you eagerly suck Ezra's cock and watching the way his own dick split you open. His passage was eased by the strange pink fluid that continued to ooze out of you, stars it was so hot-

Ezra's fingers tangled in your hair after a moment, the prospector cradling your head to his groin in a manner that could have almost been described as gentle.

"Is this how my Creed-siblings f-ucked you, Senaar?" Din's voice grated in his chest, the armored man barely aware of the heated words tumbling out of his mouth. "Filling you, claiming you, fucking your throat and pussy?"

"Kevva." Ezra breathed. "Your peculiar voice working in tandem with your cock appears to be the thing that turns them into a voracious harlot. I do not know if I have ever-" His sentence broke momentarily, "oh, fuck, very well little bird, take the whole of it then." He grunted, raking his fingers through your hair as you deepthroated him. "You are absolutely magnificent at that, you know." The other man praised shakily. 

Your cunt fluttered around Djarin's cock and he felt your arousal soak through his suit, hot fluid sliding down to coat his balls. "Stars, did you just come?" He groaned, unable to stop the filthy noise he made when you whined around Ezra's dick and nodded as best as you could. His fingers gripped your thigh, digging into the skin as he began to rut against you. The Mandalorian threw his head back, panting, "Feel so fucking--good around me, fuck, Senaar, so good-"

…

You felt like you were falling apart again and again. The taste, the sensations, the curling knot of heat in your belly that released inch by inch. Mando's hand on your thigh and Ezra's grip on your head were the things that allowed you to hold on to your sanity, but only just.

Mando was conquering you utterly, his dick driving into you with enough force that you knew you would be aching later, but in the moment you never wanted him to stop. You had craved him, wished for him for so long, to finally have him was total bliss. 

And Ezra, Ezra, his silky voice caressing your body as his bound hands carded through your hair. His cock choked you again and again and every time you had to pull back off of him for breath he praised you, talked about how good you were, how no one had ever taken him as deep as you…

You were in heaven. 

Ezra abruptly retreated, his cock smearing more precome across your lips. "If you continue on in this manner I will be undone, little bird." He muttered. "Your one-sided assault, while inescapably delicious, is rendering me wholly base. You wish for me to spill my seed on your face?" His hips twitched. "Or shall I fuck my come down your throat, request that you swallow every drop?" 

"Fuck it into them." Mando rasped before you could say anything in reply, a gloved hand grabbing your chin. "Fuck your load i-into that sweet little mouth of theirs. Give them what they fucking need, quarry." He demanded, and you nearly came again from how unhinged he sounded. 

"Well, little bird?" Ezra asked softly, his eyes dark with want. "Shall I take my pleasure from your lewd little mouth and let your beautiful throat milk me dry?"

"Please!" You begged, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue to encourage him. 

Ezra sighed blissfully at the sight, lacing his fingers through your hair and encouraging you to take his cock until your nose rested against his groin. "Fuc-king gods, you are positively celestial." He groaned, "Relegating yourself to a singular partner would be doing you a disservice, little bird. I highly encourage you to weaponize your talents in whatever field you wish."

Come flooded your mouth, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. Your eyes rolled back, your lungs burning for air and you dimly heard Mando snarl, dropping his helm to rest on your sternum. The metal was blessedly cool even through your tunic, helping to anchor you to reality. 

"Fucking touch me, please." Mando's voice shook even with the modulator, his words buzzing through your body. "Senaar please, fuck, pl-please, touch me, fucking--"

Your palms crashed into his shoulders, hips bucking upwards to meet his next thrust and you came again. Mando made a noise that you could only liken to a roar, the armored man grappling at your hips and grinding himself against your dripping cunt. 

"Senaar, Senaar, Senaar--" The name he had given you punctuated every thrust, his rasping tone making your belly drop out. You weren't sure if you would ever stop coming, grasping blindly at Mando and Ezra while your cunt gripped down on Mando's cock.

…

If Ezra still had any doubts about being a blatant proxy for the armored man, that was obliterated in his post-orgasm daze. 

A gloved hand slid to the back of his neck and tugged him down to your mouth. Ezra went clumsily but willingly, the prospector humming when he tasted himself and the cloying sweetness of the Serpentia on your tongue. You sobbed against his lips and Ezra soothed you with his mouth, accepting all of your hungry whimpers and whines as he stroked your hair back off your forehead. 

"Little bird, little bird, you will want for nothing with this individual pummeling you so mercilessly." He breathed, relishing the soft cry that quivered against the skin of his neck. "I imagine you can feel every inch of that prodigious girth, burning like unquenchable quicksilver, threatening to breach your very womb." He moved his bound hands down, resting them on your stomach. "Steerforth, I trust you are punishin' their cervix with every thrust?" He queried, chuckling darkly when Mando just snarled in reply.

You threw your head back, hands fisted in the fabric between Mando's pauldrons and gorget. "Mando-!" You pleaded, "fuck!" 

Mando's hands dug beneath the small of your back and he canted your hips upwards, sheathing his cock in the cradle of your body over and over. Ezra envied the armored man's stamina, grunting when he felt his member trying to rise again. Whether he could blame the pollen for that, he was unsure, but the lovely company certainly did nothing to dissuade his arousal. Watching this large, almost knightly figure rail into you, your face still a mess of tears from when Ezra had fucked your mouth…

Kevva, he could not recall a time where he had been so content to simply play voyeur, pressing the occasional kiss to your lips at Mando's behest. "Such tenderness, what a dichotomous sensation for you," the prospector mused, "the contrast between armor and flesh." His mouth brushed against your ear when he continued, "However, I believe you're beginning to realize that there is an untapped wellspring of man beneath all that metal, am I correct little bird?"

...

You squeezed your eyes shut and Din's hand reached up, the bounty hunter unable to keep from cradling your cheek. "I always knew." You said, your voice barely audible. "I-I always...I always-"

"Be quiet." Din grunted. "Y-You...don't have to say it." His heart slamming in his chest had nothing to do with his current exertion. You knew. Shame reached him dimly through the haze of arousal. All the times he ached to touch you, all the times he battled with himself over his desire for contact…

Your hand gripped the back of his helmet and he flinched sharply. He hadn't noticed you move and you could pull his helmet off, shit, he was so stupid for doing this! His eyes flew to yours, even though he knew you couldn't see through his visor.

After a moment of him fighting back his panic, you just shook your head. "S-Sealed unit, ri-ght?" You asked, your words hitching with his thrusts. Djarin nodded warily. Your eyes half-lidded and you knocked your forehead into his helmet, the gesture unmistakable to a Mandalorian.

A kiss. 

Was his heart breaking, or just fucking giving out under the assault of this insane pollen? Was he overloaded? Was this all just some wild hallucination?

Din frantically shoved his helmet against your face, pinning your head back to the pillow. Shit, he needed to be careful, you didn't have armor. "Senaar, I--" Basic had always been so damn heavy on his tongue. Mando'a flowed, but it was secret. Sacred. Djarin hesitated and you reached up again, cradling the indents on his helmet.

"Always. Even with this." You whispered. 

His brain had short-circuited. The roaring in his ears was deafening and he knew he was making some kind of ugly, wounded noise, but he couldn't actually do anything about it. 

Always. Always. 

His heart must have blown, he reasoned desperately. That was the only explanation for what he was feeling right now.

…

The sound that Mando made after you assured him was heartwrenching, a guttural sob that seemed like a mixture of agony and ecstasy. He clawed at the blanket beneath you, gasping for breath as he all but broke you in half, his dick ripping yet another orgasm from your hungry cunt. 

You were lightheaded from his prolonged fucking, your pussy in spasm around his thick cock, but you refused to give out yet. "Did you feel me come, Mando?" You whimpered against the side of his helmet, wringing more feral noises out of him. "Is it good?"

"Fuck, incredible, s-so--" Mando gripped your thigh, hitching it up over his hip and then dragging his fingers hungrily through the pink slick that had pooled in the crease of your hip. "Never want to leave, fuck, m'sorry, I know I'm t-taking--forever-" 

"Only a fool apologizes for his length in the bedroom." Ezra remarked dryly, dipping down to kiss you when you laughed. "How do you fare, little bird?"

"So good." You sighed, feeling half-drunk on your orgasm high. The knot in your belly had finally gone slack, leaving you weak and trembling beneath Mando as he chased his own completion. You hummed and Ezra rumbled back, his touch remarkably careful when he cupped your chin. 

"You have done so well." Ezra murmured. "Serpentia is no simple storm to weather, yet you have endured." Mando wordlessly bumped his helmet against Ezra's temple, the metal rubbing over the blond tuft of hair the quarry sported. "You are most welcome, Steerforth." Ezra chuckled. "One is glad to be of service, but please. You threatened to fill them, didn't you?"

Mando's hips faltered in their rhythm and the armored man finally came with a shattered moan of relief. Stars, you weren't sure if you had the Serpentia to blame for the sheer volume that he came; you could feel it frothing out of you around his cock as he continued to shudder and writhe through his orgasm. 

"Holy shit, Mando." You said incredulously, unable to fight back the urge to slip a hand down between your bodies. "You told me Mandalorians were rare."

"We--are." Mando panted raggedly, his cock still twitching inside you.

"If you come like this, how?" You asked, your combined fluids soaking your questing fingers. Mando just stared at you for a moment, shoulders heaving while he struggled to catch his breath.

And then he started laughing, which was...not nearly as terrifying as you had expected, honestly. "Stars, you--" He wheezed, his helm thudding gently against your forehead. "Fuck you, Senaar." You could hear him grinning, his voice still warm with laughter. 

"Odd method of displaying affection. I take it your Creed is of a fraternitous bent?" Ezra commented, a quiet noise of surprise escaping him when you tugged him down for a kiss.

"Thank you." You mumbled drowsily into his mouth. 

"Hardly. I ought to thank you. When last I endured the Serpent's grasp, I was incarcerated and driven to gratify myself to ribbons on the inside of my gear." Ezra informed you, his tone nonchalant. "This experience was a rare moment of hedonistic bliss in my life. Believe me when I say I shall cherish it."

He straightened up before you could say anything in reply, extending his bound wrists to Mando.

"Whither to, my recalcitrant steerforth?"

Mando ignored him for another moment, stroking your forehead tenderly. He appeared to have noticed your weariness, because he sounded softer when he spoke. "Sleep, Senaar. It's over."

…

"I'll cut you loose on Sorgan." 

Ezra swiveled in the co-pilot chair, knowing that his expression must border on the befuddled. When the armored man had left you to sleep, hauled Ezra into the cockpit and secured his binders to the chair, the prospector had assumed that whatever agreement they struck previously was rendered null and void. "I would be...wholeheartedly grateful to you, Steerforth." He breathed.

"I never found you. Your pod malfunctioned and you burned alive in the atmosphere." Mando instructed him in that level, modulated voice. "Stop stealing shit and I won't have to hunt you down again."

"Those men stole from me!" Ezra retorted hotly, knocking his elbow down into the white case that hung off his hip. "I worked alone for stands and they came along right at the most opportune juncture, put a thrower to my head and robbed me! I simply reclaimed-"

Mando waved a hand, interrupting his self-righteous tirade. "You and I both know that it doesn't matter. I'm forfeiting the credits this time, but next time…" he trailed off pointedly. "Don't get caught again. If someone else from my Guild chapter picks up your bounty, Mandalorian or otherwise, they will catch you." 

Mando leaned in close, his elbows resting on his knees and helmet propped up on his folded hands. Ezra felt for all the world like a specimen underneath a microscope, barely suppressing the urge to squirm nervously. 

"The bounty specified that you be captured warm." The armored man said after a beat. "No promise of half-payment upon cold delivery or even proof of demise. So whoever you got into a pissing match with wants to be the one to put that last slug into your brain. You already heard my advice. For your own good, I suggest you lay low and be fucking quiet." He gestured out the cockpit viewport at the green sphere that hovered in the distance. "There's good people on that planet. Good people that I care about. If you bring hunters to their doorstep, I will find out. And then I will find you."

Kevva have mercy, this man was no joke. Ezra was having a difficult time just mustering up the breath to give him an affirmation! Was this truly the same Lancelot he had watched engage in lotus-eating debauchery with his Guinevere not two hours hence? Ezra's belly roiled uncertainly, arousal and fear a potent combination. This must be how the bounty hunter indulged himself without divesting his plate, the prospector reasoned dimly. Fear was a remarkably stimulating thing. "Of course." He finally answered, his voice a little reedy. "Your mercy is...unexpectedly generous, but no less appreciated for its spontaneity."

Mando grunted, seeming satisfied with his response. The armored man returned to the control panel after a moment, flipping a few switches. The entire ship appeared to be miles above what Ezra was used to. Even the Testin had a dog-eared manual that hung from a chain by the central dash, and the craft was such a rattling nightmare that she needed three bodies just to keep her straight. But this man, this...Mandalorian, he operated the whole blasted vessel with a fluid ease. 

His next words were so quiet Ezra nearly missed them. "Thank you."

"Pardon?" Ezra queried blankly.

Mando heaved a sigh that made his pauldrons visibly dip. "I said, thank you." He growled awkwardly. "I don't know what...I don't know if I would have hurt them because of--because of how I am." 

"It will do no good to ruminate on such dour subjects." Ezra hesitated, then continued, "but your Creed...would you have broken it for them, had you known about the requirements of the Medusine barrier?"

"I…" Mando tightened his hold on the directionals, those gloves creaking with his tension. "I'm not sure." He admitted, lapsing into silence afterwards.

"Your ship is marvelously responsive." Ezra murmured by way of changing the subject. "It reminds me of a diminutive Screamer-class that I endured a few stands on, oh, nearly fifteen cycles ago-"

"Be quiet."

…

Din watched Ezra until he vanished between the large trunks of Sorgan's conifers, the Mandalorian then dropping back into the pilot's seat with a groan. Maker, he hoped he was doing the right thing. Hoped he hadn't just unleashed some mass-murdering psychopath on the unsuspecting populace.

Djarin tilted his helmet back against the headrest of the seat, aimlessly staring up at the fuselage. 

What the hell was he going to say when you woke up? 

Din's heart sank. He knew that he couldn't believe anything that had come out of your mouth while you had been under the effects of that fruit. Serpent's Tongue. He chewed his lower lip meditatively. 

He could lie. 

He fucking cringed at the thought, then shook his head at himself. You would be embarrassed at best, but at worst…

Shit, he didn't want to lose you, even if you didn't feel the same way about him. And then there was the kid to worry about. No, a lie would be better. 

You had sought out other Mandos. His stomach lurched as he recalled that little fact. Fuck, fuck, was it hope that beat so insistently in his throat?

A sealed unit, he had said.

He just wouldn't bring it up. He was the one who had insisted that this whole maneuver was struck from the proverbial records in the first place, right? He just wouldn't mention it. Easy enough. If you said something, that was fine, but otherwise…

Din nodded firmly. This is the Way.

Part Two

[dc81600]

SCP-REDD

In a dark room a bank of monitor screens illuminated a pale face. The rusted brown glow of the video feeds gave Roger Little more color than the sun had cared to give him in the past few months. Half a kilometer north and two hundred meters down, an automated surveillance drone slowly made its way through a series of corroded metal hallways.

It was oddly silent, beyond the whine of computers and the whir of fans. Roger fiddled with his volume before checking the system audio. Nothing but the noises of the drone itself. No groaning, no creaking, no screaming. Just the soft click clack of the drone.

Roger checked the timing. The drone should have reached it by now. He squinted into the glare and overrode the drone. Nothing but flakes of rusted metal scattered across a floor of rusted metal, fallen from the walls and ceiling of rusted metal.

After several minutes of searching, Roger rubbed his temples. He drummed his fingers on his little metal desk and took a few deep breaths. He reached over and picked up the bulky plastic phone sitting on the edge of his work space. He dialed the number and only had to wait a few seconds before it was answered.

"Sir? It's Roger Little, from Surveillance. We may have a problem."

In the cold reaches of space, a satellite continued to do what it had done for over a decade. It hung in the weaker clutches of the Earth's gravity and watched a man wander about.

The man it was watching, however, was doing something a ways away from his status quo. He was running. Through the sweltering heat of the American Southwest in the middle of its summer, over the scorched earth, under a blazing sun, Mister Lost ran.

In hot pursuit was a man with fiery red hair. His black jacket left unbuttoned, it snapped behind him like shadows cast by a fire, the red trimming a much duller affair than his hair. He was gaining on Lost, who continued to make the mistake of looking over his shoulder. Each glance seemed to give the red-haired man more speed.

The eventual collision left Lost sprawled on the ground for a moment before he tried crawling away. The second man was up in a near instant. He brushed himself off and waited a moment before continuing his pursuit. He walked just behind Lost for a time, until he tried to get up. The pursuer kicked his target back onto the ground. This repeated itself for some time, until the red-haired main simply grabbed the man in the green jacket and dragged him in the opposite direction.

They eventually came upon a third man, who had been sitting on a rock outcropping. Blood and rust clung to every inch of his body. With what seemed to be considerable effort, the man stood. He took two steps before falling.

The red man grabbed the rusted man by the shirt and hauled him up onto his shoulder in a way that was quick but not unkind. All the while Mister Lost remained gripped in his opposite hand. After what looked like a satisfied sigh, the red man walked east.

An O5 rolled an unlit cigar back and forth over the sleek top of his desk. In front of him, the video feed on his monitor ended. Beyond that, his secretary stood at attention.

The secretary took a brief glance at his clipboard. "As you can see, sir, the unknown humanoid has captured both 2933 and 920. Further surveillance from multiple sources show it is now heading for one of our facilities."

The Overseer idly flicked the cigar, sending it spinning. "Given the context, I'm guessing it can be safely assumed who the entity is?"

"It's attacked two of the three Little Mister anomalies we don't have properly contained and now seems to be heading for the Site where we contain the other seventeen. Combined with its general appearance, yes. The list's designation number fourteen, Mr. Redd."

"Lock the Site down. We don't know what Redd is capable of. Considering it was able to escape 2933-1 and has been able to transport 920 for over a hundred miles without stopping, it's not something we want to discover first hand in the midst of an active facility."

The secretary nodded and departed for his own desk. Left alone, the Overseer plucked the cigar up and spun it between his fingers. He replayed the submitted videos and quietly thought to himself.

Eventually his secretary returned, and after a brief wait hustled back out with a freshly stamped order. Alone again, O5-4 slid the silver lighter off his desk and thumbed it several times before it sparked.

A group of people sat in a room full of monitors. Not quite like the one previously described, which was merely a one man obligation simply for the principle of the thing. As the door so boldly claimed, reading Site-██1 Security, this was a security station for a Foundation site, full of attentive individuals, with live feeds covering nearly every hallway and the ability to stream feeds from various containment cells if forwarded from the cell's own containment team.

One attentive individual sat up in her chair, more so than her already perfect posture had allowed. She began squinting at one of the monitors showing a feed of a camera deep within the facility, well away from any of the entrances.

Within the frame was a trio of men. One was dressed in a black and red jacket, one in a coat of metal, and one in a green hoodie. The first was carrying the second and dragging the third, the former of which was groaning and screeching like rusted clockwork and the latter was attempting to crawl away despite appearing to be unconscious.

She wondered how they arrived in the site despite it being locked down, when no one else had made any sort of comment. The worker flagged down her superior as quick as she could and explained what she had seen. But when she pointed to the group of monitors of the area the men had just been spotted in, they were nowhere to be seen. Now one of her coworkers, who had been monitoring an entirely different Wing, was reporting about them.

By the time attention arrived on the monitor in question the men were nowhere to be seen, and further examination showed they had disappeared from surveillance entirely.

O5-4 snubbed out his cheap cigar in one hand and thumbed one of the buttons on his monitor with the other. A round woman with sharp eyes snapped into view.

After a smokey exhale the O5 sat up and meshed his fingers together, if only for himself. His outgoing calls only showed a generic silhouette. "Dziekan. I hope all is well."

The Site Director fidgeted. To her credit, it was only slightly. "Not as such, sir. Redd has somehow breached the site with both Lost and Scary. More than that, he broadcasted a video message from somewhere in the facility. And he's made demands."

The weight of the silence from her superior stayed Dziekan. After several seconds O5-4 took a slow breath and said, "Somewhere in the facility?"

"Well. Sir. I don't recognize the area. It appeared to be a medical bay, but it definitely isn't any I'm aware of. With him was a little girl with a swollen stomach. He called her Katherine but we don't have any subjects on file with that name."

The name pressed down on the Overseer's chest. He took slow, deep breaths in an effort to calm himself but every inhale became more and more difficult. On autopilot, his hands opened his cigar case. The lighter sparked on the first flick and he took a deep drag. On exhale he realized what he was doing, but decided he may as well enjoy it while he could. How in the world could Redd have known about 231—

"O5-4? Are you still there?"

He shifted out of his daze, if only slightly. "Dziekan. Right. Yes. What were his demands?"

"For you to personally come in to see him, or he would kill the girl."

The next pull turned half the cigar to ash. "And?"

"Nothing else. Just for you to see him in person."

O5-4 watched his hand shake, smoke from the cigar zigzagging. "What did you tell him?"

"That I would notify you."

"You didn't say anything about that being against protocol, it being unlikely of happening, anything like that?"

"Seemed unwise to do so, given the context."

He finished his cigar. "If we're both alive tomorrow, remind me to give you a pay raise."

"Sir?"

He terminated the connection.

One door creaked open only to reveal another. O5-4 stepped through and stared down at the man leaning against the wall, an IV sticking into his arm. Mister Scary looked at him and smiled. The contraction chipped away some rust and blood flowed from the edges of his mouth. Neither said anything as the Overseer stepped past the Little Mister, glanced at the bag of morphine, and went through the second door, this one rusted open.

He considered breaking into a run down the hallway and settled on a stiff jog. Some of the tiles cracked under his feet and when he arrived at the double doors they were open, the joints rusting them in place. "I: 1-7 Os: Ker" was all that was visible of the plaque beside the doors.

Rust began to cling to some of the machinery, but the video feed of SCP-231-7's room was still functioning. Overseer Four steeled himself before looking.

A little girl lay in a hospital bed, her pregnant belly covered by her surgical gown. She seemed quite calm given the circumstances, but given her general situation there likely wasn't much that would upset her anymore.

Next to her bed was a man in a red vest, his jacket draped over the back of his seat. In one hand he held the ankle of a rusting man who was attempting to crawl away, and in the other he held a children's book.

The only sounds in the room were Lost groaning as his body rusted as he scrabbled against the decaying tiles and Redd reading in a warm voice.

O5-4 found the intercom and pressed the button. Katherine winced at the squealing as the system turned on and Redd cocked his head at the noise.

"Alright, Mister Redd. I'm here."

Redd released Lost and slowly turned in his seat to reach into his jacket pocket, removing a piece of paper. He marked his place in the story and shut it, setting the book on the bed. As Redd looked into the camera O5-4 saw flakes of brown and black on Redd's skin, red lightning sparking against it and revealing smooth skin.

Redd smiled. "Please, no need for the 'Mister' formality. We're all friends here. I'm Redd open parenthesis discontinued closed parenthesis. My friends just call me Redd. How are you, Four?"

Geniality was not what O5-4 was expecting. A few moments passed, filled only with the sound of Lost banging on the door, before Redd tilted his head and waved at the camera. O5-4 cleared his throat and said, "I've been better, Redd. You've been causing a lot of problems lately. Now what is it you want?"

Redd shrugged theatrically, splaying his palms. "Sorry about that. Though I do believe I was clear with my video earlier. I'd like to see you, face to face. No cameras, no PA systems. No tricks, no body doubles."

Was that a knife in Redd's hand? No, nothing. A trick of the light, a video oddity.

"Before that, I have one question. How did you get here?"

"Walked."

"The site has been on lockdown and you were able to avoid surveillance for most of your trek despite us having a satellite meant to track Mister Lost. And you somehow not only knew of this Wing, but how to access it."

"Like I said, I walked. As for why I knew, call it insider information. Now, please do get in here."

Again, a glimpse of black in his palm. A jagged shadow that played hell with the lighting of the room.

With great trepidation O5-4 unlocked the blast door and dodged Lost as he darted past. After watching the Little Mister run down the hall, the Overseer stepped into the room. It smelled of disinfectant and lilac, thanks to the small aromatizer next to the bed. He felt his heart hammer away at his throat as he looked to Redd, and clench slightly when the child gave him a little wave.

Redd gestured to the armchair on the opposite side of the bed. Once they were both seated Redd cupped his hands together and sighed.

"So, this is it," Redd said. "The finale. The brief period after a long sentence that drips with the taste of freedom. How long have you been doing this job?"

The Overseer was silent.

Redd smiled. Four would have sworn the overhead lights took on a slightly bloody hue.

"I," Redd finally said, "have been a Little Mister for… what is it, almost twenty years? Something like that. It's been difficult, let me tell you."

Redd looked down at the dagger in his hand, which was now all too real. With something akin to reverence he lifted it up and dragged the shadow across his own throat, cutting so deep his exposed trachea whistled softly. Red ran down his shirt. But it clung at odd places, depicting runes that sat at the edge of the Overseer's memory. Lightning lanced out and into the damage, the blood draining as red sparks healed the wound.

The Little Mister took another breath, "And there's no getting away from it. It won't let me go. As long as this stupid dirt ball keeps spinning, I'm going to be here. Unchanging. Undying. Unable to feel much beyond blinding rage."

He smiled again. "But what if I stopped the spinning? What if I could stop it all? What if I could stop hurting? I'd have to try, right?"

"If that's your intention, why bring me here? Why drag the other two around?"

"I guess I needed some kind of... closure," Redd said, his eyes distant.

I walked. I don't know how long, but I did. I know that much. I somehow ended up at the Wonderworks, the place that had eluded me for so bloody long. And it was running. No old man, but the place was bustling all the same. It was the gods damned child! The oh, so lovely Isabel! But what could I do to her? She was in the same sort as me, in a way. She asked me why you pricks hadn't collected me yet. I didn't really have an answer, but I figured, why not? Not like I had anything else to do. Suicide wasn't the option, as you can plainly fucking see!

But as I got closer, I got this feeling. This itching, burning sensation digging into my soul— if I even have one anymore. There was a thing, locked deep in the hole my brothers were buried. It spoke to me in ways I'll never be able to convey to you. Just. Fuck. It felt good. And I knew. I knew! I always thought I was just subject to anger issues, but all along I was a subject to the King!

Did you know gods can't die? They just… fade, waiting for their time to come again. But they still leave corpses. Something to jam a spigot into and tap into whatever power might be left lying around. The old man must have gotten desperate. Brass wasn't enough, even as big as the corpse he got pulled from is. A Broken universe still yields a Broken power, and a sliver of a fragment isn't worth much of anything. So he tried something a bit more intact, and…

...

What was I talking about? …Wait. Wait, no…

...

I used to say I have these… lucid moments. It's like— Do you wear glasses? You look the type. That brief time when you put them on, when your eyes see both through and around the lens. And everything just seems to warp around you as the glass rushes forward, the world shifts as the filter expands. You wear them long enough and you stop seeing the frames in your vision, don't feel the arms on your ears anymore.

...

I can't tell if my humanity is the prescription or the astigmatism anymore.

And I don't care. I'm so, so sick of it all. My eyes are strained to the point of bleeding and I can't close them. But at least that means I get to watch the end.

Redd eventually stirred from his trance. "Here, I want you to have this." He removed the bookmark from its spot and unfolded it before handing it over.

O5-4 stared at the list. One line in particular drew his eye.

14. Mr. Redd (discontinued) ✔

The man stood there for a moment, eyes unfocused. Somewhere in his mind the twentieth slot was filled. He leaned to the right, his hand out as if ready for a cane to take the weight. After a moment he caught his balance and examined his right hand, then the left, flexing and clenching them. He straightened back up and examined the room.

The former body of O5-4 took a breath.

Mister Collector let it out.

Collector reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp piece of paper, uncrumpled despite its confines.

He let out a small chuckle. The paper between his thumb and middle finger, he snapped, and a bubble formed around the parchment. It floated just above his palm, bounced when he tapped it. He gave the top of the bubble a light pat and it collapsed into itself, away for him to take out later.

"How you feeling?" Redd asked from his seat.

"Better than I have in years," Collector responded. When he spoke, Redd sat up. Squinted. "And yourself?"

"You—!" Redd flew forward, knife in hand.

Collector slapped it away into a bubble, which soared just out of Redd's flailing grasp. Redd drew another from his sleeve and threw it, only for it to be caught in another bubble. Red in the face, Redd swung a fist while simply producing a dagger from his palm. Collector caught the punch and a silky bubble wrapped itself around Redd's hand. He pulled and yanked and was only able to free himself when he released his grip on the third shadow knife.

"How?!" Redd demanded. "You should be dead! The girl said you were dead!"

"I likely am. The me you are speaking to is merely a copy, made prior to Mister Forgetful erasing 'me' from my old body. Whatever was left in the body of Isiah Crawford after that was Doctor Wondertainment, though with a bit too much Factory mixed in for my taste. I suppose I remember all that because Forgetful couldn't get to me as I was merely in potentia. You remember Mister Mad?"

"He was a fucking— were we all just tests? A fucking training ground?"

"Not all of you, no." Mister Collector, née Doctor Wondertainment smiled. It lacked its old rainbow glow but it shined all the same. "Forgetful and Stripes to cover my tracks, the latter's brother to get you all here…" The smile faded. "…Scary. Ahem. Truth be told, this whole Collector concept was done fairly late into the project's development. I mostly wanted to see how things would turn out. How is Isabel doing?"

Redd glowered. "So then why was I made?"

The old man narrowed the eyes that weren't really his. "Hmm. You were a gamble, I suppose. Of course, I made a grave error— as they say, always bet on black."

Redd grabbed Collector by the collar. "Do you think this is a fucking joke? That I am somehow funny?"

"Not as such. My apologies, I was trying to lighten the mood. What would you like me to say? That you were a defect? That I condensed a power that was much more destructive than I could have imagined and pumped it into some young man's veins? I tried to change you, but you just wouldn't take much. So Redd you became."

Redd released his grip, his face expressionless. "So I'm a mistake."

Collector straightened his tie. "I would more say… an unfortunate surprise. But who doesn't like surprises?"

"Ha…" Redd reeled back, smiling. It took another few seconds for his face to move again. "I'll show you a surprise."

"And what's that?"

The grin in Redd's mouth was almost as sharp as the knives in Collector's bubbles. "That would be telling, dear father. Can't spoil the surprise."

Redd sidled next to the child's bed and smiled down at her. Katherine smiled back up at him, her gaze occasionally edging toward the other Mister. Redd sat down, the impact bouncing the book up and off of the bed. A chuckle left him as he bent over to get it.

Redd set the book down in the center of the bed. He traced out a curved knife on the cover. A spark of red followed his fingertip, outlining the weapon. Once completed the red flickered and was filled with black. Redd slipped the knife off the book as one would a playing card and held it for Collector to see. When Redd turned it so that the blade faced Collector, it appeared to merely be a wispy black line flickering in the light.

"Are you ready?" Redd asked Katherine in a soft voice.

The child took a few breaths. "Are you sure you can? I don't want Him getting hurt."

Redd twirled the knife in one hand and brushed back her hair with the other. "These people may have locked him away, but I just so happen to have the key."

With trembling fingers she lifted up her gown to expose her belly. Brands marked the swollen skin, dull and dark. They crackled like coal when Redd touched them. Katherine laid flat and squeezed her eyes shut.

The twisted scalpel slipped into her, the blade so fine she didn't wince. But as Redd ran the knife across her, she began to scream. The runes on her skin sizzled as Redd cut through them, vapor rising into the air. Within the girl, red and purple pulsed and writhed, her womb mangled and distended. It squished and squelched as her yelling became racking sobs.

All the while, Collector stood impassively at the foot of the bed. He had seen as bad, caused worse, but a twinge of guilt struck him as he thought of Sweetie. Hopefully she would at least speak to him when he found her. Collector stirred from his thoughts when Redd cleared his throat, knife hanging over the mess.

"Don't lose focus, old man. You're about to witness the birth of a new era. Or, at least, the death of this one."

The knife dropped.

Rather than cut or tear into the tissue, the dagger simply sank into it. Black into a mottled red. But as it was swallowed, a pinprick of bright red showed itself. There was a moment of stillness, even within the girl, as the shadows cast across her intestines swirled to the red.

The room was suddenly all too full. The smell of iron was nearly palpable, a loud ripping sound the only thing accompanying Katherine's now-resumed screams. Hardened flesh that matched the color of a dying sun dripped with blood and placenta. It pressed everywhere within the room, on the walls, under the bed, even within the inhabitants. The ceiling began to crack, and then the tearing sound intensified enough to drown out the sobs.

The ceiling exploded. The earth and concrete above it was obliterated as the thing rose, level after level was leveled by the growing expanse. It grew as it rose, each rising floor destroyed in a greater capacity. Eventually Site-██ was exposed to the open air, where dark clouds were beat about by a pair of reverse wings. Eleven mouths creaked open to take their first breaths.

Foundation personnel stared up in slack-jaw awe. At a distance, civilians who could spot at least the crown of horns began to panic. Down in the medical room, the trio remained. A thin umbilical cord connecting Katherine to her son. Redd cackled and pointed the monstrosity out to the spent child. Collector tapped the side of his head and a bubble formed around it.

The Seventh Son spoke. Clouds broke and the sky cracked under the weight of his words. The air itself tasted of blood. All those within the range of His mighty voice felt crimson run out their ears, with the exception of a single man standing in the center of it all. His bubble vibrated rainbows against the onslaught, but held.

"Do you see?!" Redd yelled, none hearing him over the din. He touched the blood coming from his ear and showed Collector. "It's over! I can finally be over!"

Once the bubble stopped shaking, Collector popped it. The world was silent, waiting for the Son's next words. He took the umbilical cord in his hand and proffered it to Redd. A crack of a smile broke Redd's face. From nowhere he produced another dagger and with no amount of ceremony separated mother and child.

Knowing this, the Seventh Son drew another breath. When He spoke again, His words fell on deaf ears. The air around him shimmered slightly, reflecting a rainbow in places.

Collector lowered his hand from where he had touched the Scarlet King's spawn. Something stuck to his hand, which he wiped off on the bed sheet. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie again.

After a moment he turned to Redd, a small smile on his lips. "I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I couldn't hear you over all the noise. What were you saying?"

Redd said nothing. He did nothing, for a short time. Then his eye twitched. He looked at the shimmer of the bubble around the Seventh Son, at the stain on the bed sheet. Bony palms dug into his eyes as he tried to rub whatever nonsense was clouding his vision. When he looked again, the scene was the same.

"…No," Redd finally said, a full sword in his hand. He slashed at the bubble, the blade digging into the film. Then it flew out of his hand as the bubble pushed back. "No."

Collector watched Redd attack the bubble over and over again with a variety of shadow weapons. After a dozen or so weapons were embedded in the wall behind him, Redd slashed at his own hands and thrust the scarlet lightning into the bubble. It did nothing but catch the light.

"No!" Redd repeated, turning on Collector. "No."

"Sorry, is this distracting you?" Collector said. He raised a palm and snatched away the Seventh Son, now the size of a newt contained within the ball in the Little Mister's hand. "I'll put it away."

Redd watched his savior vanish with a whimsical pop! Mouth agape, he turned to his Queen. She couldn't look back, her eyes glazed over. Her breaths came in short, ragged bursts. Redd ground his teeth together and turned back to Collector.

With a mouth full of blood and darkness, Redd yelled, "No!"

He stumbled forward, knife in hand without the usual motion. It buried itself in Collector's chest.

"No!" Redd screamed, spraying blood in Collector's face. He pulled the knife out of his brother/father and continued stabbing him. "No. No! NO!"

Blood flew from the knife with each stab. Droplets froze in midair, catching other sprays and sloshing together into hovering bubbles of blood. Color drained from Collector's face as Redd's gained more and more.

"No…" Redd whispered, losing breath. His arm fell, opening a large gash across Collector's stomach. The knife fell and disintegrated, merging with the shadow cast by the last blood orb. A tear droplet met it. "No…"

Collector/Isiah hugged his brother/son. Redd sobbed against the offered shoulder. When the cries weakened in strength, Collector led Redd back to his seat. Redd fell into it and wrapped himself in his jacket. With a flick of his wrist Collector brought the crimson orbs into himself. By the time he finished collecting what shadow weapons remained he regained his color, though he moved slowly. He went about pop!ing the armaments away save for one. He took it out of its bubble and sat on the arm of the chair, between Redd and Katherine.

"I can't say this is how I envisioned the family reunion," Collector mused. "But I think I can afford you at least one gift."

Redd almost laughed. "What could you possibly give me?"

