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[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 6, Mouse Trapped

Now it's Mouse's turn in the hot seat after she is captured by Kortac. But, what if getting away is actually the worst thing that could happen?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care, misogynistic comments

AN: Hello everyone! Wow, life has been a straight up doozy. Unfortunately, I ended up having to leave where I was because it was not safe and my whole life went on pause for a good 8 months while I was at my previous place. I just wanted to let everyone know how much this community means to me. At my absolute worst, believing I deserved the ways in which I was being hurt, I would look at all the lovely things people have said about my writing. I just wanted to take a moment to say, no one should be hit by a partner under any circumstance. If they tell you it was an accident, it was not if it happens multiple times, especially not if it happens repeatedly in the same way. It's hard to see when you're in it, but I promise you deserve better. No one should have to face public humiliation for how they dress from a partner. No one should be told that their trauma is inconvenient by a partner. If your partner ever says "I do not respect you, I don't even like you," please do not stay to try and make it work. Nothing you do can be enough for those people, but every single one of you liking/sharing/commenting/enjoying this story has shown me that I am enough. I am now safe, in my own apartment, free from that experience. And I want you to know, you all gave me an incredible amount of strength in ways I will never be able to repay you, so I may as well just update the damn story! But enough about me, lets get back to it! This chapter has been in editing for a literal year (whoops!). I hope the length, the angst, and the next two chapters make up for it!

Prev | Pt. 6, Mouse Trapped | 5.1k words | Next

The heavy footfalls echoing closer to her position in the compound throb in time with the blood pooling in Mouse’s wrists bound above her head. She hears them approaching with a certain determination that she’s sure unlike the dozens of other sets, these are determined to reach her. It’s only been three hours inside this dark-lit room in a KorTac black site. Her stakeouts are, at minimum, twice as long. Even so, her contorting muscles ache as she awaits her interrogator with bated breath and low hopes.

She’s gotten out of a lot of things over the years, getting into even more than she can remember. Everyone’s luck runs out, she won’t hold her breath this time. The footsteps stalk ever closer, and every nerve in her body alights in pure prey instinct. She wants to gnaw and chew and bite and scratch at whatever comes through that door, she wants to run or crawl or flee with every fiber of her being. She takes a desperate shuddering breath in and an equally labored breath out as the thundering steps stop somewhere behind her.

She must seem unaffected. Unfrightened. Uncaring. If she has any hope of getting one over on her captor. She will not even entertain the thought that she will get tortured.

The door behind her opens after a series of three, heavy, multi-spring locks, are undone. She can pick them later with the multitool she’s kept on her person, strapped on a hidden thigh garter beneath her pants. Each key has 7 pins, 21 pins total. She can crack one in 15 seconds if she’s smart about it. Locks will take under a minute total, adding that to the 23 seconds that it will take to undo her gear to get to the pick it-

The figure behind her does not move to get closer to her. Instead, it looms ominously behind her. The air in the room gains an otherworldly oppressiveness like the devil himself has just frozen her to her spot in the ninth layer of hell. Suddenly, she feels arctic cold as the locks all slide back into their places.

Trapped. She thinks, chewing at the inside of her lip.

The hulking mass behind her only takes one full step, and its back is now nearly flush with hers. Its head is somewhere much higher than her own. She feels the warmth of another person and she has to fight her animal instincts to get closer to it and beg for salvation. 

The figure takes an inordinate amount of time inspecting her holdings, crouching, craning, but never touching, around her confines. She studies the black wall in front of her with serious intent to remain composed. Its uniform smells distinctly of over-sanitation masking any human scent- likely the wearer so often got into bloodbaths that repeated cleanings have made the thing over-saturated with bleach. 

She lets out a stutter of breath when one massive hand reaches down to her shoulder. Despite her clothing and the tac gloves, the touch burns and she wants more.

“Guten abend. Wie get est ihnen?” König asks softly.

Only fucking König would ask how a captured prisoner was doing like he was asking his dinner date how her day was. 

I’m doing fucking shit, thanks for asking, King. She thinks.

He gets closer, bending down and nearly resting his chin on the opposing shoulder to where his hand dwarfs her entire shoulder blade. He is so close if she were to turn her head, she could nuzzle into the soft fabric of the hood that covers his face and spills onto her form. He is so close, that she can smell the remains of a cherry-flavored cigarette on his breath hidden behind the freshness of stringent aftershave and tea-tree hair oil above the nauseating smell of bleach from his uniform. He is so close she could bite his fingers and taste some of his blo-

“I asked you how you were doing, Maus.” He whispers her name with a false sweetness that makes her stomach flip. She steadies her traitorous heart with a fake huff.

“Hmm,” She hums, tossing her head playfully to the side where his hand is. Her cheek nearly rests on the course fabric of its covering. “I’d be doin’ much better not tied to the goddamn ceiling.”

She expects a sharp backhand for that one, or at the very least an amused refusal. To her infinite surprise, neither happens. The giant devil on her shoulder lets out a gentle chuckle and retracts his body, but not after a gentle squeeze to the sore muscles between her neck and arm.

“But of course, Fürstin.” He says, voice sweet as honey and laced with a smile she can taste behind the hood. She feels a massive hand tenderly embrace itself around her right wrist and she hears the hollow cla-chck of a knife being unsheathed. She stops studying the wall just in time to catch the glint of a knife cutting the paracord used to affix her to the metal hook above her head. He brings the 3 odd feet of now limp rope, along with her hand, to her left hand, but before he does anything “Lean back a little,” he says, and she does. She stops leaning back when her ass hits his thigh and she shudders with just how desperately fucked she is. He ties her right wrist to her still-hanging left wrist, both now not entirely above her head.

He tugs on his handiwork, and seemingly satisfied, he reaches down to put his arm without the knife in the crook behind her knees. He stills experimentally, anticipation practically dripping from his now motionless fingers. “Are you going to be a good girl?” He purrs, holding the knife tantalizingly close to the rope from which she is still hanging. She lets out an indignant puff of air.

“Only one way to find out, my majesty…” She purrs back.

She can feel his diaphragm rumble with a jovial ‘Mhmm’ that fades into a satisfied laugh in response. 

In one fluid motion, he cuts the remaining chord and she falls into his waiting arm. With the same grace she so admires on the battlefield, he swoops her into his arms in a bridal carry. She gasps tucked into his warm body. Yet again, his body shakes when he laughs at her little outburst. Her face flushes and once again as he gets onto his knees and gently deposits her onto the ground. 

The cold concrete of the floor digs through her tac pants as she sits sideways, König sits cross-legged in front of her. Her tied wrists lay in front of her body. She tries to catch her breath. He looks at her with some emotion she’s never seen in his eyes before, pupils dilated leaving only a thin, icy ring clinging to the bloodshot white. In the dimly lit room, she fails to catch her breath. 

He sighs looking at her hands. He puts his own up, palms to her as though promising a frightened prey animal he means no harm before he can pluck it from its trap. 

Without a word, he takes her bound hands in his and gently rubs at the purple flesh. 

And like a fool who believes in God, she unfurls her fisted hands into open palms facing the stars she cannot see as if in prayer. She doubts God could hear, or care for, her prayers in this futile box of a room with eyes on her the color of God, or at least a cloudless December sky.

If she’s praying by opening a vulnerability to him, it seems König prays back, the way he cradles her hands like he’s sculpting her out of clay. She’s infinitely thankful for his combat gloves in this intimate moment, full-on contact would be all too much to bear in this awful circumstance. His eyes smile as he regards their hands, a satisfied rumble somewhere in the front of his chest as the normal color returns to her flesh. 

“You need to be more careful, mein mauschen.” He says, looking at her like a prince looks at the portrait of a long-kidnapped princess. He regards her with the same care as a boy, growing up in a castle, deciding the portrait of a local maid girl, long locked up in a tower, will one day be his bride. His tone is whistful and tacitly anxious. Despite this, the implication of a smile does not leave his paradoxically fire-hot ice-blue eyes. 

She is more than capable as a soldier, as a tactician, as a sniper. She has gotten into and out of traps just like this one before, and really, when Gromsko needed cover to patch Reyes up in the field, she didn’t really think about going to help. Out of her depth, she still ran at the chance to abandon her post in the hopes of helping others, a decision that had her snatched and thrown into this little box with the thing she both runs from and to in equal measure. 

If it were anyone else, she would yell and spit and cuss about how she can do it. She’s done it on her own. She’s a sniper for Christ’s sake! She’s supposed to do it on her own, she doesn’t need any pity cover. She’s capable. She doesn’t need some surly giant telling her what to do. 

“I’m sorry.” Is what Mouse says. 

Because it’s not anyone else. 

It’s König.

König, who has risked his life to save hers more times than she can count. König who tells her awful jokes in the dead of her shift to cheer her up. König who prays in the shape of her callsign gauged into soft birch wood. König who has never once doubted her abilities as a tactician and a sniper or talked down to her for it. König who keeps her company from far away and promises to always come back. 