"Less give." Collector tapped Redd's forehead. "More take."

Redd blinked. He stared at the swirling hate bubbled in front of him. He winced when it vanished with a light tap from Collector. Emptiness filled him. Wonderful, calming emptiness. Tranquil, simple serenity.

Redd felt where Collector had prodded him. "It… it's gone?"

"Simply somewhere else."

Redd nearly sprang from his chair. "The girl! You could… take whatever they did to her out? Make her right?"

"I don't believe they made her wrong," Collector said, turning his gaze to Katherine. "If the Scarlet King could enter this world without humanity's help, he would have done it already. She chose this life for him. There is nothing for me to take from her, except…"

The black dagger seemed to try to catch the light in his hand.

"At least let me do it," Redd urged.

"I didn't wash your hands of blood just for you to dirty them again, Redd," Collector replied. "What's a few more drops on mine?"

He was silent for a moment, and then Redd said, "I don't think I really want that name anymore."

"Oh?"

He closed his eyes. The roiling red sea of his mind was now a calm blue. "I'm thinking Bluee."

"Blue?"

"With two E's."

Collector wheezed a laugh. "So be it. Excuse me one moment, Bluee."

It was over quick. Bluee found it hard to look at her, so he covered her up.

"So… what now?" Bluee asked.

"Now you enter one of the Foundation's little boxes, like your siblings," Collector said.

"What? That's it?" Bluee stood. "No, that isn't fair, it can't just end like-"

Collector held up a hand, and Bluee went silent. Collector reached into his pocket slowly, like the old man he looked to be. "You may be free of the Scarlet King's branding, but not of Wondertainment's. I'm in the body of a Foundation Overseer now. We have to act our parts."

Collector finally retrieved the paper he had pulled from his pocket earlier. He offered it to Bluee, who took it gingerly.

Wow! You've found them all and became Mr. Collector!!

But the fun isn't over yet, because now a whole new set of Misters will soon be in development, brought to you by our own Ms. Heir!

00. Mr. Collector ✔ 01. Mr. Chameleon ✔ 02. Mr. Headless ✔ 03. Mr. Laugh ✔ 04. Mr. Forgetful ✔ 05. Mr. Shapey ✔ 06. Mr. Soap ✔ 07. Mr. Hungry ✔ 08. Mr. Brass ✔ 09. Mr. Hot ✔ 10. Ms. Sweetie ✔ 11. Mr. Life and Mr. Death ✔ 12. Mr. Fish ✔ 13. Mr. Moon ✔ 14. Mr. Redd (discontinued) ✔ 15. Mr. Money ✔ 16. Mr. Lost ✔ 17. Mr. Lie ✔ 18. Mr. Mad ✔ 19. Mr. Scary ✔ 20. Mr. Stripes ✔

Bluee made a double take.

But the fun isn't over yet, because now a whole new set of Misters will soon be in development, brought to you by our own Ms. Heir!

Bluee looked up.

Collector's smile had more strength than the rest of his body combined. "Because we're not done yet." 

[phobiadeficient]

engiespy w/ vibrators? except this time engie has the vibrator in him

spy tf2 treats his boyfriend well i don't take criticism

(no warnings)

-

He inhaled and exhaled in great tremors and hoped that he didn’t look too ridiculous.

It wasn’t often that Spy decided to turn the tables. He enjoyed being pampered and draped in attention and affection, enjoyed soaking up the pleasure and compliments and satisfaction that came with being beneath Dell Conagher in bed. More often than not, he was willing to lie back and let Dell have his fun, and then other times he would simply take a more active role in that fun.

The days when he wanted control were far and few between, probably because he took such full advantage of them when the whim arose. Tonight was no different.

Dell, if he were being completely honest, would admit that he wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with the way he was laid out. Flat on his back, arms crossed at the wrist up above his head and cuffed down, a blindfold fitted snugly to the lines of his face.

The thing that both comforted and riled him further was the plug gently buzzing away from within him.

It wasn’t overlarge—not like the toys he rarely (but less rarely than Spy topping) would have the other man play on. It was just big enough to feel plenty nice on its own, all the more so with the buzzing that it was doing just then.

He felt good, certainly. The cuffs were comfortable with just enough slack to let him feel contained but not truly trapped, the blindfold soft enough to very clearly be meant for play, and he wasn’t being teased as much as he assumed he’d be, not outright.

It was just that Spy had slid the toy into place and then promptly laid himself out next to the Engineer and set to gently playing with the hair on his stomach and chest, kissing at the freckled skin of his shoulders like he had absolutely nowhere else to be.

He was waiting for the catch. For the part where Spy started messing with him, teasing him. But it wasn’t happening.

Spy’s hands finally paused against him, and after a moment Spy spoke. “Mon cher, why are you so tense?” Spy asked, voice gentle in a way that sounded almost carefree, one hand rubbing up over one of his biceps. He realized as Spy ran a hand over it that indeed it was holding an awful lot more tension than normal. “You should relax.”

“And what’re you gonna do to me when I do?” he asked, tilting his head towards Spy.

Spy chuckled. “Make you feel good, of course. What else?”

He was quiet for a bit, but not quite as long as he’d expected to be, embarrassed by the noise of the toy. “Not be a tease?” he pressed.

“Mmm, no,” Spy purred, and there was a hand smoothing over his lower stomach, tracing at the space between his thigh and his hip. “Perhaps take my time, but no teasing.”

He shifted. “And you expect me to believe you on that?”

“Non, not particularly,” Spy admitted, and his fingers brushed feather-light over the modest erection the Engineer was sporting, drawing a soft noise from him. “But I do expect you to relax.”

And he did, slowly, over the course of the next several moments, both consciously and through the help of Spy’s hand moving against his skin, coaxing him to full hardness with well-practiced squeezes and tugs and just the right amount of pressure. Spy could be called a lot of things, but a bad lover was far from one of them. Even before he’d gotten properly familiar with the Engineer, the first few times they’d slept together, he did an excellent job reading his tells and drawing heat to well up within him, leaving him helpless to his pleasure.

He heard Spy hum near his ear and was sure the man had to be smirking, and bit back a remark on it. He was rewarded by Spy capturing his mouth in a sweet, surprisingly chaste kiss for a long moment, after which his hand drew away at the same moment as his lips.

He had half a mind to protest and was trying to get the sense back into his head to get some words together when he heard a little click and the buzzing of the plug intensified, only slightly, only enough to drive that sense back away again. His mouth fell open around a noiseless gasp and he fought hard to choke back a noise. Spy chuckled at that, muffled against the front of his hip alongside a brief peck, which the Engineer could only wonder at for a moment before Spy drew him into his mouth.

It was blissful, the wet heat, the buzz, the fancy silk sheets against his back. He couldn’t hold back his quiet groan, couldn’t help but tug at his bonds just to do something. And that earned him a series of sweet little licks against the head, a prod to the base of the toy, and he groaned again.

And Spy really wasn’t teasing him so much as taking his time, taking it easy. It was just that the Engineer wasn’t the most patient man, and so halfway through a blowjob like his he generally would slide his fingers through Spy’s hair and urge him to move faster, harder. As it was he couldn’t even buck properly the way Spy’s weight was resting on his thigh, and that threatened to very well drive him up the wall.

But it didn’t. The buzzing of the plug brought him that extra little distance and made this leisurely stroll towards him finishing feel satisfying as all hell, even as some part of him cried out for more, more heat, more wet, more buzzing, more anything. So he did struggle against where his hands were tied, did toss his head what amount he was able, did flush straight up to his hairline at the fact that now that he was blindfolded he was so much more aware of the lewd sucking noises that Spy was making, probably just about par for the course but still enough to embarrass him a bit.

“Spy,” he gasped, and felt all the more embarrassed at the way his voice wobbled, the way his thighs were trembling with effort. “I’m close, just—just a little more, I, I need—“

The toy clicked upwards in intensity once more, and Spy’s hand promptly moved to press at the base, giving it even that much more movement, and that was it. He spilled into Spy’s mouth with a sound that sounded far too much like a whimper for his own liking, and the rogue just wouldn’t let up, kept sucking and rocking the toy until he gave the very last he had to give and all but collapsed back into the bed, panting like he’d just sprinted a mile or six.

He groaned at the toy being pulled free, hummed as he felt a kiss against his cheek, listened idly with what brains he still had left in his head at the sound of some things moving around. Finally he felt his hands get released, and relaxed for a moment longer before moving to nudge the blindfold up.

His eyes adjusted right on time to see a blanket get tossed over him, and Spy moving to get into bed with him, kissing affectionately at the underside of his jaw.

“No teasing, mon cher, just like I promised,” he murmured, and there was an easiness to his tone and movement, an amount of sweetness in his expression that made the Engineer aware that somewhere along the line he must’ve gotten himself off, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out exactly when. “How do you feel?”

“...Outta words,” he admitted, and that just made Spy’s smile widen.

“Good, then I’ve done my job well,” he said, and kissed him again, and he really had. He really, really had.

[is0gild]

Ice Cream and Fire Oven Pizza - Chapter 28

Pairing: Elsa x Lea/Axel || Side Pairing: Riku x OC

Summary: Modern AU. She's an introvert ball of nerves who works at Ice Palace, a mall food court ice cream shop. He's the outgoing, sassy goofball who works at the Pizza Planet across the way. Hilarity, snark, and fluffy romcom hijinks ensue.

Word Count: 7,573

FIRST CHAPTER || PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

Credit for super friggin’ cute and super friggin’ amazing cover art goes to the super friggin’ talented ky-jane here on tumblr!

Turns out getting disowned is exhausting.

Oh sure, there'd been the initial rush of "I did it! I finally stood for myself to my family!" Then came the panic of "...oh dear god, what did I just do?!" Followed swiftly by the euphoria of "I'm finally free! Really and truly free!" Plus several other feelings that were all colors of the emotion rainbow, so many in fact that it became difficult to keep track of them all. They'd coursed through my body like electricity, keeping me going long enough to return to my old bedroom, hastily pack up what little I'd brought with me, march out the front door of my parent's mansion and straight into Lea's car before he'd sped off with us.

It didn't take long however. Just a few minutes on the road and poof! All that surging energy had scattered and abandoned me, like fleeing rats off a sinking ship. I slumped into the seat, suddenly feeling empty and so very, very tired. I didn't talk and Lea didn't try to make me. Instead, he just left me alone to listen to the low music coming out the radio as I stared vacantly out the car window. I suspected he was giving me a chance to process everything that'd just happened, figuring I'd speak up when I was ready. If I was ever ready.

I tried to process it all. I really did try. But it was like a thick, silent fog had descended over my mind, making thinking difficult. The lack of sleep from the night before seemed to finally be catching up with me. It was easier to just give in to the white noise of my thoughts as I watched the landscape outside blur by, my eyelids growing heavier with each passing mile. Eventually, I dozed off.

When I slowly stirred awake later, it was to the faint smell of leather mixed with a familiar cinnamony boy scent. Peeking one groggy eyelid open, I found myself still in the car seat but with Lea's jacket folded and tucked behind my head now as some sort of makeshift pillow. The car was no longer moving and the engine was off - perhaps that was what had woken me up.

"Rise n' shine, sleepyhead!" came Lea's chipper voice as I felt his hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me.

Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at where he stood next to the vehicle, one elbow propped on the top edge of my open car door as he grinned down at me. "How long was I out?" I mumbled, giving a little stretch to work out some of the kinks in my neck and back.

"Few hours," he shrugged as I noticed he was still wearing those silly heart sunglasses, only now they were perched atop his head. "You looked like you could use the Z's and I didn't wanna disturb ya, so I've just been driving in circles round Twilight Town for a while now. C'mon," he tossed his chin to one side, gesturing for me to climb out of the car.

I yawned and unbuckled my seatbelt, then felt his hand on mine as he helped me out. The sun was hanging low, making me wince and shield my eyes against it. Blinking a couple times to let my vision adjust, I then looked around and my brow furrowed as I recognized the parking lot we were in. "...the mall? Why are we here?"

"What d'ya say?" he tapped a finger lightly to my nose, his grin twitching wider. "Up for a lil adventure?"

I stared blankly at him for a few seconds. But his smile was infectious and I could feel a matching one slowly tugging at my lips. "Sure."

He retrieved his jacket, shrugging into it before slamming my door shut and locking it. Then his fingers laced through mine once more and he led me inside. I knew where he was taking me even before he turned us down the deserted wing of the mall that was under construction. It didn't take him long to pick the locked door and soon I was carefully following him up those winding, rickety old steps. As we reached the top of the clocktower and stepped onto the outer walkway, a warm breeze greeted us. I let him guide me around towards the clock face side and as we turned the corner, a tiny gasp escaped me.

By now the sun has dipped halfway below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with orange and crimson. Soft, billowing clouds painted the heavens above while a warm, golden hue had settled like a blanket over the cityscape below. It made the buildings almost seem to glow and sparkle in the twilight as if by some sort of ancient yet whimsical magic. The sight of it all was beautiful. Overwhelming. Breathtaking.

"You're right," I murmured at last, unable to take my eyes off the view. "Sunset really does make this place sing."

"Told ya," he beamed, plonking his rear down onto the ledge and letting his feet dangle off the side. "I like to come here whenever I've had a rough day that's kicked the shit outta me. It usually helps me sort out my thoughts and feelings. Centers me. Gets me in a better headspace." He patted the spot behind him in invitation and I obliged, taking a seat next to him. Then he was reaching inside his jacket and pulling out two little red lollipops. He ripped the wrapper off of one, popping it into his mouth before offering me the other one.

I quirked an eyebrow down at it. "Not Sea Salt ice cream? Isn't that sacrilege? Won't Xion and Roxas kick you out of the club?"

He smirked around the sucker and shrugged. "I won't tell if you won't. 'Sides, I know you're not the biggest fan of Sea Salt, so figured this could just as easily do in a pinch."

"...thanks," I smiled softly, taking it from him.

"Course! Now just sit back, relax, and drink in all that majesty," he stretched a hand out wide before him to indicate said majesty before leaning back, bracing himself on his palms. "I'll be here whenever you wanna talk about it. Or not. I can also be here to just chill until you're ready for me to drive you home. Point is, I'm here for you, whatever ya need."

I didn't say anything to that at first, just gazed out once more at the amazing sight below. I inhaled slowly, as if trying to breathe it all in as I watched the thin, distant smoke plume coming off the tram while it wove its journey throughout the city. My hands were in my lap, fingers idly twisting the lollipop one way then the other then back again, leaving its plastic wrap unopened.

Since waking up in the car, I hadn't really given much thought to all that had happened today. I think part of me preferred to remain blissfully content pretending none of it had occurred. That it'd all just been a dream. I knew the second that I gave it so much as even an ounce of real thought, that it'd all suddenly become so very real. I was dreading it. But it also seemed I couldn't put it off anymore.

The memories of just a few short hours earlier were beginning to creep back into my mind unbidden, refusing to be ignored any longer. They welled up in my chest painfully until finally bursting out of me in the form of a shaky but derisive huff of a laugh. "So… guess I'm no longer a Fryse, huh?"

Lea snerked, drawing one knee up to his chest while swinging the other leg. "Somehow I doubt it's that simple."

"Grandfather seemed to think it was," I sighed heavily, setting my hand down beside me on the ledge. Apparently next to Lea's, for I could feel his thumb brushing against my pinky.

"Forget him," he razzed his tongue. An impressive feat around the lollipop. "He's just a big, whiny man-baby in a grumpy old blowhard suit throwing a fit and struggling to stay relevant. We didn't exactly hear your folks singing the same tune as him, did we?"

"...they weren't exactly disagreeing with him or leaping to my defense either," I hung my head as my eyes started to prickle. I blinked the sensation away.

"Hey now," he said gently, covering my hand with his. The warmth from his palm was soothing. "If anyone knows how hard it can be to stand up to family, it's you. Betcha it ain't easy for your pops to go against his old man's wishes. 'Sides, today was a lot, not just for you but for your folks too. Give them some time to let it all sink in. Who knows, before long they could be telling Gramps to take a hike and reaching out to you to try and patch things up."

I shook my head with a wry snort. "You don't know them like I do. Even if by some miracle they realize they had no right to be so controlling and overbearing, they're too stubborn and proud to ever admit it. No, rocks will break out into song and dance before they ever speak to me again, much less admit they were wrong."

"Wanna put munny on that?" he challenged with a grin and I just rolled my eyes. "You'll see. Just you wait. But for now, the important thing is ya did it. The hard part's over and your life is your own now to do whatever you want with it."

"Suppose that's true. It feels like a weight has been lifted," I smiled as I looked out onto the sunset once more.

My heart really was feeling lighter than it had in a long time. I was free to do whatever I wanted… now if only I knew what exactly that was. But ah well, one step at a time. For now, I'd just be happy with the fact that I had a job, some friends, and was tentatively exploring the world of theater. That was enough for me at the moment. I could figure out the rest later. I had the time now and nothing holding me back. Not anymore.

I glanced at Lea out of the corner of my eye, nose wrinkling slightly in amusement. "Can I just say though that you deserve an Oscar?"

He turned his head towards me, eyes crinkling. "Do I? What for?"

"When you got all in a huff over Grandfather trying to pay you to dump me and get lost," I hummed a low laugh, shaking my head. "I have to hand it to you, even I thought you were really mad when you came barging into the room to get me."

"Oh, I was hella pissed actually."

"...you were?" Both eyebrows shot up my forehead at his nod. "But why? It's not as if we were ever really dating. Heck, we were planning on breaking up," my fingers bounced in air quotes around the two words, "in a few weeks anyway. You could have just agreed to it, taken Grandfather's munny then did as he asked, at least as far as he ever knew. He would have been none the wiser."

Lea scratched at a spot behind his ear, lollipop stick shifting as his lips pursed to one side. "Well I… I guess it just ticked me off that the asshole woulda tried to pull something like that with his own granddaughter. That if I was someone you'd really been in love with, how he woulda just gone and broken your heart like that and expected me to help him do it." His eyes narrowed on the reddening sky, "Old coot's just lucky his brittle osteoporosis bones kept me from punching the crap outta him."

I blinked at him. Then one corner of my lips tugged up. "You're sweet, you big old softie," I told him, leaning into his side and resting my head on his shoulder.

"I, uh… shucks, El, you're gonna make me blush," he chuckled. I felt his arm come up slowly to wrap around my shoulders, squeezing them in a reassuring hug. Then he cleared his throat," So… your sister and your ex, huh?"

A grimace pinched my face. Somehow, I'd almost forgotten that part. I think I'd been trying to block it out. "...yeah."

"Ouch," he summed up eloquently.

"Tell me about it." I hesitated, staring down at the sucker as it still twirled to and fro between my finger and thumb. "They got together the day after the wedding fell through. Imagine… the centerpieces had barely been carted off by the caterers before Hans was jumping my little sister. And this whole thing?" I pointed back and forth between the two of us, "You and me? All just Anna's ploy to get Mother and Father so angry with me that they'd have nothing left when they found out about her and Hans."

"What? No, that can't be right. Anna cares about ya too much to ever do something like that to you."

I frowned. "Well… she did say she honestly thought it would help me deal with Mother and Father… that that was the main reason she pushed me into it. But she also admitted that a small part of it was for her own selfish reasons." There it was again. A tiny, aching twinge in my chest. I shook my head against his shoulder, feeling the material of his shirt rub against my cheek. "I just can't believe that she'd use me like that. That she'd go through with such a ridiculous, half-baked, harebrained scheme just to try and avoid getting into a fight with our parents."

His whole body shook with a snort. "Says the girl who just went through with a ridiculous, half-baked harebrained scheme just to try and avoid getting into a fight with her parents."

...doh.

Elsa, Queen of Putting Her Foot In Her Mouth.

"Touché," I grumbled, scowling straight ahead. "To be fair, it was still Anna's harebrained scheme. I was just the fool that went along with it."

Lea laughed, "Still, my point is ya both know how difficult your folks can be, so you can probably understand a lil where she was coming from."

A sigh. "Maybe a bit. Even so, at least I never threw her under the bus like she did me. I... don't know if I can ever forgive her for this."

"Give it time," his hand gently smoothed up and down my arm. "A day or two. Let yourself cool off. When Anna comes to talk to you - and trust me, she will - just try and listen with an open mind, 'kay? I have zero doubt you two crazy kids'll work this whole mess out. Plus ya gotta keep in mind, it's all thanks to her and Hans that you got that last kick in the rear you needed to finally stand up to your snooty family and tell 'em what's what and just straight up lay down the law. That oughta score her a point or two at least, right?"

My eyebrows knit together. "I guess… by that bit of twisted logic, yes, Anna showing up with Hans was the tipping point that made me decide enough was enough. If it weren't for her, I might have never told my parents the truth or-" my eyes widened with a sharp intake of breath. "Oh gosh, the truth! The whole mall- Everyone still thinks we're- That you and I are still- What are we supposed to tell them now?!"

I felt him shrug, heard his fingers scratching at his cheek. "...the truth?"

I groaned, "Ugh, wouldn't it be simpler just to say we broke up?"

"...yeah… maybe…" His voice grew quieter, more distant, with a note of… something else, but I wasn't quite sure what.

My lower lip tucked in in thought. Then, "You're probably relieved... what with this insanity finally being all over and done with. Now you can get your life back."

"I dunno," he hummed, resting his cheek atop my head as he gave my shoulders another small squeeze, thumb tracing a small circle against my arm. "Was just sorta getting used to it all. Gonna miss being your fake boyfriend."

A grin pulled at one side of my mouth. "...it was kind of fun, wasn't it? I think I'll miss being your fake girlfriend too. Almost makes me a little sad."

"Well buck up! Got just the thing to chase away those post-make-believe-relationship blues," he released me now, lightly rubbing my back as I pulled away. I watched as he was once more reaching inside his leather jacket, this time pulling out a-

"You've got to be kidding me," I deadpanned as he slipped the cartoon-lip sunglasses onto my face. I didn't even fight it. I knew it would have been a losing battle. "Just how many of these things did you steal?"

"Just the two," he smirked, flipping his heart-shades down to sit on the bridge of his nose. Lollipop finished, he flicked away the little white stick only to whip out yet another sucker to replace it. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em," he chirped, tearing the plastic off before stabbing the candy between his lips.

...well, when in Rome, I guess.

I opened mine as well and closed my mouth around it. Huh. Cinnamon. Who'da thunk?

"Atta girl," he chuckled, nudging my shoulder with his. "Rocking those sweet ass shades to boot."

I wanted to roll my eyes at him. But it would have been halfhearted at best and let's face it, the effect would've been totally lost behind the lip-glasses anyhow. Instead, a tiny laugh bubbled out of me whether I wanted it to or not.

So there we were. Sitting atop a mall clocktower, eating candy and watching the sunset through cheap, novelty sunglasses. And even though Operation Boyfriend But Shh Not Really had royally crashed and burned and now laid shattered in a million pieces that I still had to clean up and sort out… in that exact moment, somehow…

...somehow things didn't seem all that bad.

"Ya sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I said for what felt like the thousandth time. At Lea's dubious squint, I laughed softly, "Really."

I mean, I thought I was.

At least, I seemed to be as we made our way back down the clocktower's decrepit wooden steps. I wasn't sure exactly how long we'd stayed up there. Long enough for early night to fall and for the first stars to begin lightly dotting the sky, however much time that had taken. It'd been nice, just sitting there watching the reds fade to purples and blues. Comforting, in fact. An almost zen-like calm had fallen over me. I didn't blame Lea for being skeptical however. This was me we were talking about here. And after the day I'd had, even I was still kind of anticipating the inevitable meltdown that would totally be on brand for me and had still yet to come. Maybe it was just lurking in the shadows, lying in wait and ready to pounce when I least expected it. Or maybe it wouldn't come at all. Maybe watching the gorgeous sunset had been just the thing I needed to disperse it before it even began.

I could hope so, at least. Here's crossing my fingers!

We got to the bottom of the stairs and rejoined the mall proper. The stores were still open but it looked like closing time would soon be upon us, so while the crowd had thinned considerably by now, there were still some shoppers milling about making their last minute purchases. Just as those double doors leading outside to the parking lot came into view, Lea suddenly stopped, tapping the side of his fist into his palm.

"Almost forgot, gotta pick something up. I'll be super quick and meet ya at the car." He was about to take off but hesitated mid-turn, looking back at me with a small frown. "...you sure you're-"

"I'm okay," I insisted, huffing out a chuckle. My hand gave his shoulder a small shove, "Hurry up and go already."

However instead of going, he grinned down at me and stepped closer, his hand lifting towards my cheek. But then it froze midway, hanging there for one very long second before he hastily snatched it back to ruffle his hair instead with a weak laugh. "Heh… be back in a flash!" Then he bolted, vanishing into the throng.

I just stood there for a few seconds, staring after him as I bit my bottom lip. Pretty sure he'd been about to kiss my forehead out of habit, but had thought better of it at the last minute. We were in a weird grey area at the moment. Officially, our little dating act had come to a close. But no one at the mall knew that yet, so… were things like that still okay? At least for a little while longer? Probably not. We wouldn't want to complicate or confuse matters. He'd probably made the right call stopping himself. The smart and sensible call. We just needed to quit cold turkey.

It would be for the best.

Still, knowing that did nothing to ease the dull ache I now felt in my chest. I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed. I kind of wished he had given me that forehead kiss. Just one last time. Gosh, it was only now hitting me how accustomed I'd grown to all his little touches. I really was going to miss being his girlfriend, even if it had all just been for show.

Curse that boy and his stupid dating embargo!

Hugging myself with a sigh, I walked slowly out the mall exit. The night air felt good on my skin as I took my time crossing the parking lot towards Lea's car. True to his word, I wasn't waiting there long at all before I spotted him emerging from the shopping center to jog towards me with a white plastic bag in hand. He opened my door first before sliding across his hood to let himself in on the driver side.

"No peeking now," he winked at me as he plopped down into his seat, handing the bag to me.

I blinked down at it as I held it between my hands. It was knotted tightly at the top, making sneaking a peek not really an option anyway. There was no logo on the bag, nothing to identify where it'd come from, nor was it see-through. The only thing I could determine was it felt box-shaped inside. Arching an eyebrow, I held it up to my ear with a little shake.

Snerking, Lea's grip closed around my wrist, forcing my hands still. "None of that either."

My eyelids drooped at him but I relented, settling the bag into my lap and buckling myself in. Lea did the same before turning the key in the ignition, backing us out of the parking spot and hitting the road.

A few minutes later found me unlocking the door to my apartment and stepping inside with a, "Hello? Anyone home?" My call was greeted with silence from the totally dark room inside. Frowning, I flicked on the switch and as everything lit up, I noticed the door to my roomies' bedroom open and black inside. Nope, not in there either.

"Huh. Wonder where they got to," Lea mused from where he stood in the doorway behind me, toting my luggage he'd so gallantly volunteered to carry up for me.

"Their car wasn't in its parking space," I pointed out as I made room for him, moving towards the dining table to set the mystery bag down on it. "Figured Riku might just be making an emergency baby cravings run for Rayne and that we'd at least find her up here still… maybe they went to a movie?" I guessed, pulling out my phone to see if I'd missed any texts from either of them. Unfortunately, that's when I discovered the battery had died. Which made sense now that I thought about it. It had been running unplugged since the crack of dawn when I'd used it to pull up every variation of the scotcheroo recipe known to humankind.

Setting my bags down next to a kitchen chair, one of his hands went to his hip while the other rubbed the back of his head. "Well damn. Was hoping they'd be around to feed ya."

"Feed me?" I echoed, a crease forming between my eyebrows as I turned to face him, leaning back against the backrest of the couch.

He snorted at me from across the dining table. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you haven't had a bite to eat all day, missy."

"Not true," I folded my arms under my chest and looked away with a tiny scoff. "I'll have you know I filled up on scotcheroo batter all morning."

"Sure, cuz that's healthy," his eyes narrowed over his grin. "You didn't have anything at the party last night either. Maybe I should order you some takeout," he muttered as he pulled out his phone and swiped to unlock his screen.

I looked up towards the ceiling with a sigh and a shake of my head. "You don't have to take care of me, you know. I said I was okay."

"You also said you don't know how to cook. I can't leave ya to fend for yourself and starve," he said distractedly, frowning down at his phone while his thumb flicked across his screen a few times. Probably scrolling through whatever food options were still open at this hour.

"I wouldn't starve, I do know how to use a microwave," I countered, hand idly reaching for my braid. Except… no braid. That's right, it was still up in that haphazard bun. A rather uncomfortable, haphazard bun, I might add. I pulled it free, letting my hair fall down around my shoulders as my fingers shook it out. Ah, so much better. "Rayne's always leaving leftovers in the fridge for me to heat up."

"Ya sure? Really, I don't mind making a quick food run for y-" he glanced up from the screen to me just as his fingers seemed to have a malfunction and dropped his phone. He gave a tiny yelp and fumbled with it for a second before catching it firmly in hand once again, breathing a soft whew!

I arched an eyebrow with a snerk. "You doing alright there?"

"Yeah, uh… yeah! These things are slippery lil bastards, huh?" he waggled the phone in the air with a feeble chuckle, his face reddening from what I guessed would be embarrassment over his little bout of clumsiness. Pocketing it again, he took a step back towards the front door as he crossed his arms, wedging his hands into his armpits. "Well if ya think you've got the food situation covered, I'll probably just be headin' out then."

I frowned, pushing myself up off the sofa backrest. "You're leaving?" I'd been under the impression that he was going to stick around at least for a little while longer. The company would have been welcome, especially with Rayne and Riku not home.

He ambled another step back, looking down as he scratched the tip of his nose. "Yup, got a lotta… homework. Yeah! Tons of it. Mountains of it back at my place just... calling my name, heh! So, ya know… better get to it!"

"Oh… yes, of course," I mumbled, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Obviously he had schoolwork to get back to. He'd had no time to do it all weekend thanks to me, so he was probably looking at a heavy backlog. I'd taken up too much of his time already burdening him with my problems. It was time to let him go. Taking a deep breath, I put on a brave front and forced a smile. "Have a good night. And thank you for… well, for everything. It… All of it has meant the world to me."

He hesitated for a few seconds, frowning but expression otherwise unreadable. Then he dragged his hand across his face with a tired-sounding laugh. "Don't mention it. Just… do me a favor? Get something substantial in your stomach before breaking into these," he approached the table once more, retrieving the little white bag and holding it up. "Til then, we'll just tuck them away in here so they don't melt," he said, moving towards the fridge.

Melt? Huh. Come to think of it, it had slightly been cold to the touch, but I'd hardly noticed it at the time. My head tipped to one side, "...do I get to know what they are now?"

"Guess it can't hurt to let the cat outta the bag at this point," he opened the freezer door, placing it inside before shooting me a grin. "Do the words Frozen Heart mean anything to you?"

I stiffened. "...as in the ice cream?"

"Yup!" Lea beamed now, closing the door again and propping his shoulder against it. "Whole pack of 'em! That's your fave, right?"

Blinking a couple times, I nodded slowly. I could feel it. This… weird, funny feeling in my chest. "How… When did you figure it out?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Told ya, El. Gotta gift. Knew it since day one, actually. Just kept the lil guessing game up cuz it gave me an excuse to talk to ya all the time and hopefully bring you a laugh. But figured you could use it after the day you've had. Just what the doc ordered, chocked fulla all the stuff you like - mint chocolate chip with a full strawberry in the middle, or the 'heart' at the frozen center, all coated in crunchy, crystallize sugar shell, aka the ic-"

I don't know how it happened. One second, I was just standing there with the space of the whole kitchen between him and me. The next, I'd closed the distance somehow and was colliding into his chest, forcing a small surprised oof out of him as my arms wrapped around his waist, hanging on for dear life. I felt his whole body tense with a confused, "El?"

"I'm not," I muffled into his shirt.

"...you're not…?"

"I'm not okay!" I looked up at him now, not letting go. My calm had cracked and feeling Lea's arms closing around me only served to shatter it completely. Every inch of me felt like an exposed nerve as all those emotions came crashing painfully in now. "I'm not! Nothing is right! Nothing… nothing except for you! You, with your warmth and your smiles and your ice cream and… and your silly nicknames and ridiculous sunglasses and your lizard and your sappy movies and your college course catalogues and… and…"

I didn't even know what I was trying to say anymore, so I seriously doubted Lea did either. He didn't seem to mind however, his hand with a slight tremor to it coming up to brush along my cheek, sweep a few pale strands behind my ear, slowly stroke down the full length of my hair. He just nodded and let me go on, his gaze softening as he rested his forehead against mine.

"...and everyone else is just so… so… I mean, Grandfather with his birthday party of judgement! And Mother! Mother and her sneaky lullaby, using the nose trick against me! The nose trick! That thing is sacred! But no, it was all just so she could find goth contraband for Aunt Yelena to throw in my face! And Hans! Hans, with his stupid sideburns! His stupid, sister-groping sideburns! And Anna! I still can't believe she… that she'd… I mean, I made her scotcheroos! Scotcheroos! Well, at least I tried to make them, but still, that should count for something, right?! And-" I felt his thumb wiping away something wet at the corner of my eye. Tears. I hadn't even known they were there. With a tiny jolt, I gave a weak laugh, "And I'm a total babbling mess! Sorry, I… I just need to not be thinking about this right now. Distract me, please. Anything to get my mind off of-"

And then he was kissing me.

I lost all sense of my surroundings as it all just seemed to fade away, no longer important. Every last thought in my head was obliterated. I could no longer tell left from right, heads from tails… nothing. I knew nothing except the warm caress of his lips against mine. Nothing except his scent, so familiar and yet in this moment, suddenly somehow new and intoxicating. My knees buckled but his arm wrapped around my waist, catching me and trapping me against him. His other hand had tangled itself in my hair as my fingers slid up his chest, clutching his shirt for support. I was dizzy and lightheaded and giddy all at once, my world completely turned upside down and-

Oh.

Oh wow…

...so that's what this is supposed to feel like.

All too soon Lea broke it off, drawing his head back slightly with a soft, shaky breath that I didn't so much hear as felt against my lips. He dragged his gaze from where it lingered on my mouth up to look into my eyes, his own now hooded and dark as they searched mine. Still trying to piece my scrambled brain back together, I struggled to find words and the only ones I could come up with were a breathy, "...not… quite the distraction I had in mind. I was thinking something... more along the lines of a movie?"

His eyes widened and his muscles went rigid. Then in the blink of an eye, he'd released me and backed away several steps, shaking his head as his hands raked through his crimson spikes. "Shit. Fuck! I shouldn't have done that. I had no right to- Crap, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, El! God fucking damn it, what the hell is the matter with me? I'm so stupid! I never shoulda-"

I abruptly threw myself at him again, arms hugging his neck and pulling his head down as my lips found his once more. He staggered with a sharp intake through his nose, his whole body going stock still. My heart raced as I molded against him, sinking into his pleasant body heat.

Slowly, his mouth responded as his trembling hands reached for me, trailing down my sides, exploring the curve of my waist before coming to rest on my hips, gripping them tightly as he tugged me more firmly against him. My fingers toyed with the hairs at the nape of his neck, eliciting a soft groan from him as his kiss became more fervid, filled with such… such… raw, unbridled need. Abruptly, he was pushing me up against the fridge, pinning my body between it and him.

Something fell with a clatter. A magnet? I didn't really know. Nor did I really care. But the sound was enough to snap Lea back to his senses as he pulled away with a gasp and suddenly held me at arms length. "No! This isn't right! You're vulnerable right now, I shouldn't be- Shit, I don't want you to think I-" He released a frustrated snarl, pressing a fist to his mouth as he backed further away, angrily pacing now. Then, "I should go."

He turned, hastily making his way towards the front door. Halfway there however, he hesitated, steps faltering as he glanced back towards me. He swallowed hard, something in his eyes telling me his flimsy resolve was this close to breaking. "...I need to go," he repeated, voice hoarse yet determined now as he pushed forward, reaching the door and letting himself out, slamming it shut behind him.

I was still propped up against the fridge, barely standing. The room was quiet except for my soft pants to catch my breath and the booming of my rapid pulse in my ears. My face was hot and I could still feel the sweet ghost of his lips on mine. Feel my whole body buzzing from his touch.

...he was right. Goddamn him, he was right. Now wasn't the time for this… whatever this was. I should go to bed. I should rest up and approach this with a clearer, more rational head on my shoulders tomorrow. He'd made the right choice. The responsible choice. If we'd kept carrying on like that, it would have been a mistake and…

...and so what?

So what if it was a mistake? It was my mistake to make! That I wanted to make. Besides, I didn't think it actually was a mistake, not really. It's not like this was just some spur of the moment attempt to hide from my pain within his physical comfort. This… this was something I'd be wanting for some time. And so now, what… I was just supposed to put it on pause and wait? Just because of something so insignificant as… bad timing?

To hell with that.

I'd been pretending. This whole time, I'd been pretending. And no, I didn't just mean the fake relationship to fool my parents. I'd been fooling myself. Tricking myself into believing this was just a crush when it was really… I don't even know, but it was so much more than just some simple crush! I'd been pretending my feelings were trivial, pretending that… that I couldn't see those same feelings in Lea when really I'd known. I'd known all this time, but I'd been too afraid to face them. To face him.

I was scared of everything. Always stressing and second guessing myself and overthinking things. But not this. I wasn't scared of this. Not anymore. In that moment, I'd never been more sure of anything in my life and I-

I had to stop him from leaving.

I pulled out my phone, almost dropped it but caught in time, then pressed the power button.

...nope, still dead.

Right. I tossed it onto the table as I ran past, rushing for the door. Maybe he hadn't made it to his car yet. If I hurried, I could hopefully still catch him. My hand closed around the doorknob, yanking it open and-

-jumping backwards with a tiny yelp to avoid getting crushed as Lea suddenly came falling through it, his back crashing flat against the floor at my feet. He hissed in pain, wincing up at me.

"Are you okay? What..." my brow furrowed as I looked down at him, then to my door, then back. "...were you just… leaning back against the door?"

He hopped up to his feet, laughing self-consciously as he dragged a hand along the back of his neck. "Yeah! Sorry! Just… needed a sec to, er… to get my head on straight." He inched back a step towards the hallway outside. "Right, so uh…" Another step back. "I'm gonna..." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder with a click of his tongue, "...gonna get going now."

As he began to turn away however, I grabbed his hand in both of mine. He froze, looking down at where my fingers wrapped around his. Then up at me, confusion in his eyes.

This whole time, I'd been pretending. But now…

"...I don't want to pretend anymore," I told him quietly, stepping closer and gazing up the few inches that separated us. Recalling something he'd once told me, I added, "I… wish we were real too."

Lea sucked in a low, shuddering breath, hesitating for only a heartbeat more. Then a soft, "Oh thank god," came tumbling from his lips as he grabbed my face with both hands to kiss me again, pouring his entire being into it. Kicking the door shut behind him and still locked in our embrace, he backed me further and further into the room until my legs hit the backrest of the couch and we both went toppling over it, my back hitting the cushions with him on top of me.

Abruptly, he pulled his lips off of mine, but only long enough for him to sit up on his knees so he could jerk off his jacket and throw it somewhere. Then he came back down, his hands finding mine, weaving our fingers together to either side of my head as his nose brushed against mine. His mouth stopped just short of my own however and I could taste the hint of his breath as his eyes crinkled and he smiled tenderly at me. Oh gosh, there was that dimple of his again. That dimple was straight up murder. My heart spasmed and I bit back a grin myself. Then he was kissing me.

It was soft as slow at first, as if to savor it. Then his tongue was lightly grazing along my lips and the kiss deepened. It came as no surprise that he tasted like cinnamon - I probably did too at the moment. However, the flavor was way more enticing on his tongue than it could ever hope to be just coming from some candy. His lips were growing more urgent, more demanding. Fire. It felt like I was on fire. It felt like my insides were melting to mush.

He was gently pressing his weight down into me, his hand moving to hook under my knee and tug it up, wrapping my leg around his waist. Now free, my own hand wound itself into his hair again before trailing down his neck and further, feeling the hard planes of his back through the material of his shirt, digging my nails in.

Breaking our lips apart, Lea now traced hungry kisses along my jawline and down my neck until he found my pulse point. He swirled his tongue against it, causing my body to react on its own and arch my back up into him. His body eagerly pushed back as his teeth began to nibble at the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. A hum of a sigh escaped me and he answered with a low growl deep in his throat, suddenly biting down hard.

My neck burned deliciously and I made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan. I'd never, ever made a noise like that before in my life. I might have been embarrassed if I had had half a mind to. Instead, I was too lost in the pleasure as he sucked on the now tender skin before chuckling, slowly trailing his lips just a bit further up my neck and lightly nipping at a fresh spot.

Oh dear lord, he was going to do it again.

I barely scraped together enough sense to breathe, "Lea, wait."

His whole body tensed as he went very still, his breath heavy and hot against my throat. Then all of a sudden he was pulling away, sitting up and quickly shifting to the opposite end of the couch from me. "You're right," his voice was husky, his face flushed as he hunched forward, elbow propping on his knee as he brought his hand up in an attempt to hide his tiny, guilty scowl. "You're right. Fuck, I was moving too fast. Sorry, I… I didn't mean to-"

"No," I said quickly, scooting closer to him. "That's… not what I meant. I just… I'm not sure when they," I glanced towards my roomies' empty bedroom, "will be home. We wouldn't want them to find us out here, er..." I cleared my throat, my cheeks doing the impossible and blushing even harder than they already were. I paused, trying to compose myself and gather my scrambled thoughts, absently licking my lips as I did so. He went very still, half-lidded eyes now very intently focused on my mouth. My chest fluttered under the intensity of his gaze and I cleared my throat again, "What I'm trying to say is that… maybe we should…"

Ugh, I was too flustered to say it.

Flustered, but not nervous. Or anxious or scared or awkward or… This wasn't making me feel any of the things I normally would've expected myself to feel in this situation. No, this…

This felt right.

This is something I wanted. Really, really wanted. I could feel it, deep down in my heart. And for once, I wanted to listen to what my heart was telling me.

And right now it was telling me to kiss him.

So I did. I slowly reached a hand up, softly tracing my fingers over his jawline before clasping at the nape of his neck and gently tugging his head down so I could press my lips to his again. He inhaled, long and slow, his warm hand cupping my cheek.

He seemed reluctant to end the kiss, his mouth following mine when I finally pulled away. But then I stood up and faced him, taking his hands in mine and drawing him to his feet as well. Smiling shyly up at him, I began pulling him towards the door to my room and as if in a trance, he followed. I led him inside, the door quietly shutting behind us.

Author's Note: Sooooo... pretty sure they know they like each other now, what do ya'll think? :P Oh gosh, writing and sharing this chapter all but made me burst into flames *blushing intensifies* lol! I tell ya, for someone who starts so many fics where romance is one of the major themes, it is VERY rare that I actually get to The Big Kiss (TM) scene, so this just had me squirming the whole time xD Lea, that dear boy, he tried so hard to be the responsible one, he really did, but a guy only has so much willpower! And I know, things weren't really talked out this chapter, but don't worry, a lil discussion is on the horizon xD Also, does everyone remember something Elsa said to Lea way, waaaay back in chapter 15 during their car ride up to her old condo? Something small but SUPER relevant here... xD On a different note, we finally know it! Elsa's fave ice cream: Frozen Heart, oooOOOooOOoo fancy! THIS one is not named after a keyblade - I really wanted to of course name it after Arendelle world's keyblade in KH3, but let's face it… Crystal Snow was kinda a bland name! Frozen Heart would have been WAY better, not to mention a SUPER obvious choice for a keyblade name so I dunno why the design team didn't go with that! Anyway, its Ice Palace menu listing might look a lil something like: "Blue mint chocolate chip with silver sprinkles, coated in an icy, crystallized sugar shell on the outside and a strawberry slice that can be found buried deep within its chilly center. Will you be the one to melt this frozen heart?" …or something equally cheesy xD Anyhoo, heads up guys, if you hadn't guessed, we're now entering the homestretch of this story! Figured that'd be okay to tell ya, since if this were a paperback that you could physically hold in your hands, you'd be able to tell when there were only a few more chapters left in that case too xD But I have some good news waiting for ya'll at the end of this story's final chapter, so hopefully that gives ya something to look forward to!

Next time… oh gosh, just what does the future hold for these two crazy lovebirds? Once the sea of raging hormones has ebbed, what will be left? Are these two finally gonna get together for realsies? Or will this decision they made in the heat of the moment be seen as a mistake? And what about all of Elsa's fam drama? Did she really manage to leave it all behind or will it rear its ugly head again? Do we REALLY believe Lea when he says he only stole two of the novelty glasses? Stay tuned!

Thanks for reading, I super duper appreciate it! And an extra BIG thank you to those of you who’ve liked, reblogged, and followed so far, seeing those lil notifications always brings the biggest, goofiest smile to my face!

FIRST CHAPTER || PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

[sir-a-nonny-mouse]

All The King’s Horses

Summary: After the portal Catra is sent to Beast Island to bring back Entrapta and Scorpia.

Notes: This story exists because what I really wanted to write was a post-redemption Catradora fic that honored the events of season 3. But in order to that I had to figure out how Catra could be redeemed after her downward spiral. 25,000+ words later…

Trigger warnings for panic attacks, giant spiders, child abuse/neglect

If you would rather read this story of AO3 it can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072848/chapters/50132171

Catra dreamed.

Adora stands over her as she clings to the wall of the cliff. The light of the collapsing world streams up around her lifting Adora’s ponytail up into the air.

“Grab my hand,” Adora shouts, stretching down toward where Catra’s claws are starting to lose purchase. “I can still fix this! I can still save you!”

“Don’t you get it?” Catra shouts back. The roar of the ground falling apart around them is getting louder. “I don’t care! I won’t let you win. I’d rather die than let that happen!”

Adora’s face shifts. The soft concern in her eyes is replaced with the cold blue of She-ra’s gaze.

“No Catra, you don’t get it.” Her voice is deeper suddenly. There is a familiar lilting quality Catra couldn’t quite place. She isn’t shouting anymore but somehow Catra can hear every syllable. “I always win in the end. And you will always fall!”

She-ra’s lunges forward and rips Catra’s hand from the protruding rock. Catra is thrown backward into the stream of nothingness. It burns. She tries to scream but there is no air in her lungs.

***

Catra sat up in bed with a gasp. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her heart pounded so loudly in her chest it almost sounded like someone banging on the door to her room.

Wait. No. That was someone pounding on the door to her room.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Come in,” she shouted, louder than she meant to but it covered the quiver in her voice.

“Uh…hi Catra. It’s me.” Kyle poked his head through the door. “Um…Hordak wants to see you. Right now. That’s all gottago.” He squeaked and slammed the door shut again.

Catra swallowed against nausea rising in her throat and got out of bed.

***

It had only been a week since the portal. Things in the Fright Zone had returned to some sort of normalcy; the soldiers continued their battle maneuvers and the cadets continued their training simulations. Hordak had been locked inside his inner chambers with only his demon assistants, but that wasn’t so different than before the portal. Catra had no idea what he was working on—a new portal, a new strategy for defeating She-ra and the princesses—but that was hardly a change either.

It was all disturbingly normal aside from the fact that Catra had no idea what her status was anymore. She wasn’t re-imprisoned but was she back to force captain status? Second in command? What was her mission? The lack of purpose made her skin itch. Given all her years of ducking responsibility it would have been hilarious if it weren’t so stressful. If Adora could see her now she would….

No. Adora wouldn’t care. Adora didn’t matter anymore.

Catra held her head up high as she approached Hordak’s throne. She tried to ignore the echoes of her trial as she passed the rows of soldiers lining the chamber. She spared a glance around for Scorpia but didn’t see her familiar shock of white hair anywhere in the crowd. No purple either. Not that Catra was expecting to see Entrapta….

“Catra,” said Hordak in his low gravelly voice. He was seated on his throne in his full regalia without a hair out of place. No sign of the staggering wreck Catra had seen in the chamber the day of the portal. Catra felt the familiar staccato of her heartbeat and her mouth went dry. Still, she was nothing if not good at bravado. She clenched her teeth and stepped forward.

“Lord Hordak,” she said, pleased when the words came out with confidence. “I heard you wished to speak to me. I wasn’t expecting all this ceremony.”

“It has come to my attention that the Princess Entrapta has been spotted on a transport ship to Beast Island.”

Catra could feel sweat dripping down the back of her suit. She swallowed.

“That is unexpected, my Lord. Was she apprehended on her way out of the Fright Zone?”

Hordak grunted.

“That remains to be seen. It seems your friend and fellow force captain Scorpia was seen with her.”

Catra’s heart sped up. She wondered idly what would happen if she just passed out in Hordak’s throne room in front of all these people. Probably nothing good.

“Strange,” said Catra. “Perhaps even after all this time some of her Princess tendencies have gotten the better of her.”

Hordak crossed his arms over his chest.

“An interesting theory. And yet unsatisfying given that Scorpia’s greatest allegiance appears to have been to you previously. After all, she did risk almost certain death in the Crimson Waste to accompany you.”

Catra snorted. “Perhaps she knew I wasn’t so easy to kill as you expected. I can’t imagine the same holds true for Entrapa on Beast Island.”

“I did not sentence Entrapta to die. Nor did I sanction her or Scorpia’s transfer to Beast Island.”

Catra shrugged. “Seems like it’s been taken care of for you.”

“I DID NOT SANCTION IT!” Hordak roared standing suddenly from his seat. Catra couldn’t fight her instinct to shrink backwards.

“You will go to Beast Island and retrieve them,” Hordak continued. “You have proven yourself resourceful in places with few resources in the past. And you have yet to prove your loyalty to me since returning from the Waste.”

“Prove my loyalty!” Catra forced herself to stand up straight again. “You sent me to die and I brought you the key to your most precious project! How much more loyal can I get?”

Hordak regarded her with emotionless red eyes. “You pursued your own private vendetta and nearly destroyed us all in the process. If you are truly loyal you will bring the Princesses Entrapta back for a proper trial and punishment. Scorpia as well if you are able. If not; well then Beast Island is probably a fitting punishment and I likely should have sent you there in the first place.”

He gestured to one of the soldiers, who stepped forward to grasp Catra’s arm.

“You’re sentencing me to death,” she shouted, jerking her. “For what? For helping you achieve your goal. So what I had my own agenda!? You need me.”

“Indeed. I need you to bring back the Princess Entrapta. She may well be a traitor, but she will be far more useful in my dungeons than rotting on that infernal island. That will be all now, take her away.”

With that Hordak turned and exited the throne room.

Catra whirled around only to realize she was surrounded by soldiers. She searched frantically over their shoulders for her team. For a moment she thought she caught sight of Lonnie’s braids, but it immediately was lost from her view. She tried to run but several hands were holding her arms and (horrifyingly) someone had grasped onto her tail. She heard the crackled of a stun baton and then everything went dark.

***

The boat creaked and moaned as metal slats shifted against each.

“This is fascinating,” Entrapta murmured as she peered through the porthole. “The friction between air molecules and water molecules propagates a wave function that transfers energy for miles! And the variation, there must be some sort of relation to the lunar cycles but with three moons the equation is going to be exceedingly complex. Plus, we can’t discount the possibility of interaction with the First One’s tech that has surely been buried along the route. How have I never thought to study the ocean before?”

“Oh, I don’t know about studying the ocean, but I can tell you nothing quite beats the fresh salt air,” Scorpia replied, leaning her head back against the bulkhead. “I mean, when they let you up to appreciate it. This cabin is not my favorite way to travel, no siree.” She chuckled to herself and then winced when another prisoner chose that moment to vomit into a bucket.

“Once we get to our destination, I will need to take some measurements,” Entrapta said. “I still have a few bits of equipment, but do I wish I still had access to Hordak’s lab.”

“Uh…Entrapta, you do know that we are headed to an island that no one has ever come back from, right? We are going to have to put all of our resources into survival.”

“I know! Why don’t people every come back thought; there has to be an explanation.”

“Because they get eaten by the beasts…on Beast Island?”

“Seems statistically unlikely; at least a few souls would have escaped after so many years.” Entrapta turned around and peered at Scorpia through the safety goggles pulled down of her eyes. “I have some theories, but I need to run a few more tests.”

“Uh…okay, Entrapta.” Scorpia stared up at the bulkhead ceiling. “But I don’t think we should discount the beasts either.”

“Never fear, friend,” Entrapta exclaimed, resuming her position staring out the porthole. “Like any good scientist, I have planned ahead.” She used one of her hair tendrils to thrust a small manual in Scorpia’s direction.

Scorpia took the book. “Uh…thank you?” The title read “A Princess Survival Guide to Beast Island.” Scorpia thumbed through it. “Well this seems weirdly perfectly suited to our current predicament.”

“The right tool for the right job,” declared Entrapta. Scorpia couldn’t really argue with that.

***

Catra woke up on a ship, which was just adding insult to injury, really.

A hawk-faced Force Captain glared down at her. Catra barely remembered her from one of the few Force Captain meetings she had bothered to attend. She thought her name was possibly Leona.

“Good you’re awake. Take this.” She thrust a small device at Catra who groaned as she sat up to accept it. “This only works once. You press it when you have the Princess and we will come and pick you up from the North Shore. Don’t bother pushing the button before you have Entrapta; we’re under strict orders to leave you behind if we don’t see her with you. No get-out-of-jail-free card just for managing to survive a few days out there.”

Catra stared at the device. It was a small green rectangle with a smooth red button in the center and a blinking yellow light in the top right-hand corner. She grunted.

“He’s just throwing me out there by myself?” she asked. “I can’t even bring my companions from the Waste?”

The Force Captain likely named Leona made a trilling noise that Catra interpreted as a laugh.

“They asked around, kitty. I think the exact quote was, ‘Heck no; I’ve seen how she treats her friends.’”

Catra felt her face color.

Leona leaned her head down close to Catra, beak inches from her nose. “You got a shitty deal for sure little fighter, but you can hardly say you didn’t ask for it. You’ve been playing fast and loose with your attitude. I don’t know what caused all your little friends to abandon you, but if it’s anything like the lip you gave Hordak before he sent you off to the Wastes I’m not surprised you’re all alone.” She snorted. “Bet you thought you’d lost everything then, but there’s always farther to fall.”

Catra turned her head away and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Whatever. Just let me know when we get there.”

The captain trilled again. “Oh, trust me, you will know. And be grateful. The prisoners don’t get supplies.” With that she dropped a small bag next to Catra and walked away

Catra sank back against the side of the ship and tried to ignore the knowledge that she was surrounded by water on all sides.

She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew she was being grabbed by the shoulders and hauled to her feet. A stun baton crackled behind her.

“We’re here. Move,” came the tinny command from within the soldier’s helmet.

Catra hissed but followed instructions as she was escorted of the ship and onto a small rowboat that made her stomach churn. She sulked as sea water splashed up, cold against her arms. Once the boat hit the shore, they tried to grab her by the shoulders but Catra hissed again and jerked her arm out of the soldier’s grasp. She snatched the pack from a different soldier’s hands and leapt over the side. She winced as her feet hit the mushy sand at bottom of the shallows and marched toward the shore.

***

“Okay so according to this the first thing we should do is find fresh water,” muttered Scorpia as she flipped through manual. “I think they have diagram here…oh! Oh whoopsies.” One of her claws caught the edge of the page tearing it slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry…I think I can fix that. Do you have any tape?”

“This place is maaaagical.”

“Uh, what?” Scorpia turned to see Entrapta on her hands and knees with her nose inches from the coarse sand that covered the beach of Beast Island.

“These tiny rocks,” muttered Entrapta, holding out some sort of small cylindrical device next to her face. It made a strange whining noise.

“You mean the sand?”

“Sand? This is no ordinary sand!” She looked up and beamed at Scorpia. “These are tiny fragments of data crystals! I mean…not all of them. Some of them. Mixed in with the sand. And you know what that means?”

Scorpia tried to think. “Lots of tiny data?”

“IT MEANS THERE MUST BE A MASSIVE DATA CRYSTAL SOMEWHERE ON THIS ISLAND!” Entrapta shouted. She jumped to her feet. “And I’m going to find it. Oh, Hordak will be so excited when I tell him about this!”

“Hordak? I…wait, Entrapta!” Scorpia shouted at the purple-haired princess as she scampered off toward the shoreline. “Oh no.” She rubbed one claw across her forehead and sighed. “I hope this massive data crystal is near some fresh water at least,” she muttered as she gave chase.

***

Catra trudged up the beach to the tree line and sat on rock to take inventory. In addition to the tracker her supply bag contained two canteens of water and a handful of ration bars. Enough for a few days of survival but she was going to need to find an alternate source of fresh water and food soon if she wanted to make it through the week.

Or you could just find Entrapta and Scorpia and click your get-home button.

Catra stared at the blinking remote at the bottom of the bag and frowned. She shoved the supplies back in and threw it over her shoulder.

The moons were starting to dip below the horizon and in the dimming light the orange sand seemed to almost glow. Staying near beach was probably her safest bet for now. Catra wasn’t certain where the beast (beasts?) of Beast Island hung out, but the dense foliage past the edge of the jungle did not look inviting. She could get her bearings tonight and trek deeper in search of a means of survival once the light was better.

She scouted around the edge of the tree line collecting branches and set to work constructing a lean-to a few feet from the edge of the sand line. She cleared a small area for a camping fire, but when she thought about lighting it she imagined some burly creature with fangs emerging from the undergrowth at the smell of smoke, so she left the pile of sticks and leaves to sit.

She stared at her not fire as the light faded from the sky fully. The low hum of insects seemed to get louder as darkness fell. She could still see reasonably, thanks to whatever genetic fluke had made her part cat, but the color faded to nothing but greys. She shivered despite the humidity.

Catra glanced back at her lean to and then jumped back onto all fours as she watched a multilegged creature scurry across the floor and disappear under a log.

Heart pounding, Catra scanned the forest floor, suddenly aware of the not deafening white noise of jungle.

“Oh no,” she muttered and glanced around. Her eyes caught site of a wide tree branch hanging about ten feet above the underbrush.

“Screw this.” She scurred up the side of the tree to the branch and crouched there, studying the jungle around her. When nothing moved for several long minutes, she lay down on the branch and tried to settle herself. It wasn’t comfortable per-say, but at least she felt she was further away from things that skittered. Catra shuddered and closed her eyes.

She didn’t quite fall asleep, but after a few hours the tension in her body seemed to fade back to the low level that lived in her shoulders chronically. Slowly, very slowly, she felt her mind start to drift.

Her eyes sprang open at a soft clicking noise next to her. Immediately she was crouched on all fours, peering through the darkness. There was a small rustling in the bushes near the base of an adjacent tree.

Catra held perfectly still aside from the twitch of the tip of her tail. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

A moment later a small furry creature with pointed ears and a large fluffy tail nearly the same size as its body scampered across the camping area making a loud chittering noise. Catra let out her breath.

Almost as soon as her heartbeat started to slow the clicking noise returned, louder this time and directly behind her. Catra whirled around on the branch and almost fell in her attempt to scamper backwards as she found herself facing a large creature with a bulbous body and eight long, pointed legs hanging from a higher branch of the tree above her.

Catra hissed and extended her claws. She had half a second to consider the fact that these creatures looked remarkably like the security system of the Crystal Cavern before the spider fired webs toward her face.

Catra grinned as she swiped the web away with her claws. She leapt toward the creature, landing on its head and immediately clawing for one of the shiny red eyes. She expected to encounter glass or metal as her hand came down and was slightly horrified when her fingers sank into soft, wet tissue.

“Eugh!” She ripped her hand back staring at it in horror.

The pause was a moment too long. One of the many legs of the creature plucked her off its back and threw her off the tree and onto the forest floor. Catra managed to twist and land on her hands and feet but when she whirled around to face her opponent the only thing she could see were dripping fangs bearing down on her. She turned to run but felt a prick to the back of her right calf before she could take a step.

Immediately icy-hot pain spread out from the puncture. Catra screamed and tried to scramble away but her leg would not cooperate. She fell onto her back facing the spider who was spitting out more webs. Catra was immediately covered head to toe. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her head swam as she tried desperate to gasp for air.

Not this way, she thought as she started to lose consciousness. It can’t end like this.

Just before she passed out, she heard a loud crash and a man’s voice shouting but she couldn’t make out the words.

***

Catra dreamed.

“Don’t you get it, Adora? I never needed you to save me.” Catra and She-ra circle each other on the edge of the cliff amidst the roar of the dying alternate universe. “You leaving was the best thing that ever happened to me!”

She dodges She-ra’s sword once, and again. She can see the frustration and anger in She-ra’s eyes—hints of Adora bleeding through—and it makes her feel powerful. She giggles as she ducks another swing of the sword and runs forward, shoving a shoulder into She Ra’s solar plexus and sending her over backwards. Catra kneels over She Ra and hisses down at her. “You only ever held me back! I’m stronger than anyone ever knew.”

She-ra’s eyes narrow and the world flips. Suddenly it’s Catra on her back with She-ra towering over her, sword in hand.

“Strong?” She-ra laughs and her face changes to something reminiscent of the corrupted princess from the frozen north. There is no Adora to be found in the alien expression and Catra feels a chill of fear run through her. “That’s funny, because I think you just tried to destroy the universe as an elaborate hissy fit for me leaving you.” She-ra leans in close and whispers in Catra’s hear. “When did you get so weak?”

She-r rears back and hold up the sword ready to strike.

“You wouldn’t have the guts,” Catra says. She can remember another time, another place where she said those words with confidence. Now she can hear the tremor in her voice.

“Wouldn’t I?”

Fear grips her. Before she can stop herself Catra shouts, “Adora, please!”

“Adora is dead,” She-ra shouts. “You killed her.”

The sword comes down through Catra’s gut. She can feel it, piercing through her, can feel the warm blood bubbling up to the surface of her skin. She coughs. She looks up She-ra and sees….

Nothing. No remorse. No panic. No sadness. Just cold, red eyes on an expressionless face.

I never thought it would end this way, Catra thinks.

***

Catra gasped herself awake. Her hand came immediately to her abdomen and a wave of relief washed over her to find the skin and clothing intact.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said a deep voice to her right.

“Gah!” Catra snapped her head to the side and saw a man with dark hair tied in a top know and a salt and pepper beard sitting at a wooden table in the middle of a ramshackle kitchen. She shoved herself off the bed she only just realized she was lying on, ready to run. Instead both of her legs gave out under her and she collapsed to the ground, hard.

“Ah…whoops. I…uh meant to warn you about that,” said the man rushing over and reaching out for Catra’s arm.

Catra jerked away from him and hissed. “What did you do to me!?” she shouted, trying frantically to drag herself toward the door. To her horror she couldn’t seem to get either of her legs move even to inch her across the ground. She couldn’t even feel them. She raised one hand with claws extended. Her eyes darted around the room looking for an escape.

The man stepped back and held up both hands in a surrendering gesture. “It wasn’t me! just brought you here. It was the Spinder you were fighting. They have a paralytic agent in their venom.”

Catra had a flashback to the horrendous pain that had spread from where the spider-creature had bit her. She glanced from the man’s face to the door down to her own useless legs flopped on the ground.

“Who are you? How did I get here? Where am I?”

The man touched his own chest. “My name is Micah. You got here by me and Fredrich—but mostly me—carrying you. And here is…well my house. Can I please help you get back in the bed?”

Catra hissed again. “I’ll get myself back,” she snapped. She glanced at the door she suspected led outside and then back to the bed she had just vacated. Every instinct in her begged to race for the door but she had no idea what she was going to do when she got there.

Not that that’s ever stopped me before, she thought to herself before starting to drag herself back toward the bed.

Micah watched her in silence, but she could almost feel the strain as he held himself back from reaching out to help her. The process was slow and mortifying, but she was eventually able to lift herself back onto the straw-stuffed mattress.

She positioned herself with her back against the wall and glared at Micah. He was dressed in plain brown leathers with a thick heavy knit cloak over his shoulder. He looked…familiar somehow, but Catra couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Uh…are you hungry? Would you like some stew? It should be ready in a minute.”

Catra’s stomach growled at the thought but she ignored it.

“I would like some answers,” she said instead. “Why did you bring me here?”

Some color popped into Micah’s cheeks and he looked down to pick an invisible piece of lint off his shirt. “Fredrich and I were out for a late-night stroll and we heard your scream. We came to check things out and saw you were about to be lunch for the Spinder, so we decided to intervene.”

Catra narrowed her eyes. “Out for a stroll…in the middle of the night…through Beast Island? And who is Fredrich?”

Micah looked up. “Oh, he’s sitting next to you.”

Catra started. She looked to her left where she met the beady black eyes of the same little creature with the bushy tail that had run out of the underbrush last night.

Every predator instinct in her went on high alarm. She froze in place and felt her claws, which had retracted during her struggle back onto the bed, extend again.

The creature chittered at her, shook an angry fist and then darted away just moments before Catra reached out to swipe at it. She missed and nearly toppled over onto her side.

The creature, Fredrich, scampered across the floor and darted up Micah’s side perch on his shoulder. He chittered loudly into Micah’s ear.

“Well obviously,” Micah said, ostensibly replying to whatever the rodent was screeching about. “She’s a Magicat. What did you expect, bating her like that?”

“She’s a what?” Catra snapped.

Micah’s looked back over to her. “Uh…a Magicat?”

“A what?”

“Your race. The Magicats.”

Catra scowled. “I am a Horde soldier. My race is irrelevant.”

“I think technically you’re a Horde prisoner now, correct? They’re not sending their best and brightest to Beast Island these days.”

“I am not a prisoner.” Catra paused. “I…misplaced something valuable to Hordak. He sent me to find it.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“What is it to you?” she said. “Were you in need of a second pet or something? You can hardly be taking in every wayward Horde prisoner who ends up on this forsaken island.”

Micah shrugged. “Like I said, we heard your cry and we tried to help. Obviously, you’re in no state to go searching for your lost…item right now and I don’t really want to see my hard work go to waste. Here.” He walked over to a small cookfire in the corner of the room and ladled some sort of thick broth into a bowl. “Have some stew. Relax. I have some work to do in the other room. The paralytic from the Spinder will wear off in a few days. Whenever you can walk you can leave. No more questions asked.”

Catra accepted the bowl. She stared down at the liquid and sniffed it. She looked back up at Micah.

“Oh! A spoon.” He handed her a small wooden utensil.

Catra stared at the utensil and then back at the bowl. There was delectable smell coming from the “stew” or whatever he had called it. She took the wooden object from him and then bent her head down close to the broth and lapped at it gingerly. It was warm and a bit salty with a deeper earthy flavor that Catra couldn’t place but was maybe reminiscent of the yellow ration bars in the Horde.

Micah’s eyes widened. “Have you…never had soup before?”

Catra glared.

“You uh…I mean it’s fine to eat it that way, but the spoon will help you get some of the vegetable chuncks. Let me show you.” He demonstrated dipping the spoon into the bowel and lifting it up with a large orange tuber balancing on the end. “Up to you.”

Catra snatched the spoon out of his hand causing the vegetable chunk to splash back down into the broth. She mimicked his movement, bringing up a mouthful of broth and vegetables.

It was heavenly; warm and filling and full of so many flavors Catra couldn’t describe. Swallowing it down felt like scratching an itch she hadn’t known she was ignoring. She continued to spoon the stew into her mouth, forgetting about her audience until Micah cleared his throat.

Catra looked up. “What?”

“My only rule is please don’t interrupt me while I’m working.” He gestured to a door on the right side of the room that as open just slightly enough to tell it led into a shed of some kind. “Oh, and please don’t eat Fredrich. You probably can’t catch him right now, but once you get your legs back, he might be hard to resist. I’d be very put out if he died.”

Fredrich chittered in seeming agreement with this sentiment. Catra just shrugged and said “Fine,” before returning to her stew.

Micah watched her for another minute before he disappeared into the shed and shut the door behind him. A few minutes later a faint white light seemed to glow through the slats of the wall. Catra paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared. There seemed to be something familiar about the pulsing of the light.

Fredrich scampered up the side of the wall and settled himself on a shelf that contained a little nest of fabric scraps. He chittered at Catra for a few seconds before curling himself into a ball and seeming to go to sleep.

Catra set her now empty bowl aside the decided to do the same. She lay down on her side, tugging her legs into some sort of sensible position. It probably wasn’t the wisest idea to let down her guard in this strange place with this strange man and his little rat creature, but she hadn’t had a full night’s rest in almost three days now and she had no idea how long it would take before her legs were working well enough to get her out of here. If they going to hurt her, they would get a chance eventually.

Even before she fully finished the thought, she was unconscious.

***

“Good news! I found a small spring about a half hour’s walk into the jungle and there were these berry things nearby that seem to match this illustration in the manual as safe to eat!” Scorpia dumped and armload of supplies onto the campsite they had set up on the beach. “Uh…what are you doing?”

Entrapta was lying on her stomach examining an array of variably sized pebbles spread out on the flattened sand in front of her. In one hand she had the small beeping cylindrical device from earlier and in her other there was one of the seemingly endless supply of tracker pads she had on her person at all times.

“You were right!” Entrapta exclaimed as she reached for a handful of berries and shoved them in her mouth.

“Great! Uh…right about what?”

“These tiny data crystals; they contain tiny bits of data! I am collecting relevant pieces together to try to gain information about the larger piece of First One’s tech they came from! If my initial calculations are correct the main structure should be about ten miles that way.” She thrust a finger toward the densest part of the jungle and let out a delighted laugh. “I never expected such advances in my research on such a primitive appearing island.”

Scorpia sighed. “But don’t you think we should maybe stay put for a little bit longer? I finally found a reliable source of food and water and the jungle is not striking me as a particularly safe place to travel. I saw these spider webs up in the canopy that have to have been as big as Hordak’s inner sanctum.”

“Research cannot advance without risks!” Entrapta shouted jumping to her feet. She paused and took in the setting moons. “Although maybe we should wait until daytime before venturing on. We will travel more efficiently with a reliable light source.”

Scorpia gave a relieved sigh. “Good. Let’s get the fire going again.”

***

When Catra woke from her nap the cabin was silent. She lay on her side for a moment, eyes closed, just absorbing the sensation of feeling rested. After a long minute she tried to roll over and managed to get her legs tangled up on the process. She cursed and forced herself up into a sitting position.

The cabin was small; one large room and the smaller space Micah had disappeared into from what she could tell. The building was oddly put together, haphazard logs and boards going every which way with no real obvious means of support. The irregular network created dozens of small pockets of shelves that seemed to contain a strange assortment of knick knacks. Some appeared to be scraps of cloth woven into small sculptures while others looked like animal bones or colorful rocks.

In the far corner was the cookfire where the now cold pot of stew was resting. A rack beside it was covered with wooden plates and bowls and utensils. In the center of the room was a large (or at least large for the space) wooden table and a single chair which looked as whimsically constructed as the rest of the place.

The door to the room where Micah had disappeared was still closed, although the strange white light seemed to have disappeared. Catra cast a glance over to Fredrich’s nest, but he had disappeared. She felt the tip of her tail fluff up a bit at the thought of him scurrying around the cabin somewhere.

Wait! Her tail! She hadn’t been able to feel it at all before she had fallen asleep. She whipped it around in front of her and twitched the tip back and forth a few times. A wave of relief washed over her. She was getting better. Slowly, but it was happening.

The door to the side room creaked open and Micah trudged through. A few stray hairs had escaped his top knot and the bags underneath his eyes looked more pronounced.

“You look better than when I left,” Micah commented as he sat down on the single chair pushed up against the table.

“You look decidedly worse,” said Catra.

Micah raised an eyebrow. “Not one for niceties, I see. I might have guessed being raised by the Horde.”

Catra scowled. “You don’t know anything about how I was raised.”

A strange look crossed Micah’s face but he shrugged and didn’t reply.

Catra studied her claws. After a minute she sighed and said. “What is a Magicat?”

Micah looked up at her. “You really don’t know? The Horde didn’t tell you anything about…? Well no, I guess they wouldn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Micah shook his head. “Did you think you were the only one of your kind?”

Catra rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. I know where the orphans at the Horde come from.” She shrugged and studied a claw. “I was just the only one like me in the Horde.” She frowned. “Not that it mattered.”

“The Magicats were a race of cat-hybrid people that lived in a forest on the outskirts of the Crimson Waste. Half-Moon. They were excellent warriors and very territorial, so they didn’t often venture outside of their territory. They were one of the last territories to fall to the Horde before the final stand of the Princess Alliance.”

“Final stand of the Princess Alliance,” Catra muttered. “If only.”

Micah raised an eyebrow.

“What’s it to you, old man.? Following Etherian politics from your hermit cave?”

Micah laughed. “I wasn’t always the ‘hermit’ of Beast Island, kitten. I didn’t end up here by accident any more than you did.”

“You’re telling me that you fought for the rebellion?”

“I never did understand that term. The rebellion. Hordak crash landed and started taking over one kingdom at a time; how does defending your home make you a rebel? I guess it all just depends on your perspective. But yes, I fought for the princesses. Is this where you tell me that Hordak just wanted a more ‘orderly’ Etheria?”

Catra looked away.

“Yeah you don’t strike me as a true believer.”