König who looks at her like she is worth the world, König who treats her like a princess more than an enemy soldier. 

König, who she’s set free from this exact position before. König, who may just be her knight in shining armor. König, whose hands have yet to leave her wrists in his quiet supplication, fingers whispering apologies for what others have done. 

“Nein.” He tuts, voice soft and reverent, hands now retreating from hers. “I am sorry,” he confidently, if quietly, declares, eyes still affixed to her battered flesh like his stare could undo any damage done. “I should not have let them capture you. It is my fault.”

He’s not her keeper. He’s not her knight in shining armor. Hell, he’s not even her fucking comrade, he’s on the other side of this pointless war and he’s got the nerve to apologize and take blame for her situation? She wants to rip the words out of his mouth, angry and sorrowful all at once that he’s taken any responsibility for her well-being. 

Instead of the things she wants to shout at him, she stays quiet. She knows better than to correct her captor, all too aware of the distinct power dynamic in the little interrogation room she’s in. This is still war. He is still her captor. There is nothing to be done here. 

She sighs. 

“Don’t do anything stupid on my behalf.” She whispers, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her lips, like a trapped animal begging a child not to get attached in case the glue is too strong. After everything, she’s gotten quite the soft spot for the man, she would hate to get his hands messy while trying to free her. (Despite the fact that he’s done so, many times before.) 

He chuckles, eyes everywhere but hers. He’s begun to rap-tappa-tap at his thighs with his fingers, a tell she’s come to notice is his way of thinking while anxious. 

“It is too late for that.” Their eyes meet and at once she understands. 

Because I know you’d do the same for me, her own words echo in her head. She swallows building trepidation rising in her chest like the tide. Just how is he planning on keeping true to such a promise? 

“This is quite the mood shift from the last time we saw each other,” she gives a pitiful little giggle to him. At once his eyes alight with some sort of silent battle, a war of wills is waged in an instant. Ice-cold-fever-hot eyes narrow menacingly at her. 

“I hate seeing you trapped.” He says, and her heart, whatever doesn’t reside in his chest already, lodges itself thick and pulsing in her throat. Mouse blinks away confused tears, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeved shoulders. 

She has nothing to say to that. She thinks about the tears she cried in the shower when she realized his mark in her was fading. She thinks about warming her cold fingers pressed into her thighs all night, imagining instead he was warming her hands. She thinks about his teeth proudly displayed on her neck. She thinks about his hands holding her down. She thinks about the solid expanse of his chest as he promises her the world. She counts every joke he’s ever told her like the faithful count prayer beads. She clings to this idea of him like fog clings to a mountainside, ever-present and yet intangible. 

She throws these ideas deep buried into her subconscious, trying desperately to call any sense to mind. Fear settles back into the forefront of her mind, confusion taking a backseat. She worries about how to get out of here- without König getting harmed. 

“What’s the plan?” She whispers. 

“What? Not going to talk me out of it?” He laughs voice thick with sad irony. 

“I’m not looking a gift- soldier? In the mouth.” She sighs. 

He looks thoughtfully down at her hands and wrists that he’s still holding. He pulls in a rough breath and it hisses out through his teeth. 

“You’re in luck. It’s a shift change. It’ll be…” he lets go of her hands and fully stands. He peers down at her through tragically thick, romantic lashes, he’s very nearly almost charming the way he regards her from on high. Almost being the key term as his stare turns cold and he squints down at her. “Messy.” He settles on. “If you’re coming, don’t delay now.” He holds out a hand to help her up. 

And what choice does she really have? Stuck in this room, always minutes away from death, with only one plan of even halfway reasonable escape- she takes his hand. 

And they dash.

This is not a thought-out affair like Mouse’s rescue of Konig had been. This is quick, it’s sloppy, and it’s not really romantic. He’s tugging hard on her arm doing his best to make her keep his pace as they dash through empty hallways- occasionally taking an unorthodox passageway to, maybe?, avoid camera surveillance. Konig doesn’t say anything as they twist and turn through the labyrinth, he just picks her up or seizes her shoulders if he wants her to stop. To his credit, it works, and ice-cold adrenaline runs through her spine every time he grabs her with enough force to hurt her if he just wanted to. 

But he doesn’t, doesn’t hurt her, doesn’t get sloppy so they get caught, doesn’t do a damned thing except run with her hand in his through the dim hallways, lit exclusively with blood red signs denoting “EXIT”, “ARMORY”, “M-D BA-“ (apparently KorTac does not give enough of a shit about the med bay sign to have it replaced), and anything else worthy of note- which is to say just about jack and shit, respectively. 

What feels like miles of corridors passes her in quiet seconds- flashes of what her mind could construe as pictures and memories whirl by, her only true anchor to know where she’s been and where she will be in the direction that Konig pulls her through the labrynth. 

He breathes as heavy as an ox when they come to a hallway cut-out in front of a little station where a lone man plays solitaire on the table. He casually picks at his teeth with a knife as he thumbs through his discard pile, nonchalant to the peril he will certainly be in should Konig decide to take exception with the man. 

Konig pushes Mouse’s shoulders down so that she’s kneeling, and her bones hit the floor with a heavy clack. Konig shouts “Was is das?” as he yanks her up roughly. The man at the table discards his cards and rushes up, coincidentally leaving his knife on the table. 

Betrayed? He’s fucking betraying me? Mouse’s mind races as she tries to think of a single reason Konig would abandon her in the hands of another man, one that sees her as a prisoner no less, and she has half the mind to bite his dick off where she stands in incensed anger. She’s too dumbstruck to even attempt a fight when Konig takes the rope she’d 

“Lieutenant. I caught this one escaping.” Konig states sternly to the man who comes over to check the now kneeling Mouse. 

The unnamed man looks her over, the arms of a behemoth holding her down, and he graces her with a sardonic grin. 

Prey,

Prey,

Prey, 

I am prey. 

“Oh, so it’s this one… If I remember correctly,” the man says, laughing over her trembling form, “she’s quite the war prize.” König’s grip on her shoulders, holding her prone on the cold concrete, tightens just a little.

“She got out of her confines, I’m moving her.” He says with all the authority of a man given the mandate of heaven.

“Say, Colonel,” the man speaks, and Mouse only registers for half a second that is König’s rank before she meets his gaze. Only his eyes are visible from his plain baklava. They look hungry, but not quite the same way König’s ice-cold eyes receive her image. He looks at her like he’s planning on taking one bite. König’s breath stutters as the man comes closer and attempts to touch her face. König yanks her up before he gets the chance, hands pinned behind her back. 

“Could I convince you to give me, oh say, I don’t know… half an hour with her? I can’t imagine the ransom or intel would be worth any more than her cu-”

Mouse promptly headbutts the man square in the nose, and blood sprays on the nearest wall as she fights out of König’s grip to get a better chance at knocking the man unconscious. He reaches for a throwing knife somewhere in his pocket and he brandishes the blade towards her face and she almost entirely dodges the quick glint of silver aimed at her neck. She feels a shallow cut on her cheek but she doesn’t stop thrashing. He sputters with rage and tries to say something but only frothed red liquid comes out of his mouth. König laughs mercilessly, still restraining her fighting against his grip, kicking and screaming in barbaric rage at the audacity of this man. Without missing a beat, König grabs the man’s hand with the wildly swinging knife and she hears the acrid cra-ckkk of bone splintering in flesh. He screams in pain and his eyes well with tears streaming down his bloodied mouth.

“She bites.” Is all König says before he plunges the man’s knife between his ribs. He drops the knife and grabs her hand, fingers sticky and intertwined. He looks at her with the most romantic sincerity imaginable, cold eyes smiling after just having killed a man over her honor. 

The blood everywhere is almost killing the mood.

The key word is almost and suddenly Mouse is thankful that König’s strides are twice the length of hers because she doesn’t have time to consider the way his thumb gently strokes her hand. The way he was all too happy to kill a man for even considering hurting her. The way his frigid stare thaws for a moment when he looks back at her, suddenly warm like a sunny afternoon in May, enveloping her body like a soft bed of straw, safely tucked away in someone’s barn.

They escape through some back exit and he holds her up by the hips as she scrambles over the chainlink fence with all the skill of a veteran climber. Before she can chastise him for what is obviously a bit more of an amorous touch than is necessary, she hears gunfire behind her as her feet hit the ground on the other side of the fence. Three shots, then one from König, and silence. 

He scales the wall and hits the ground with a slight grunt. She can’t hear what he says, the ringing in her ears (whether from the gunshots or his close presence) obscures it, but she gets the memo as he grabs her hand again. They run for what feels like another 2 miles through as the world alights around them. The leaves on the forest floor go from grey to beautiful shades of thousands of different coffees, all with differing amounts of milk to the taste of their owners. The evergreen trees gradually grow greener and greener with every passing moment.

She hears a little twig crack and she stops dead in her tracks. König stops, too. 

The coo of a solitary mourning dove sounds. The creature looks at the two starcrossed escapees with an odd knowing before it takes off from the ground, leaves scattering behind its tailwind.