Catra snorted. “It’s easy to have high lofty beliefs when everyone loves you. I had to fight for everything I ever had. And then, boom, one mistake and lost it all just as fast. Scrap my way back to the top and now look at me.” She gestured to her useless legs. “Let’s just say I have a really practical view about idealism.”

Micah’s mouth quirked up in a little half smile. “That’s an interesting read of the situation. I think another version might be that you doubled down on your allegiance to a man you knew very well was selling half-truths and cruelty and it predictably did not work out in your favor. The princesses are not without their flaws, but at least their ideals are in earnest.”

“Yeah, earnest enough to make them all weak and vulnerable. No thank you.” Catra squirmed herself to a more comfortable position. “Why did you even bother to save me, an evil Horde solider, anyway? You never really answered that part. For all you know I’ve just come from attacking your favorite princess stronghold. Were you more a fan of the sarcastic mermaidy one or the hippie?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know who I was saving when I went in there,” he said, standing up. “And now here you are. My vulnerable ideals preclude me from tossing you out when you can’t walk.” He moved toward the door. “Or letting you starve to death on my bed. So, I’m going to do a bit of gardening and make dinner.”

“Stew?” Catra asked before could stop herself. She winced at the hopeful rise in her voice.

Micah smiled. “Yes, stew. You’ll get sick of it eventually. But it’s nice to have someone who appreciates my cooking.” He shot a look into the corner of the room and Catra could hear angry chittering from wherever Fredrich must be hiding. “Back in a few.”

***

Scorpia was miserable. She had sand in parts of her shell she couldn’t reach, the skin on the back of her neck was sunburned and every non-shell part of her body was itching both from bug bites and a strange rash that that had popped up on her right forearm. They had been walking for hours with Entrapta cheerfully chatting about technomagical interfaces while her prehensile hair seemed to have taken on the burden of walking and swatting away bugs.

“Oh dear,” muttered Entrapta suddenly, breaking off her technobabble stream-of-consciousness.

“What?” Scorpia asked through gritted teeth.

“Weeeell, I think there might be a slight error in my calculations.”

“And?”

“And I think maybe we’ve been walking the wrong direction for the past twenty minutes.”

Scorpia took a slow, deep breath in and out of her mouth. She turned and took a step but paused when Entrapta squeaked.

“Also, I think perhaps you’re standing in a bee’s nest.”

“A what’s nest?”

“Bees? Small yellow critters with stingers?”

Scorpia suddenly became aware of a loud humming bubbling up around her feet. She glanced down and saw the swarm slowly amassing and rising from what had looked like a pile of leaves when Scorpia had stepped on it.

“Run?” asked Scorpia.

“Run,” agreed Entrapta.

“AAAAAAAAAGH”

***

Catra was starting to get used to being in the cabin. Every day she was getting a little more movement in her legs. As Micah had explained it, the poison had spread from the initial site of her injury and retreated back in much the same manner. Eventually she was able to limp awkwardly around the cabin, dragging her right leg behind her and using the furniture to support her.

Micah took this as a sign that it was time for her to pitch in.

“Weeding?”

“Have you never seen a garden before?”

Catra just raised her eyebrows at him.

Micah closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Do I even want to know what is in those ration bars you were carrying around with you?”

“Protein, carbohydrates and a small amount of lipids with the requisite vitamin and mineral supplementation,” said Catra.

“H’okay. Well outside of the Horde we eat something called ‘food’ which generally comes from plants in the ground or animals that are used for meat. Since everything on Beast Island is generally more interested in eating us than becoming dinner meat is sparse so most of what I make is vegetable based. To get enough vegetables to feed you, me and a surprisingly voracious squirrel I grow them in a small plot of land in the back yard. That’s called a garden. And it needs weeding.”

Catra blinked at him.

“You know what, just come with me and I’ll show you.”

It was the first time Catra had ventured outside the cabin since waking up in it. The air was humid enough she could feel the fur on her tail puff up and her skin felt tacky almost immediately. Micah handed her a long stick to use as support as she limped out onto the front porch.

Immediately she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as the low hum of the jungle came rushing at her.

“Don’t worry,” said Micah, seeing her shrink back. “We’re protected here. As long as you stay back from the tree-line you’re pretty safe.”

“Pretty safe,” Catra muttered and deliberately chose not to ask how they were so protected.

“This is the garden,” Micah said, gesturing to a large dirt square that was subdivided into several smaller squares with neat lines of greenery poking up. “Come with me, we’ll start with the carrots.” He led her over to one of the patches and crouched down.

“This is a carrot,” he said, pulling one of the stalks out of the ground to reveal a long conical orange tuber. Catra recognized it from where she had seen bunches lying out on the kitchen table in the cabin. “They grow underground, so all that you can see is the stalks poking up which should pretty much all look like this,” he pointed to the green bit he’d pulled the carrot up with. “These other plants,” now he pointed to a thin vines growing next to the row of carrot stalks, “are weeds. As they grow, they will start to choke off the carrots and take over the garden. So, we pull them up.”

He tugged gently and the vine lifted with a shower of dirt. Catra could see dozens of smaller roots dividing from the piece Micah had pulled from.

“You want to try to pull them up with the roots still attached, otherwise they just come back. Like the carrots, there is often more beneath the dirt than above it.”

Catra set down her walking stick and lowered herself down sit on the ground, unable to crouch with her weak leg. She grasped one of the weeds and pulled sharply, ripping the stalk where it went into the ground. She glared at the small piece of greenery in her hand. “This is stupid.”

“You have to be gentle, otherwise they tear like that and then you have to go after the roots with a tool. Here, try again.”

Catra smacked the dirt with one hand. “Why am I doing this? I’m leaving as soon as I can walk without that stupid stick!”

“One possible reason might be as a favor to an old man who has shown you a great deal of hospitality,” replied Micah. There was not much bite to his words but Catra could feel her cheeks heat. “Another might be that I’m watching you go quietly stir-crazy sitting around the cabin all day so this might give you something to do aside from quelling your urge to chase Fredrich around the place.”

Catra’s blush deepened.

“Here, try this one,” Micah gestured to the small plant by Catra’s hand. “Just pull gently and wiggle it a little and you can free the whole thing. If it’s really stuck or you tear it again you can use this to wedge it free.” He handed her a small trowel.

Catra reluctantly took the trowel and reached for the weed. This time she tugged a little more softly and felt the dirt slowly give way before a familiar ripping sensation and the weed pulled away with a few thick broken roots. Catra growled and threw the plant to one side sending an arc of dirt into the air.

“Better,” said Micah. “You’ll get the hang of it soon.”

“Better?” she sneered. “At this rate you’re going to have to dig up your whole garden to get all the roots out.”

Micah shrugged. “The weeds will pop back up again and give us another shot even if we miss them this time. You can’t expect to be perfect at something the first time you try it.”

Catra stared at the dirt.

“Let me guess,” Micah said. “The Horde wasn’t too forgiving on the subject of failed first attempts.”

Catra ignored him and pulled at another weed. It seemed more deeply entrenched in the ground as she wiggled at it. She shoved down the urge to rip this one out and instead extended a claw into the dirt to break up some of the hard ground around the weed. There was a sudden giveaway and the majority of the plant seemed to come free with only a few of the smaller roots broken at the edge.

“Nice,” said Micah. “You work here, I’m going to head over to the tomatoes. Just shout if you need help.”

“Oh help, Micah, the plants are attacking me,” Catra mocked, pulling another weed that came up surprisingly easily. She regarded it with a

“Well as long as your biting sarcasm is intact, I think we will be okay,” Micah said with a chuckle as he hoisted himself to his feet and moved toward a different part of the garden with large green vines draped over wooden frames.

Catra worked her way down the rows of carrots, clearing away everything except for the carrot stalks. A few times she grew frustrated again, cursing or throwing broken weeds or, once, a carrot she had pulled up by mistake. Micah ignored her and by the time she reached the end of the row she was starting to find the gentle give of the weeds coming free sort of satisfying. She was taken by surprise when Micah’s hand touched her shoulder.

“It’s getting dark,” he said. “We should go inside for some supper.”

Catra jerked back to herself and was surprised to hear her stomach let out a low rumble. Micah helped her to her feet and handed her the walking stick, but she found as she moved that she scarcely needed it. She leaned on it heavily when Micah looked in her direction and made her way back into the cabin.

***

Catra dreamed.

She is back in the Fright Zone sitting on the bottom bunk with a blanket wrapped around her. She’s not crying but she can feel that deep ache in her chest that was a familiar marker of a run in with Shadow Weaver.

She hears a noise and looks up just in time to see a blond ponytail disappear around the corner.

“Adora?” she calls, jumping up and giving chase.

She rounds the corner only to see Adora disappear into another corridor.

“Adora, wait!” But this time she is facing an empty hallway when she rounds the corner.

“Did you think she would wait around for you?”

Catra jumps and whirls to see Shadow Weaver standing behind her, arms crossed over her chest.

“Adora has more important things than to wait for her needy little pet to get over herself.” Shadow Weaver leans down close. “Were you crying again? Pathetic. Get back to training. You’re late.”

The next thing she knows Catra is standing in the locker room alone. There is laughter coming from outside the door and she thinks she can pick out the familiar lilt of Adora’s giggle. The door swings open and the cadets stream in. Catra searches frantically for Adora’s blond pouf, but she can’t see her anywhere. She turns back to her locker and catches sight of Adora sitting on the bench pulling off her boots.

Catra slinks up beside her. “Not even going to say hi, princess?”

Adora treats her to a withering look. “I don’t know what you expected. You let us down again today.”

“I….”

“Save it Catra. I have to study.”

Adora stands to walk away.

“Wait!” Catra reaches out and grabs Adora’s shoulder and suddenly the scenery has changed in they are standing in the Whispering Woods.

“Wait!?” Adora jerks her arm from Catra’s grasp. “Why should I wait for you? You never waited for me. You never did anything for me! You whine and cry about how unfair everything was and how badly you were treated but we both know you deserved it. Maybe if you’d actually tried once in a while I wouldn’t have had to leave.”

“I…I tried,” Catra stammers. She can’t seem to get ahead of swelling pain in her gut. “I did try. Shadow Weaver….”

“Shadow Weaver values strength. She was hard on you because you’re so damn weak, Catra. She had no choice.”

“No….” Tears are starting to spill over. Stop, Catra thinks. You don’t cry like this. Not in front of people. Not in front of Adora.

“Ugh, look at you.” Adora’s face is full of disgust. “What a waste.” She turns and walks away.

Catra takes a step to go after her but her knees give out and she falls to the forest floor sobbing.

Catra woke up. Her cheeks were damp. She pushed to sit herself up and found it remarkably easy with both legs working. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She pressed her aching eyes against her knees and sat like that for the rest of the night.

***

“I think the signal has been shifting this entire time!” Entrapta studied her tracker pad. “It must operate under similar properties to the Whispering Woods, although in this case it doesn’t seem like the jungle is moving so much as certain structures within the jungle that give off very strong First One signals.”

They were gathered around a small fire in a clearing a few miles from where they had run into the bee’s nest. They had been relatively lucky; Scorpia had three stings and Entrapta had escaped with just one on her ankle. After that she had agreed to set up camp for the night and continue their quest for the First One’s signal in the morning.

“Fantastic,” said Scorpia, poking the fire with a long stick. The sting on her neck ached.

“It appears we are about five miles off at this point, but I have adjusted my calculations slightly in hopes of accounting for the movements.”

Scorpia sighed as her stomach growled. “I don’t suppose that thing can give us any information on where to find some sort of food product other than berries. I’m fairly certain that a diet exclusively berries is not going to be very healthy.”

“Oh, that would be useful. Maybe I can design something once we get back to the Fright Zone!”

Scorpia looked up. “Once we get back to…. Entrapta, what do you think we’re doing here?”

“Looking for the First One’s tech on Beast Island.”

“No…I mean…do you think that Hordak sent us here? For a mission?”

Entrapta’s eyes darted from Scorpia’s face to the fire and back again. “No. I mean, I know that Catra was mad about me not wanting to activate the portal because of the whole ‘possibly could destroy all of time and space’ thing. And I heard that Beast Island is supposed to be some sort of Horde prison, so I guess being sent here makes me a prisoner. Oh! And then you came along to keep me company. Which maybe means you are a prisoner too, although I don’t know what you did to anger Catra. It seems pretty easy to do these days. But now we’re here and this island is full of mysteries so, I figure, why dwell on the whole ‘prisoner’ thing. I mean I started out as a prisoner of the Horde in the first place and that turned out to be great!”

The stick snapped in Scorpia’s claw.

“We are here because Catra sent you to your death! Don’t you get it? Beast Island is not a place you come back from. It’s a place you get sent and then you are never. Heard. From. Again!”

Scorpia stood up and threw her stick into the fire. “We’re not going back to the Fright Zone. she shouted, towering over Entrapta who just stared up at her with wide eyes. “You are not going to bring Hordak a treasure trove of First One’s tech! The most likely thing that is going to happen to us is that we are both going to be eaten by something huge and mean and everyone we ever knew or cared about is going to think we were traitors. And I….” Scorpia sniffed as tears started to leak out of her eyes.

“I came with you because what Catra did was wrong and I…I know she would have realized that eventually, but she was so angry…. And I wanted to protect you but now I’m going to die out here and you don’t even care. All you care about is your precious tech.” Scopria sank back down and buried her head and her claws.

There was silence except for Scorpia’s ragged sobs and the quiet crackling of the fire. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I…I never really had any friends other than my robots until recently,” said Entrapta softly. “I’m not very good at being a friend myself—too many parameters—but I do know that you are a very good friend, Scorpia. According to my calculations, you are my best friend, actually.”

Scorpia sniffed and turned her head to the side to look at Entrapta.

“I do know that this is dangerous and that you gave up a lot to come with me. I’m sorry if I made you feel taken for granted.  I thought that if I could find this signal maybe I could find something that would help us out here but…maybe I’ve been a little too fixated. I tend to do that.” She gave a little laugh. “My robots never really cared enough to call me on it.”

Scorpia took a shaky breath. “Yeah I….” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “That makes sense Entrapta. I…uh…I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“That’s okay!” Entraptra said. “I do better if you tell me things plainly. Not as many parameters to navigate.”

Scorpia nodded. “In that case…I need a break. We have been walking for days and I don’t have mechanical hair to help me out. And we need more food and water. Perhaps we could camp here tonight and tomorrow, find some more supplies and….”

Scorpia was cut off by a low growl coming from behind them.

“Uh…Entrapta?”

“Yes? You were saying? More supplies….” Entrapta had her tracker pad out, goggles down and was typing with her hair.

“Remember what I said about us most likely being eaten by something very large?”

Entrapta looked up. “I do.”

“That may be happening much sooner than I had hoped.” The statement was punctuated by another low growl.

They turned slowly. At first all Scorpia could see was blackness and underbrush, but the fire flared and suddenly they could see the glint off two golden eyes peering at them through the darkness.

The growl became louder as a large creature stepped into view. In addition to the yellow eyes, it was covered in pitch-dark fur with long tusks and a rope of saliva dripping from its mouth.

In unison Scorpia and Entrapa were both on their feet backing away slowly as the creature stalked forward.

“We need to run,” hissed Scorpia.

“It’s going to catch us,” Entrapta said, voice high pitched.

“Definitely. But what choice do we have. On the count of three. One…two…THREE!” Scorpia turned to run, one arm reaching to grab at Entrapta but finding empty air. Scorpia turned back just in time to watch Entrapta rushing forward.

“Entrapta, no!” shouted Scorpia as Entrapta launched herself toward the beast using her hair as a springboard.

“You stay back!” Entrapta shouted as she fell toward the creature. One hand shot out, wielding the bag of data crystals like a slingshot, smacking against the top of the animal’s snout.

To Scorpia’s shock the creature let out a loud whimper and broke off its attack, falling to the side.

Entrapta managed to steer herself with her hair and three-point landed facing the retreating beast and looking (Scorpia had to admit it) pretty badass.

The beast ran off whimpering into the woods.

“Entrapta that was amazing!” Scorpia ran toward her and scooped her up into a hug. “How did you know that was going to work?”

“I didn’t!” said Entrapta. “As a rule, I would prefer not to make calculations based on so little data, but from what I could figure the odds of fighting seemed better than running. Although I have to admit that was way more effective than I expected.”

“You’re telling me.” Scorpia set her down on the ground. “Any idea what just happened?”

Entrapta looked at the small pouch in her hand. “It seems that the beast was responding to the First One’s tech in a negative fashion. I would need more experiments to determine if this is effective for all of the beings on this island or if was only the one we just encountered. I am also not certain if there is a specific data crystal in this collection that was effective or if it was the large quantity I have collected. Perhaps with further analysis I could determine….”

“Okay ‘Trapta…how about if we revisit that idea tomorrow while we have some down time?’

“Down time!” Entrapta raised herself up on her hair to be eye to eye with Scorpia. “This is all the more reason to find the central First One’s technology stash as soon as possible. Now that we have a safe means of travel, we could leave tonight and....” She paused and studied Scorpia’s face for a moment. “I mean…right! Down time. Analysis, tomorrow!”

“And then on to the First One’s stash the day after,” agreed Scorpia with a relieved sigh.

***

“What is it?” Catra asked, taking the leather object in one hand.

“It’s a book,” said Micah. He looked pained. “I take it you didn’t have books in the Fright Zone?”

Catra shook her head. “What do you do with it?”

“You read it. Oh! I didn’t even ask if you can read.”

Catra scowled at him. “I can read. We had plenty of things we needed to read in the Horde. Like duty rosters and troop rotations and battle maneuvers. And there were like…pamphlets about the Fright Zone and the Horde.”

“In other parts of Etheria, people use writing to tell stories. Sometimes they were true stories about history and sometimes they were untrue stories that were just told for fun.”

Catra raised her eyebrows. “Untrue stories told for fun.”

“No one even told stories in the Fright Zone.” The line between his eyebrows grew deeper.

“We told stories,” Catra muttered. “I was just never into all the spooky princess tales. Adora was the one who ate that shit up.”

“If you don’t like it you can just stop reading it. But I thought it might give you something else to do while I’m working. There are only so many weeds in the garden.”

Catra felt her cheeks heat and she looked down at the tome in front of her. Once she had gotten the hang of gardening it had become difficult for Micah to get her back indoors. She found a weird satisfaction in lifting the weeds out of the dirt and had developed her claw-trowel method in a way that extracted even the most stubborn of root systems without breakage.

She had also dispensed with the walking stick in the past day. Micah had yet to comment on her new mobility and Catra hadn’t brought up leaving again.

“This book is written about the world of the Princesses, so there may be some things you don’t recognize as you go through. But just ask if you run into anything too peculiar.”

Catra opened it to the first page. “The Cat Queen,” she read. She raised an eyebrow at Micah who grinned.

“I thought this might give you a bit of an idea of what Magicat society was like, even though the events are made up. Don’t worry, there are plenty of action scenes. A little romance too.” He wigged his eyebrows and grinned. Catra rolled her eyes.

Micah stood. “I have some work to do. You can tell me what your thoughts are later this afternoon.”

Catra watched Micah disappear into the side room. A moment later that familiar, unsettling white light started to leak through the slats of the doorway. Catra sighed and opened the book to the first page.

She read for the better part of an hour and had to admit that for all the times she rolled her eyes at colorful descriptions of jungle castles built high in the trees and bizarre customs, the story was much more engrossing than any battle maneuvers she had read about.

She was eventually interrupted by Fredrich who had chosen to perch near his nest and chitter at her.

Catra sighed and closed the book. “You know I can’t understand you like Micah can,” she told him. “All you ever do is get my hackles up.”

She wasn’t entirely sure if Fredrich could understand her, but he chittered again and held something up in the air.

It was the remote to call back the Horde ship.

“You little shit!” shouted Catra and lunged toward him.

Fredrich chittered and dashed across the network of shelves. Catra, clumsy after so long without full use of her limbs, careened into the wall, missing him. She growled, tail twitching, and gave in fully to the instinct to track and pounce.

Fredrich dashed across the floor. Catra followed him with her eyes trying to anticipate where he would go. She saw him aiming for the rack of cookware and sprang after. He dodged just in time and made a break for the closed door of the work room where Micah had gone. Catra could see a squirrel-sized hole a few inches from the floor where the door met the hinge.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered. This time she leaped ahead of his path and slapped one paw down beside creature.

Fredrick let out a squeak, dropped the remote and leapt over her paw, narrowly escaping through a hole in the floor just under the bed.

Catra sat back against the side-room door panting feeling both embarrassed and triumphant. She turned the remote over in her hand. Her finger brushed over the single button in the center. She imagined pushing it, right now, sitting on the floor of Micah’s cabin. The boat would show up. No Catra or Entrapta to be found. And then it would leave; no second chances. No going back.

Why would we go back? Catra could hear Scorpia’s voice in her head. Let’s stay here. Forget Hordak. Forget Adora. Forget all of them. We could, you know…be happy.

The light from behind the door flared up again and reflected off the metal of the remote. Catra felt her stomach turn and her finger slid off the remote’s trigger. She twisted around and saw a small gap between the slats of the door.

She shouldn’t.

But then again when had Catra ever done what she should.

She pressed her face against the door and peered through the gap.

At first all she saw was light. She squinted and wondered if the reason she felt so unsettled was because this reminded her of the She-Ra transformations. Then her vision cleared. She could see Micah standing over a large bowl with his arms stretched up in front of him. From her angle on the floor she couldn’t see the contents of the bowl, but she could see a light pattern rising from it. She watched his hands forming intricate patterns in the air as lines of light emitted from his fingers and drifted to join the circular design. In the very center was a clear blue crystal that glowed brighter and dimmer in a slow pulse. Just beyond it was the ghostly outline of a person with long hair looking out over a cliff.

Catra let out a yelp and threw herself backwards from the door, crashing into the chair. It fell to ghe ground with a loud bang.

The glow behind the door abruptly stopped and a moment later the door swung open.

“If you need something else to do at least go into the garden and leave poor Fredrich…Catra?” Micah stopped when he saw her. Catra was crouched beside the fallen chair, eyes wide, muscles locked in place, the fur on the tip of her tail standing on end.

“Catra, are you okay?” He held up one hand and Catra jumped backward again, skidding into a defensive position.

“I saw,” she hissed. “I saw what you were doing in there.”

“Saw what I was…?”

“You’re like her,” she hissed. “How did I miss it? What do you want with me?”

“Catra, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you talking about?”

“Shadow Weaver!” Catra shouted. “I know what sorcery looks like!”

Micah froze, arm still outstretched toward her. “Wait,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think, Micah?” Catra shouted, horrified to wetness springing to her eyes. She squeezed her hands into fists and realized she was still clutching the remote. She had almost just…. “What could I possibly think watching you do magic just like her.”

“It’s not like her. Catra, please! I…it’s complicated. I’m not like her. Just let me explain.”

He took a step forward and Catra immediately moved backwards, scrambling up onto the table, crouching with one hand outstretched, claws unsheathed.

“Don’t you dare get near me!” She turned and started to run toward the door. It wasn’t until her hand touched the knob that she realized she had been bracing for the familiar cold sensation of magic freezing her muscles into place.”

Instead Micah shouted, “I’m sorry! I never meant to lie to you. I was going to explain once I thought you would stay long enough to hear me out. I didn’t want to let you down again!”

Catra paused, gripping the handle.  

“Again?”

She looked back at Micah and was shocked by the expression on his face. Not the anger or fear or disappointment she expected. He looked…sad.

“This isn’t the first time our paths have crossed, Catra. You…wouldn’t remember—it was a very long time ago—but I…I will never forget it.”

Catra let her hand slip from the doorknob.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

Micah shrugged. “I don’t know if you should or could. But just…hear me out? I won’t lie to you anymore. About anything. And if you want to leave after you hear everything…well, I won’t stop you.”

Catra looked back toward the door. She stared at the wood grain, the cracks between the slats.

Her other hand was still clutching the remote. For a moment Catra couldn’t breathe. She reached for the door and turned the knob.

“Please?”

Catra please! You don’t have to do this.

Catra released the doorknob and walked over to the bed. She sat herself cross legged on the grass-stuffed mattress and pointed to the chair across the room.

“You stay there. Tell me your story. Don’t come close to me. Don’t even start to do any magic or I’m gone, and I’ll probably rip your face open on my way out. Don’t test me; I’ve done it before.”

Micah nodded and sank down into the chair.

“It’s a long story,” he started.

***

“I guess I should start with the woman you know as Shadow Weaver. When I met her, she was known as Light Spinner and she was one of the most powerful sorcerers in Mystacor. I was a young student there and I admired her above all my other teachers. She recognized some talent in me and after a great deal of pestering she took me on as her apprentice. I was so flattered; she had this way of making her favored students feel like they were at the center of the universe. But I take it you know something about that?”

Catra scowled down at her hands. “Not from personal experience.”

“Adora?” Micah asked. Catra eyes shot up. “You talk in your sleep sometimes.”

“This isn’t about me,” snapped Catra. Micah nodded.

“I was willing to do whatever she said to stay in her favor. Frequently that involved bending or sometimes outright breaking rules of the academy. Light Spinner always felt that she was underrecognized for her skills and at the time I thought she might have had a point. I guess in retrospect the masters recognized a hunger for power that I missed. Or…shared.

“One day she went too far. She used me to help her tap into a spell she had no business using and it backfired. The spell…it changed her somehow, scarred her face and turned her into whatever it was that became Shadow Weaver. She was cast out of Mystacor, cut off from magic and the masters told me that she was gone forever. They agreed to let me complete my training under heavy supervision after that. I wanted to put the whole thing behind me, but I always suspected she wouldn’t have just faded away like that.

“Light Spinner…Shadow Weaver was wrong about a lot of thing in Mystacor, but she did recognize that the masters were too passive when it came to bigger threats to Etheria. They expected the outside world to take care of itself. But with the Horde starting to eat up kingdoms, I couldn’t just stand by. When I completed my training, I left Mystacor and joined the rebellion. I met my wife. We had a child together, a baby girl.” Micah smiled for a moment before clearing his throat. “And together we fought against the Horde.”

“This is all nauseatingly pure, but maybe we could skip ahead a bit?” Catra interrupted.

Micah rolled his eyes but continued. “All the kingdoms have different protections, but the lands closest to the Fright Zone were the most vulnerable to the Horde. We lost ground fast before we created the Alliance and it was all we could do just to hold the line.

“One day we got the call from Half Moon, the kingdom of the Magicats.” Catra’s ear twitched. “I lead the troops as part of our aid effort, but when we got there it was already too late.

“The people of Half Moon…they were a proud people. They refused to surrender, even when the battle was clearly hopeless. I think perhaps they were holding out hope that reinforcements would arrive in time but…. When we got there the jungle kingdom was on fire and the few survivors were making a last stand or fleeing. We tried to join the fight but the Horde had already taken the castle as a stronghold, so it was as though we were the invaders. We never stood a chance.

“In the midst of the battle there was a break in the fighting, and I turned to see a familiar figure moving across the battleground. I don’t know how I recognized her—she looked so different from the woman I knew from Mystacor—but I knew immediately it was her. Light Spinner, now fully Shadow Weaver. She had something in her arms, thrown partly over one shoulder and when she turned, I could see it was a person. A Magicat child, maybe two years old, with a brown mane, grey tufts, and two mismatched eyes, one yellow and one blue.

“I pointed my staff at her head and shouted for her to stop. She did and turned to face me.

“She recognized me immediately, which threw me off guard. She looked so different I almost expected her to be a different person. But she spoke to me with the same affection she always had.

“I told her to put down the child and surrender. She laughed and told me the fight was over and I should go back home. I had a clear shot. One blast and it would have been over. I couldn’t save the rest of the kingdom, but I could save this one child and rid the word of Shadow Weaver forever.” He cast his eyes downward.

“But I couldn’t do it. I hesitated too long and, in that time, she was able to summon the power to freeze me in place. I thought she was going to kill me right then, but she walked up and stroked my cheek just like she used to do when I was her pupil. She told me it would be a waste to take my life and that the time we had worked together still meant so much to her.

“She took my staff and left me for the soldiers to tie me up. I watched her float away, unable to move or look another direction. But the clearest memory I have is watching those two mismatched eyes, one blue and one yellow, blinking at me over her shoulder as she faded into the smoke.”

Catra didn’t say anything for a minute and continued to stare at the floor. Finally, she sighed.

“You’re lying,” she stated.

“I swear, I’m not,” Micah said. “I…I did lie you before, but just about how I found you. I wasn’t just wandering through the woods in the middle of the night. I saw your boat land and I recognized you. I had Fredrich follow you and warn me when you were in danger. But everything else I told you is true.”

Catra shook her head. “Why would Shadow Weaver take a child from a battle? She never even went to the battles. And the only wards she raised were me and…Adora. And Adora was special.” She sneered through the word. “She hated me.”

“I…have my theories on that front,” said Micah. “Light Spinner only ever gave attention to the trainees she thought were the most naturally gifted. Generally, children from magical pedigrees. She used to talk about how the greatest potential student would be the offspring of a sorcerer and a royal. Able to channel sorcery with the power of a runestone.”

Catra snorted. “Well she miscalculated there if she thought that was what she was getting by kidnapping me.”

“It was a miscalculation. You are not a princess…”

“Obviously.” Catra rolled her eyes.

“…but the daughter of the Magicat queen did, in fact, have a sorcerer for a father. And she would have just turned 2 years old at the Battle of Half Moon.”

He paused as Catra put the pieces together. “She thought I was the princess.” It suddenly seemed harder to breathe. “You think she took me expecting I would be her next protégé and then…what, found out I was just normal?” Her voice kept seeming to climb in pitch without her permission. She could almost hear Shadow Weaver’s voice in her head. If you ever do anything to jeopardize Adora’s future, I will dispose of you myself. “She…that’s why she….” Catra was gasping now. “She hated me. All. Because I was….” She grabbed at her throat. “I can’t…I can’t breathe.”

Micah leaned forward in the chair.

“Don’t,” Catra shouted, one hand on her chest, the other pointing a claw in his direction. “Stay there.” She sucked in short bursts of air barely able to get the words out. “What. Did you do. To me,” she gasped.

“It’s not me,” said Micah. “You’re having a panic attack. Just…concentrate on your breathing.”

“What. Does it. Look like I’m. Doing,” Catra growled. Her head was swimming. I will dispose of you myself, she could hear the words on a loop in her mind. Dispose of you. “No!” Her lips felt numb.

“Catra! Listen to me!” She could barely hear him over the roaring in her hears. “You need to focus on something else. Think about a part of your body. Your left foot. Think about your left foot.”

Catra shot him an incredulous look.

“It helps, I promise. Just focus on your left foot. Don’t think about your breathing, think about your foot and your toes and your ankle.”

Catra forced her mind to focus on her left foot. She wigged her toes and extended her claws in and out. She rolled her ankle in a circle.

“Now your right foot.”

Catra shifted her attention to her right foot and did the same. There was still a small pain in her lower calf from where the spinder had stung her. She focused on that sensation until the roaring in her ears seemed to subside.

“Better?”

Catra opened her eyes, only then realizing she had closed them in the first place. Her breathing was calmer although the staccato rhythm of her heart was still going strong. She met Micah’s warm, concerned eyes.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I think it was your body’s response to…what I told you. It happens. When I first came here, I used to have panic attacks all the time. It took me a long time to learn how to break them. I usually just go from body part to body part, starting with my feet and moving up gradually.  I focus on each one for a second and at some point, I’ve distracted myself enough from the panic that I can function again. How do you feel?”

Catra thought about her answer for a long moment.

“Exhausted,” she said. “I can’t…I can’t think about this anymore.”

Micah nodded.

“I meant what I said. If you choose to leave, I won’t stop you. But please stay for tonight? It’s dark and the jungle is so much more dangerous at night.”

Catra nodded, too tired to argue. She felt so raw and wrung out. She tilted to her side until she was lying horizontally on the bed.

Micah looked on and gave a half smile. He pointed down at the chair where he sat. “Do you mind if I?”

Catra almost laughed. She felt too weak to fight Fredrich right now. “Go ahead,” she said with a little gesture in his direction. Micah stood up and pushed the chair in.

Catra rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling, the little knots and whorls of the wood grain. She blinked her eyes and it felt so heavy to open them again. She closed her eyes again and almost instantly she was asleep.

***

Catra dreamed.

She is in the prison cell with Shadow Weaver, on her knees, arms wrapped around bare shoulders. Shadow Weaver reaches out toward her cheek. Catra flinches but lets her cup the side of her face gently in one hand.

“I will admit I was hard on you,” says Shadow Weaver. “But can you blame me?”

The grip of her face tightens, and nail-tips dig into the skin of her jawline.

“You’re hurting me,” Catra whispers. She can’t pull away.

“You were never anything but a burden to the Horde. Another mouth to feed. And yet I kept you around. For what? Certainly not for your gratitude.”

The nails dig deeper. Catra thinks she can feel blood dripping down her cheek.  “You never gave me a chance….”

“Silence! I should have disposed of you the moment I learned your true nature. It would have spared us all a lot of grief.”

Catra forces herself to look up at Shadow Weaver’s expressionless mask. “Then why didn’t you?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Because of me.”

Catra’s eyes focus behind Shadow Weaver as Adora steps into view. She rests one hand on Shadow Weaver’s shoulder.

“I was the only one who ever wanted you. I was the only one who ever protected you.”

“You should have let me die,” Catra spits.

Adora gives her a sad smile. “I probably should have.”

Catra woke up with tears streaming down her cheeks.

The cabin was dark and quiet aside from the soft snores coming from the bed roll on the floor.

Catra stood up slowly and padded over to where Micah was sleeping and sat down cross-legged on the floor beside him. She studied his face; brow relaxed so the crevices of his forehead were smoothed to thin lines. There were speckles of grey in his pitch-black hair, thickest around the temples and scattered through the coarse beard. His breathing was slow and measured, giving a faint nasal snore as he breathed in and the slow puff of air as he breathed out again.

Catra put her hand in the top of his head and the breathing shallowed out suddenly.

A second later Micah inhaled suddenly, and his eyes shot open.

“C…Catra?”

“I have this memory,” said Catra. Then she paused. Micah waited and said nothing. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.

“I think it might be my first memory, but things are so jumbled from the early years. I remember Shadow Weaver taking me into a room and sitting me down on bunk. She stroked my hair and cupped my cheek and told me that this was my home now and she would take care of me. She told me we would do great things together. And then she called Adora over and I saw this chubby little blond thing who was one big smile. She took my hand and I felt…safe. Maybe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that again.”

Catra reaches up to touch one of tufts of hair by her ear. “If what you said was true that must have been when she still thought I was some…Princess-Mage or something. I don’t know how soon after that she gave up on me. But I never really forgot that feeling. Even long after I stopped trying to get it back.”

Micah struggled himself into a sitting position.

“She does have that effect on people,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep.

Catra clenched one fist and glared at the ground. “It doesn’t change anything,” she said. “I knew she was cruel; I knew she was unfair. I knew I was better than she ever gave me credit for. Why do I still care what she thinks?”

Micah put his hand over her fist and squeezed lightly. “She was your mother for all intents and purposes. I don’t think you can logic away the importance of that person in your life. No matter how terrible she was.”

Catra looked up at him. “If you could go back…if you could have a second chance. To kill her. Would you do it?”

Micah stared and their joined hands for a long minute before answering. “I don’t know.”

Catra sighed and slumped. “Yeah me neither.”

“I think about it all the time,” Micah admitted. “I wonder if she was ever genuine—if she ever really cared about doing the right thing and protecting people—or if it was always just about power. I know she manipulated me but…sometimes I wonder if she knew that was what she was doing. I wonder how much of who she is today is because of her corrupted magic and how much was just who she would always have become when Mystacor wasn’t enough. I wonder if she ever really loved me, or just saw me as a tool to greater power.”

“Why is it so hard to just hate her?” asked Catra.

Micah put an arm over Catra’s shoulder. “You don’t have to hate her. Or love her. You just have to find a way to love yourself despite her.”

Catra sniffed and wiped a tear from one eye. “That’s a nauseating sentiment.”

“Don’t deflect,” said Micah. “It’s true.”

Catra sighed. “If nothing else it seems like a project that will require a little more sleep,” she muttered.

Micah chuckled. “Fair enough. Go back to bed, kitten. We will talk more tomorrow.”

Catra stood and padded across the room back to the bed. She paused before climbing in but didn’t look at Micah. “I guess this means I’m staying.”

“Glad to hear it. The place would be too quiet without you.”

***

“This is it, huh?” Scorpia ran a hand along the smooth stone at the side of the pyramid that had seemingly just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the jungle. “Entrapta?” she said when there was no reply. She turned and saw the other woman staring at the monument with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“I have been looking for this my entire life,” whispered Entrapta.

“Ooookay.” Scorpia stepped back a bit and looked up toward the vanishing point at the top of the building. “But how do we get in?”

“I don’t know!” exclaimed Entrapta. “But I am going to find out!” She plopped down on the ground and started typing furiously into her tracker pad.

After a few minutes Scorpia got tired watching her and decided to wander around the base of the structure. The surface was a smooth, glass-like polished stone that seemed carved into intricate patterns that fit together with only the faintest of gaps. Scorpia had the sense that from distance the shapes might form together into a coherent image or words but this close she couldn’t really make out much.

She had almost finished her circuit when she heard Entrapta shout “I’ve got it!” and there was a sound of stone grinding against stone. Scorpia ran around the corner just in time to see Entrapta about to step through a doorway that had just opened in the side of the structure.

“Entrapta, wait!”

Entrapta paused and waved at Scorpia before disappearing through the opening.

“You will be the end of me, woman!” Scorpia muttered, starting to jog forward as the sound of grinding started up again and the rock began to shift and close.

“I hope you have a plan for getting out of here!” Scorpia shouted as she dove forward, sliding through the contracting entrance moments before it sealed up again.

Inside it is pitch black aside from the glow from Entrapta’s tracker pad. Scorpia follows the faint light forward until she nearly knocks Entrapta over at the entrance to a large circular chamber.

Entrapta has the same look on her face as she did outside the ruin; wide eyes and utter joy.

“I take it this was what you were looking for?”

“I have no idea!” Scorpia winced at the volume. “I can’t wait to find out!” Entrapta ran forward to the center of the room and once again settled herself on the floor, eyes focused on the tracker pad. Scorpia sighed and decided to do her own exploration.

The chamber was almost 200 feet in diameter, again made of that strange smooth stone material with networks of interweaving lines forming intricate patterns. Scorpia made her way to the edge of the circle to try to get a better look at the whole pattern, but she still couldn’t seem to get a great view. She glanced around and saw a short flight of stairs up on an overhang on the opposite side of the circle.

“Sure, why not,” she muttered and made her way across the room. She shot a backwards glance to where Entrapta still sat, furiously typing, and made her way up the staircase.

From this vantage point she could easily see the pattern on the chamber floor. It appeared to be an intricate series of circles surrounding a large figure with a winged helm and holding a large sword.

“Of course,” muttered Scorpia. “More She-ra.”

Turning around she was met without another relief in the wall behind the staircase she had just climbed up. This did not seem to form any figure, just concentric ovals one inside the other, in places overlapping. Smaller circles sat at irregular intervals on the larger lines. At the center was a large circular yellow crystal.

“Hey Entrapta,” Scorpia called. “I think I found one of those data-crystal-y things you like so much!” She stuck a claw into the indentation on the side of the gem and managed to wedge it free. The crystal popped free, but immediately slipped free of her pinchers. She juggled it for a second before managing to catch it balanced on her outstretched arms.

“Don’t touch anything,” she heard Entrapta shout back to her. “This place has a pretty robust security system.”

“Uh…too late?”

Suddenly, the chamber went dark. The lines forming the patterns on the walls and floor glowed an ominous red.

“Uh, Entrapta?”

“Time to go!” came the response from below.

Scorpia was already moving toward the stairs back down to the first floor, but the passageway was pitch black. She reached her arms out blindly, claw grazing the edge of the chamber wall. Her foot tripped over the top of the first step and she pitched forward into the darkness, barely catching herself before falling face first into….

Eyes. Pinpoints of bright white flicked into view in front of Scorpia and seem to float toward her in the darkness. She scrambles backwards back up the stairs.

“Entrapta! I’m stuck!”

“Get to the landing!”

Scorpia ran out to the area overlooking the main chamber and looked down. She winced. It was maybe a 15 foot drop down, definitely a risk of a broken leg.

She turned around and yelped as she saw the eyes had formed themselves into spider-creatures that were rushing toward her.

"Jump!” shouted Entrapta from below.

“Easy for you to say,” Scorpia called back, leaning back against the balcony as one of the spider legs reached out to swipe at her.

A purple tendril appeared suddenly and snaked around her torso, plucking her off the landing just as the spider launched a ropey web in her direction.

Entrapta’s hair set Scorpia down beside the other princess.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Scorpia asked, seizing Entrapta’s shoulders.

“With science!” Entrapta said with a giggle and started typing on the tracker pad again.

“Uh…’Trapta? I don’t think now is quite the time for an experiment?” The spider creatures had made their way down the and a swarm of beetle looking creatures were coming from a separate staircase on the other side of the chamber.

“Not an experiment,” said Entrapta as she continued to type furiously. “A failsafe!”

Suddenly the floor below them opened.

“Wuaaaaaah!” shouted Scorpia, grabbing for Entrapta as they both fell straight down a hidden hatch in the floor that seconds ago has been a relief of the tip of She-Ra’s sword.

They fell only about a foot before hitting a chute and starting to slide.

“Entrapta! Where is this taking us?”

“Outside! Hopefully! Also, possibly to the basement.”

“What’s in the basement?”

“I don’t know! But I would guess more security drones.”

Scorpia clung to Entrapta and prayed to Hordak that they would not be exploring a whole new part of this death trap. Thankfully the chute spat them out of the side of the pyramid and onto the jungle floor.

“Ugh,” said Scorpia, rolling onto her side and then slowly clambering to her feet. “Are you okay, Entrapta? That was a rough landing.”

“No injuries here! And this tracker pad has certainly been through worse.” Entrapta held up the device and gave it a gentle pat.

Scorpia looked up at the pyramid and…it was gone?

“What? Where did…?”

“I told you, it moves. I think we probably triggered a protective migration algorithm by messing with the tech inside.”

“Oh, Entrapta! I’m so sorry!” Scorpia sank down onto her knees. “I ruined everything.” She buried her head in her claws.

“What are you talking about? This was fantastic!”

“I touched something when I shouldn’t have and now the whole First One’s ruin is gone. I screwed up and now all of the technology you wanted is lost!”

“Don’t be silly,” said Entrapta, tabbing through something on the screen of the tablet. “That much First One’s tech is too complicated even for me to analyze in one sitting. I managed to download more than enough to keep me busy for months!”

Scorpia sighed. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

Entrapta paused, one finger hovering in the hair over the tracker pad. “Why would I say things to make you feel better?” she asked, curiously.

Scorpia opened her mouth to explain but then paused and laughed.

“You know you were wrong, ‘Trapta.”

“I highly doubt that. I miscalculate from time to time but is usually based on sound….”

“No, I mean you’re a pretty good friend. Thank you for saving me in there.”

Entrapta beamed at her. “You are welcome, Scorpia! Also thank you for this!” She held up the yellow data crystal with one hair tentacle, eyes wide and shining with excitement. “Oh, the things you and I will be able to accomplish little guy.”

***

Micah held the long handle out to Catra who just stared at the tool dubiously.

“It’s a hoe,” he said.

“You say that as though it will clarify something for me,” Catra replied.

“Well if you would take it and follow me you might find further explanation forthcoming.”

Catra made a face but accepted the hoe, following Micah out to the garden.

“Now that there are two of us, we can expand some more and try to grow some different things. In order to do that we need to break up the ground enough to plant the new stuff and that’s where the hoe comes in.” He demonstrated digging the sharp end into the dirt below.

Catra eyed it skeptically. “Can’t I just use my claws?”

Micah huffed and swung the hoe down again. “Oh, the vigor of youth. You make my back hurt just thinking about it. Yes, I suppose you could, but it’s only fun until you get one of those razors stuck in a root and it pulls out.”

Catra winced. “Point taken,” she said. She picked up the hoe and mimicked his action. The earth beneath her the hoe’s tip cracked and crumbled into soft, dark dirt. “What are we going to grow anyway?” she asked.

Micah’s eyes lit up. “These,” he said, reaching into his pouch and producing a small, red fruit with little seeds scattered on the outside. He held it out to Catra. “Try this.”

Catra accepted it and took a bite. Juicy, tart sweetness flooded into her mouth and without thinking she closed her eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered. “What is it?”

“A strawberry!” said Micah. “I found a grove of wild ones a few months back but they’re so temperamental to grow in a garden I didn’t want to spare the space trying to cultivate them here. But now that I have your help, I figure we can take the risk.”

“I will definitely help you grow more of those,” said Catra. “I am fully committed to the effort.”

Micah laughed. “Ever the solider.”

They worked for a few hours in relative silence. Eventually they reached the end of the area Micah had designated to the project.

Catra wiped sweat of from brow and leaned against the hoe. She glanced over at Micah and then back down at the dirt.

“Go on,” said Micah. “I’ve been feeling you thinking about saying something to me all morning. I’m honestly shocked you’ve shown this much restraint.”

Catra felt her cheeks flush. “After our conversation the other night you never really told me…. I was wondering what you were doing. In the other room. With magic?”

Micah’s brow furrowed. “An oversight on my part. It’s not a secret anymore. Come with me, we’re due for a break.”

Micah led Catra through the previously forbidden door in the back of the cabin.

It still took effort to quell the wave of fear when Catra saw the large bowl in the middle of the room with the gem hovering above it. There was no light emanating from the objects now but Catra could still see echoes of the spell pattern in her mind’s eye.

“Ever since I found myself stranded on this island, I have been trying to find a way out,” said Micah. Catra absently touched the bag tied to the belt at her hip where she had taken to keeping the Horde remote.  “I expect for all she raised you, Shadow Weaver never told you much about the magical arts?” Catra shook her head. “Even the strongest sorcerers need a focus to cast magic. That is usually in the form of a crystal. Mystacore had thousands of crystals for its sorcerers to use, but when I left, I only took two with me. One I used to make my staff, which of course was lost in the Battle of Half Moon. The other I…well let’s just say Light Spinner’s unorthodox lessons mean I’m seldom unprepared. I managed to hide it well enough that it came with me to Beast Island. I’ve been using it to try to contact my family back in Bright Moon.”

Catra froze. “Bright Moon?” she asked hoarsely.

“For the first several years I was pretty resoundingly unsuccessful.” Micah continued. “My magic with the one crystal wasn’t powerful enough to get across the physical distance between Beast Island and Bright Moon. But—you may not remember this—but a few months ago there was a big shift in the magical fields around Etheria.”

Catra felt her back stiffen. The portal….

“I have these…memories from that time. I don’t know if they are real or not, but they are very vivid.” Micah shook his head. “I saw my wife. My daughter. I was back in Bright Moon again. Then this Horde solider, who I guess was your friend Adora, came and told us the world we were in wasn’t real. At some point I had all my memories of that alternate world as well as this one. Then that universe collapsed and I was back here again.”

Micah shook himself. “I’m sure it all sounds crazy now. I see the look on your face.”

Catra had no idea what look she had on her face. She bit her lip so hard she could taste blood.

“The point is that once I came back here, I tried to reach out to Angella again and for the first time I could sense her out there. It took me a long time to figure out what I was sensing and how, but eventually I realized that she was still trapped in a remnant of that other universe. And somehow—whether it’s a connection with Beast Island or my own attachment to Angie or the place itself—my magic can bridge the divide.” Micah furrowed his brow. “It’s faint. I think she can sense me, maybe see me, but we can’t speak. If I had more power, I might be able to bring her back here.” He looked back up at Catra. “So that’s what I have been working on.”

Catra nodded mechanically. “I…uh…wow,” she said. Her stomach turned. “I’m going to go get some air?” she said and turned to leave the room.

“Of course, sorry. I know you hate this magic stuff,” she heard Micah say behind her.

Catra burst out of the cabin and ran to the tree line. She fell to her knees and immediately vomited up the strawberry and stomach lining. She sat back on her heels, heart racing and wiped away the moisture that had sprung to her eyes with the heaving.

She stared out in thick jungle underbrush.

“Catra?” She heard Micah calling from behind her. “Are you okay? I didn’t think being in the room would upset you so much. I would have explained out here.”

Catra dug her claws into her palms and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Was it the mention of Adora? I know that’s still a tender topic for you.” He laid a hand on Catra’s shoulder.

“Back off old man!” Catra shouted batting his hand away and whirling around. “Who said you could touch me?” She held out one clawed hand.

Micah’s eyes were wide. Catra felt her stomach turn again as she recognized the same expression from when she told Adora she didn’t want her to come back to the Horde and brandished the stun baton at Scorpia.

“Not everything gets solved with a pathetic heart to heart!” she shouted. “Don’t pretend like you know anything about Adora just because you saw her in some dream world.”

Micah held up his hands defensively. “Catra, I don’t know what upset you, but please don’t take it out on me.”

“You upset me.” She snorted. “I knew you came from the princess’s world but seriously? Bright Moon. Husband to Queen Angella. I should have known better. You’re all the same, trying to get me to join your stupid Alliance. As though I would ever want to! As though I would just throw away everything I worked so hard for just because you all stole my friend, my mentor, my whole freaking life?”

To Catra’s surprise, Micah’s eyes went soft and sad instead of angry. “You don’t have to do this, Catra. I can’t stop you if you’re determined to self-destruct, but I also won’t stop giving you the chance to choose something better.”

“Aurgh,” Catra screamed. “I never asked for your forgiveness, old man.” She pushed past him and walked off toward the garden. Micah did not follow.

She could barely see where she was going, anger and tears clouding her vision. She stepped on a stake set into the ground to mark the start of the pea plants. Pain shot up from her foot and she let out a loud cry.

“What. The. Ahh!” She kicked the plant next to the stake, stomping it until the shoot was completely mashed and broken. Catra could see bits of green stuck to the bottom of her toes.

She gave out another anguished cry and reached out grapping a handful of pea shoots, ripping them out of the ground and throwing them as hard she could. They scattered around her. Catra grabbed handful after handful, first the pea shoots, then the carrots, then the squash. She clawed at the dirt throwing handfuls every which direction as she screamed.

Finally, somewhere near the tomato plants, she ran out of energy.

She came back to herself, chest heaving with sobs and desperate gasps for oxygen. Her hands and feet were cut and bleeding, covered in caked dirt. Dirt clung to the ripped-up knees of her leggings and debris coated her shirt and bare shoulders.

She stared at her hands and at the darkening sky above her. Then she stood stiffly and slowly walked back to the cabin.

When she reached the front door, she initially reached for the handle but then paused. She raised on dirty, bloody hand and knocked.

There was a pause and then the door swung open. Micah stood, backlit by the cooking fire that was blazing cheerfully in the corner.

“I destroyed the garden,” said Catra, flatly.

“I can see that,” Micah replied.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“There is a whole island if you want it. Try again.”

Catra looked off to the side and then back at Micah.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I forgive you,” said Micah. He steps back and let’s Catra into the cabin. “Let’s get you cleaned up and see to your hands.”

***

Catra dreamed.

She sits on the railing looking out over the sickly green yellow of the Fright Zone. Adora stands beside her, elbows propped up on the railing resting her chin on her hands.

“Not exactly the photo op that Bright Moon is, but it does have its own sort of polluted beauty,” says Adora.

“Bright Moon colors make me want to puke,” says Catra.

“To be honest that was my first thought when I went there.”

“That you wanted to puke?”

“That it would make you want to puke.” Adora tilts her head to one side and looks up at Catra. “I thought it all looked sort of…charming. I had never seen so many colors before in my life.”

They continue to take in the view in silence.

Adora is the one to break it. Of course.

“Why did you bring me here, Catra?” she asks.

“It’s our spot!”

“It was our spot. Before.”

“Why can’t it just be like that again,” said Catra. “When it was just the two of us against the world. Why can’t things be the way they were?”

Adora stares down at the pipes below them. “Maybe it could have been. At some point. But you kind of started burning down that bridge when you kidnapped my friends, threw me off a cliff, tried to destroy new home and then broke reality.”

“Can you blame me?” Catra’s voice sounds weak even to her own ears.

Adora looks up at her with the same sad, concern she had seen on Micah’s face. “Yes Catra. I blame you. You did this to yourself. I may have been the one to fracture our friendship, but you’re the one who split it open and poured salt in the wound.”

Catra turns her head away.

Adora reaches up and cups Catra’s cheek, bringing her back around to face Adora.

“I love you, Catra. But I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

Catra is crying again, annoyed because she has been doing this so. Much. Lately. She doesn’t trust her voice but nods. Adora presses a soft kiss on her forehead.

Catra woke up with aching palms and wet cheeks.

The next morning Catra climbed out of bed just before moonrise and went to sit at the table. She reached into her pouch and placed the Horde remote on the table in front of her. She folded her arms and waited.

Micah woke up an hour later. He sat up in the bed roll and looked over to where she sat.

“I was sent here to find someone.” Catra said. “Two someones, really.” She gestured to the device in front of her. “This is my ticket back to the Fright Zone if I succeed. If I push this button a boat will show up. If I have completed my assignment, we all go home. If I am alone, they may kill me, or they may just leave me here for the Island to finish me off.  No second chances.

“The people I’m supposed to find…I did wrong by them.” She shook her head slightly. “I did wrong by a lot of people, even before I crossed this line, but I…. If they’re still alive I owe them…something. A lot. But I don’t know if a trip back to the Fright Zone is the right thing.”

She looked over at Micah. “I’ve made so many bad decisions in the past…well, my entire life. I can’t be trusted. Part of me wants to complete the mission as fast as possible and run back to the Fright Zone. Part of me wants to push this button right now and just take away the choice forever. Most of me is just delaying the decision because I’m so sure whatever choice I make it will be the wrong one.”

She held out the remote. “Please take this. Push the button if you want. Hide it away. Use it to escape and leave me behind; that would honestly be what I deserve. Just…take the option away from me.”

Micah looked at the device blinking in Catra’s outstretched hand and then up at her face. He reached out and gently took it from her.

“How about this,” said Micah. “How about if we put this away for today while we replant the garden. And then tomorrow we will start to search for these people who you wronged. And we give them the choice.”

Catra looked down at the table and nodded.

“They get to decide what it right for them, Catra. But you get to decide what is right for you. You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to.

Catra glared at the table. She thought about Scorpia’s hopeful face in the Crimson Waste. She thought about Adora taking her hand in the First One’s ruin. She thought about walking down the hallway of the Fright Zone with the soldiers parting to let her pass.

She closed her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.  

“Well think about it. Now let’s get some breakfast before we have to assess the damage. If we’re expecting to have two more guests, we’re going to need to be able to feed them!”

***

“Oh man, these little fuzzy critters are delicious when they’re cooked!” Scorpia nibbled around the edge of the charred rodent-on-a-stick and paged through Entrapta’s survival manual. “I should have read this chapter ages ago!”

“It is quite a bit more pleasant after so many berries,” said Entrapta. She was holding one of the sticks with a hair tendril, eating absent mindedly as she tinkered with the tracker pad and the gem from the First One’s ruin. “I do miss my tiny food and fizzy drinks though.”

Scorpia studied the food for a moment frowning. “I mean in a way this is tiny food. After all the creatures are way smaller than any of the big fuzzy critters. Not that I think I would look at them as food so much as the other way around….”

“Ugh.” Entrapta let the tracker pad slip from her grasp. “I’m having a terrible time getting into this thing. I can tell it has so much potential but there’s something interfering with the signal.”

“Take a break,” said Scorpia around a mouthful. “My squad leader always used to say that sometimes you just need to turn your brain off and then back on again to try to solve a problem.”

“That sounds biologically unsound but metaphorically may not be a terrible idea for the moment. I do sometimes forget that the brain requires proper rest and nutrients to operate properly.”

Scorpia smiled and settled back against the log. Their fire crackled and the camp smelled of woodsmoke and cooked meat.

Off to one side there was a faint rustling.

Scorpia sat up. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

Entrapta pulled out her sack of data crystals and gave it a little shake. “Don’t worry, we’re ready.”

“Maybe you should let me have that,” said Scorpia. “I know you’re the brains of the operation, but I should probably take point in protection. I was trained for battle by the Horde, after all.”

“I did just fine with the last three creatures,” said Entrapta. “Besides, I don’t want to lose any of these.”

“I wouldn’t lose the data crystals. I just think I could pack more of a punch with them.”

“There is no need to pack more of a….”

Entrapta was interrupted by the snap of a branch off to the side of the camp. She and Scorpia turned sharply, Entrapta brandishing the bag of stones in front of her clutched it both hands.

“Woah! No need to bring out the bludgeon!” said a deep voice. There was a soft squeaking sound and a small creature, similar to the one that had graced Scorpia and Entrapta’s skewers, ran out of the underbrush, sat back on its heels and chittered angrily shaking a tiny paw up at Scorpia.

A figure stepped out of the darkness behind the rodent. He had dark hair pulled up into a top knot with speckles of grey throughout a long beard.

“Now, Fredrich. We’ve talked about the fact that humanoids eat all manner of things. You can’t judge them for following their nature any more than I can judge you for hiding nuts in my bedrolls.” The man looked up at the two princesses.

“Hello. You must be Scorpia and Entrapta. My name is Micah. I have been looking all over for you.”

***

Catra was working in the garden when she heard the party arrive. The fur on the tip of her tail stood on end as she heard Entrapta’s excited babbling pierce the hum of the jungle. A moment later she could hear the base tones of Scorpia and Micah’s voice, although she couldn’t make out any specific words. Her heart pounded and she tried to turn her attention back to the row she was replanting.

It took another fifteen minutes before they broke through the edge of the jungle and Catra could see the group making their way toward the cabin. She stood slowly and wiped her hand on her pants.

Scorpia spotted her first. She stopped walking and just stared at Catra.

Entrapta noticed Scorpia had stopped walking and turned back to where she was standing. She tracked her gaze and caught sight of Catra as well. Her eyes went big.

“Catra!” she shouted, bounding up to her. “How did you end up on Beast Island?”

“I…uh.” Catra cleared her throat as she watched Entrapta’s face shift through a series of different expression. Excitement followed by confusion and finally settling on wariness. “I was sent to bring you back to the Fright Zone.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said Scorpia, stepping in front of Entrapta. “Hordak wouldn’t have sent her on a rescue mission out here. Not expecting her to come back.”

“I don’t know that he expected me to come back,” Catra admitted. “But that is how I ended up here.”

“Catra,” said Micah softly from behind the princesses.

Catra sighed and looked down at her feet. “I wanted to…I asked Micah to help me find you because….” She cleared her throat again.

“I…uh screwed up,” she said. “I shouldn’t have turned on you, Entrapta and I…uh…shouldn’t have threatened you, Scorpia. There’s a lot of other stuff too, I know, but that was kind of the biggest one so…I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause.

Then Scorpia let out a loud sniff and scooped Catra up in her arms. “Oh, who am I kidding. I forgive you, Wildcat. I could never stay mad at you.”

Catra winced but accepted the hug with only minimal wiggling. When Scorpia set her back down on her feet she turned to Entrapta whose face had become unreadable.

“I thought you were my friend,” said Entrapta. “My data supported it, even though Adora said I couldn’t trust you.” She made a face. “I hate it when my data misleads me in these matters.”

Catra scratched the back of her neck.  “I don’t think your data was entirely wrong. I did want you as a friend. Even if my actions didn’t reflect that.”

Entrapta shook her head. “I have additional data now. A friend would not demand that another friend do something dangerous and then hit them with a stun baton when they refused. Unless I continue to misunderstand the parameters of friendship?” She glanced at Scorpia.

Catra winced. “No, you’re right. That was…not friendly of me.”

Entrapta studied her for a moment. “I will need to gather more data,” she said after a minute. Then she nodded to herself and walked in the direction of the cabin. Scorpia scrambled after her.

Micah watched them enter the cabin, Scorpia nearly smacking her head on the low-hanging entrance.

“We might need their help to add on to the place,” said Micah. “It’s getting a bit cramped.”

Catra nodded, still watching the entrance to the cabin.

“How are you doing?” asked Micah.

“I’m going to finish planting this row,” said Catra. She knelt back down onto the soft dirt and set back to work.

***

Catra did not return to the cabin until the moons were starting to set and it became too dim to see. She could hear the rumble of conversation and laughter punctuated a few high pitched chitters from Fredrich as she paused at the front door. When she pushed through, she was greeted to the group of them gathered around the table, the room lit by the cheery crackle of the cook fire in the corner.

“…the crystals used by the sorcerers of Mystacore are in fact tiny data crystals mined from the interior of the planet. That’s how they can be channeled to form effects on the natural world of Etheria, similarly to the princesses with their runestones. They serve as a non-specific focus.” Entrapta, who seemed to have turned her hair into a chair, was leaning over the table scribbling furiously. Scorpia was seated beside her looking in the direction of the drawing but Catra could see her eyes were glazed over as she was mechanically polishing off a bowl of stew.

“I never thought of it like that,” muttered Micah, peering over her shoulder.

“Most Etherians don’t!” exclaimed Entrapta. “But I have devoted my life to figuring out the integration of magic and technology, specifically in how it relates for First One’s tech. Tadaaaah!”

Catra skirted around the edge of the room and helped herself to her own bowl of stew.

“That…that looks extraordinary, but can it really work?” asked Micah.

“I don’t know!” Entrapta let out a loud laugh. “I can’t wait to find out!”

“Did you see this?” said Micah, turning to where Catra was leaning against the wall, eating.

“I learned a long time ago that I need Entrapta to explain her diagrams in very small words if I’m going to have any idea what she’s on about,” said Catra.

“She thinks she can use this data crystal they found to bolster the signal from my casting! This might be the piece I have been missing to finally bring back Angie!”

Catra glanced up from her food. Micah was looking at her, eyes bright with excitement. Entrapta was still studying the drawing she had…apparently made directly onto the dinner table. Scorpia was looking at her with a furrowed brow.

“If my calculations are correct,” said Entrapta. “We just need to find a means of stabilizing alt-Etheria and using the data crystal we found at the First One’s ruin we should have the power to punch through and access the stranded consciousness. And now that I have seen Micah’s laboratory, I know what has been interfering with my ability to interpret the data and I downloaded from the run, and can start to analyze it in earnest!”

“That’s wonderful,” said Catra. “Just be careful. Some of Entrapta’s initial attempts can be a bit...explosive.”

“Oh, explosions won’t be the problem here,” said Entrapa, she continued to draw. “The real risk will be in re-fracturing our reality by bridging the divide and ejecting Angella’s consciousness from alt-Etheria.”

Catra paused with the spoon halfway up to her mouth. Scorpia and Micah both turned to look at Entrapta.

Entrapta looked up. “Well obviously we would run simulations before we would let that happen!”

“Sensible,” said Micah. “Did I tell you about my first attempt at a wind spell because wow, let me tell you I could have done with some simulations before jumping into that one….”

Catra placed her empty bowl near the rest of the washing up and walked back out of the cabin into the night air.

A moment later the door opened and closed again and Scorpia came to stand beside her. They stood there in silence for a long minute before Scorpia spoke.

“He doesn’t know, does he.”

Catra looked away. “Not unless you two just told him.”

“We didn’t. Only because Entrapta’s too caught up in the science of how Angella got trapped in the other universe to think about her own role in all of this, much less yours. But it might only be a matter of time.”

“And you? Are you going to tell him?”

Scorpia frowned. “He deserves to know, Catra. Don’t you think?”

“Why?” Catra threw up her arms and walked a few steps away from the front of the cabin. “It won’t change anything. He’ll just hate me, and I’ll be all alone again.”

“Maybe he won’t? From what I can gather he already knows a lot about your past.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“He…he has his reasons for giving me the benefit of the doubt. I doubt that extends to destroying his family and almost ending the universe as we know it.”

Scorpia sighed. “I don’t deny it’s a tall order. But I would think after everything that’s happened you would have learned that avoiding your problems just makes them worse in the end.”

Catra turned away. “Are you going to tell him?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Not yet anyway.”

“Thank you, Scorpia.”

Scorpia shook her head and disappeared back into the cabin.

***

Catra dreamed.

She-ra stands over her as she clings to the wall of the cliff. The light of the collapsing alternate world streams up around her lifting her golden hair upward toward a sky filled with tiny dots of light.

“Adora!” Catra shouts. “I’m slipping!” She feels her fingers losing purchase and tries to dig in her claws. She’s met with solid stone.

She-ra walks to the edge of the cliff and looks down. “You wanted this,” she shouts above the roar. “Why should I save you?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it to go this far.”

She-ra kneels at the edge of the cliff. “But it did go this far.”

“I’ll fix it, Adora. I promise. Together we can fix it, like you said. Just help me, please!”

“It’s too late, Catra.” She-ra shakes her head. “Lives have been lost. You can’t fix it anymore.”

“Adora!” Catra feels her fingers slip again.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” She-ra says as she stands. “I really am going to miss you.”

Catra’s fingers grasp nothing and she feels herself fall.

Catra gasped and sat bolt upright. The cabin was silent aside from Micah’s soft snores and Scorpia muttering something about ration bars.

Catra lay back down and watched the ceiling until morning.

***

“Explain it again more slowly,” Micah was asking when Catra re-entered the cabin from gardening a few days later.

Entrapta huffed. “It’s just a minor setback. You should still be able to talk with her, no problem.”

“I don’t just want to talk to my wife, Entrapta. I want to get her out of…alt-Etheria, or whatever we’re calling it, and back home with our daughter.”

Catra ignored them and poured herself a cup of water just as Scorpia came rushing through the door.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll fix it I promise,” Scorpia interrupted, slamming the door behind her.

Catra sighed. “What happened?”

“Look I just don’t think I’m cut out for anything too delicate.” Scorpia snapped a claw a few times.

“You broke the tomato plant?”

“Maybe I should go back to clearing a new patch?”

Catra pinched the bridge of her nose. “We have enough new patches, Scorpia.”

“What about sending her out hunting?” said Entrapta. “She was very good at getting us tasty tiny critters to eat.”

Fredrich chittered angrily from his perch on one of the shelves behind Micah’s head.

“What if she brought back a bird?” suggested Micah.

Fredrich seemed to consider this with a tilt of his head and then chittered a bit more agreeably.

“Sure! A bird!” said Scorpia. Her eyes darted around the room. “I can do that. I think.”

Catra sighed. “You were doing fine planting and turning over the ground. You can go back and I’ll take over pruning.”

“Oh, thank you Catra. I promise I won’t let you down. Again. Anyway. What’s going on in here?”

“We’ve managed to set up the means to create a temporary bridge between our world and alt-Etheria,” said Entrapta.

“Is that really what we’re calling it?” Scorpia stage whispered to Catra who just shrugged.

“But…?” prompted Micah.

Entrapta let out of a huff of air. “But it’s pretty unstable and we still have not managed to find a means of stabilizing alt-Etheria if we bring Angella back to this plane.” She pointed a hair tendril at Micah. “But also I have not finished going through all of the data from the First One’s ruin so maybe if you were just a bit more patient.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry Entrapta. It’s just we’re so close. I haven’t been this hopeful since I first realized I could reach Angie when the other world collapsed.

“Just because we haven’t found the answer yet doesn’t mean we won’t discover it soon. Science is an iterative process. You can’t give up just because for first simulation doesn’t work the way you expected it.”

“This is our eighteenth simulation, Entrapta.”

“And we are so much closer than when we started. Come on!” She grabbed Micah’s arm and dragged back into the workroom, slamming the door behind them.

“We should head back out too,” said Catra, leading Scorpia back into the garden.

“They’re getting awfully close to being able to talk to Angella,” said Scorpia, settling down at one end of squash row.

Catra went over to inspect the damage to the tomatoes. “Mmmhmm.”

“Entrapta told him about the portal,” said Scorpia. “Not your part in it, I asked her not to, but she explained her own. He took it well.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” muttered Catra.

“It’s only a matter of time before he finds out, Catra. You can’t really be so far in de.”

“Once he knows what I did, he’s going to turn on me. Just like everyone does. I’ll lose him! I’ll lose everything. All over again!”

“You lied about Shadow Weaver and we saw what that got you. You lied about Entrapta and now here you are. Maybe you should try just being honest for a change?”

Catra gave a short laugh. “And what are you going to do when he kicks me out of his little oasis here? Come protect me from the horrors of Beast Island like you did for Entrapta? Like you did for me in the Crimson Waste? That’s right, because can just choose to do whatever you want. You’ve never had to deal with loss the way I have. You’ve never had to risk anything because no one is going to risk pissing off the Scorpion princess who happens keeps slumming it with the Horde for no apparent reason.”

Scorpia jerked back as though Catra had physically hit her.

“Is that really what you think of me, Catra?” She shook her head. “You know, I thought I could do this,” she said. “I thought I could just forgive you and let things go back to the way they were. But I forgot that the way things were sucked. I’m sick of waiting for you to stop complaining everything that you don’t have and see what is right in front of you!”

Scorpia turned on her heel and started to march back toward the cabin.

“Scorpia, wait!” Catra jumped up and ran in front of her holding both hands up in a stopping gesture. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

Scorpia froze in surprise.

“I’m…what?”

“You’re right. You’ve always been there for me and I’ve always been terrible for you and I…I’m trying to change. I swear, I’m better I…just….” Catra too a deep breath. “I’m so scared.”

Catra closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them Scorpia was standing in front of her still waiting.

“When he finds out—if I tell him—he’s going to ask me why I did it. What I was thinking. If I tell him the truth, it will be that when activated the portal, I didn’t care who died or who was hurt. And when I came back and found out that Queen Angella had been lost trying to save the world my first thought was victory. That after everything, after Adora had won yet again, at least I had this one triumph. At least I had left my mark on their perfect little princesses and their perfect little world.”

Scorpia seemed to be looking at something over Catra’s shoulder.

“And now?” Scorpia asked. “How do you feel about it now?”

Catra shook her head.

“Yes Catra. I suppose I would like to know the answer to that question too.”

Catra whirled around to see Micah standing at the edge of the garden holding the cup of water she had left on the table in the cabin.

Catra’s eyes widened. “How much of that did you hear?” she whispered.

“Enough,” said Micah.

“I….” Catra’s mouth worked on nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Catra shot a frantic look to Scorpia. She had no idea what she looked like but Scorpia looked immediately alarmed.

“Catra?” said Scorpia. “Take a breath. Let’s talk this through

“After everything, Catra, why can’t you just tell me the truth?” Micah asked.

Catra looked away. “It’s another long story.”

Micah spread his arms wide. “When have I ever not had time for you?”

Catra squeezed her eyes closed.

“I…I can’t,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“Of course you did,” said Micah. “I know why you did it but….” He shook his head. “I need some time,” he said.

“Micah, please,” Catra looked up as he turned to walk away. She held out one hand toward him.

Micah paused.

“Please?” begged Catra.

Micah shook his head again. “I need some time,” he repeated and walked away.

Catra couldn’t breathe. There was a vice around her ribs, and she could suck the air past it. Her breath came in short gasps and her vision was starting to tunnel inwards.

You’re having a panic attack, she heard Micah say. Just focus on your left foot.

“NO!”

Catra pushed past Scopria and ran back toward the cabin, throwing open the front door. Inside her vision was clearing slightly but the feeling of sucking air through a straw was unchanged. She grasped the edge of the table and tried to slow her breathing but to no avail.

There was a sudden glow behind the closed work room door.

Catra lunged for the door and pulled it open.

Entrapta was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the large bowl of water with her visor down and a small metal tube emitting a flame.

“Oh, Catra! Do you know if Micah is coming back soon? I think we can run the next simulation in a few hours.”

“Send me in!” Catra said, lurching forward. “Send me in to alt-Etheria.”

Entrapta turned off the flame and pushed back her visor, blinking at Catra through her goggles.

“That’s not a good idea. The bridge is still relatively unstable and, as I was saying this morning, we still haven’t solved the problem of needing an ongoing consciousness to hold alt-Etheria open.”

“I don’t care, you have to send me. I’ll…I’ll figure it out. I’ll…do something, anything.”

Entrapta looked nervously from Catra to the door. “Did something happen?” she asked slowly. “You seem distraught.”

Catra grabbed Entrapta by the shoulders and lifted her up into the air.

“I’ve never done one good thing in my entire life and now I’m going to lose everything again and I can’t. Entrapta, I can’t. You have to send me in there. It’s the only chance that I have fix this. To fix anything.”

Entrapta stared at her.

“Please, Entrapta. Do this for me and I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

Entrapta furrowed her brow. “Well…we have run enough simulations to say that the bridge should be stable to send one mind across.” Catra set her down and she started to gather up various bits of equipment. “I’ve been wanting to test this for ages and Micah keeps insisting on running further safety simulations.” She grabbed some sort of metal bowl with several circles on it and started plugging various tubes in at various points. “Which I understand is proper protocol and after what happened with the initial portal probably only makes good sense, but this time I know the theoretical risks and they are really far less statistically likely. Put this on your head.” She handed Catra the metal device.