And suddenly, the world takes its first breath in pale, premorning light.

And it’s quiet.

“We’re even, now.” She says, standing in the forest outside of the base. She breathes in the smell of rotting leaves and blood and gunpowder with more thanks than she ever has in her life. 

König doesn’t respond. In the morning sunlight, he studies her with a renewed vigor. His worried gaze settles on a bleeding cut on her cheek, the one dripping into her mouth ever so slightly. She licks at the blood idly, his eyes widen and he looks away hurriedly. 

He gives an anxious sigh and a curt soldier’s nod. 

She watches him with her own newfound sense of dismay as he rifles around his pockets for something. 

She stops breathing.

Her heart slides clean out of her chest when he presents the minuscule thing in his massive hand. He holds his- no, her- whetstone to her, in a flat palm facing upwards. 

Her breath does not return to her lungs even when her eyes prickle with tears. 

Is he saying goodbye?

What little she can see of König’s face furrows more desperately as she stares down at the offending gift like it was a decapitated rat that the cat brought in. 

“It’s yours.” Is the explanation he lands on after an eternity of silence. The sun is rising, nothing is certain, they cannot be using whatever fleeting seconds they have wasted on goodbyes. He must know this, he stares at her nearly ready to get on his knees and beg her- for what? She doesn’t know. She thought he would beg for her but the key to that hope died in the shape of that little pouch that holds her soul in it. 

“No. It’s yours.” No, I’m yours. Her weak voice wavers, like a leaf fluttering about until it inevitably hits the ground. 

She doesn’t give him the time to think out whatever stupid thing he wants to for allowing her to get hurt as she launches herself around his shoulders. 

König nearly stumbles backward as her arms wrap around his neck. On instinct, he grabs at her sides to hold her up in the air and prevent them from crashing back into the earth. Even if he weren’t, she’s sure she’d feel like she was floating, locked in a warm embrace like a scar holds the memory of a cut. 

She loves him more than she can stand, and as ever cruel and ever-giving Fortune would have it, he is more than happy to hold her up. She clings to him as she clings to the trees she climbs for her vantage points. In the rising sky, she remembers the ravine. She wants to forever be caught in his eyes but not his arms, because she does not know how she will ever be warm again without his embrace. She wants to scream and hit him and cut his chest open instead of pulling away, she wants to enact violence on his person for daring to make her love him, for his audacity in caring for her, for his everything. It would be so much easier if he didn’t care if one of them died if she didn’t have to think about what came next. 

She shakes with fury. 

She is so sick of following orders. Of listening to men telling her what to do. Of re-tracing the line between duty and desire. Of contextualizing and rationalizing everything she does on the axis of “me” and “my orders” 

But most of all, she’s miserable that she can’t break out of her battle line no matter how hard she tries. She wants König to just tell her to stay, to give her the order so she doesn’t have to decide if she wants it, and all the implication of what that means for her fucked up obsession with him. She wants the easy out, she doesn’t want the blame. She wants him to figure it out. She wants him to tell her to stay. 

He says nothing, he just breathes deeply, like she is air and like she matters to keep tethered to him. Like there’s anything worthy in her. Like she’s important. It only makes her angrier to think he’s so gentle when she wants to tear through his flesh and climb inside his rib cage instead of being forced to say goodbye. 

She gives one last shuddering breath before she unwinds her sore hands from the anchor of his strong shoulders. 

“You’ve saved me,” she whispers, wrenching her way out of his equally mournful grasp. He shudders, holding her tighter. 

“No, you’ve saved me,” he whispers back into her ear. She doesn’t know what that means but she figures she doesn’t want to know when his massive hand finds the weak spot between her neck and shoulder and starts soothing little circles into it. She thrashes violently against the little spell he scries into her skin. She wants to stay. She wants to go. She wants him. She wants to be wanted by him. She doesn’t know what to do with a heart full of foreign wants and no direct orders to follow, so she thrashes out of his grip with all the ferocity of a mouse about to snap its neck getting out of a trap. 

After a moment more of thrashing, he drops her to the ground. 

Her fingers linger in his as she untwists her body from his, dancing away in the dying leaves. Their hands are connected even after the embrace. His warmth haunts her the same way the cold side of the bed haunts a widow, his eyes sting the same way a rusty cut does. 

With the last of her willpower, she finally takes herself from him but the look he gives her makes her sure he understands: she could never go anywhere that doesn’t end with him. She gave him the whetstone that sharpened the knife that gave her the scar, and now some part of her will always be a result of his action. The blood loss isn’t helping her scattered thoughts and she’s only reminded of her worn-out physical condition when more blood leaks into her waiting mouth, soft lips parted and waiting for him to say something, anything. 

“Promise you’ll find me?” She asks, soft and fragile, waiting for the world she’s placed on his shoulders to shrug to the ground and shatter into millions of pieces. 

“Always, Mäuschen.” He replies, quiet and reverent, like he doesn’t know how he’s going to make it work, but equally cannot imagine a world in which it doesn’t. 

She runs back to her base in the early morning light, sprinting like a nymph on a war-hunt through the trees, escaping an ill-fated encounter with an undesired suitor. Except it’s quite the opposite, she feels her heart beak with every hollow footstep she makes, unparalleled by his own sprinting after her. 

She runs away, but her heart stays in his pocket, in the shape of a little whetstone. 

She cries the whole way back. When she collapses on her bed after her debrief she imagines his hands messaging hers (and other things…) and his arms pressing her to him like he might fall apart the second he lets go. She thinks about the smell of him- like salty sweat and spruce aftershave and stinging tea tree. She bundles herself into the covers and prays that when she wakes up, she will have wound herself into his embrace and not just some discarded cloth around her body and separating her legs.

Her bed is impossibly big, and she wakes from it all hours of the night, hands not able to reach its edges like they never have before. The sheets are a paradoxical limbo of desperation: simultaneously as cold as a glacier and hotter than a forest fire. She dreams she’s stuck in a burning house until the roof caves from the animated flames and a blizzard pummels her into the wreckage. 

From the nothing, two massive hands grip at her fragile sides and hold her up. She stills in the protective grasp of something the size of a mountain, it whispers the sound of a radio in her ear. She sinks into it and wakes gasping, only to realize she’s been asleep for not even half an hour and the dream repeats when she wrestles whatever fitful rest she can out of the nighttime. Each time she wakes up, tears stream down her cheeks. 

She cries. 

Because she’s not home. She will never be home, not if he’s not there. 

Mouse is free to do anything she pleases. Unbound, untrapped, and unburdened, in theory, nothing hinders her. 

In reality, she’s already dead somewhere in the trap of cold blue eyes, sharp knives, and strong arms.

It does not matter that she has been the one chased. Now there is nowhere he could ever go without the largest part of her carried with him.

Tag list: @kneelingshadowsalome @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar @berryjuicyy @haisebo @crowbird

[papaver-decervicatus]

Absolutely is! And I’m still plugging away at my silly little keyboard to finish the thing. Might have inspired me to post a tiny bit more…

Jef Bourgeau

[meyousing]

𝐑𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥, 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤; 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞

FOR MY POOKIEWOOKIE @moongreenlight !! who i adore sososo much I HOPE U ENJOY !! 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after realizing what raphael could do for you before; ridding your mind of the emperor for the briefest moment, you wanted to know how that could feel for a second time, no matter the cost. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: -> sneaky HUMAN raphael, non-con, deception and lies its raphael what else did you expect. probably a little ooc since this is for pookie so fk canon :D. as always all sexual nsfw will be under the cut!

I'm walking, you've been hiding,

And you look half-dead half the time.

Monitoring you, like machines do,

You've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye

You told yourself that you’d do anything for answers, that the cost didn’t matter–you wanted a solution, a cure to your tadpole infliction, and despite knowing better than to trust a devil, you were growing hopeless and running low on any other options. Yes, you knew the magic that Halsin told you about, the same words later spoken by the Emperor; their proclamation of impossibility regarding the worm’s extraction no matter which method you attempted, from whomever. But there was one time, and only one, when you remembered what mental quietude could sound like amidst such circumstances.

So, veiled by the darkness of the night sky en route, you navigated through Sharess’ Caress to the upper floors, intent on finding Raphael–even though he was hardly the paragon of trust–and experiencing solace in silence once again, something that, unfortunately, only he could provide. Gale was always going on about the benefits of respite, and this one you craved like a drug, now that you could remember how solitude felt after so long without it. What a crime to wish for independence within one’s own mind these days. 

You didn’t bother knocking, he likely sensed you at some point or another on your way here, what with his attentiveness to you and all that implied your involvement. You didn’t care about being the intrusive one for once, careening the door open and briskly sending it shut behind you.

“Surely you didn’t think that little disguise would work?”

“It wasn’t meant for you.” You tugged your hood down easily and shrugged the rest of your cloak off, balling it up and tossing it aside carelessly. You spotted Raphael standing a few feet away, in the first doorway of the den, his back to you. Yet he knew what you were wearing. 