Catra tried to put it on but her headpiece got in the way. With a deep sigh she removed the mask and set it aside before placing the bowl on her head.

“There is not much of alt-Etheria left,” said Entrapta. “So, it won’t be hard to find her. Time is a little different there so you can’t dawdle. As I have calculated it you have about two hours and ten minutes before the bridge becomes too unstable to travel back, but that might be off by a bit so I wouldn’t push it. And you won’t be able to bring her back here yet; there has to be at least one mind there to stabilize the alternate universe and prevent it from collapsing with our world.”

Catra sat down on the floor. “Just do it,” she muttered.

Entrapta hit the switch.

There was a flash of white light. The world around Catra disappeared.

***

Catra is sitting in the middle of a field. There is a large glowing yellow orb in the sky, blindingly bright like the brightest moon Catra has ever seen. It lights up the field an iridescent green with speckles of purple and yellow flowers as far as she can see in front of her.

Behind her, about 100 feet back, is a forest; dense trees with interlocking branches that is reminiscent of the Whispering Woods.

The whole world is silent. There is no sound of wind moving across the grass or rustling the leaves. There are no insects buzzing in the bushes or birds chirping in the trees. In the absence of sound Catra can hear her own heartbeat pounding in her chest and the rush of blood through her ears.

She looks down at herself to sees both hands clearly defined. She runs one hand down the skin of the right side of her face and releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She doesn’t know what she had expected.

She stands and turns in a circle. She shields her eyes with her hand, blocking out some of the bright light. She can feel the heat from the orb beating down and beads of sweat are starting to form in a line across her forehead.

Far in the distance she can make out a faint pink smudge on the horizon.

She glances back at the inviting cool shade of the forest, but she shakes her head and starts forward.

For a long time, she walks without feeling like she is moving at all. The smudge doesn’t seem to change at all in size or definition.

Once again you let your emotions get the best of you. The admonishment comes in Shadow Weaver’s voice. No guarantee you can even find her, much less in the time allotted. No plan for when you do. No wonder you’ve never been more than second best.

“Shut up, witch,” Catra mutters and just keeps walking forward.

Eventually the smudge does start to take on the form of a figure. Then the figure begins to develop details; a tall slender stature, long hair, large delicate pink wings.

The field ends where the figure is standing, breaking off to form a steep cliff into nothingness. Angella is standing with both arms outstretched in front of her, the sword of protection lying flat on her upturned palms.

As Catra approached, Angella turns to her.

“I wasn’t expecting it would be you,” she says.

“That makes two of us.”

Angella narrows her eyes. “Why? Taunting me doesn’t seem your style. Not with Adora still on Etheria. Unless you trying to get to her through me?”

Catra gazes at the sword in Angella’s arms. It looks…incorporeal.

“I’m not here to taunt you. Or Adora.” She looks up at Angella. “I’m here to fix this.”

Angella raises her eyebrows. “Is that even possible?”

“I think so.” Catra frowns and nods. “I think it’s the only way.”

“There are always choices, child. There is a whole big world out there that needs healing. Sometimes it’s easier to make the big sacrifice than face the day-to-day of trying to make up for your mistakes.”

“I don’t think there is any making up for my mistakes,” says Catra. “I tried to be better, but I’m just…not. I’m not good.” She looks up and meets Angella’s eyes. “But maybe I don’t have to be bad,” she says and reaches out to take the sword handle.

For all it appears wispy and faint, the touch of the metal feels solid. It’s cold, an aching sort of cold that runs up Catra’s arms and forms an aching pain across the muscles of her back. She seizes the sword with both hands and pulls it from Angella’s grasp.

Angella’s eyes widen and immediately she starts to fade out, looking much like the sword had a moment ago. “Catra, no! This was my burden.”

Catra shakes her head. “My fault,” she grits out. “My burden.” She sucks in air and clings to the sword. “You know you’re a lot less terrifying than the Horde made you out to be. You’re lucky I won’t be around to out you when you get back.”

Angella’s laugh lingers as her form vanishes and Catra is left standing on the cliff, clutching the sword of protection.

“Well here we are,” she says to no one. “I suppose I might have expected it would end like this.” She looks around. “I always thought Adora would be here at least.”

She sits on the edge of the cliff, feet dangling over the edge.

Catra waits.

***

Time passes.

Catra isn’t sure how much time. After a while it all seems to run together. The bright orb in the sky doesn’t move. The nothingness before her doesn’t change.

The pain from the sword seems to fade out after a while. Eventually her arms go numb, which initially is a relief, but eventually becomes a discomfort of its own. Then that too seems to fade from awareness.

Initially, she has moments of panic thinking about eternity here. She has moments of regret. Moments of anger. But everything seems dulled and the moments fade and eventually it’s just Catra and sword and the void. And that’s okay.

And then one day (are there even days here?) there is a hand on her shoulder and Catra looks up and sees Micah standing beside her.

“No,” she says. Her voice sounds hoarse and cracked. Her fingers grip the sword.

“It’s okay, kitten,” says Micah. “You can let go now.”

“I can’t,” says Catra. “This is all I have.”

Micah sits down beside her and places a hand on her arm. “That has never been true.”

Tears leak from her eyes. “It feels true.”

“I know. But we’re working on that, right? It’s getting better. And it would be a shame to give up now.”

Catra frowns down at the sword in her hands. “But who is going to stay here.” She looks up sharply. “I won’t give it to you. You can’t take it from me!”

“I won’t,” Micah assures her. “Give it to Sarah.”

“Who is…?” There is a metallic clanking and she turns to see one of Entrapta’s bots sitting on her other side with two arms extended. “How?”

Micah just smiles. “Entrapta figured it out. I’ll explain later. But we’re running out of time. The bridge is still fragile.”

Catra nods and lets the sword onto the outstretched arms of the bot. The pain she had stopped noticing vanishes in a wave of bliss. Catra sways and Micah reaches out a hand to steady her.

Micah takes her hand in his. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

Catra opened her eyes to see the familiar ceiling of the cabin. She was back lying on the bed in the main room.

She turned to her side and saw Micah lying beside her, their hands intertwined. He was wearing the funny little metal hat Entrapta had placed on her head to send her into alt-Etheria. His eyes were slowly blinking open.

“They’re waking up! I think he did it!”

Catra turned her head back toward the rest of the room. Scorpia and Entrapta were sitting beside the bed staring at them. Scorpia was chewing on the tips of her claws.

“Scorpia?” asked Catra. “How long was I….”

“Almost two weeks,” said a familiar, polished voice from behind the two princesses. Catra looked up to see Angella towering behind them. “It took that long for Entrapta and my husband to figure out an alternative consciousness to hold alt-Etheria stable.”

“Her name is Sarah!” said Entrapta.

Catra swung her legs around to sit up.

“Uh…hi. You…uhm…made it out.”

“Thanks to you,” said Angella. “Not discounting of course that I wouldn’t have needed rescuing if you hadn’t activated the portal in the first place.”

Catra scratched the back of her neck. “I’m…uh…sorry about that.”

Angella crouched down in front of her and took Catra’s hands in hers. She looked directly into Catra’s eyes and said, “It was a very brave and very foolish thing that you did just now. And I am very grateful. You have given me my family back. I forgive you, Catra.”

Catra looked away and nodded.

Angella smiled and stood again, ducking slightly to avoid hitting her head on one of the lower beams of the cabin.

Catra felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Micah sitting up on the bed behind her.

“Micah,” she said, eyes suddenly filling with tears as she remembered their last conversation.

Micah just smiled and shook his head. “I was always going to forgive you, kitten. You just didn’t give me the chance.”

“I…I couldn’t….”

“I know. We’re going to work on that, okay?”

Catra nodded, not trusting her voice, and let him pull her into a tight hug. She buried her head in his shoulder and told herself no one would notice all the tears soaking into the fabric of his cloak.

***

Catra dreamed.

She is sitting on the beach of Beast Island watching the moons set.

Adora walks up beside her and sits down. For a while they sit in silence.

“What next?” Adora asks.

Catra turns to look at her. “I’m so tired,” she says. “After all this…Adora, I’m just so tired.”

Adora nods. “You’ve done well. You deserve a rest.”

Catra sighs and rests her head on Adora’s shoulder. Adora reaches up and strokes her fingers through Catra’s hair.

“It’s not over though,” says Adora after another long pause. “Like Angella said, it might be easier to just take on the big sacrifice. But you’re back in the world now. Redemption doesn’t happen overnight.”

Catra sits up slowly. “I just want it to be done,” she says.

“I know,” says Adora. “But there is more work to do.”

Catra looks down at her hands. “I tried…to be better. But I went too far before. Even if I keep trying forever…can you forgive me? Do you think you could ever forgive me? After everything.”

Adora turns to her. “I do forgive you, Catra. But I’m not Adora. I’m just the part of you that you used to punish yourself.” She snorted. “I’d say I’m arguably the more important person to forgive you given that I’m really you but…. If you want to know if Adora can forgive you, I think you are going to have to ask her yourself.”

Catra’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Adora reached out and pulled Catra’s head back onto her should.

“That’s okay. Rest now. Etheria will be there when you’re ready.”

Fin

[psychosistr]

Second Chances & Bloody Nights- Jonawagon Vampire!AU Chapter 4

Summary: Speedwagon finds out that Jonathan’s upset and rushes back to England to comfort him..but will he be too late..?

Speedwagon finished signing a few documents while seated at a small table in a hotel room. Reading over them once more to make sure everything was in order, he sighed and set them aside.

“There..all done for now..” He leaned back in his wooden chair and glanced at the contracts and deeds he’d just signed. “Still..can’t quite believe it..THAT much money jus’ for findin’ some oil..guess this is wha’ they call dumb luck..”

He managed a small smile at his good fortune. His ship crashing was quite a catastrophe, and he was certain that he would either die at sea or when he’d washed up in an unknown patch of land with no signs of food, water, or civilization for miles. While lost, he’d come across a large field filled with oil wells, which he then acquired the rights to after finding his way to the nearest towns. A few phone calls, a hired lawyer, and several pieces of paperwork later, and Speedwagon was now the rightful owner of a grand fortune’s worth of oil.

Of course, even with his new found wealth, the first thing he’d sought to do was get in contact with his friends back in Ogre Street to let them know he was alright. Unfortunately, this was not an easy task as none of them had ready access to a phone, so he ended up having to call several other people and businesses he knew of in the area and asking them to pass along his message and the phone number of the hotel where they could reach him.

Speedwagon tipped back in his chair and removed his hat, idly spinning it around one finger as he thought to himself. ‘I wonder ‘ow Jonathan’s doin’. ‘ope ‘e’s gettin’ enough t’ eat without me around..’

As if by fate, at that moment one of the hotel workers knocked on his door. “Mr.Speedwagon, there’s a phone call for you in the lobby.”

Speedwagon got up from his chair and called back, flipping his hat back up onto his head. “Thank ya kindly, mate.” After making sure his clothes were in order (he’d had to buy some simple shirts and slacks, as most of his clothes were lost in the ship wreck- the only thing he’d managed to salvage was Baron Zeppeli’s hat), Speedwagon made his way to the hotel’s lobby where the main phone for the guests was located. He picked up the receiver and leaned against the nearby wall as he spoke. “Speedwagon ‘ere.”

“Speedwagon! Bloody ‘ell, man! You’re alive?!” He heard Tattoo’s shocked voice on the other end of the line and smiled.

“Good t’ ‘ear from you too, Tatty. Yeah, I’m alive.” He chuckled a bit with a grin, glad to hear a familiar voice again. “Ya won’t believe wha’ ‘appened, mate! I-”

“Ya’ve gotta come ‘ome NOW, Speedwagon!” Tattoo’s voice had taken on a desperate, urgent tone that instantly set off warning bells in Speedwagon’s head.

“Wha’ ‘appened?” He listened as Tattoo explained the situation to him, his face going pale and his heart dropping like a stone into his gut.

His next call was to book a ship back to England.

Speedwagon practically ran from the carriage that brought him from the docks to his street, barely even taking the time to pay the driver and just throwing a handful of money at him after telling him to keep the change. When he arrived at his home, he saw Tattoo and Kempo Master waiting outside for him. He stopped in front of them to catch his breath and took in the state of his small house: The windows and front door were all boarded up with thick slabs of wood and chains, some even having sheets and poles of steel added in for good measure. Even with the secure defenses, though, he could see where something- or rather, someone- had managed to break holes in the wood and metal and more had to be added to patch up the holes. Poor Tattoo and Kempo Master looked absolutely exhausted to boot, likely from being on-guard day and night in shifts to make sure that the beast raging inside of the house didn’t get out or get burned by a sunlit opening during the day.

Speedwagon looked to his friends with a worried expression. “You two alrigh’? Nothin’ broken or bit?”

Tattoo shook his head, indicating a few bandages on his hands and a few along Kempo Master’s arms. “Nah, jus’ some scrapes an’ bruises. We’ve ‘ad worse.”

Speedwagon was relieved to hear that, he had been greatly worried about their safety after he heard what had happened. Looking back to the house, though, he felt more worried about its current occupant. “Wha’ ‘bout Jonathan? He got anythin’ t’ eat since ‘e lost it?”

Kempo Master shrugged and gestured with his thumb towards some of the holes in the building. “We threw a few animals in there whenever we went to patch up the holes, but we cannot tell if he has eaten any of them.”

Speedwagon nodded in understanding, mentally preparing himself for the worst. “Right, then. I’ll be ‘eadin’ in now. You guys go on ‘ome an’ get some rest- ya’ve more than earned it.”

Tattoo put a hand on Speedwagon’s shoulder with a concerned look. “Y’ sure tha’s a good idea, Speed? We know ya like the guy, but Mr.Joestar ain’t exactly ‘imself righ’ now.”

Kempo Master nodded sympathetically in agreement. “Mr.Joestar may not recognize you in his current state. You could be hurt, or worse. It may be a good idea to call those hamon monks in for help.”

Speedwagon shook his head, giving Tattoo’s arm an understanding pat before lightly shoving it off. “No can do, mate. I’ve been tryin’ for years t’ see if they’d understand the idea of a vampire NOT bein’ an out o’ control monster, but they just can’t wrap their ‘eads ‘round it. They’d probably jus’ try t’ put Jonathan out o’ ‘is misery.” He gave them a slight smile. “ ‘sides, it’ll be alrigh’- Jonathan’s a strong guy. ‘e’s beaten these urges before, ‘e can do it again. I trust that ‘e won’ ‘urt me too much.” He walked towards the door. “Now, let’s get this open. Seal it behind me an’ don’ open up ‘til I say so, got it?”

Tattoo and Kempo Master nodded in understanding and got to work unsealing the door.

Speedwagon walked slowly through his house, careful not to step on any broken pieces of glass from the windows or various odds and ends that had been broken and scattered along the floor.

He thought with a frown that, somehow, the inside of the building now looked worse than the outside: There were broken pieces of furniture scattered all around, remnants of bookshelves and the couch and their dining room table found throughout the building. The stove had been torn from the hinges and lobbed clean through a wall into the living room. The fire place had been smashed in until it was nothing more than a pile of bricks in the wall. The few doors that were in the house, such as the bathroom and bedroom door, were smashed to smithereens by this point. There were also the occasional drained carcasses of various dead animals scattered throughout, which was at least a good sign that Jonathan had eaten SOMETHING while he was gone.

Speedwagon stopped for a moment in the living room to look at the wall, relieved to see that the pictures on it were spared from the carnage the rest of the house had endured. However, the one of himself and Jonathan was missing from the wall, though he did not see it smashed on the ground, so he took that as a good sign.

Carefully checking around each corner before entering a room, Speedwagon searched for Jonathan. It wasn’t until he neared the bedroom that he heard a soft keening sound that reminded him of a wounded beast crying. When he poked his head around the door frame to see the source of the noise, his heart nearly broke at the sight.

Jonathan was curled up on the tattered remains of the bed, a few of Speedwagon’s suits lying on the floor around him, as well as Speedwagon’s old bowler hat which was resting nearby on the bed. He was clinging desperately to something- a picture frame, Speedwagon soon realized, which was likely the missing one from the living room. Jonathan was facing towards him, with his eyes wide open, but did not seem to notice him there- his eyes the brightest shade of red that Speedwagon has ever seen them and over flowing with tears on an already tear-stained face. The state of his hair and clothes was dreadful, the outfit stained with blood and torn at the seams while his hair looks positively caked with all manner of filth.

Speedwagon frowned at the sight of what’d become of his dear Jonathan, feeling even guiltier for how long it took him to get back. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves and gather his confidence, Speedwagon took a slow step into the room. “Jonathan..?” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to startle the other man while he was in such an unstable state of mind.

Jonathan perked up at the sound of Speedwagon’s voice, red eyes instantly fixing on him but still not showing any signs of recognition. “!!” A sound akin to a growl reverberated in Jonathan’s chest, a clear warning to stay away as he clutched the picture frame tighter. “……”

Speedwagon ignored the warning and took another step into the room, standing in the doorway. “Jonathan..it’s me- it’s Speedwagon.”

That seemed to garner some sort of reaction from the larger man, though not quite a positive one. “Sp..eed..wa..gon…” The name was a broken growl through clenched teeth that was soon followed by another keening sob that made Jonathan tilt his head down to look at the picture in his arms. “Speed..wagon..’s…dead…” His mouth pulled back in a snarl as more tears flowed down his face.

Speedwagon shook his head as he cautiously moved closer to Jonathan, feeling like he was approaching an agitated dog. Though, in all honesty, that analogy didn’t feel too far off. “No, Jonathan, I’m alive. I’m right ‘ere, see?” He tried to give him a smile, but it felt forced even to himself. “Look, I’m awful sorry y’ went through all this, but I’m ‘ere now-”

As he moved closer, Speedwagon was suddenly greeted with an up-close and personal view of a very enraged vampire-Jonathan that he’d hoped not to see. “Be..silent..” Jonathan growled at him, his eyes glowing like twin flames of broiling anger. Jonathan brought his large hand up and wrapped it around Speedwagon’s throat, lifting him up off of the floor in a choking grip. To make matters worse, two of his fingers plunged into Speedwagon’s neck to drain his blood, adding to the light-headedness he was experiencing from the lack of oxygen.

Speedwagon tried to gasp for breath around the tight grip on his throat, but it was pointless. He placed both of his hands on Jonathan’s own large hand and attempted to pry it off of himself, but Jonathan’s already above-average strength had only increased when he became a vampire so nothing less than a crowbar would be required just to move a single digit.

While the spacey and dazed feeling of combined blood loss and asphyxiation began to kick in, Speedwagon looked down from his raised position and saw that Jonathan, despite the enraged snarl marring his handsome face, still had tears falling across his cheeks. In a move that was partially driven by the love he had for the noble man and partly due to his own kind nature, Speedwagon reached down with one hand and managed to gently caress Jonathan’s cheek and wipe away his tears. “Jo..jo…” He managed to wheeze out around the crushing grip on his windpipe. “S’okay..Jojo..don’..cry…Jon..a…than…”

His vision began to blur around the edges, but he swore he saw something change in those eyes…

<-Previous Chapter Next Chapter->

-From the Beginning-

[baker-street-tenants]

The Baker Street Tenants: Granada!Holmes/Doctor Who Crossover Fanfiction

The time has come. We thought we would post chapter 1 in lieu of Jeremy’s birthday. If anyone prefers to read on fanfiction.net, I’ll provide the link here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13111874/1/The-Baker-Street-Tenants

This is a Sherlock Holmes/Doctor Who crossover. It is more Holmes than Who, and you don’t really need any previous knowledge to get what’s happening. It is a slow burn romance featuring an OC. Updates may be sporadic depending on our schedules, but we wanted to get Chapter 1 out there to see how everyone feels. We hope you enjoy!

Rated M for Mature.

Chapter 1

St. John Weaver, tattered hat in hand, strode merrily down the quiet street. One says merrily, as he was quite cheerful after a successful night at the pub, yet his gait was sloppy as he stumbled, nearly avoiding falling off the curb. As his name confirmed, St. John came from a good Christian family. One o’ the finest in Eng-a-land, he’d say. His father was a porter who had worked hard for his family, especially after the premature passing of Mrs. Weaver. St. John was quite proud, but even on a bad day he would not admit that the bottle found greater significance in his life than the appreciation for hard work his poor father tried to instill in him. Nevertheless, St. John believed he faired quite well with a warm belly and a woman to bed. Frequent unemployment be damned! Which was never his fault, of course.

Chortling, St. John leaned against a building, squinting up at the glow of a nearby street lamp. He watched the flame dance for a moment, grinning lazily. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, which was fine, everything was fine after several drinks. The night was quiet. Even the smallest creature had scuttled off to bed, which was sounding quite nice to St. John at that moment.

He sat down heavily on the sidewalk, squinting into the gas lit street. He briefly registered St. Mary’s looming above him, and idly realized that he was quite out of his way. Twin leaves blew into his vision, and he watched as they swam through the murky air. St. John looked up at the sky and lifted a hand. It was not windy. Several more leaves and an old newspaper followed its friends. St. John slapped his hat on his head and shakily stood up, using the wall as support.

“’Ow queer,” he said.

A huge gust of wind knocked him off his feet. He cried out in shock, arms high in the air as if to fight off an unknown assailant. His hat flew from his head, sliding across the concrete to whack against the base of the street lamp before disappearing into the darkness.

Emma Grey stared down at what could only be described as horse dung. She had just avoided stepping in it, and sighed in disgust as she backed away, noting the dampness of the cobbles. It must have rained recently. She glanced up at the night sky and the peak of a church, trying to rack her brain for its name. As if there weren’t a hundred churches in London. And of course, it was London, it was always London.

The last few moments were a blur. Emma felt like a toddler trying to put a square block in a spherical opening, becoming frustrated when their small world didn’t turn out like expected. But Emma’s world was actually very big. And her frustration was quickly turning into fear. She remembered saying something funny to – The Doctor! Where was the Doctor?

Emma stared down the long empty street, distantly registering that it was called York. Yes, she recalled clearly now the mournful clanging of the Cloister Bell and the awful expression on the Doctor’s face. Something bad had happened, but she hadn’t stuck around long enough to gain an explanation. Emma had felt terribly dizzy, and feeling the TARDIS had landed, took a step outside to clear her head, and nearly stepped in horse dung. Now here she was. The only question remained was when?

A frantic scraping sounded behind her, and Emma turned, surprised to see a short, balding man running wildly around the corner of the church. A tattered hat blew gently into the side of her shoe.

“Damn,” she muttered. “One appears out of thin air, and suddenly it’s an issue.”

The one thing Emma couldn’t understand is how the blue box wasn’t parked directly beside her. She had only stepped out for a moment and would have clearly heard the groaning of the brakes as the TARDIS dematerialized. It was like it had never been there at all. Joking aside, it was if she had actuallyappeared out of thin air.

Realistically, strange things of this nature happened all the time. It was certainly never a dull moment traveling with the Doctor. Emma fully expected to be returned by his side soon enough and was determined to make the most out of her own little adventure. It was possibly close to morning, a dense fog beginning to roll into the streets. Everything around her seemed so familiar, yet so foreign, as it was most of the time she time travelled. The gas lamps were a tell-tale sign she was far from her own time, and Emma was suspicious she was perhaps sometime in the nineteenth century. Or possibly the early twentieth? Nothing was ever half as simple as it was in movies. One could replicate the aesthetic, but the nature of a people and culture long past isn’t laid bare until one is standing in the middle of it. Emma moved from the street to the sidewalk, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her. There was a chill in the air. She passed beneath a candlelit window. Yes, those from her time will never truly grasp what happened behind that flame.

The fog was tightening around her. Emma felt like she was swimming through pea-soup, but a dark shape materialized in front of her. It was a waste bin. Peering inside, she saw several copies of the evening post. How wasteful, but to her delight, the date stared back at her. It was September of 1894. She was in the latter end of the Victorian period, and to her luck, Emma had some friends here. Namely a lizard woman from the dawn of time, her wife, and a potato.

“If I’m on York, then Paternoster Row,” Emma paused and scrunched her nose as she tried to picture a map of London in her head. As much as she’s run all over the bloody place, it shouldn’t be this difficult. “That’s 3 miles away!”

She groaned and leaned against the brick of a home. She could just see a small window leading into the lower area of the house. Bending down slightly, she watched as two maids puttered around a kitchen. It was close to morning, as she had thought. The maids giggled over something, and Emma imagined a scandalous affair, something dramatic like in Downton Abbey. I should take my own advice, she thought with a laugh of her own. If it is rarely like the movies, then it is surely not a television show.

Screaming. The sound started low at first, increasing in pitch. There was not simply fear in that scream, but pain. Although her heart seized in her chest at the noise, Emma forced her legs to move, running toward the sound. She didn’t know if she could help. Didn’t know if she would even survive whatever terrible ordeal was occurring, but this is what she did with the Doctor. What he taught her. She saved people. It was ingrained in her – perhaps a desperate attempt to save herself even.

Emma rounded the corner into any alley between the rows of houses. It was nearly pitch black, difficult to make out the undulating presence toward the end of the alley. When faced with unimaginable horror, it is very difficult to remember precise details later. This is why in criminal cases and traumatic events; the victim often cannot recall in detail the wrongdoing. They can only too clearly remember the feeling. Emma felt like her deepest nightmares had come to life. A floating mass of black, seemingly without form, surrounded what looked to be a young woman. The woman’s skin, eyes, very being was sucked inward, stretched thinly across her bones. Her mouth was comically open in a perfect “O”, her scream long cut off. Emma watched as the woman seemed to shrink further, and Emma realized that the black mass was consuming her.

Emma had seen terrible things. She’s run from monsters, watched as friends died for their bravery. The image before her, although terrifying, was not so startling than the plague that seemed to infest the alley. It was a vile combination of despair, fear, pain, and something deeply unspoken. Something so ancient. Emma’s voice cried out in the darkness, for what else could she do? Even in her darkest moments, she had never felt so incredibly without hope. There was no Doctor to save her.

The creature had completed its feast. Slowly, a form began to take shape. She watched as the mass settled toward the ground, human characteristics overtaking the swirling blackness. Emma could suddenly breathe a little better, although the terrible feeling hadn’t left her. She tested out her legs, taking a step forward.

“What are you?” She whispered.

Eyes opened in the creature’s black face. Emma had imagined the eyes of a demon, but they were a serene blue. She stared in confusion, until the situation became clear. The more the beast took shape, the more Emma realized that the shape was beginning to resemble the woman it had just killed.

The creature suddenly lashed out, and Emma tried one last attempt, a push in her mind for help, imagining someone cleverer, faster, stronger than her swooping in to save the day. But there was no one.

[CHAPTERS: 1]

[dragon-temeraire]

Do you take fic prompts? If so, then I'd love to see a take on the "Werewolf pretends to be a large dog to get attention or food from an unsuspecting human", except the other person is also a werewolf and can tell right away. If not, then feel free to ignore this ask. :)

I’m not sure this is what you were looking for when you sent this prompt, but I had a lot of fun writing it! (On AO3)

Stiles likes walking home from work. He feels more connectedto the world when he can smell and hear it all around him, with no doors orwalls in the way.

He usually cuts through the park at the edge of thepreserve, because it always has a sort of happy, warm feel to it. It gives hima sense of contentment every time. As he comes over the hill he can see thatit’s pretty empty today: a woman is pushing her stroller along the path throughthe middle, an older lady is sitting on one of the benches knitting, andthere’s a guy petting a rather large dog by the volleyball court.

Except that when the man gives a final pat and turns to go,Stiles freezes for a step, skin prickling in surprise, because it’s another werewolf.

“Hey,” he says, and it comes out more sharply than heintended.

But it works, because the were’s head swings toward him, andhe comes loping over, tongue lolling out. Stiles figures that’s to make himlook like a non-threatening dog, rather than the wolf he actually is. His coldnose presses against Stiles’ hand, shamelessly asking to be petted, his tailsoftly wagging.

Stiles is about to rip into him, to demand to know what hethinks he’s doing, hanging around humans while fully shifted and acting like a dog, but then his brain catches up withthe situation, and his jaw clenches shut. Because he has to consider why, exactly, a were would be seekingattention this way.

The underlying scent of loneliness he can pick up throughthe smell of grass and leaves and other people only highlights the fact that something is going on. But Stiles isn’tsure what, and finds that he’s gliding his fingers across the top of the“dog’s” head automatically as he thinks about it.

Stiles is using his magic to cloak his scent—it’s reallyonly good for that, and a few tricks with mountain ash, so he tries to utilizeit as much as possible—but he’s still surprised he hasn’t been recognized as awerewolf. Obviously his skills are improving.

The wolf’s fur is soft and thick, and when Stiles digs hishands into it, lightly scratching, the wolf makes a sort of soft, pleased hummingnoise. Stiles just tries not to laugh.

And decides to play along instead, hoping he’ll be able tofigure something out. He crouches down in front of the wolf, scratching underthe chin, then taps his chest and says, “No collar?” in the gently chiding tonepeople use with dogs. “You’ll get in trouble. And I bet the last place you wantto end up is the pound, buddy.”

The wolf huffs a little at that, and wiggles against Stiles’hands, clearly wanting more petting. Stiles doesn’t smile, because it’ll onlyencourage him.

“I can’t stay, I’m on my way home,” he says, giving the wolfa final pat. “You should be getting home, too.”

The wolf makes a low sound as Stiles walks away, but doesn’ttry to follow him.

He does wag his tail when Stiles looks back, though.

 *

 Stiles doesn’t end up at the park again for a couple ofdays, but when he does, the “dog” is there again. Fetching a Frisbee of all things, and looking likean idiot while trying to catch it midair.

Stiles sits on a bench to watch, because while he’s neverconsidered himself to be dignified, he’s also never seen another werewolf actlike this. Sure, werewolves run andplay—Stiles likes to shift when he has too much excess energy and needs to burnit off—but to see one acting so much like a dog is kind of disorienting andweird.

He hadn’t ever considered doing something like this, despitethe fact that he makes dog jokes around his pack all the time.

Eventually the girls playing with the wolf get tired and gohome, taking their mauled Frisbee with them. After getting goodbye pats fromthem, the wolf immediately zeroes in on Stiles, trotting over with his earspricked eagerly.

“Hey,” Stiles says, reaching to pet, then pausing when hisfingers encounter something that’s not fur.

The wolf is wearing a collarthis time.

Stiles has an internal moment of hilarity, imagining awerewolf purchasing a collar for himself, while maybe surreptitiously finding away to try it on first. When he’s done stifling his laughter, he leans down tosee what’s engraved on the tag.

It says:

Derek.

Not lost.

Very friendly.

“Derek is kind of an odd name for a dog,” Stiles says,scratching him behind the ears. “But I like it,” he adds, and doesn’t miss theway Derek’s tail starts wagging.

It’s a little surreal, pretending that someone is a dog whenyou know they’re a person, but Stilesdoes his best. And he has to admit, it has it’s perks—running his fingersthrough Derek’s soft fur is actually pretty soothing.

“I had kind of a rough day at work today. You want to hearabout it?” Stiles asks idly, mostly because it’s impossible for him to sit insilence for long. So he’s really only kidding, but Derek promptly rests hishead in Stiles’ lap, ears pricked with interest.

And Stiles feels a little silly, talking to someone whocan’t say anything back, but it doesmake him feel better. He worries he’s being selfish, putting this on Derek whenhe clearly has issues of his own, but when he takes a subtle sniff, he onlygets contentment from him.

Though admittedly, it’s harder to smell complex emotions onsomeone who’s fully shifted. But at least Stiles knows he’s not botheringDerek.

He talks for more than an hour, drifting to random thoughtsand ideas, and Derek stays there with him the whole time, a comforting weightagainst Stiles’ legs.

He can’t help being grateful.

 *

 Stiles ends up visiting his dad for the weekend, partly justto get him to take some vacation time. And when his dad asks, ever so casually,if he’s met anyone new, Stiles can say with complete honesty that he’s beentalking to a guy named Derek.

Thankfully his dad doesn’t press for more, just moves on toasking him about what he’s been doing lately, though he does remind Stiles thathe’s welcome to bring someone todinner anytime.

Stiles tries not to roll his eyes. He’d never imagined hisdad would turn into such a matchmaker.

Staying with his dad means he doesn’t get back to the parkfor several days, but when he does show up, Derek runs over to him immediately,tail waving happily.

“Hi,” Stiles says, then laughs when Derek nudges against hishand. It’s a very subtle hint. “Sorry I was gone,” he says, giving in andstarting to pet Derek. “But I had to visit my dad. He still worries about me,even though I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

He doesn’t mention that it’s been easier fend for himselfsince he was bitten, though he probably should. It’s likely Derek would want toknow that another werewolf knows that he’s pretending to be a dog.

And if he wants any chance of knowing who Derek is as a person, he needs to come clean.

But not today, he thinks, scratching behind Derek’s ears.

He needs time to think of a tactful way to do it.

 *

 After a lot of deliberation, Stiles realizes he’s absolutelyterrible at being tactful. Also, giving a long, supportive speech to a dog inthe middle of the park is going to be weird as hell, no matter what he actuallysays.

Thankfully, there’s not too many people there when Stilesshows up, so when Derek trots over, Stiles promptly says, “Look, Derek. I don’tknow why you’re doing this. I don’t know what happened to you. But I think Ican understand, at least a little bit.” He drops his magic then, so hiswerewolf scent is revealed. “So if you ever want to talk—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Derek snaps hisjaws angrily at him and then turns and runs off into the woods.

Stiles sighs, leans back morosely on the bench. That couldhave gone better.

He ends up walking home slowly, hoping at any moment Derekwill come bounding up to him again, tail wagging.

It doesn’t happen.

And it leaves Stiles feeling lonely, making him tempted tohowl for his back, even though they’re all miles and miles away for school orjobs.

So he clamps down on the urge, because he’ll only feellonelier if he howls and no one answers.

 *

 Stiles enjoying a well-earned day off, relaxing in hissweatpants while soup simmers on the stove, and the only thing he’s thinkingabout is whether he’ll be able to finish reading the book he started earlier. Sowhen his doorbell rings, he jumps a little in surprise.

He’s not due for a visit from anyone, and he just saw hisdad last week, so.

He has no idea who it could be. He’s tempted to ignore it,because it’s probably a salesperson, but his curiosity gets the better of himand he decides to check anyway.

His house is pretty soundproofed, because becoming awerewolf didn’t really change his tendency to get easily distracted—in fact, itjust gave him more things to bedistracted by. So he can just vaguely hear that someone is on the other side of the door, but not much else.

He yanks it open, ready to say ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ butwhen he sees who’s there, his tongue promptly sticks to the roof of his mouth.He has no idea who this beautiful man is, but whatever he’s selling, Stiles is definitely buying.

He swallows, trying to figure out something to say. “Um,hi?” is all he manages.

The handsome stranger stares at him, jaw tensed and seemingalmost ready to bolt, then blurts, “I followed your scent trail here, I hopethat’s okay.”

“You—what?” Stiles says, as his brain, which had beenrunning over the many different ways to casually ask this guy out, finallycatches up to the current situation. Noticing that the stranger smells likeanother—rather familiar—wolf is onlyconfirmation. “Derek?” he asksdisbelievingly.

“Yes,” Derek says, ducking his head and looking away.

Stiles is very glad Derek isn’t wearing his collar now,because he’s pretty sure his heart couldn’t take it. “Okay,” he says, trying torally. “I’m Stiles. Do you, um, do you want to come in?” When Derek lookshesitant, he adds, “I have soup,” in what he hopes is an enticing manner.

“It does smell good,” Derek ventures in a way Stiles woulddescribe as shy, except that his expression doesn’t really change from neutral,and his body language stays stiff and wary.

He can’t help thinking that Derek was much friendlier as adog.

But Derek came here to Stiles of his own volition, and thatmeans something. So Stiles gives hima friendly smile and says, “Come on in, then.”

He directs Derek to the couch, then heads to the stove togive the soup a stir.

“It’s almost done, just needs a little bit longer,” he says,joining Derek. “So we have time to talk, if you want to.”

Derek nods, but doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Stilesresists jumping in, because he can bepatient, dammit.

Derek hunches over a little, hands curling around eachother, then says, “I lost my whole family a little over a year ago.”

It hits Stiles like a punch to the gut, and he struggles notto react, because Derek’s still talking.

“And there were—there were so many things happening all atonce. I had funeral arrangements and memorial services and all of these condolences I had to deal with,” hegrits out. “And after that was over, it was easier to just stay in my house. Myfamily…they left me a lot of money. So I quit my job. I was tired of seeingpeople, tired of trying to talk to them through all the platitudes. The onlyones that I allowed to visit me were the family lawyer and the doctor.”

Stiles nods in understanding, but keeps quiet.

“And it was that way for months—I signed the papers thelawyer brought, looked over the paperwork the accountant faxed over, took theinformation about therapy from the doctor. That was it. I mostly kept tomyself, because I couldn’t deal with all the memories—”

Derek hasn’t actually said it, but Stiles is pretty sure hisfamily was his pack. It’s hard enoughfor a human to lose someone they care about, but it’s even rougher on awerewolf, especially when there’s a pack bond involved. There’s a total loss ofconnection, a feeling of emptiness that pulls on you, day in and day out.

Stiles had felt all of that when Allison had almost died. He couldn’t imagine thefeeling if he’d suddenly lost his wholepack.

“So by the time I realized I did want to reach out, I felt like it was too late. I’d isolatedmyself for months, kept a firm distance between myself and other people, and Ididn’t know how to undo it.”

“So you started going to the park?” Stiles guesses.

Derek nods. “I felt like I wouldn’t be able to connect withpeople as…myself. So I started showing up in full shift, pretending I was adog. At first it was only once or twice a month, because it was a littleoverwhelming to be out there. But I began to crave the kind, gentle way peopletreated me. I needed the human contact,” he says, looking ashamed. “And Istarted going more and more often, until I was there practically every day.” Heshudders to a stop, clenching his hands together.

“I think,” Stiles begins hesitantly. “I think you probablyhelped comfort a lot of people, even as they were comforting you.” Hell, Derekhad even soothed Stiles’ nerves several times. He looks over, catches Derek’seye. “And I know it wasn’t easy, but I’m glad you reached out to me.”

Derek relaxes a little, looks down at his hands again. “I’mglad you were there. Who knows how long I would have been there, not knowinghow to ask for help.” He sends a quick, nervous glance Stiles’ way. “I waswanting to shift back less and less every day. I think at some point I wouldhave just ended up staying as a wolf.”

Stiles doesn’t doubt it, because it doesn’t seem like Derekhas much keeping him in the human world. He wants to do something about that.“If you do want to, um, talk to people again, a few of my friends are cominginto town next week. You could come hang out with us,” he offers.

He didn’t actually say it, but it’s obvious that Derek heardthe word ‘pack’ instead of the word ‘friends,’ purely from the look ofhesitation and wariness on his face. Stiles would almost guarantee he’s goingto say no.

“Or,” he tries, racking his brain for something else. “I’mgoing to the café with some people from work on Tuesday, just a totally casuallunch thing. You’re more than welcome to come with me.”

He’s doing no such thing, but he knows some easygoing peoplewho would be fine with a last-minute lunch date.

Derek still looks hesitant, but it’s also apparent that hereally wants to interact with other people again as a human, in even the mostbasic of ways. “Okay,” he agrees, before Stiles can start gently wheedling.“I’ll go.”

“Wonderful,” Stiles says brightly, then figures he shouldn’tmake too big a deal out of this. It’ll only put pressure on Derek. “Well, itshould definitely be ready now, so how about some soup?”

 *

 Lunch at the café goes better than Stiles expects.

He’d briefed Kira and Allison ahead of time, so they knewthe situation. He didn’t want them pushing Derek too hard or asking the wrongquestions. He’d hadn’t given them many details about Derek’s past—partlybecause he didn’t know all of them himself, and partly because he wasn’t sureDerek would want them to know. So he’d just said that Derek had suffered aloss, and was trying to learn how to be a part of society again.

They’d both nodded sympathetically and had quickly agreed toa low-pressure lunch.

And at the café Derek is really awkward at first, stiff andfrowning and barely able to order himself a sandwich, but Stiles is good attalking, and keeps the conversation flowing until Derek gradually relaxes andsettles in.

He even gets comfortable enough to join in the conversationa few times, though he’s clearly a little overwhelmed.

They don’t linger too long after they finish eating, becauseStiles knows Derek probably needs a break from the noise and confinement. So hewalks with Derek over to the local bookstore, and asks Margie if she has anymembership openings for her book club.

“Sure,” she says, then cocks an eyebrow at Stiles. “Both ofyou?”

“No, just him,” Stiles says, squeezing Derek’s shoulderencouragingly.

He can’t be Derek’s only gateway to the real world; that’snot healthy. Derek needs to make his own connections, and needs to learn to talkto people without Stiles there as a crutch.

He glances over, wondering if Derek is upset that Stilesjust volunteered him for this. But he just smiles shyly at Margie, and asks,“What are you reading now?”

“Something pretty good, I think,” she says. “I’ll get you acopy if you want.” She points to the back of the store. “And some of our otherclub members are here hanging out, if you’d like to meet them?”

Derek glances over at Stiles questioningly, and Stiles nods.“We have plenty of time, go ahead. I’ll just be next door at the candy store,come find me when you’re done.”

“Okay,” Derek says, looking more confident than he did atthe cafe. Maybe the smell of books is as comforting to him as it is to Stiles.

Derek may have spent most of the past year as a wolf, butStiles would bet that he wasn’t much of a social person before he lost his family. So this is likely pretty stressful forhim, but he’s handling it surprisingly well.

By the time Derek comes over to the candy store, Stiles haspicked out three kinds of fudge—after trying numerous samples, of course—and alarge assortment of truffles. He takes what he has to the register before hegets too greedy, and gives Derek a smile. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” Derek says, looking pleased. “They were reallynice.”

“Yeah, they are,” Stiles says. The book club has a friendly,positive atmosphere, and is mostly older ladies and a few nerdy teenagers, whoall great people. Stiles wouldn’t have introduced Derek to them if he thoughtthey weren’t, honestly. “I’d know, I was in the book club when I first movedhere.”

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “But not anymore?”

Stiles scoops up his purchases so they can head out. “Nah, Ikept going off on tangents when we’d try to discuss plot points.”

“So you got kicked out?” Derek asks, looking amused. “Bannedfrom the book club?”

“Of course not!” Stiles says, laughing. “They’d never dothat. I just felt bad for talking so much, so I kicked myself out.”

“I don’t think talking too much will be a problem for me,”Derek says wryly.

Stiles laughs. “No, probably not.” He glances at the book inDerek’s hand. “I guess you better get reading, I think you have a lot ofcatching up to do before the next meeting.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” Derek says with genuine enthusiasm,and Stiles has to desperately resist the urge to hug him.

 *

 So Derek goes to the book club every week, stops orderinghis groceries online and actually goes to the store instead, and just overalltries to be in more contact with the world.

Stiles sees him sometimes at the park, completely human, andoften sitting on one of the benches, reading a book. Though on one memorableoccasion, Derek had been playing volleyball with some college kids when Stileshad wandered by. Derek had been shirtless and clearly in his element, andStiles watched for a while, captivated. Then he’d realized he needed to leavebefore Derek noticed his lustful staring, and had made a stealthy retreat.

But he hadn’t forgotten what Derek had looked like, outthere in the sunshine, smiling happily.  

Derek comes over pretty often for dinner too, seemingperfectly content to hang out at Stiles’ house. And at first that’s fine—theywatch movies or play cards or talk about whatever Derek’s reading lately.

But as Derek gets more comfortable with him, and as more ofhis personality emerges, Stiles finds himself falling hard. Sure, he’d been solely attracted by Derek’s looks in thebeginning, but now he’s more drawn to things like the quiet, thoughtful wayDerek speaks when something is important to him, the way he listens so intentlyand interestedly to what’s being said, and the way he can communicate using hiseyebrows alone.

So seeing Derek sprawled comfortably across the couch, or byhis side chopping vegetables in the kitchen, or smiling across the table at himafter getting a triple word score, it makes Stiles ache.

And he hasn’t been masking his scent at all—per Derek’srequest—so it doesn’t take him long to figure out that something’s up.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

They’re in the middle of watching a movie they’ve both seenbefore, so Stiles doesn’t really mind the interruption. He just wishes itwasn’t about this.

“I’m fine,” he says with as much honesty as he can muster,hoping Derek will let it go.

Derek’s obviously getting better at social interaction,though, because he presses on instead of yielding like he usually does. “You’vesmelled strange around me for weeks now. You’re not fine. Is it—” he hesitates. “Is it something I did?”

“Not really,” Stiles sighs. But he knows that’s not a goodenough answer, so he forces himself to keep going. “Here’s the thing. I reallylike being your friend, Derek, but I’d also really like to be dating you.”

Derek cocks his head. “And you…don’t think I’m ready forthat?” he asks, watching Stiles intently.

“Dude, only you know whether you’re ready for that or not,”Stiles says immediately, because that’s definitely not his call. “No, I just didn’t think you were interested in me.At all.”

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “Surely you could tell—” he starts, sounding disbelieving.

“I couldn’t, though,” Stiles cuts in quickly, trying to hidehis disappointment. “Your scent never changed when you were around me.”

Derek smiles then, and Stiles feels his heart flip in hischest. “My scent never changed because I liked you from the very beginning,” hesays, quietly amused.

“Oh,” is all Stiles can manage to say, thrown completely off-guard.He does his best to recover. “Does that mean you do want to date me?”

Derek glances at their plates of mostly-eaten pasta on thetable, then gestures to the movie still playing. “I thought we were dating already. I’ve just beenwaiting for you to get up the nerve to kiss me.”

“Oh,” Stiles says again, feeling like an idiot. Then hisbrain catches up. “Oh, that’s a hint, you want me to kiss you—”

He’s interrupted by Derek’s lips pressing against his own,and he can’t help melting into it, making a small sound of pure happiness.

“Like that,” Derek finishes, pulling away with a smug littlesmirk.

Stiles can’t blame him for that. “Yeah,” he says, a littlebreathless and already wanting more. He curls his hand into the front ofDerek’s shirt, grinning. “I think I have a lot of kisses to make up for,” hesays, and pulls Derek back in.

[veneataur]

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Day 18 of 24

Title: Tackling a Fear

It’s on a nondescript, cold and dreary Saturday morning in January that finds Porthos and Aramis sitting in Porthos’ car in an empty church parking lot. Aramis sits awkwardly in the driver’s seat and Porthos in the passenger’s.

“You know, the longer you wait to turn the keys the colder we’re going to get,” Porthos says, holding back a shiver. He knows this isn’t easy for Aramis, despite him asking them for the help. It was a week ago, nearly, actually that Aramis brought this up as they were cleaning up after dinner.

“I need to take the driving test to get my license back,” Aramis says, leaning idly against the island, a dish towel in hand.

“Why,” Porthos asks. “It should just be a simple fine.”

“There…um…” Aramis moves restlessly against the island, twisting his hands in the towel. “Marsac had the doctors fill out a medical form saying I couldn’t drive, that I was unsafe. Lemay’s already fixed that part, but they’re saying I need to pass the written and driving test to get my license back.”

“Oh.” Porthos’ jaw drops a bit. With how good Aramis is doing now, it’s easy to forget about Marsac and how he’s messed with Aramis’ life.

“Well, Porthos is your man for that,” Athos says as he finishes with the dishwasher. “I’m a terrible driver. Ask Porthos.”

“He’s paid more in fines than he has miles on his car, I think.”

Aramis looks at Athos, surprised.

Athos shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve always hated Chicago traffic. It takes forever to get anywhere and it’s so crowded, so I’m usually just thinking how can I get there the fastest.”

“I pulled him over twice when I was a cop for speeding,” Porthos says.

“It was three times,” Athos says.

“So, I guess, you are my best choice, Porthos,” Aramis says. “I was decent at driving. I only had a couple parking tickets.”

“How about we go out in my car this Saturday. We’ll take a few weekends and see how you do. You should be ready for the tests them.”

During the course of the week, Aramis reveals also that Treville has told him he needs to get his license as one step to ending his probation. And it’s a few late night conversations as the weekend grows closer that reveals Aramis’ hesitation in driving again. He knows his illnesses and while they’re under better control he sometimes is triggered unexpectantly and those episodes can range in severity.

“I know, Porthos,” Aramis says, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He slept poorly and is exhausted thanks to a few bad nights of sleep. “Do you want to head back home?”

“Do you,” Porthos asks pointedly.

Aramis hesitates. “No.” It’s an anguished whine. He knows what he needs to do and he wants to but can he turn the keys? He and Lemay talked about this during his session and he made a couple calls to him in the last couple days.

“Then, turn the keys, Aramis.”

“Maybe I don’t really need to drive after all. I mean, is it really a good idea to have me behind the wheel? A pin drops and I might be triggered.”

“Stop that, ‘Mis,” Porthos says. “That’s an exaggeration and you know it. If you want to ever be a full-fledged Musketeer, then you’re going to have to get your license because the Musketeers have their own driving test.”

“I know. I know.” Aramis nods head still leaning against the steering wheel.

“But, if you’re not ready to drive today, then you’re not ready. There’s no sense in pushing this,” Porthos says, voice softer.

“I want to. I’m tired of being reliant on one of you two or Treville and Sarah. I’m stuck in the house, especially now when it’s too cold to just walk places.”

“Then why don’t you want to turn the key?”

Aramis is silent before quietly saying, “What if they’re right? What if he was right?” He sniffles, finally moving back to lean his head against the headrest. “I couldn’t take causing people more heartache, Porthos. What if I shouldn’t be driving because I’m a danger to people on the road? It’s only been a few weeks since that major panic attack in Chicago where I punched Athos and didn’t know where I was. What if something like that happens?”

“Hey,” Porthos begins, “stop that talk.” Porthos puts a calming hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“But…”

“No. Let’s put Marsac aside for now. I don’t even want to talk about that man. But let’s do talk about your life now. Lemay signed off on the paperwork, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you trust Lemay?”

“Of course. He’s the only psychiatrist to actually listen to me instead of dismissing me as another hopeless case.”

“Good. Now, do you trust Treville?”

“Yes. How could I not?”

“How about me and Athos?”

“Yes,” Aramis answers so quickly that Porthos thinks he might’ve not realized what he was answering.

“You trust me and Athos?” Trust has been the sticking point between the two of them and Aramis this past year. It wasn’t that Aramis didn’t want to trust them, but that he couldn’t make himself.

“Yes, Porthos,” Aramis says earnestly. “I can’t say that I won’t have doubts, that I won’t have moments where I question if you will really always there. But I do believe I can trust you and Athos. You two have stuck with me no matter what happened last year when you barely knew me, and it was a bad year.”

“So, if you can trust Lemay, Treville, Athos, and me, then trust that we think you’re safe to drive. We care about you, a lot, and wouldn’t let you put yourself in danger, even if it meant you couldn’t be a Musketeer.”

“I know.”

The car falls silent for a few moments.

“It seems you trust so many others, but do you trust yourself,” Porthos asks.

Aramis shakes his head, eyes closed. “How could I? I still don’t know at times how I’m going to react to things. Look at Chicago a few weeks ago.”

“That was more than a few weeks ago and have you had a major panic attack since then?”

“Some smaller ones.”

“Anything that serious? Did it start a wave of attacks? Are you worse or more unsettled now?”

“No. But it makes me wonder.” In the immediate aftermath of the Chicago panic attack, there had been a lot of sleepless nights for the three of them. There are still some nights like these and moments of panic where Aramis thinks he’s going to have a major attack. It’s been weeks since they’ve gone out during the day. Even the mall outing with Tim and Ben was altered to work with Aramis.

“You remember last week when we went out shopping,” Porthos asks. Aramis nods. “We thought we’d gone at a good time when you wouldn’t be triggered by anything, right?”

Another nod.

“But what happened?”

“There was a loud bang and a baby cried out.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t? You froze, got that far off look, and your breathing picked up. Athos could feel your heart beating with a simple touch.” Porthos pauses, looking at Aramis, who’s staring out at the dead, snow-covered landscape. “Do you remember what happened then? Did you have a panic attack?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“The surroundings. The aisles and the music,” Aramis says. “There were so many things to notice and look at.”

“You redirected your own thoughts.”

“I also breathed myself into an asthma attack and had to sit down to rest halfway through our trip,” Aramis counters.

“So it wasn’t perfect. Do you know that was the first time you’ve really managed to redirect yourself? It’s usually me and Athos doing it. But you started on your own. If that’s not proof that you are getting your illnesses under control, then I don’t know what is.”

“But that was once, Porthos.”

“And you’ll do it again. I have confidence in you, Aramis. I just wish you’d have that same confidence.”

“I used to be confident.” Aramis looks down, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “I want to be again.”

“It’ll come, Aramis. You’ve been through quite a lot. I can’t think of anyone who’d still have their confidence after everything you’ve been through.”

“I’ve heard that a lot.” Aramis closes his eyes and leans back against the seat.

“I bet.”

“The question is, when. When does it start coming back?”

“Maybe with turning the keys?”

“Are you telling me that you’re freezing,” Aramis asks with a slight smile.

“Well, I am cold and I’d like a little heat in the car, but what I mean is that you’ve got to do things for yourself. It’s not that you aren’t already, but you need to challenge yourself with things that scare you to see that you can do them. And if it’s a pep talk to get you going or a late night anxious pace, you need that’s okay. If it goes bad and you need someone to talk to, I’ll be there and I’m sure Athos will be too and probably all of the Trevilles, even Meg though she’s not even a year yet. If it doesn’t go as planned, and we both know that some of your ventures will go badly, you just need to remember that you’re not alone. You’re stuck with us, no matter what happens.”

“I know. I understand.” Aramis nods and the car lapses into silence again.

“So, how about tackling one of your fears now and turning on the car.” Porthos is shivering even more now and he knows that Aramis isn’t because the man wears at least three layers, not including thermal underwear before even thinking about stepping out in this weather. He has some of his muscle built back up, but he’s still on the thin side and gets cold easily.

“Okay.” Aramis chuckles as Porthos’ plea.

“Good. We’ll see how you do with the car idling and then maybe take it around a bit, let you get a feel for the pedals again.”

They’ve been sitting long enough that when Aramis does turn the keys, the engine takes a few minutes to warm up and they have to wait for warm air to come from the vents.

“How’re you doing,” Porthos asks as he holds his hands against a vent, enjoying the warm air.

“Good. I’m good. This isn’t bad.” Aramis is somewhat relaxed, but the thought of driving is still on his mind. This won’t be an easy task, but Porthos is right. He has to start facing his fears head on if he’s ever going to regain his lost confidence. “How about we go for a little drive around the lot?”

“Excellent idea. Just remember to take it easy.” He and Athos had worried about getting Aramis to actually drive today. Athos warned him before they left that Aramis might not even be able to shift the car out of park if he managed to turn the key. And Porthos agreed, knowing, like Athos, that Aramis’ lack of confidence is holding him back more than he realizes. He thought they’d be heading back home with a despondent Aramis, but as the younger man shifts the car out of park into drive and there’s a gentle push of the gas pedal, Porthos is glad they were wrong. And as they make a slow, gentle circle around the parking lot, Aramis’ hands clenching the steering wheel so tight they’re white, Porthos smiles. It’s not perfect, but a first attempt needn’t be. This is progress and he can’t wait to get home so that Aramis can tell Athos. And then they can coax Aramis into believing that this is important enough and that the Trevilles would care enough to hear about it.

[katsitting]

Harrymort, translucent?

I have no clue if this is what you were looking for, but here you are. I hope you enjoy. This came out a bit longer than originally intended. 

Warnings: Please excuse my typos. 

—————–

Harry could see him in his mind’s eye as if he were somesort of specter. Voldemort’s gaze never faltering, never failing, and neverblinking despite the brightness of the field they both stood in. It was astrange sight—too see a creature Harry associated with darkness out in such abright, and admittedly, peaceful scene Harry had crafted in his own mind.

There was a time where Harry would have screamed and shoutedfor the man to leave; to stop destroying the vivid verdant field with the darknessof his robes; to cease staining the soft blues of the sky with the blood red ofhis eyes. The monster was a dark speck in the overall glow of the looming sun,accentuating rather than hiding the whiteness of his face—the gauntness of hisskin that no dark potion could ever salvage. Voldemort did not belong here, butthere he was. And Harry accepted his presence for what it was: a contrastbetween light and dark, good and…something else entirely.

The time for him to scream and shout had ceased severaldream sequences ago, and so there, Harry stood—watching the way Voldemort’srobes billowed in the passing breeze.

The man looked at all nothing like he did when he was aboy—overtaken completely by the shadows in his arguable present heart. Harryonce believed there was a void there instead of the muscle that pumped muchneeded platelets, red blood cells, white blood cells through each individualnetwork underneath their flesh.

But Harry had learned that to some extent Voldemort bledjust like them. He was a monster, yes, but he was still in fact a man. Voldemort may have destroyed alltraces of his humanity in his goal to power, but it was that very humanity inhim that had led him down the path. It was not a foreign concept—even ifMuggles and Wizards alike wanted to treat it as such. And it was that very factthat left a bitter taste in the back of Harry’s throat.

“Not going to throw a tantrum like a spoilt child this time?”Harry heard the man speak, catching the way each individual syllable was utteredwithout pause or inflection. There was no malice in the tone despite the insultingnature of Voldemort’s words—in fact, there was hardly ever any emotion at allin the Voldemort of his mind.

It was funny, really. To see the man Harry had spent yearsof his life fearing in his mind. Harry supposes that the war may have ended,but there was still something left of it inside him to this day.

Harry had tried to starve that part of himself with work ashead of the Auror department. He had tried to ignore it by spending more timethan necessary with Ron and Hermione; visit new pastures in this new time ofpeace with Ginny. But nothing could really disappear the stain that clung tohis soul—the part of himself that lived so intimately close to the soul pieceof the monster before him.

It almost made Harry want to laugh at just how pathetic hislife really was. Harry had thought he’d find peace after the man’s death, buthere he was, standing in a peaceful meadow only Harry’s mind would create, withthe very man that brought chaos into Harry’s existence. It was almost as ifHarry’s mind somehow missed the partof Harry that never was. A piece of himself Harry never really knew was thereuntil he was severing it from his own soul.

Harry was almost sure the real Voldemort would have foundthis to be poetic justice. The perfect revenge against the one person that haddefeated Voldemort over and over throughout his lifetime—presenting obstacleafter obstacle, setback after setback in each of his carefully laid plans. Theone that had practically killed Voldemort despite Harry’s reservations in evenwanting to do in the in first place.

Harry was no killer—he knew that. But he still felt like hewas when laying in his bed after another night without Ginny to warm it withhim. He could not scratch away the memory of the man crumbling to the ground athis feet—of the light fading from once expressive red eyes that hungered for more and more of this world.

“What would be the point? We both know you’re not reallyreal.” Harry sounded tired even to his own ears, despite only being just amonth over twenty-five. It was still a shock, in some way, that the war hadreally been over for as long as it was.

But then again, if one was seeing Voldemort’s face in theirhead every night, they’d think the war was still not over despite the pityingglances from friends and family saying otherwise. Despite the relative peaceand joy that came with the final death of the most feared Dark Lord in decades.

“Do you really think this is a mere manifestation of yourguilt for failing to save me, Harry Potter? How naïve you are.” The man soundedamused, the sound of it shocking Harry completely. It was like dropping pebblesinto placid waters—the ripples of it notifying all that there was a disruptionin the natural order of things and that they needed to run.

Ripples meant boats and fishing lines, it meant boys andgirls taking dives into the cool waters where the fish lived. It meant an endto peace, and in some respect, it was almost as if Voldemort’s show of emotionwas a precursor to some new arc in their growing interactions in Harry’sdreams.

“Are you not? I killed you. I watched you fall dead when weboth cast our spells.” Harry watched the way Voldemort’s shoulders began totremble, not in anger as anyone would readily assume, but with laughter as hestepped closer to where Harry stood. Each step disrupting the silence that settledaround them in the field.

The distance appeared at first glance so very large—seeming togo on easily for miles in the landscape Harry had created, but in reality,Harry was sure it was only a short distance. It should have motivated Harry tomove, but he could not find it in himself to widen the distance. There was nothingfor Harry to fear here, it was all in his mind. Voldemort could not hurt himhere—could not hurt anyone at all in this fictional place Harry had created inhis mind. Voldemort only existed because Harry had made it happen—it was hisway to cope with the trauma of fighting a war at such a young age.

Of having to murder someone for the first time.

Voldemort’s death left a mark in Harry, and that was whywhen Voldemort finally stopped in front of Harry with only a few short inchesbetween them, the light of the sun passing through the inkiness of Voldemort’s robesand skin as they both stood there, Harry did not move. Harry simply gazed into theredness of Voldemort’s eyes.

They glittered underneath the light like gems, the mostunique shades of garnet and ruby red percolating in them.

“Oh, Harry. Younever learn, do you?” The man whispered the words, the hiss of them snakingitself into Harry’s chest like vipers hiding in the underbrush and cobraspreparing to spring at a looming threat. Harry wondered idly if this was how Naginiwould have killed him had she wrapped herself around him—crushing his chestuntil it hurt to breathe.

Harry prepared himself for what Voldemort would do next,having already dreamt this enough times to know what would come. It hardlyscared Harry anymore to experience it—to hear his worst fears thrown back athim before the specter vanished and left Harry alone in his dreams to cope withthe weight of his guilt.

But Voldemort did not do what he usually did—he did not saythe words that would crush Harry’s heart or dissipate into the light as heoften did after taunting Harry.

Instead, Voldemort laughed and stepped into the little spacethere was already between them. He consumed all of Harry’s vision, the pallorof his skin painful to Harry’s own weary eyes as he tried to understand—to calmhis beating heart from the rush of blood and adrenaline coursing through hisveins.

It felt familiar and yet not. This was different, and Harryhad no clue what to make of it all now.

“I gave a piece of myself to you, Harry. It was only fairthat I take something in return. When you took a piece of me inside you, you boundus so tight that neither you nor I knew where we began or where we ended.” Harryfelt his face drain of color, almost as pale as Voldemort when the man’s lipsghosted against Harry’s ear.

“Is this not what you wished? I am alive despite the oddsmounted against me. I am here, and I grow strongerwith each passing day.” Harry stepped back, but Voldemort seized him by theshoulders—trapping him in Voldemort’s arms despite the transparency of hisskin.

Between the shock of Voldemort touching him and the weightof the man’s words, Harry felt like he might be sick. He was unsure if it was ascream or bile that wanted to crawl out of his throat at that precise second.

What has he done?

“To think, the Boy-Who-Lived is the one to resurrect me. To miss me the most in a world that continuesto move forward without a glance to the past. How…sweet.”

All Harry could see was the burning red of Voldemort’s eyes,the panic crawling over his flesh stealing all the air from his lungs.Voldemort was—but he couldn’t!?

And then Harry was awake, his breaths coming so quickly thathe was unsure if he was even breathing at all. It took Harry more than a momentto really realize he had finally awoken from the dream—to settle the sicknessin his stomach that had him tipping too close to the precipice.

His heart was beating too quickly, his skin so clammy withhis sweat that the sheets beneath him were drenched in it. Harry spread hisarms to the left side of it, feeling the smoothness of the sheets to find somesort of grounding and to make sure that Ginny was gone. It made Harry feelguilty that he was happy to know she was gone, but Harry doubted he couldexplain the nature of his dreams to her again. He had tried numerous timebefore, but there was a lump that prevented the words from coming out histhroat each time.

When the seconds stretched to minutes, his heart finallyslowing and his breaths deepening into something that resembled peace, Harryfinally thought back to what he had just seen in his mind’s eye. Harry wantedto believe it was only a dream; it really could not be more than what it was. Therewas simply no way that Voldemort could really be stuck between the cracks ofHarry’s soul when Harry had already died once the in the past.

It was impossible for the man to return. Harry knew it waspermanent when the killing curse had struck Voldemort in the middle of theirduel. Harry had seen it; the sight ofdeath finally seizing the man in its hands enough to rattle Harry into apermanent state of guilt.

Arguably, even post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was enough for Harry to fault himself for the man’s death.Enough to relive the battles in his mind over and over again until all Harry could do was sit alone in his office. Itwas almost pathetic how in some way Harry wished the man actually lived—to freehim of this guilt. Harry felt like something was taken along with him whenVoldemort had died, and Harry knew that there was no one he could really speakto concerning these feelings.

His friends would not understand. Ginny would neverunderstand. None of them would—not when this world had moved without Harry—glossingover the losses and the pain. None thinking of how Harry had been molded to dieand kill despite his desires not to stain his own hands in blood.

Harry did not know what to do with this feeling trappedinside him—hating himself for how he kept seeing the face of his enemy of hismind, reopening a wound that Harry tried to sloppily suture together.

He was panicking again, noting the way his fingers shookwhen he finally convinced himself to grab his glasses from the nightstand. It tookhim longer than it normally would, the fidgeting making his movements sloppyand uncoordinated, but when he finally did, he slipped them over his nose. The weightwas comforting, giving Harry the chance to inhale deeply to calm himself.

Harry pieced himself together—each layer of his identitystretching to cover every single crack in his soul.

The moment Harry opened his eyes, he wished he had not.

Voldemort stood before him, a glowing specter standing bythe only exit in Harry’s bedroom. The monster looked more solid than Harry hadever remembered seeing him—making out each network of arteries and veinsbeneath the translucent skin.

Harry scrambled back, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear ashe tried to make sense of the sight of what he had considered the manifestationof his guilt—and the longing Harry felt for the piece of Voldemort taken fromhim.

“Soon, Harry Potter.”

It took everything in Harry to silence the scream thatwanted to leave him.

[elspethsunschampion]

Fact or Fiction: Chapter Eight

Rated M for abuse, sexual content, and discussion of rape/non-con.  Canon-typical violence.

Summary: It’s Ral Zarek’s sixth year at Hogwarts. And everything would be fine if Jace wasn’t totally occupied with his new girlfriend, to the point where it’s honestly kind of weird, and Ral’s starting to be concerned. Now if only everyone would stop telling Ral he’s just jealous and LISTEN to him…after all, he’s NOT just jealous, right? (Sequel to Send to Sleep.)

Ships: Jace Beleren/Ral Zarek, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Hermione Granger, Nissa Revane/Chandra Nalaar, Elspeth Tirel/Teysa Karlov

A/N: Many, many thanks to @paperclipminimizer for beta-ing and checking my timeline, as well as answering all my questions about Harry Potter. Thanks also to Juri, @dragons-suck, and everyone on Sketchydoodles’ Vorthos server for listening to me rant about this thing as it took shape.

Also available on AO3 and FFnet.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: Rally

           The new arrival turned out to be extremely hungry in addition to frustrated. Ral took her down to the kitchens and politely asked the house elves to get her some food, which they were more than happy to do.

           “So you’re Elspeth’s pen pal?” he said, after Teysa had eaten her way through three pumpkin sandwiches and was finally looking as if she were going to slow down.

           Teysa nodded, neatly patting a few crumbs away from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “And when I didn’t hear from her in a few weeks, I got concerned,” she explained. “We’ve been writing back and forth for years, and she has never missed a response.”

           Chewing on his lip, Ral made a split-second decision. “Okay, so I think I know who did this to her,” he said, then put up a hand to stop Teysa from rising up into a whirlwind of fury. She would probably have fallen off the high stool they had put her on anyway; her feet were dangling about a foot above the ground. “Nobody believes me, so maybe I—” he grimaced, “—it’s possible that I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.”

           Quickly, he brought Teysa up to speed on the events of the semester.

           “Well,” she said, pulling a face, “I do think you might be jealous—” Ral growled at her, “—but I also think you’re correct, so it doesn’t matter.”

           “I just don’t know what to fucking do about it,” Ral complained. “I mean, I guess I could try to follow Emmara or something? But I don’t even know if that would work, and those aren’t the kind of spells I know how to cast. I’m not so good at subtle.”

           “I don’t know how to cast them, either, but I can direct you to do so.” Teysa’s eyes were sharp. “I’m an excellent tutor, and I have a good knowledge of subterfuge and spying.”

           “But if you can’t cast them yourself—”

           “I’m a squib.” Teysa’s admission made her face screw up as if she’d swallowed a lemon. “I can’t cast spells.”

           Well, that did explain why she wasn’t at school at Hogwarts. “I’m a Muggleborn,” Ral shrugged. “Hell, I nearly went to high school at a Muggle school. Well, I guess I wouldn’t have because I wouldn’t want to leave Jace and Elspeth, but I bet I’d have learned a lot.”

           Teysa’s thin eyebrows went up expressively. “Hm,” she said, as if she hadn’t been expecting that reaction. “Well, I’m sure I can teach you some very useful spells.” She gave him a thin smile. “And then we can figure out exactly what is going on.”

           First things first, Ral thought. They needed a place for Teysa to stay, and spending time in the Hufflepuff common room or dormitories was definitely not a good idea. Ral got on all right with the other Slytherins, but he didn’t spend much time in the dungeon as a rule; someone might notice. He wasn’t close to anyone in Ravenclaw. Well, what was left was pretty obvious. Ral grinned darkly. Emmara was going to be sorry she’d fucked with Jace, and maybe even sorrier that she’d fucked with Nissa.

           “C’mon,” he said to Teysa.

           “Where are we going?” As she asked, she carefully got to her feet, wincing a little. “Damn.”

           “What’s wrong?”

           “It’s nothing,” Teysa snapped, and Ral paused at her sudden irritation, then shrugged.

           “All right then,” he said. “We’re going to find a friend.”

           He had been a little worried that Chandra would still be hanging around the Hospital Wing instead of back in her dorm, but they had go slowly, partly because Teysa seemed to be limping slightly, and partly because Ral wasn’t sure that he wanted to run into anyone else with her. There might be awkward or annoying questions, since he had no idea what the provisions were for non-wizard visitors at the school who weren’t relatives.

           When they reached the Gryffindor common room, it was deserted apart from Gideon, who had his feet curled up under him as he squatted on the couch, frowning over a Potions textbook. He looked up briefly and nodded at Ral, smiled politely at Teysa.

           “Is that your sister?” he asked Ral.

           “Oh, ah—” Before Ral had quite decided, Teysa smiled winningly and answered for him, “Yes, that’s me.”

           “Um, yeah, Gideon, this is Teysa,” Ral said, wondering if they really looked that much alike. “Teysa, Gideon. Hey, we were just looking for Chandra, is she around?”

           Gideon’s forehead creased back into a frown. “She’s up in the dorm,” he said. “She’s kind of upset. You, um, you might want to be careful going up there. She tends to—break things.”

           “Been there.” Ral shrugged and led Teysa up the stairs towards the Gryffindor girls’ dormitories.

           He didn’t bother to knock, opting instead to just throw open the door. This turned out to nearly be a painful error, because a wave of crackling flame was suddenly heading directly for his face. Luckily for him, he’d had his hand on his wand, and he managed to snap it up and shout, “Protego!” before he and Teysa were charred to a crisp.

           “Oh,” Chandra said, dully. “It’s you. Sorry.”

           “Yeah, what’d you think?”

           Chandra was sprawled on her bed, idly playing with her wand—well, maybe not so idly. She stared up at him, sighed, and shrugged.

           “This is Teysa,” Ral said, letting his new friend squeeze in the door behind him. “She’s here to help us get rid of Emmara.”

           “Oh really?” Chandra sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She looked at Teysa skeptically. “How exactly is a ten-year-old going to help?”

           Teysa stared her down levelly, drawing herself up to her full height of slightly-less-than-five-feet. “I am seventeen and a half,” she said, “and I happen to be the heir to the Orzhov family, so I have a great deal of experience with dark magic.”

           “Huh,” Chandra said. “What are you doing here?”

           “I came to look for Elspeth.”

           “Oh,” said Chandra, then, “Ohhhh. Oh wow.”

           “So can she stay here? Seems like the easiest place for her. I think it’s better if Emmara doesn’t know about her.”

           “Yeah, I’ll figure something out.” Chandra’s face puckered slightly. “Um, I’m sorry about the, um, the fire thing,” she said rapidly, staring at her feet.

           “I’m fine.” Ral rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “It’s not a problem.”

           “I’m not sure what happened.”

           “Professor Lovegood said you might be an elementalist,” Ral offered. “Like me.”

           “A what?”

           He shook his head. “We can talk about it another time. Right now I’d really like to figure out what the fuck Emmara is doing to Jace and the others and how to stop it.”

           “Right. Let’s see how good you two are at magic,” Teysa smirked.

           Hermione collapsed into bed with a sigh. She had been intending to do a little work this evening, and then read through some of the more promising titles that she and Luna had hunted out of the library, but she was just so tired. Maybe she’d just go to bed early, just this once—

           A knock on her door startled her back to full wakefulness. For a moment, she considered turning over and just going to sleep, but, with a sigh, she decided against it. Heaving herself out of bed was more of an effort than she felt it should have been. She stood for a moment, rubbing her eyes and trying to smooth her hair, and then, finally, she answered the door.