He turned and lifted a brow at you, but the rest of his expression showed obvious disinterest in speaking about this any further than the short exchange. 

“Have you come to make the right choice?”

“Bold assumption,” you said quickly, not yet ready to fully admit why you sought him out in your situation; in the dark, on your own. “Shouldn’t you ask why I’m here first?”

“All I needed was a look at you to know.”

You didn’t respond, and he grinned, his lids low as he watched you.

“But I’ll let you tell me anyway, I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun. What troubles you, little mouse? What is it that’s brought you right into the cat’s paw?” he approached slowly, hands interlocked behind him as he subtly looked you up and down–knowingly–like you were the subject of an experiment. That wasn’t entirely wrong. 

“I want you to do… whatever you did for me before, again.” You kept your eyes on him, speaking somewhat hesitant but remaining strong in your stance, your gaze unwavering. You noted the way he subtly mouthed along when you spoke the word ‘again’, tauntingly, like he already had you figured out. Perhaps he did. 

“You don’t mean this?” He murmured, and with a snap of his fingers, your mind was yours again; that insistent, idle static now fizzled out. 

Your eyes widened, brows uplifting alongside your lips as you nodded; it was just like the last time, pure silence aside from your own little conscience as it came to the same giddy realization that it was alone once more. Raphael only chuckled, and after a too-short moment, your mind was back to its newly but usually muddled state. The Emperor had nothing to say yet, which you were grateful for, as it saved you the need to seek an excuse for his inability to communicate with you in a second instance that shouldn’t have been possible the first time around.  

“Are you expecting me to do you a favour like that for nothing?” he laughed dryly, mockingly; it made you feel like the vermin that was about to be squashed beneath a dirty boot sole. “You may be the brightest, most shimmering jewel in my crown, but something so deliciously close to free will in a time like this cannot come without charge. What’s more, it is most costly when one chooses selfishness over the common good.” 

You should have expected this. You must’ve known deep down that it wouldn’t be so easy, that Raphael wouldn’t be a one-time good samaritan–a saint–and do you this favour, even in spite of all the honeyed names that’d roll off of his tongue when he sought you out, making it seem as though you were a little more special than his usual clientele. Stepping forward with a frown, you scoffed:

“How am I being selfish?” Was he just toying with you for his entertainment now? You hadn’t been here for long, but the trip would be cut off even sooner if this continued. You craved relief, but not enough to get tangled up in the deep end with a devil, to a point of no return.  

“Why do you deserve the fix before anyone else? Do you think I’m a good-willed cleric made to provide relief to all those with your affliction?” Despite how incredulously he spoke, you could tell now that he was merely testing you. Testing you for what exactly, you couldn’t tell; your will, your determination?

“Who are you to be the dictator of right and wrong?” you countered him with a question of your own, stepping up closer once he stopped in his tracks. He hardly raised his brows in his fullest reaction to your bravery, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. 

“I’m not. But I’m the only one who can provide a moment of respite to you, and I don’t work for free. Is that not fair? You are asking for quite a privilege.” He smirked like he knew what you would say next.

“You’ve already done it for me once before, what makes it different now? It’s temporary anyway, is it not? Am I wrong?”

“It is. But last time was just a… sample if you will. For a second taste, a true dealing between us, you’ll need to do something for me too.”

You grimaced, and he looked too pleased with himself. You’d managed to avoid getting involved with him this far along, rejecting most ultimatums he offered, and you’d been fine without his assistance–or obstacles, rather. Yet now, something initiated completely of your own accord was creating a conflict that you could’ve avoided if not for your greed and its insistence; you weren’t done yet.

“Fine” you conceded, rather quickly too. His smirk widened, he looked so smug.

“Good, good” he purred. You blinked a few times, your body having an unexpected reaction to the bassy sound as you averted your gaze, refusing to recognize it.

“What do you want from me, then?” you mumbled.

“What do you think I would like from you–my dearest–” he drew out, “in exchange for my services?” He tilted his head, and he seemed a lot closer than you last remembered. He was much more visible in your periphery even as you forced your eyes aside. Were you supposed to answer that question and know what to say, what he wanted?

“I-I don’t know. Do you want me to take the deal with you and promise you the cro–actually, no, that is way too much in exchange for a few minutes of sile–”

“No” he cut you off sharply, his expression falling flat. “That, I can wait for. Your choice will be even sweeter to hear the longer you hold out on me. But considering our current circumstances…” he trailed off, and when you didn’t look at him during that pause, you felt hands slide up your waist. 

You blinked at the same time that your body jolted–a millisecond–and your surroundings changed. You still stood in Raphael’s grasp, just before the dining hall’s grand table within the House of Hope. Your eyes darted around warily, but you still felt an odd sense of… calm. Raphael, so tenderly that your heart thrummed a little off-beat, slid his fingers up your body and down your arms, grasping your wrists as he led you to one of the seats; facing the flames that so ironically burned in the fireplace. He walked slowly, dare you say methodically, striding to take a spot across from you.

"Indulge yourself” he muttered, looking utterly observant. He placed his chin atop his hands, fingers interlocked into a fist. He didn’t touch the food, but you expected as much.

“I’d rather not” you garbled, your gaze careful while you studied him and tried not to overreact, still settling into the new environment. You didn’t have an appetite per se, not for the deceptive refreshments that were too perfectly laid out before you anyway. Raphael may have been worming his way into your routine so often, just like the godsdamned tadpole itself, but his presence lingering for so long didn’t equate to trust yet. 

“Then indulge me.”

You watched him reach for and open a bottle of wine, one you didn’t recognize as common among those you’d scraped together from wooden boxes and crates on your way to the gate. It looked more prestigious, the bottle was embellished with what you could only assume to be real gold melted within the glass, and it caught the light so intriguingly each time he tilted it to pour some out; a drink for him, a drink for you. You looked away when he stood and took the chalices in his hands, placing one before you and promptly returning to his seat. When you looked to him again he had elevated the goblet in his hand, his chin lifting.

“To a new era.”

Your fingers approached the table, tips dancing towards the stoup’s base, the entirety of which could have been crafted by Gond and polished by Moradin. You wondered, despite how aged everything throughout the House was by the natural processes of time; cracked tile, buffered but helplessly dull stone… the stemware looked so new; untouched. He didn’t save it just for you, surely? Flitting your eyes back to Raphael as you thought about it, you noted how he finished taking a slow sip, lowering his cup back to the tablecloth. You couldn’t stop yourself from watching his tongue dart out to get some more of the taste, from what lingered on his lips. He noted your longer-than-usual silence, and those same lips turned up. 

“Your insistence, or stubbornness, rather, is very endearing in more… suitable circumstances. For once, you should try to act less like the illithid you’re bound to become and let go of those inhibitions. Look where you are” His head swayed slightly to his left, to the room, fingers drumming mutely on the tabletop. 

The wine was tempting, and his taking a first sip did comfort you in some way. You spared him a final glance before zeroing in on your goblet, staring down the dark liquid inside, watching the warm candlelight rippling reflectively on its surface. Perhaps it couldn’t hurt to indulge just this once, you thought, as you took the cup into your hand.

Raphael nodded along, encouragingly. Uncharacteristically. 

You figured there was no harm in it, especially if he was as fond of you as he claimed, then he wouldn’t want you to meet a preemptive demise. Not yet. 

You bit the bullet, raising the chilled gold to your lips. You did feel rather parched, and the substance slid down your throat so smoothly, so soothingly.  

“You know, I poisoned one of our goblets.” 

Exhaustion was sent over you like a wave, and not because of the poison immediately having an effect–had it been your substance that was tampered with–but because of course he did. You sighed, your eyes falling closed to console that Raphael-induced fatigue. 

“Gods, I hope it’s mine,” you muttered beneath your breath.

He let out what you may have heard as, amidst all of your quarrels, his first genuine laugh. His face was delighted as he shook his head. 

“Are you so displeased at the prospect of dining with me?” he leaned back in his seat, grinning and crossing a leg over the other. Getting comfortable. Settling in. You were tense in opposition, knees tight together as you kept yourself at the edge of your chair.  

“This clearly isn’t all that you want from me, Raphael. Either get on with it, or let the toxins do their job and let me off easy” You put the goblet down, pushing it forward and away as you inhaled sharply, now on higher alert considering the circumstances. 

“It’s only a bit of fun. The dose isn’t lethal, I couldn’t rid Faerûn of such a treasure in that crude of a way.”

At least you were right about that. 

Raphael said nothing else as he took in your silence, and his expression didn’t say much either. He stood slowly, his eyes remaining on you as he dragged his fingers along the tabletop until he landed at your side.

“If you’d like to experience mental solitude again, then I’ll only ask for one, small thing from you.”

You certainly felt a touch drowsier than before, your limbs a little more numb and tingly, like they had fallen asleep on you in a too-short duration. You turned your head to look up at him, and even at a neutral pace, the motion made you nauseous. You let out a soft groan of displeasure, closing your eyes and moving to drop your head down. Raphael caught your chin and forced your eyes to remain on him, his voice barely above a whisper as he proposed: 

“Solitude, for a kiss.”