           Outside, Luna was shifting from foot to foot. She looked up with a hopeful smile when she saw Hermione. “Good evening!” she said brightly, and Hermione had to smile back. It was almost unsettling, how warm and wonderful everything seemed when Luna was around. Something about her just lit up whatever room she was in. “I wondered if you wanted to go through some more of the books together.”

           If it had been anyone else, Hermione would have said that she really ought to get some sleep instead, but her mind weighed the thought of an extra hour of sleep versus an extra hour of Luna, and Luna came out miles ahead almost instantly. “I’d—I’d like that,” she replied. “Do come in.”

           Luna had been in Hermione’s small quarters before, though they usually spent most of their time together in the teachers’ lounge, but tonight she hovered as Hermione slowly got out the books she’d been planning to look over, and Hermione realized that she had left several stacks of ungraded papers obscuring every seat in the room. She laughed and patted the bed next to her. “I’m sorry, I honestly meant to clear this place up a bit yesterday,” she told Luna. “I’ve just been dreadfully tired lately.”

           “Oh—that’s fine.” Strangely, Luna was almost stammering. “Er, are you sure?”

           Hermione glanced back at her to see that both of Luna’s cheeks were flushed, and her hands were twined rather nervously behind her back. “Yes, of course,” she answered, a little blankly. “Why would I mind?”

           Luna blinked rapidly and smiled widely. “Oh, no reason,” she said. “Just, you know, sometimes one’s—one’s robe can have grab—grabknacks without one knowing about it, and I wouldn’t want you to get—itchy.”

           Hermione raised an eyebrow as Luna moved jerkily closer. “I believe you made that up,” she said slowly.

           “I did not,” Luna responded immediately. “I’d never—just make something up.” Her cheeks had definitely turned bright red. “It would be—” she waved a hand, “—unethical for an expert in unusual creatures to simply make something up off the top of her head.” She looked to the side, then sighed. “Although perhaps you’re right that I don’t—exactly—believe that grabknacks exist. Their provenance was disputed as far back as the seventeenth century, and, well, by now, even people who are more open-minded about magical creatures—don’t really—think there’s much evidence…”

           “Are you all right?” Hermione asked sleepily. “I really don’t mind you sitting on my bed. I don’t mind most people sitting on my bed, really, but I especially wouldn’t mind you doing it.”

           “Especially me?” Luna echoed. “Then I won’t refuse, but, um…” She sat gingerly on the side of the bed, then sighed. “’Mione,” she said in a small voice. “I know people think I’m odd. Well, I mean. I am odd.”

           She looked suddenly sad and small and almost drooping as she sat on Hermione’s bed, her hands bunching together in the robe above her knees.

           “Yes,” Hermione agreed, sliding over to her and wondering whether she needed to be comforting. She had never been exactly good at ‘comforting.’ When Ron or Harry had problems, she was far better at offering solutions than comfort, but she was aware that sometimes people didn’t actually need their problems fixed, per se. “I mean, I suppose you’re odd, but your friends don’t mind. We like oddity. I like oddity.”

           “When I was nineteen, I kissed one of my friends, and she definitely didn’t like it,” Luna said abruptly. “You see, I thought she might like it, because I thought she might like me like that, but she didn’t. I’m not very good at knowing if someone would like me to kiss them. And it gets awkward, and people think I’m odd. Which I don’t normally mind at all, but when people don’t want to be around me because I’m odd, I sometimes get sad. Especially if they’re people I like very much.”

           Hermione stared at her, feeling her own cheeks heat just a little. She hadn’t spent much time considering romantic situations since the one with Ron imploded so horribly, and she hadn’t dwelled on the fact that the signals she and Luna had been sending each other were possibly a little less than platonic. But there had been a good deal of touching and hugging—more than Hermione was used to, or generally comfortable with, even with close friends. And the way she’d found herself looking at Luna at odd moments, even the first time she’d seen her this year, in the loo at that awful party. As if she didn’t want to look away.

           “Luna,” she said. “Erm, do you want to kiss me?”

           Luna turned to her, and Hermione was a little concerned to see that there were tears welling up her eyes. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “I want to. But I don’t want you not to want to be around me anymore.”

           “I, er,” said Hermione. She slid a hand to the side and touched the top of Luna’s hand, feeling the tight tension riding in the top of her friend’s knuckles. “Actually, I—I think I’d like to kiss you, too.”

           “You would? Really?”

           Suddenly feeling strangely shy, Hermione forced herself to nod.

           “Oh,” Luna said, smiling. “That’s very nice.” She blinked once, and a tear rolled out of her eye and down her nose. She reached up and brushed it away. “Oh, dear,” she said. “That’s awfully silly that my eyes are still doing this, then.”

           Taking a deep breath, Hermione awkwardly moved one hand up and cupped Luna’s cheek. “I honestly don’t mind,” she breathed, and she pushed the golden strands of Luna’s hair back, leaned forward, and brushed her lips against Luna’s. Before she could pull back, Luna’s hand was in her hair, and Luna was kissing her back as well, sighing into her mouth. It felt wonderful.

           Luna’s hand turned over beneath hers and laced their fingers together. Breathlessly, insistently, she kissed the corner of Hermione’s mouth. “I like this,” she said. “I like this quite a bit.”

           “Me, too,” Hermione admitted. The back of her head felt odd, though, the tiredness that she’d almost forgotten coming back with force. “Tired, though,” she mumbled. “I think I need to sleep.”

           “Oh—I’m sorry—I’ll leave you to sleep.”

           Hermione smiled hazily through the veil of sleepiness. “No, no,” she protested. “Why don’t you stay?” She still hadn’t managed to change out of her robes, had she? Oh well.

           “Are you sure? I mean—the grabknacks—”

           Giggling, still desperately sleepy, Hermione grabbed Luna’s sleeve. “Definitely sure. Don’t mind being itchy anyway.” She pulled her friend down onto the bed, curling against her immediately. The last thing she heard before the darkness claimed her was Luna’s soft, happy sigh.

[lifeonashelf]

CAT POWER

When I started working as a clerk at Rhino in 2001, one of my floor managers was a guy named Aaron, a real cool cat who was a few years older than me and a fellow writer (poetry, mostly, but working on his elusive first novel, if I recall correctly). At the time, he probably also fit the textbook description of an alcoholic—hey, it was a record store; most of us who worked there fit that textbook description. But Aaron wasn’t one of those slovenly, discernibly reckless drunks. He was a good-looking dude whose unruffled mien suggested that when he got wasted, he got Elegantly Wasted, and whenever he came in the morning after a bender, the luggage under his eyes was accompanied by a knowing smirk which intimated he had way more fun than you did last night and possibly woke up next to a foxy companion whose name he could only vaguely recall. Naturally, since I was a budding writer with aspirations of being an Elegantly-Wasted alcoholic, I looked up to the guy.

After Aaron left Rhino (I was promoted into the managerial spot he vacated, so he did me a solid there), he switched to bartending at a spot called the Second Avenue Alehouse, where we continued to have positive dealings. Since one of his duties was booking bands to perform at the pub, he slotted Happyending into the schedule several times. Second Avenue was in Upland—only ten miles away from almost everyone I knew at the time—and the place drew healthy business with or without us, so our Alehouse gigs were all reliably well-attended. We were also allowed to play for as long as we wanted, an attractive proposition since our repertoire had ballooned to something like 50 originals and 15 or so covers at that point. Since we obviously thought we had a lot of good tunes to offer, executing a Pearl Jam-esque thirty-song set was much more appealing to us than whittling our wares into a tidy thirty-minute package to be efficiently shoe-horned into rosters with like six other bands at the more traditional clubs where we performed. Plus, Aaron always made sure we got paid—generously, I might add, for an outfit of our limited stature—and kept us plied with free beer all night. Unsurprisingly, the Second Avenue Alehouse ended up being my very favorite venue that ever hosted Happyending.

[Our experiences there were infinitely preferable to some of our more ill-starred outings, such as one disastrous gig at a Cask ‘N Cleaver steakhouse (yes, really) in Orange County, where our entire audience consisted of my dad, the restaurant’s staff, and the consequently aggrieved lady who booked the show: an amateur promoter named Linda, who we had done a few previous gigs for despite ascertaining she was fucking insane. Linda was in particularly rare form the evening of that fabled Cask ‘n Cleaver show. While we were chatting with her upon our arrival at the eatery, she erupted into a lengthy tirade about how the government was putting chemicals in Hostess Twinkies which allowed the CIA to use said snack cakes for nefarious mind-control purposes. She was wholly sincere—and rather frightening in her fervor—so I didn’t have the stones to tell her that the only post-hypnotic suggestion I’ve ever received while eating a Twinkie is that Twinkies are goddamn delicious and I should eat five more of them in immediate succession. Anyway, Linda was incensed that we had failed to lure vast throngs of people to come watch us play in the lounge of a two-and-a-half-star chain restaurant located in a city where we didn’t know anybody. As our scheduled set-time drew near and the establishment remained completely empty, her fretfulness morphed into a vehement lambasting. “Where is everybody, Taylor?” Linda growled, to which I summed up the utter idiocy of the booking by shrugging and telling her, “Linda, this is a Cask ‘N Cleaver.” Nevertheless, we played reasonably well to that room full of vacant white-clothed tables—the candles ornamenting each one gently flickered as I threw power-chords and throaty yells at them, almost like a swaying sea of lighter-hoisting admirers; if we had any ballads in our set, we might have found ourselves in the midst of a poignant moment there. I also definitely noticed the bartender rocking out while he idly wiped down all the mugs behind the bar, ostensibly preparing his glassware just in case the zero people sitting at his counter started ordering pints. However, what I remember most about that night is how dejected we felt driving home from the gig… Not because my father was the only person who showed up to see us, mind you, but because we realized we had inadvertently walked out on the sizable tab we accrued for the hearty appetizers-and-all feast we devoured before our performance. I assure you our malfeasance was wholly unintentional (the food was really quite good; the joint handily earned its 2.5 stars). We simply forgot all about the bill because we were so focused on making a quick exit from the premises after we finished packing up our gear—as I said, Linda was livid; we were justifiably worried she might assault us with Scopolamine-laced Twinkies if we stuck around to give her the chance. In any case, I never returned to that Cask ‘N Cleaver (apparently, the dearth of clientele wasn’t limited to the nights Happyending performed there because the location has long since closed) so it’s entirely possible there is an outstanding warrant for my arrest in the city of Fountain Valley.]

My memories of hanging out with Aaron after each of our Alehouse performances are just as fond as my memories of the shows themselves. We closed the pub down every time we played there, and our host was always game for a few after-hours rounds once he cleared everyone else out; more than once, we ended up lingering to drink and smoke and shoot the shit until four or five in the morning, which naturally proved to be a fertile milieu for some extremely pleasant and memorable conversations (actually, I can’t really remember them, I just remember they were pleasant). Anyway, aside from that, the main reason Aaron has turned up in this essay is because in addition to being a real good dude, he was also a big fan of Cat Power.

I hadn’t yet heard any of Cat Power’s music when she first came up in palaver with Aaron at Rhino, so it was through him I learned that moniker is the stage name used by a highly-regarded singer-songwriter named Chan Marshall, who he assessed as follows: “She’s a fucking trainwreck, man. But I love her.” He then went on to tell me about some of the various Cat Power gigs he had attended over the years, which he succinctly described as “iffy”—he was being overly polite, I think, considering the particulars he then shared.

Aaron told me he was present for at least one show where Marshall abruptly ended the set after a few songs and walked off stage without explanation (which was evidently a common occurrence at the time), and another which was cancelled moments before it was set to begin because she didn’t feel like playing at all (which was evidently also a common occurrence at the time). Yet Aaron sounded positively tickled as he described these episodes to me, as if an aborted Cat Power concert was still a rewarding event to witness—to hear him tell it, Chan Marshall’s histrionic refusal to perform somehow endeared her to him more, perhaps even perversely validated his enthusiasm for her work because her erratic conduct reinforced the brittle-diva mythos she had cultivated. Since he had already accepted the “will-she-or-won’t-she” cliffhanger as part of the whole Cat Power mystique, even when Marshall was too much of a mess to operate, she was still satisfying some aspect of his fandom. And he clearly wasn’t dissuaded by either of these experiences; the very next time a Cat Power gig was announced in our area, Aaron bought a ticket for that show, too.

In a very real sense, Chan Marshall was playing hard to get. But Aaron kept chasing her because he was optimistic that someday, if he persisted, she was bound to eventually put out and play songs at one of her concerts. I’m fascinated by the singular impact this prolonged ear-tease fostered for him. Imagine: when he finally did get to watch a complete Cat Power performance, that gig must have been momentous by default, simply by virtue of it actually happening. And make no mistake, the effusiveness of Aaron’s gushing suggested he would remain a steadfast fan for life; though the wearisome cycle he described made me initially reckon that Chan Marshall was either a pretentious wanker or a narcissistic wacko, the more I think about it, she might actually be a genius.    

[When I told my friend Paul I was working on this piece, he shared a strikingly similar reminiscence of a Cat Power performance he went to in Claremont several years back. According to him, that show started 45-minutes late because Marshall kept sending out a roadie in her stead to fastidiously tune and retune her piano several times; Paul also added that when Chan finally took the stage, she was essentially dragged there by one of her handlers and never once used the piano which had been so painstakingly fussed over.]

To this day, I still know almost nothing about Chan Marshall or her music, beyond Aaron’s insinuation that she apparently doesn’t like performing it in front of people. I do have one Cat Power selection in my library—you wouldn’t be reading this if I didn’t—though the sole reason I own You Are Free is because one of the tracks features a guest appearance from Eddie Vedder, and that is the only song on the album I can recall ever listening to (I didn’t even purchase this disc, actually; mine is an advance promotional copy that was given to me when it was released in 2003—in a precisely literal sense, I could say to this CD, “you are free”).

Despite writing nearly 2,000 words up to this point, I still have not cued up a single song off You Are Free. I decided to take an atypical approach to this essay because I wanted to examine this particular offering in a more concentrated fashion. Although I’ve spent a lot of time heckling Cat Power thus far, my casual mockery isn’t motivated by any authentic malice—I’ve been doing it mostly just because I’m a dick sometimes. The truth is, I have lofty expectations for this record. Marshall’s work comes enthusiastically endorsed by multiple people I know, and the credentials she has cultivated since Aaron first told me about her (widespread critical acclaim, concert appearances at which she presumably actually performed, etc.) have made me far more curious about Cat Power now than I was 12 years ago. So I’m ready to give Chan Marshall my undivided attention. And just to make sure I’m listening closely, I’m going to tackle You Are Free one track at a time:

Okay, so the first song on the disc is called “I Don’t Blame You”. It’s essentially just a rudimentary piano melody with an austere vocal on top of it—it reminds me of all the songs in Tori Amos’s catalog I don’t like, mostly. Marshall’s voice sure is lovely, though. Delicate. Subdued. Lamenting. And the piano has obviously been meticulously tuned.

Up next is the quasi title-track, “Free”. This cut kicks off with a cycle of four stabbing power chords, so I’m anticipating that it maybe-possibly is going to rock. A few bars in, I’m slightly reminded of Elastica, which is totally fine with me because Elastica is awesome. Now an atonal second guitar part has joined the fray in the background—sweet, the song is building. Chan keeps repeating the same riff over and over again, but this motif is bound to make a huge impression when the drums kick in and the chorus arrives. Yep, there we go: a crunchy guitar just dropped in to double the chords, and… Oh… So, that only happened twice; now we’re back to the lumbering refrain she’s been playing this whole time. Okay, here come the drums… Wait, those aren’t real drums—they sound like the percussion pads on a child’s keyboard, and it’s not even a “beat,” really, just some clunky tap-tap kick-snare thing. Something’s bound to happen soon though, I can feel it. “Everybody / get together / free.” There aren’t a whole lot of lyrics in this song. Okay, any second now, the dynamic payoff is going to… Wait… It’s over? What the fuck, Chan? One dopey riff for three and a half minutes, “everybody, get together, free” like eight times, and that was it? Shit. That was anticlimactic.

Thankfully, “Good Woman” is much better. The warm guitar tone sells it: slow, chiming notes on reprise, but there’s some emotional atmosphere behind them. R.E.M. has built countless great tunes around this same minimalist approach, and it’s working just fine here. I also dig the fiddles randomly scissoring through; they sound like they’re playing the chords to an entirely different song, but that’s kind of neat and it works. This is super-droney and super-gloomy, but in a good way. Chan Marshall really does sing beautifully. Maybe I like Cat Power. My promo copy didn’t include a lyric booklet, but this track is making me sad, so I’m assuming it’s about something sad. That’s cool, I love sad music. Hey, there’s Eddie Vedder. He sounds sad, too.

Now we’re on to “Speak For Me”. Yeah, I can get on board with this—perhaps those first two unexceptional tracks were flukes? This is a perfect spot on the album to encounter a decent mid-tempo number that actually feels like a fully-formed song, with chord changes and a chorus and everything. This reminds me a bit of Neko Case, and I figured out a couple entries ago that I love Neko Case. I wonder if the Girl With the Neko Case Tote enjoys Cat Power. I should text her and ask her. There’s a nifty plinking piano line and a few layers of textured guitars along for the ride, so this track has a lot going for it. Good tune.

“Werewolf” is a rather glum exercise, but I like the sparse arrangement and the way the lazily-picked campfire acoustic sits way down in the mix and the pair of melancholy violins moaning on top of it. Marshall’s pipes are the clear centerpiece here, though; now that I’ve heard her run through a few modulations I’m getting a better sense of what all the fuss is about. I can’t tell if this song is about metaphorical werewolves or actual werewolves, but from the sound of things I’m reasonably certain it’s about werewolves who are non-metaphorically depressed. I’d probably be depressed if I was a werewolf, too. I can totally relate to this one.

Now I’m listening to “Fool”, which sounds exactly like what I assumed Cat Power would sound like when I didn’t know what Cat Power sounded like. This track isn’t doing much for me. The only instrumentation here is an elementary replicating guitar line; while there’s nothing wrong with “simple,” “Fool” veers much closer to “dull.” There are a couple of harmonizing vocal stratums present to beef up Marshall’s quaver and infuse the track with some nuance, but there’s nothing especially special about this one, I’m afraid. The promotional blurb on my CD notes that “You Are Free marks Chan Marshall’s first album of original material in nearly 4 years…” “Fool” is only four minutes long, and shouldn’t have taken any capable musician much longer than that to write—I can’t fathom what Chan was doing for the rest of those four years.

“He War” marks the record’s mid-point and would, I assume, be the last tune on Side A if I was listening to this on vinyl. That makes this a significant cut in terms of placement, though it’s not particularly significant in terms of quality. Actually, this is the first song I’ve heard on You Are Free that I’m having trouble distinguishing from other songs I’ve already heard on You Are Free—it basically just marries the repetitive chugging of “Free” to the loose groove of “Speak For Me”. I’ve heard enough sparks of excellence thus far to discern that Marshall is a skilled songwriter, but this is another one of those instances where Chan merely stumbles into a single serviceable riff and continuously recycles it for the entire track. This album is starting to frustrate me; I still have the haunting hum of “Werewolf” in my head and I keep wishing Cat Power was consistently as good as that track suggests. Marshall’s voice remains great, but “He War” doesn’t conjure up a very exciting backdrop for it. Instantly forgettable, this one. I hope Side B is stronger.

The second division begins with “Shaking Paper”, which is indeed stronger than the last two numbers. Marshall is still only playing one phrase, but it’s a good one, and this tune at least has a legitimate snapping drum beat carrying it along. There’s also a feedback-rich binary guitar track lending some effectively menacing ambiance. This one, I get.

“Baby Doll” is another somber narrative in the same tonal vein as “Werewolf”, and I like this one a lot, too. Marshall’s husky front-and-center vocals here are exquisite. She hits a couple of plainly-audible flubbed guitar notes, and I totally dig that she left the mistakes in; the emotional urgency of the track benefits from those spontaneous human touches. This song sounds like something you’d hear in a pivotal film scene—Jennifer Lawrence driving down a lonesome shadow-swept highway in a torrential rain storm looking gorgeously despondent at the end of the second act, perhaps. I’m not sure if that’s exactly what Chan Marshall had in mind when she wrote this; You Are Free came out in 2003, so she was probably picturing Kate Winslet instead. Nevertheless, “Baby Doll” is more evocative and potent than anything else I’ve heard on this disc. If all of Chan’s stuff was this strong, I would definitely consider going back and deleting all of the snarky jibes in this piece—but, you know, I’m not going to do that.

Alas, the title of the next song serves as an apt rejoinder to my supposition that maybe I’m starting to genuinely dig Cat Power: “Maybe Not”. I wasn’t craving yet another Chan-at-the-piano exercise, let alone one that is essentially a lackluster reworking of “I Don’t Blame You”; I think she may be playing the exact same chords, even. The blurb on my CD’s insert proclaims that “You Are Free is most assuredly not easy listening,” which now reads more like a warning than a sanction. I’m always suspicious when publicists whose job is to promote an album use “challenging” as a buzzword. That just seems like a democratic way of saying, “this record sounds terrible at first, but maybe it will grow on you if you listen to it a whole bunch of times.”

In a sterling example of what could only be kismet, one of the first lyrics I discern in the next cut is the phrase, “having difficulty.” And I am: “Names” is so drearily monotonous that merely lasting through it is a grueling task. It’s the longest track on the album, stretching to nearly five minutes (though it feels much longer; I had to pause the song in the middle for a cigarette break). Yet again, Marshall is milking a single dowdy and dismal piano melody all the way through the tune. Which means that “Names” sounds exactly like “Maybe Not”, which means that it also sounds exactly like “I Don’t Blame You”, which means that I’m bored. Even the vocal performance is uninspired—this track evidently bores Chan Marshall, too.

“Half of You” is half a song, more of an interlude than a lude. At least it’s pretty. It’s got drums, too. Actually, just one drum, resounding over the soft acoustic flutter like rolling thunder, or like a heartbeat, maybe. Similes.

Hey! The intro to “Keep On Runnin’ ” sort of reminds me of a slower rendering of the intro to Metallica’s “The Unforgiven”. Now, that’s a killer song. Kirk Hammett’s climactic solo on that number gives me goddamn chills. That dude’s one of the greatest lead guitarists ever, hands down. Metallica got all kinds of shit for making such a blatantly commercial record after cranking out four underground thrash classics in a row, but as far as I’m concerned, Metallica (more commonly known as “The Black Album”) is a truly remarkable piece of work that has aged splendidly. And not just the obvious tracks, either—give “My Friend of Misery” and “The God That Failed” another spin sometime soon; fucking fantastic stuff (“Don’t Tread on Me” still blows, though). That album also features the song “Of Wolf and Man”, which is about non-metaphorical werewolves (the lyrics don’t specify whether or not they’re depressed). Granted, “Of Wolf and Man” is kind of cheesy, but it’s still a solid cut with some excellent chugga-chugga riffing; in the pantheon of hard rock songs about lycanthropy, I’d rank it slightly higher than Ozzy Osbourne’s “Bark at the Moon” (which I have to assume is about metaphorical werewolves since actual werewolves howl at the moon rather than bark at it—though this distinction is somewhat puzzling since Ozzy had himself made-up like a non-metaphorical werewolf for the cover of the album and the song’s video). Anyway, The Black Album was a keystone disc for me that opened up a whole lot of sonic doors and proved to be a tantalizing viaduct to the more brutal metal I would soon become obsessed with. Since I heard “Enter Sandman” long before I heard “Fight Fire With Fire”, I wasn’t even cognizant that Metallica was toning down their sound—besides, I was too busy being floored by this aural juggernaut with walloping drums and an insanely cool riff progression to care (fun fact: “Sandman” was the very first song I learned to play on my very first guitar, a red Peavey Predator which I of course still have). Oh… “Keep On Runnin’ ” just ended. Shit, I wasn’t paying attention. It was… okay?

“Evolution” is a glaringly unsuitable title for a song that is practically identical to three other tracks on this disc. For all of their elemental equivalencies, “Evolution”, “Names”, “Maybe Not”, and “I Don’t Blame You” could have been recorded in a single sitting—hell, they could be alternate takes of the same tune which Chan Marshall simply superimposed different lyrics over. I’ve run out of clever ways to indicate when she’s playing the same plain melody ad nauseam for the entire song. Instead, I will merely note that “Evolution” features Marshall playing the same plain melody ad nauseam for the entire song. The best endorsement I can give this redundant ditty is that it marks the end of an album I have not enjoyed listening to very much.

So, there’s a really terrific EP buried amidst the hour-long straggle of detritus and tedium that comprises You Are Free, and there’s just enough testimony to support Chan Marshall’s classification as a worthy artist. However, I didn’t find the record “challenging” as much as I found it inconsistent and wearying. Marshall’s voice is sincerely magnificent, and I have no doubt she’s talented, but she seems to struggle with channeling her energies into songs which demonstrate both of those things at the same time. It’s possible she’s just one of those artists whose entire body of work needs to be absorbed to cultivate an inclusive appreciation—regardless, I have little desire to labor through five more Cat Power albums searching for a few additional tunes as good as the stronger tracks I’ve heard here. I highly doubt I will want to listen to You Are Free again for another 12 years, so I’m not sure there’s even a reason for me to keep my copy of it. Still, in the interest of thoroughness, I did replay the disc from start to finish while reading over what I’ve written here so far. End result: I’m still mostly meh about You Are Free, but now I’m totally in the mood to hear Metallica.          

I also ended up texting The Girl With the Neko Case Tote to ask her feelings on Cat Power; as I guessed, she is a fan. Interestingly, her estimation of Chan Marshall’s work is markedly similar to mine—she’s just far more forgiving than I am of the bouts of ennui between Chan’s intermittent bursts of excellence. She also informed me that Marshall’s history has been dogged by recurring struggles with alcoholism. This data probably should have caused me to reconsider the way I’ve been making light of her eccentric fitfulness in this piece, but instead it makes me wonder why her music isn’t more interesting when she has such an artistically-suitable vice to inspire her (I told you I was a dick sometimes). Deducing that booze is at the root of Cat Power’s gig cancellations and wildly uneven songwriting doesn’t necessarily make me enjoy her work any more or less—though her conduct does disqualify her from being an Elegantly-Wasted alcoholic and shift her more into the realm of a too-wasted-to-play alcoholic, which is a far less appealing breed to me.

Anyway, I asked my secret soul-mate’s permission to quote her response because it provided a nice balance to my own conclusions. This is what she typed:

“Here’s the thing with Cat Power tracks, they are either stunning… OR they’re… sort of eh matte mess because they sound half finished or undone or loose at the seams.”

This seemed to be right in line with Aaron’s assessment from 12 years earlier. Which makes me suspect that acknowledging Cat Power is terrible a lot of the time is an integral part of being a Cat Power fan. When I shared how unimpressed I was by Chan’s brand of prosaic, single-idea song-writing, she added:

“Baby listen, she’s drunk. And she’s Cat Power. So we forgive her and just stop listening to her songs for a while. Until I or we (Royal) become drunk and take her records off the shelf… And appreciate her humanity in all its stand-up and stumbling glory… She reminds us of someone we know, or someone we sometimes have been.”

The Girl With The Neko Case Tote may be onto something there. This entire installment has been crafted under the influence of mere coffee, so I might be missing the point because I’m missing a key ingredient of the Cat Power recipe. I wouldn’t be any kind of reporter if I didn’t pursue every possible avenue of our story here, which is why I’ve decided to do some field research: I have just opened a beer, and I’m going to proceed to get heavily intoxicated while listening to You Are Free one more time before I write the conclusion to this essay…

[a couple hours later] Okay, I’m drunk now and I played the disc again. Here’s what I found out: Ritual Brewing Company’s “Love & Malt” brown ale is mighty tasty. Still, the tunes I didn’t already enjoy on You Are Free only sound marginally better to me when I’m smashed—except for “I Don’t Blame You”, which sounds approximately 41% better. However, after I was done listening to Chan, I went ahead and cued up Metallica’s Black Album, and “Nothing Else Matters” sounds waaaaaaay better when I’m drunk  (“Don’t Tread on Me” still blows, though).

So now I’m loaded and I have no idea how to finish this piece (which, consequently, likely explains why many of the songs on You Are Free sound as slapdash and half-formed as they do). Reading back, I’m realizing this entry has been a rather vicious one. That’s not something I’ll necessarily apologize for—hey, I did my due diligence; I’ve listened to the record three times now, and by every objective criterion it’s more not-good than good. But after conscientiously ruminating on why the Cat Power apologue resonates as so uninviting to me, I think an explanation may have dawned on me: Chan Marshall is unstable, often disappointing, and she spent many years squandering her tremendous potential because of her self-destructive habits…

She does, indeed, remind me of “someone [I] sometimes have been.” And that evocation isn’t a particularly welcome one, because I’ve never liked that person a whole lot.

Goddamn. That’s a non-metaphorically depressing epiphany right there.

 November 28, 2015

[sweetxrevenge-blog1]

Utah

This is just a collection of things I drabbled out after finishing New Vegas Bounties bc it hit me really hard in the feelings haha. They don’t have a lot of explanation in them, but they’re just sort of an ‘in the moment’ thing.

The saloon reeked of blood, gun smoke, and the cheap alcohol it supplied. The former two were new additions, courtesy of the bounty hunter standing in the middle of the room surrounded by the corpses of those who had betrayed her. All but one. The slippery little shit escaped from under her nose, running out into the snow. It was pointless, though- she stepped outside and fired off a round into his leg, sending him down. He shrieked in pain, dropping his tough-guy facade completely. Ketan stomped through the snow over to him, ignoring the pain shooting through her hands and arms as she grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging his head back to look him in the eyes, keeping a solid foot on his back. The fear she felt in his gaze was the most satisfying feeling she had felt in a long time, and she savored it too much to be disgusted with herself. "Why?" She demanded, she didn't ask. She commanded him to answer her. He was crying, ugly crying. "I w-was scared!" He cried, snot running down his face which was bright red from the cold and the tears. "There wasn't any way you'd win, it was safer to side with Marko! I didn't know he would- he would..." "You killed Randall without a second fucking thought. I don't want any of your goddamn excuses." Even though she had just challenged him to give her one worthwhile. "I didn't enjoy it! Neither of you ever took me seriously!" "We were trying to protect you, you little shitbag!" She shouted, tugging harder on his hair. There wasn’t anyone to draw the attention of, they were all dead. Her volume didn’t matter. "This life is not what you wanted! This is what happens! No matter what choice you make, you die, either way!" "I just wanted to be like you!" He sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Then let's start with surviving a bullet to the brain," She spoke coldly, colder than the snow falling around them. She pressed the barrel of Sweet Revenge to Ford's temple, and pulled the trigger with no hesitation. He died instantly, falling limp out of her grip when she let go of him and stepped away. "Failed step one." Sweet Revenge was returned to its holster, and Ketan sighed. She hated herself. She hated that this was the only solution. The first time Steven was 'killed', she was filled with rage, ready to slaughter anything in her way to avenge him. This time, she just felt empty. A twinge of guilt ran through her, but she suppressed it just like she suppressed everything else. Ford wasn't a bad kid. He just had his head so high in the clouds, he was too scared to come back down to Earth. That didn't excuse him from Ketan's traitor policy: they die. Ketan lit a cigarette, eyes still set on the corpse in front of her. It hurt to kill him. She wasn't going to deny her own humanity, it hurt to have to be the one who put him down. She was so certain he was just some kid who needed guidance, who needed to be shown reality. He already knew reality, though, that was apparent when he abandoned his beliefs to join what he thought was the winning side. That's the kicker: it wasn't the winning side. It was the losing side. Anyone who opposed her was the loser, she made sure of it. It would catch up to her some day, like Marko kept insisting it would- she knew that. It was just going to catch up to him, first.

It was over. The cold, icy mountain air bit at her skin and the wounds still healing on her shaking hands. She stood alone, now; Marko's corpse was still warm beside her, if that man ever had any warmth in him at all. What a shame she hadn't brought a shovel with her, maybe she could have returned the grave he buried her alive in. It was, after all, conveniently empty now. Instead, she stared down at the fresh grave directly in front of her, right at her feet. The graveyard went on for a mile at least, countless unmarked wooden crosses in neat, organized lines; she wasn't sure whether the number or the sick tidiness of the way the corpses were buried was worse. However, only one grave held her interest, the one in which the dirt hadn't yet settled. Ketan knelt down by the wooden cross, careful not to disturb the mound and pulling her knife from its sheath on her thigh. Controlling her hands was still difficult, and she likely wasn't going to have perfect control of them ever again. Slowly but surely she carved into the wood, paying attention to neatness and detail as she wrote out the name of the deceased: Steven Randall. Once she was satisfied, she stowed the blade and pushed back to her feet. The tears were coming, and the first thing that came to mind was surprise that she was even capable of crying anymore. Her hand drifted towards the holster on her right side, pulling Sweet Revenge from its place there and looking it over. Part of her was tempted to bury the gun with him, as some sort of final step in fulfilling the revenge he wanted so dearly, the revenge he put on her shoulders. No, he didn't put it there. She did. The moment Ketan realized that she and Randall were family, that they were all each other had, that revenge became her responsibility whether he was alive or not. Maybe it was selfish to think he was all she had. She had other friends- she had Boone, Arcade, Veronica, all of the people she had encountered and who agreed to help her. It was definitely selfish to chase her own revenge high the way she had, leaving them all once more without a clue of her whereabouts, too consumed with hatred to bother telling them that she might not come back. That was the sad truth: it was entirely possible she wouldn't come back. But Randall was different from the others. He reminded her of someone, way back in the deep reaches of her mind where forgotten memories slept. It could have been anyone, perhaps her father or brother, if she ever had either. He was the first real friend she made after she crawled out of the grave, and how fitting it was that she avenged him after crawling out of one again. It wouldn't bring her peace. She knew that. Ketan would never know peace, no matter what she did, now. "I know you wanted me to keep it," She mumbled, idly returning the revolver to its holster at her side. "Doesn't feel right, not after all this, but like you said: would have just locked it back in the safe. Grave's about the same thing." Nightfall made the coldness of the air bitter, so much so it left a bad taste in your mouth. She let out a long, visible exhale, hands snaking their way into her jacket pockets. "Good bye, Randall, you crazy zombie bastard," her lips couldn't help but curl into a smile when she said it. Ketan turned to look back towards the pass she came through, turning to leave. Her steps were heavy through the snow, and her boots were soaking wet. She figured that if being shot through the hands and buried alive couldn't kill her, neither could frostbite. It was gonna be a long trip home.

Ketan's eyes opened like curtains being drawn at the speed of light, shooting upright in her bed. Her body was shaking, her breath was labored and she was coated in a cold sweat. It was the nightmare again. The same one that came every week, sometimes every night for several days in a row. It was so rare for her not to have it, she considered this normal, and she should have been used to it by now, but you never really got used to dying. It was Frosthill, the townspeople all on their knees in the street, then they're all gunned down. Their cries and the gunshots ring in her ears and echo like ghosts wailing at her in accusation, in blame. The blood turns the snow red, and it melts away while Ford, that fucking two-timing coward, puts a bullet in Steven's head without a second thought. It stings, she wants to scream, but she's gagged and she can't make a noise above a muffled yelp. The screams feel like rats trying to claw their way out of her throat, turning it sore and raw. Her stomach does somersaults, trembling in rage and pain as that monster, that horrific bastard has the nerve to touch her, to hold her jaw and force her to look at him. His words blend together into a cacophony of screams and laughter so concentrated it's deafening, as the ground below her opens, and swallows her whole. The darkness made it hard to breathe, like the chasm was getting deeper but tighter, suffocating her while she could still hear that hideous chorus of screams and laughter, telling her it was her fault, everything that happened was all her fault. Ketan ran a hand through her hair. Every time this happened, she would usually cope with it by getting hammered and passing out from that, since that generally drove the nightmare away. It was always temporary, every fix was temporary. Nothing could truly fix her psyche. Her eyes surveyed her hands. The large, grisly, round scars in the center of her palms and the backs of her hands were a constant reminder that the nightmare wasn't just a dream, but that it happened, and it happened because she fell for a trap she should have seen coming a mile away. The scarred areas were still tender and sore- her fingers, especially her middle and ring fingers, didn't work quite as well as they used to, just as she predicted. Nothing in her worked as well as it used to. Her mind wandered while she sat up in the middle of the night, eyes drying out from the heavy air conditioning blasting into her room. An idle thought wondered how much Med-X it took to kill you. She pushed the thought away. She considered getting up and seeing if anyone else was awake, but she didn't. This was her battle, it didn't matter to anyone else. Give her the Hypocrite of the Year award, but she wouldn't make others deal with her bullshit. She dealt with theirs so that she could forget about her own for even a short while.

A grumbling sigh found its way out of her throat and she reclined back into bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun. She just hoped sleep would find her again, soon.