“The least isolating ask,” you muttered bitterly, eyelids heavy as the sight of him became a degree blurrier than what you knew as typical. Yet you could still make out his smirk, and he leaned closer.

“But not a very weighted one. Don’t you miss being able to think without the added badgering of the Emperor’s two cents?” 

Truthfully, you did, if this last-resort decision wasn’t enough of an indicator. A kiss also wasn’t a huge deal, but Raphael was the cambion equivalent to the poison coursing through your veins. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you also weren’t in much of a position to deny him. Would you even be able to enjoy the seclusion if this didn’t wear off after he did this favour?

“That’s really all you want?”

“It is. Perhaps if you wished for something more permanent it would be a different story, but alas. It doesn’t need to be written contractually either, nothing so serious.”

“Fine, then.” 

You chose to take the initiative, the leap of faith, pressing your weight into the armrests of the chair so you could stand up and lean in. Your resistance was, helplessly, nonexistent when Raphael pushed you back down; the side effect of his poison making it too easy.

He grabbed your jaw, fingers firm but the motion gentle as he turned your face towards his. Your eyes were already half-closed, but you didn’t miss the intensity on his features. He hovered over you, his mere presence so imposing as he kept you right where he wanted; under his thumb. He moved closer until his cupid’s bow brushed over yours, ever-so-tender, so close yet so far. Your heart nearly skipped a beat once he tilted his head a little further, his lips parting in the slightest as they touched yours, but it wasn’t yet a kiss. Yes, you had expected him to draw this out considering the circumstances of the required affection pertaining to a deal, but what you hadn’t expected was your subsequent anticipation and eventual impatience. 

“Just do it–” you managed to murmur out against his mouth, some natural venom lacing the words without the help of the poison. You were surprised that he closed the gap properly right after by pulling your head up to him, his fingertips pressing deeper into your cheeks as he did, fingernails scraping the thin skin. 

He kissed you hard but without much aggression. You were taken aback by his normalcy, but it appeared that he was just getting started, as he soon used the leverage of his hand on your face to bring you to your feet. You winced, the motion pulled at your neck, but you weren’t given time to dwell on it when he jerked you to the table and tore his lips from yours. 

“Not going to put up a fight? How unlike you” he smirked. You could only glare at him because if he wasn’t sharp enough to nullify any resistance efforts, you both knew who would be pinned down right now. He chuckled once, appraisingly, before pushing his body into you again, his lips finding your neck instead. 

He started with nipping at the skin, then tasting it with a languid lick that made you squirm, and moving to hold your hands down against the table–as if you’d be able to move them on your own anyway. 

“More than a kiss–” you managed to state, your voice containing a hint of matter-of-factness, but was a little raspier as his closeness certainly affected your fortitude. 

“You knew better” was all he had to respond with, the words muffled as they were kissed into the horripilation on your skin. He remained content here for a while, bringing a finger up to your jaw to turn your head in the opposite direction of where he had already ridden your skin with his lips and hot saliva; making you shiver when the wetness caught the air and consequently cooled, regardless of how hot it was in the hells and logically shouldn’t have been possible. 

You were equivalent to a ragdoll by now, simply letting it happen when he grabbed your arms and flipped you around, your loose-limbed body immediately tipping over so your front was flat against the table; your hips perfectly positioned for your ass to press into his hips. He laughed and didn’t even try to create space, pressing himself into you so you could feel how hard he was, and it made you grimace at the realization of just how far this was going to go.

“You’re the only person worth this,” he breathed, his fingers snaking up to wrap around the column of your neck and force your head up. “The only one who deserves to experience this privilege.”

Unable to suppress your snicker when he said that, you almost whined aloud when his fingers tightened in response, and began rutting his hips into you steadily but with enough force to shift your body against the tabletop each time, your shirt getting caught up in the tablecloth and pushing it up so the cool surface touching your heated flesh made you tremble. The strong scents of all the lavish foods surrounding your immediate proximity almost drowned out Raphael’s scent, but it wasn’t enough, especially not as he leaned down so his front was against you completely, his face next to yours. 

“So amusing, is it?” he rumbled, subtly bringing his free hand up the side of your limp thigh, finding your hip, and reaching to tug at your panties. You couldn’t even feel shock anymore, simply letting out a strained exhale the material shifted when he slid it down your skin; off. “We’ll see for how much longer you feel that way.”

How much had you missed within those few seconds, to be surprised when he was already playing with his cock against your entrance? You felt a lot hotter then, your skin crawling with pleasure-induced chills as he moved his tip slowly, heavily up and down, prodding so slightly into your warmth and making your muscles tense each time he slid it away and down to your clit. He never lingered against one spot or the other long enough for any long-term sensations to last, and you couldn’t stop yourself from releasing a disgruntled groan. His chuckle reverberated through you, making your breaths shake as they became increasingly rapid. 

“I wonder if any of your devotees across the realms know that you can be reduced to this–if they think about it,” he pressed the tip of his cock into you now, making your hastened breaths hitch, your lungs burn, “if they imagine you beneath them, or maybe even above them–but you only deserve to be here,” he pushed his hips forward and slid in deeper, with ease, the motion so precise it made your thighs twitch, “beneath me.”

He set a slower rhythm to start, but the way that his movements bumped you further into the table each time made it so that you could feel all of him so perfectly. You felt so open, so exposed–

“Y-You seriously want to do this right here?” you whispered, only because your voice was so strained under his palm, and his cheek went taut in a grin next to you.

“My bed is still busy being warmed, this will do for now. You deserve better than mediocre; the real thing, not my copy. Feel fortunate” he sighed, pressing deeply into you for a moment and staying there, enjoying you, nearly pushing into your cervix–distracting you from the tongue-in-cheek response you wished to give to his words. You instinctively squirmed away, the intensity of it being too much too quickly with how teasingly he had been going thus far. But he wasn’t having any of your resistance despite how it was impulsive and not of your volition; pushing his body down heavier upon yours until you were trapped entirely, forced to take what he gave. Then he resumed movement, and he was moving faster now. 

You fisted the tablecloth before you with the weakest grip; the strongest you could muster, physically fighting every part of yourself so as to not give into him too quickly by carelessly moaning out and letting him know that he was actually making you feel something good. It didn’t matter though. Hoarse, uncontrollable whines vibrated in your throat, locked behind your canines as they sunk into your bottom lip in a further attempt at deceiving him. You were shocked that somehow, throughout the numbness in the rest of your body, each stroke and deep tingle of pleasure could be felt in its most intense form. You continued to amuse him, making him laugh as if this were something wholesome and wholly reciprocated. 

“What do you hear?” he whispered to you, the closeness and low volume of his voice making you writhe, igniting prickles of delight inside of you, making your pussy squeeze around him and pull him in deeper; even shocking yourself as your jaw dropped open from the sensation. All that you could audibly make out were your breaths and his, accompanied by the slick sound of his cock pistoning in and out of you with ease by how wet he made you in such a short time. 

“Just you–” you lied, “–mumbling in my fucking ear,” you tried to chuckle, but when the hand that wasn’t on your neck squeezed your hip tightly enough for you to actually feel it amidst all of the numbness, you gasped quietly, the dry laugh devolving into a whimper. 

“You shouldn’t hear anything,” he said slowly, but in a tone that was maybe one pitch higher than normal, like he was concluding another one of his awful riddles. You’d have taken time to cringe if he hadn’t grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you up at the same time that he moved, pulling you flush against him and continuing to fuck you like you were nothing more than a toy fulfilling its purpose. 

He favoured intensity over speed, ensuring that you couldn’t escape him as his cock never fully left your sex; only sliding back to quickly grind deeply inside once more, making you see stars each time–you didn’t care about whatever else he had to mumble to you now, all you cared about was engrossing yourself in the feeling of him. It made your stomach churn deliciously too, and that familiar warmth of finality was beginning to stir within as he bit down on your neck, sliding his fingers out of the way so he could hold you still by a shoulder. If your body wasn’t essentially dead you’d have regretfully reached back to hold onto him for support, grasping at the material of his intricately designed garments which would probably irritate him; perhaps your situational debilitation was for the better. 

“You’re not about to come for me, are you? Tut tut” he purred, and you couldn’t discern whether the way your eyes rolled was from annoyance or pleasure. Despite the degradation he didn’t relent, encouraging you above all else. His body encapsulated yours as he held you how he liked, keeping your back arched just slightly enough for your hips to perch nicely off of him as he pounded into you; had you seeing stars. “Don’t keep me waiting, then~”

When a sneaky hand left your shoulder and made its way to your front, pinching your clit, you came undone with a sharp whine; you could barely feel the way your thighs clenched, tightening alongside your pussy as you ground back into him to experience the sensation in its fullest, whimpering his name so weakly as your head lulled back to rest against his chest. You hardly caught the sight of him smirking down at you, so self-satisfied as his hand in your hair tightened, and only a smidge of embarrassment crept into your overall feelings of elation because you knew that he had every reason to feel that way. 

Soon enough the waves of bliss calmed, to your dismay, and Raphael pulled out of you with a soft groan, releasing your body carelessly and stepping back out of your sight, making you rush to reach out and have your palms land against the table rather than your face. 

As you turned around slowly and panted to catch your breath, you watched while he adjusted what minimal undressing he’d partaken in, and only then did you notice the feeling of something wet and thick sliding down the inside of your thigh. You looked down, your eyes widening a bit as you rushed to pull your panties back up to be rid of the sight of it; when did he cum?? You also wondered about how much control he must’ve had over the poison as you could feel the toxins wearing off now that it was all over; the ability to perceive and to touch returning to your body again, albeit weakly. 

“Good, don’t let my gift go to waste. So intuitive.”

You shuddered in disgust and swallowed the lump in your throat, ignoring his stupid, contented face and even happier statement. Now that you were approaching a state where you held a semblance of control again, you cleared your throat and redressed fully, smoothing over your clothes and standing taller after giving a quick shake of your head. 

“Okay–you got what you wanted, give me my end of the deal now.”

Raphael grinned, his brows lifting in feigned surprise.

“Oh, darling, that was it. Couldn’t you tell? Surely you didn’t want your dearest Emperor to know about our fornication?”

You stood there, stunned, slowly but surely feeling hot rage seep into your bones. No fucking way was he being serious.

“Bullshit.”

He laughed at you in a falsely taken-aback way, even raising a ridiculous hand to his chest.

“That’s no way for a lady such as yourself to speak–you chose to jest when I asked what you could hear, that was your chance to tune in and tell. Regardless, we both fulfilled our ends of the bargain.”

“Oh that’s rich,” you started, not knowing what to do with your hands as they fidgeted at your sides, itching to reach up to him and–

“If you wish to experience this again, you know where to find me. Hopefully next time you’ll have come to a decision about the crown, too.” he chuckled in a muted way, to himself, like he was considering some inside joke that only he was part of, not you. Perhaps you were the joke to him, after doing something like this; surrendering to him. The thought made your face twist in anger and you began to approach him, your arms raising.

You only caught the split-second motion of his hand reaching out, and then… nothing. Moments of black, of unconsciousness… and then you were standing outside the den again. You lurched for the doorknob, tugging at it to no avail for the first time ever. After cursing aloud you hit the wood with your fists, letting out a long, deep sigh, shutting your eyes as you realized what a mistake this was to begin with. 

You turned shamefully after a few more seconds of basking in exhaustion, your feet heavy and still feeling abnormal to use after so much time spent being dead weight. You trudged along to the exit of the brothel, cloakless, having left it in Raphael’s room and now being forced to endure the rain that had started. At least it was still dark outside, and you could return to camp innocently beneath the moonlight; be unheard beyond the pattering of the condensation while everyone else rested, acting as though nothing had happened at all, that you’d been there all night. 

You kept your head down, blinking away the raindrops that slid from your hair and into your eyes. Only once you were alone, past the business outside of the Caress, that familiar bustling moved from the ambiance of the bordello to the innards of your brain, and a question was posed by the voice that’d been with you since the beginning of this life you had grown accustomed to:

“Where were you just now?”

© meyousing 2024. do not share/export my work onto any other platforms. do not translate my work.

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Kit Badger Rides (short story)

“No, Starlingkit, this way! Buzzardkit, you can sit down later!” Grousemane couldn’t decide if he wanted to huff in annoyance or laugh in amusement. The kits were still young, and now that they were able to sort of walk, they were eager to get around and explore.

Aspenkit, the only one that had stuck with her father, made a chirping sound, glaring at her littermates, who, at her noise, scurried back over to their father’s tail. “Thank you, little one.”

They were on their way to meet Brownmouse for possibly the first time. Brownmouse had nursed them, then passed them to the poly once they were weaned. Grousemane wondered if they would remember him at all, or the older kits that were, shortly, raised alongside them. He was thankful that Brownmouse hadn't made his den too far, making it easier and safer to navigate the four small ones.

When he found the den, he called into it, and a moment later, Brownmouse emerged. His eyes lit up when he saw the kits. Starlingkit scurried behind Grousemane. Aspenkit sniffed his paw cautiously, while Duskkit hissed. Buzzardkit didn’t seem to notice him, instead watching as a brown leaf fell from a nearby tree.

“They’re so grown!” Brownmouse gushed, lowering himself onto his belly. “What did you name them?” 

They hadn’t received their names until after they were weaned. Grousemane had wanted the whole poly, especially Myrtlewing, together when that time came. “Buzzardkit for the one that looks like me, Starlingkit after scaredy mouse–after my littermates, Duskkit for the angry one, and Aspenkit for their sister–after Myrtlewing’s littermates.”

“Wow!” Brownmouse watched them as though his eyes could see nothing else, following their movements. When Aspenkit moved closer, he began to wave his tail in the air, and squealing, she leaped after it playfully. “Who would have taken Myrtlewing as the sentimental one?”

“Hootpetal’s idea.”

“There you go,” Brownmouse rolled his eyes affectionately. 

The kits grew comfortable quickly after sniffing Brownmouse’s pelt. Clearly, they didn’t remember him–they were probably still too young to remember this moment one day either–but by his scent, they knew that he was familiar, and that meant that he was safe.

“Are they here?” A kit’s voice, older than his own, asked. A moment later, a head popped out of the den entrance, joined by his brother, who’s own head pressed his against the den wall to make room, squishing his littermate. 

“Kits!” The second cat, Minnowkit, exclaimed, pushing past Prancekit and rushing eagerly to the kits, who either hissed or scampered beneath Grousemane’s belly.

Minnowkit frowned. “But they know me!”

Prancekit padded forward more slowly. “When they were like a moon old!”

“They should still know me,” Minnowkit stated righteously. “I was with them all of the time!”

Brownmouse nudged him playfully. “Why don’t you create another memory to help them remember?”

At Minnowkit’s look of confusion, he added, “they’re just big enough for badger rides now.”

“Yes!” Minnowkit pressed his belly to the dry, grassy floor. “On my back!”

The kits only blinked.

“Like this,” Prancekit told them, lowering himself as well. “Climb on, and we can run around! Don’t you want to play?” 

“Play!” Starlingkit squealed happily, scurrying to clamber on top of Prancekit’s back, who carefully raised up and began to stomp around. He was cautious and moving leisurely, the kit still too small for the faster rides.

“I said it first!” Minnowkit complained.

“Shh,” his father told him. “They’re interested now, see?”

Aspenkit and Buzzardkit were watching Prancekit and Starlingkit with wide, curious eyes that they then turned on Minnowkit. Minnowkit eagerly returned onto his belly, and Aspenkit and Buzzardkit wobbled over hastily, pushing for a spot on. “You can both fit,” Minnowkit reassured them. He couldn’t move around as fast as Prancekit with the added weight, but that was just as fine. The steadier, the better, especially with two of them.

“Don’t you want to play, Duskkit?” Grousemane asked his son, the only one that was not currently enjoying a badger ride. When Duskkit looked at him, Grousemane frowned. The kit’s lip was protruding in a pout, and wobbling. “We can make space for you, you can play.”

Duskkit only shook his head, sitting with his head ducked. “Ah, okay, I got it.”

“What’s wrong?” Brownmouse asked, searching the kit’s pelt. 

“Just missing home, I think,” Grousemane explained. “They’ve never been so far before, not when they remember.” He nuzzled Duskkit’s head. “Do you want to go home to mommy and daddies?” 

Duskkit nodded vigorously. 

“Okay. Playing can stop for now.”

“What?” Minnowkit huffed from nearby. “But we just started!”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to stop just yet,” Brownmouse suggested. “I’m sure the kits wouldn’t mind a ride back home, after all they’re legs are so tiny.”

“Yes!” Prancekit and Minnowkit cheered. Grousemane noted that this would be their first time being at the Eye-out Thorns. He hoped Myrtlewing didn’t frighten them too much.

“Do you want a ride, or carry?” he asked Duskkit. 

“Carry! Carry!” Duskkit practically shouted. Obliging, Grousemane picked him up by the scruff. 

“It was great seeing them again,” Brownmouse said with a smile. “I’m sure they will grow into wonderful cats.”

Grousemane felt as though he were glowing, so full of love for the four. “Yours too,” he replied, then led the way across the grass.

==================================

@wills-woodland-warriors

[papaver-decervicatus]

AHhhh! Thank you! This was a lot harder than I thought it would be! Here we go, and I don't have anyone to anyone who sees this, participate if you want! (The top right is how I imagine Mouse sees König on the reg)

OC Pre-Existing Picture Meme: Saeda Stallard

NP tags: @alittleposhtoad @parttimeprophet @dotcie @kastlequill @skinnyazn 💖

[m1smatched-starsigns]

🌞 Whitewing or Onestar!

I like Whitewing more than Onestar, but I actually have a Onewhisker AU in my doc. Let’s go with him.

ThunderClan!Onewhisker AU

It starts immediately after Fireheart’s patrol arrives in WindClan, when Tigerstar invaded and killed Gorsepaw.

Onewhisker admits to Firestar that he doesn’t think he can stay in WindClan any longer. He loves his Clan deeply, but he’s lost so many friends in the last moons; he has no kin left, either.

He says that the camp reeks like blood and fear now, even though they’ve done their best to clean it. Everytime he passes the spot where Tigerstar held Gorsepaw down, he can still hear his screams.

In this AU, Graystripe is still in RiverClan with his kits. Fireheart misses his best friend now more than ever, so after Onewhisker’s confession, Fireheart invites him to join ThunderClan.

It is not a decision that Onewhisker makes lightly. He’s always been a proud WindClan warrior. He’s never doubted his place in the Clan before. But if something doesn’t change soon then he’s going to go insane.

He takes Fireheart up on his offer. Onewhisker’s Clanmates are furious and call him a mouse-heart and a traitor, and he leaves with his head hanging. ThunderClan aren’t sure how they feel about their new Clanmate, and most of them would like to not trust him, but he looks so pitiful that they can’t bring themselves to hate him.

Bluestar isn’t happy about Onewhisker’s decision to join the Clan, but she treats his situation very similar to Graystripe’s in canon: what difference will one more traitor make?

The WindClan warriors were all starving, so the first thing Fireheart does is pick out the fattest mouse on the fresh-kill pile for Onewhisker. He obviously isn’t used to forest prey, but he’s so hungry that he devours it in only a few bites. Despite the fact that mice are smaller than rabbits, Onewhisker is surprised when the smaller animals fills him up.

By that point it’s getting late, so Fireheart shows Onewhisker where to get the best nesting materials.

As he weaves his nest together, there is a stone of dread in Onewhisker’s chest at the thought of sleeping in a den rather than underneath the stars. He places his nest at the front of the den where the newest warriors typically sleep, so that he can at least see a piece of Silverpelt.

Brackenfur and Cloudtail also sleep at the front of the den. Brackenfur is a very compassionate tom and Cloudtail knows that Onewhisker is a loyal friend of Fireheart’s, so they smile politely at the former WindClanner and do their best to make him feel welcomed.

The night is long and sleep evades him at every turn, but Onewhisker finds slight comfort in the fact that he will be able to make friends.

The next day Fireheart leads a border patrol and assigns Onewhisker to it. As they patrol, he points out landmarks and helps him navigate the bracken and brambles.

Privately, Fireheart is worried about Onewhisker’s future as a ThunderClan warrior. He has a difficult time navigating the territory, and thorns are inexplicably drawn to his paws. After just one patrol, Onewhisker returns exhausted and heads straight to Cinderpelt.

Sandstorm echos his concerns, but when Fireheart tries to defend his friend, she retorts, “If Onewhisker would leave his birth Clan because life there was hard, what’s to stop him from leaving ThunderClan?”

Onewhisker overhears everything. Rather than discourage him, it motivates him to try his hardest to learn ThunderClan’s ways. He doesn’t want to be known as a quitter who can’t be depended on when the going gets tough.

When Fireheart is busy with his deputy duties, Onewhisker explores the territory with Brackenfur, practices his battle moves with Cloudtail, and goes hunting with Sandstorm. Slowly but surely he improves.

“We’ll make a Thundercat out of you yet,” Sandstorm praises him when he catches a mouse. He walks back to camp with his tail high.

When Tigerstar lures the dog pack into ThunderClan territory, Onewhisker demands to be apart of the line that draws them away from the Clan.

“Are you sure?” Fireheart asks. “You know you’re way around the territory now, but the undergrowth still trips you up. If you want to hide with the Clan, no one will fault you.”

Yes, they will. But Onewhisker doesn’t say that.

Instead he says, “I’ve got WindClan blood, Fireheart — I’m the fastest cat you’ve got. Besides, this is personal.” His eyes harden. “I didn’t stand a chance against Tigerstar when I was in WindClan. But here, where I can use my speed, I can actually help.”

Denying Onewhisker this right would be like denying Ashpaw and Fernpaw’s right to avenge their mother. He owes them this.

So Onewhisker will be apart of the line, then.

When his turn comes, he runs like he’s never run before. He pumps his legs as he leaps over tree roots and ducks underneath the undergrowth. He doesn’t trip once, or step on a single thorn.

He can’t help but feel very proud of himself once his turn is over. He’s never moved like that before in his life. For the first time ever — he finally feels like a ThunderClan warrior.

And when Fireheart shares the news that Bluestar is dead, he grieves like one. He grew up hearing stories of the elegant leader. She was never fond of him, but Onewhisker honors her legacy all the same.

Before Fireheart leaves to receive his nine lives, he admits to Onewhisker, “I have no clue who my deputy will be.”

Onewhisker blinks. “You’ll pick Sandstorm, won’t you? You’re very close.”

“That’s the problem,” Fireheart says quietly. “With positions of power comes great danger. If someone wanted to hurt me they would hurt Sandstorm, even though she’s just a warrior. But if she were my deputy, I feel like that would put an even bigger target on her back.”

Onewhisker considers that. “Are you sure?”

Fireheart shrugs, forlorn. “Not really. But am I willing to chance her life like that?”

“Sandstorm can defend herself,” Onewhisker meows quietly.

Sometimes, when he stands tall in the sunlight, Fireheart looks like a blaze of fire. In those moments, Onewhisker truly believes that Fireheart could do anything.

But right now he just looks tired. “I know,” he murmurs. Then he leaves for Highstones with Cinderpelt.

When Fireheart returns he is no longer Fireheart, but Firestar — leader of ThunderClan.

“I say these words before StarClan, so that the spirits of our warrior ancestors may hear and approve of my choice. The new deputy of ThunderClan is Sandstorm.”

The she-cat looks surprised for a heartbeat before she puffs out her chest and proudly accepts the position.

Firestar made the right choice. Together, they will rule the forest in a blaze of glory.

But first, Tigerstar must be dealt with. Especially now that he’s recruited Leopardstar into joining TigerClan.

Even though he doesn’t say anything, it’s clear that Firestar is worried about Graystripe. For awhile no one sees him on patrols or the latest Gathering.

Then Ravenpaw bursts into camp with news of Bonehill. Firestar quickly calls for Sandstorm and Onewhisker, and they race for the RiverClan border.

The scenario plays out very similar to canon, except Graystripe has also been lumped in with the “traitors”.

Blackfoot kills Stonefur. The ThunderClan cats manage to help Graystripe, Mistyfoot, Featherpaw and Stormpaw escape.

“Onewhisker?” Graystripe asks, when he sees the former WindClan warrior.

“Long story,” Onewhisker meows. “We’ll talk later.”

The refugees take shelter in ThunderClan until the battle with BloodClan.

When that battle arrives, Onewhisker fights with all the might of a ThunderClan warrior. He lives to tell about it, too.

Sandstorm does not.

“Scourge went for her first,” Firestar whispers, voice thick with grief. “He thought it would enable me; he was wrong. I fought even harder, for her.” He chokes up and bows his head.

Tears pool in Onewhisker’s eyes. Scourge must have known Sandstorm was special to Firestar after he made her his deputy. He can’t help but think, if it weren’t for him, Firestar would have chose another as his deputy...

But a victory is a victory. That night the Clans celebrate their freedom from Tigerstar and from BloodClan.

“What will you do?” Onewhisker asks Graystripe after the battle.

The warrior gestures to Mistyfoot and his kits across the camp. “Return to RiverClan,” Graystripe says. “I wish I could be here for Firestar, but he has you to keep him out of trouble. Leopardstar isn’t popular right now, and my kits need me now more than ever.” His voice softens ever so slightly. “Mistyfoot, too.”

Graystripe looks back at Onewhisker. “You’ll make sure he’s okay, though, won’t you?”

Onewhisker knows what he means. “He’ll be alright. I’ll let you know if he ever needs you.”

Graystripe nods his thanks, then goes to join his kits.

As the sun sets behind the treeline, Firestar calls a meeting. Everyone knows what it is about.

Considering he just lost his mate and deputy in battle, Onewhisker thinks that Firestar looks impressive. He stands tall in the glow of the sunset, muscles rippling, green eyes like solid emeralds.

“The new deputy is Onewhisker.”

No cat is more surprised than he is to hear his name called. The Clan cheers his name while Onewhisker can only sit there, stunned.

“You accept, don’t you?” Firestar asks, as he descends from the Highrock.

Onewhisker doesn’t know what to say, other than, “... did you just give me a death sentence?”

“I gave you an honor,” Firestar corrects him. He musters a smile. “I don’t regret making Sandstorm my deputy. She was the perfect cat for the job. Besides, the last time I didn’t give her what she deserved, she gave me the silent treatment for days.” His smile softens. “I know she would approve of her successor.”

Onewhisker was never an ambitious tom; he never dreamed of growing up and becoming deputy, much less the deputy of ThunderClan. But when Firestar words it like that...

“I’ll make her proud,” Onewhisker promises. As he speaks, a thrill shoots down his spine; one he hasn’t felt since he led the dog pack away from camp.

Firestar gazes at him like he knows the feeling. “Of course you will.”

[aion-rsa]

9 Best TV Roles From Gillian Anderson

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Full-time TV goddess and part-time television detective Gillian Anderson is never far from our minds. Here are nine of our favorite TV roles from the actress, whose on-screen legacy reaches far past The X-Files franchise to British period dramas, eccentric Bryan Fuller shows, and animated snarkiness.

Dana Scully in The X-Files

Let’s just get this way out of the way, shall we? Not because Anderson’s turn as Agent Dana Scully over the course of 11 seasons (and counting?) of The X-Files TV show and two The X-Files movies should or could be diminished, but because most everyone is familiar with Anderson’s turn as the chronically skeptical FBI agent.

Dana Katherine Scully is more than a TV character. She’s an institution. I grew up watching The X-Files and having a female character who wasn’t the same cookie-cutter example of what it was to be a woman made me feel like much more was possible. Gillian Anderson’s understated, yet affecting portrayal of the character was a large part of that.

Scully was (and still is) complex and flawed. She is a scientist with a commitment to her Catholic faith. She is a skeptic who, nonetheless, believes in Mulder. And she is funny as anything—much of that down to Anderson’s dry, deadpan delivery (“Bad Blood” being a great, oft-cited example). If Gillian Anderson had to have one character define her career, she could do a lot worse that Scully.

Miss Havisham in Great Expectations

If you’re looking for a great Great Expectations adaptation, the 2011 BBC/PBS miniseries is not your best bet. If you’re looking for a role in which Gillian Anderson gets to chew up the scenery in a miniseries-stealing performance, this three-part series is for you.

Anderson is so often cast in understated roles, and she plays them incredibly well, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t gratifying to see her make moves as a completely over-the-top villainous character, like her turn as the bitter, mentally unstable, and highly-flammable Miss Havisham. As they should probably start saying in England: Come for the Dickens, stay for the Anderson.

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier in Hannibal

Hannibal is not a show for the faint of heart, but it rewards viewers endlessly with its sumptuous visuals, unpredictably gruesome plot, and its ridiculously stellar cast. Gillian Anderson is only one of the many talented actors who make up this ensemble — including Mads Mikkelsen, Hugh Dancy, Laurence Fishburne, and Gina Torres.

Remember how we were talking about how Anderson often plays understated characters? Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier may be the most understated of the bunch. Perhaps the most enigmatic character on a show filled with enigmatic characters, Anderson manages to imbue the sly, clever Bedelia with a complex vulnerability that her cold, proper surface only occasionally lets through. If you are a fan of Gillian Anderson or good TV, Hannibalis a must-watch.

Lady Dedlock in Bleak House

A big part of Gillian Anderson’s career renaissance has been Dickensian adaptations and this is, perhaps, the best example. The BBC did a 15-part (eight-hour) adaptation of Bleak House in 2015. Anderson took on the role of the cold, secretive Lady Dedlock and she is one of many deft moving parts in this brilliant retelling of the Dickens classic, which is much more fun than its lawyer-heavy premise might suggest.

Anderson seemingly agrees. She spoke with The Daily Beast about finding an appreciation for Dickens through her acting, saying:

One of the only things that I have regrets about in my life is my experience of school and education. I wish I had known how important it was to pay attention … My first foray into a lot of the classics has been through my work. It’s only after falling in love with the screenplay or adaptation that I’ve then gone on to read the novels themselves.

Stella Gibson in The Fall

If you’re and Anderson fan and haven’t yet watched The Fall,a Northern Ireland-set crime drama about the cat-and-mouse game between Detective Inspector Stella Gibson and serial killer Paul Spector (played by Jamie Dornan), then stop reading this and go do so now. Anderson plays Stella Gibson, an English DI who is brought to Belfast to stop the series of murders of young professional women that have been occurring in the city. The Fall has been celebrated for the fact that Anderson plays a character who is almost always male. She is extremely focused (and good at) her job, sees sex as a primarily casual habit, and doesn’t have the most robust of personal lives.

Anderson’s nuanced performance makes Stella a strong and sympathetic character — one who is deeply affected by the way that men take out their anger and frustrations out on women, and who knows how to navigate a world and professional space riddled with misogyny and casual sexism. Anderson has called Stella Gibson her favorite role, and it’s easy to see why. The actress is asked to do a lot in the BBC drama—and she more than steps up to the challenge.

Dana Scully in The Simpsons

Sure, this is really just a guest starring role on someone else’s TV show, but how could we not include at least one of Gillian Anderson’s animated turns? (She also appears briefly on Robot Chicken,as Fiona.) This X-Files spoof episode—”The Springfield Files”—comes in The Simpson’s eighth season and it is filled with in-jokes about the paranormal drama. David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson basically just voice their characters, but — as A.V. Club‘s review notes — “Anderson is, if anything, even more restrained than she is on The X-Files, which makes her lines funnier.”

“The Springfield Files” is far from the best episode of The Simpsons, but it is another great example of the kind of range Anderson has. Sure, she may be playing another version of her most well-known character, but getting that same character across in voice work is far different from getting that character across on live-action TV. Anderson nails it.

Media in American Gods

Sadly, Gillian Anderson is no longer on American Gods, which has suffered a series of high-profile “departures” that began with the “exit” of showrunners Bryan Fuller and Michael Green before Season 2. But we will always have one season of Anderson as Media, the mouthpiece of the New Gods, in this Starz adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s bestselling novel. As Media takes on the form of various celebrities and lives off the worship people give to their various screens, we got to see Anderson transform herself into people like Marilyn Monroe, Lucille Ball, and David Bowie—a smorgasbord of eclectic Anderson performances all in one show! For one season, we truly were blessed.

Jean Milburn in Sex Education

For a show that is mostly about The Youths, Anderson certainly makes her presence felt in Netflix’s British dramedy Sex Education. Anderson plays Jean Milburn, a single mom to teen protagonist Otis (Asa Butterfield), and a sex therapist. When Otis somewhat accidentally shares some of the sex education his mother has been feeding him presumably for his entire adolescence to a school bully, he falls into the sex advice business, helping his classmates with their sexual struggles. As Jean, Anderson gets to be both wise and neurotic, a mother and not defined by it. She also gets to regularly deliver lines like: “Why don’t you start by telling me your earliest memory of your scrotum.” Honestly, we deserve this show and its brilliant casting of Gillian Anderson.

Anna Pavlovna in War & Peace

Still have room for one more Gillian Anderson-starring period drama? (You know you do.) In this lush yet somewhat soulless 2016 adaptation of Tolstoy’s tome, Anderson plays “glittering society hostess” Anna Pavlovna. Written by period adaptation master Andrew Davies and directed by Peaky Blinders‘ Tom Harper and featuring a cast that also includes Paul Dano, Lily James, and James Norton, War & Peace has a lot going for it even if it never fully capitalizes on its deep reserves of talent and, honestly, with such an expansive cast and Anderson in a supporting role, our fave only gets a small amount of screen time. But, per the usual, Anderson steals the show.

What are your favorite Gillian Anderson TV roles? Sound off in the comments below…

The post 9 Best TV Roles From Gillian Anderson appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[skyoffireau]

Bluestar’s Quest, Ch. 3

The water ran over Sunningrocks as Bluefur made her way through the woods and to the stones at the edge of the river. Snowflower trod beside her, so close she could feel her warmth. Accompanying them were Thistleclaw, Whitepaw, Featherwhisker and Stormtail.

They hadn’t shared a very deep connection with their father, the twins, but he had still insisted he be present for their departure. Whitepaw was murmuring worriedly to his mother, flitting his tail back and forth. Thistleclaw said nothing, but glared silently ahead. Featherwhisker carried two bundles of traveling herbs in his jowls, unable to speak through them.

Finally they reached the edge of the Sunningrocks, the sand digging between Bluefur’s toes.

“This is where we leave you,” Featherwhisker said after he put down his herbs. “Eat these; it will stave off your hunger and shorten your journey.”

Bluefur nodded gratefully and bent down, chewing the herbs up and swallowing them with a hard, forced gulp. The sour taste was enough to make a cat ill, but she tried to shrug it off. Snowflower ate her bundle, then turned to her small family.

“Please be careful,” Whitepaw fussed softly. “I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll be going through enemy territory,” Thistleclaw said with a low grumble. “Don’t be afraid to defend yourself, tooth and claw.” 

“I will, and I won’t,” Snowflower said with a dutiful nod. “Don’t forget, me and Bluefur are warriors. We’ve fought for these very rocks. We can fend off a scrawny WindClan patrol.”

Thistleclaw glared at Bluefur, sending a shock through her. “You can’t expect others to come to your aid every time you fight,” he growled. “Especially not your kin.”

Snowflower was rendered speechless, and she shrugged. “Well, we��ll be fine, either way. I’ll be back for your Warrior Ceremony, honeynose. I promise.” She touched her nose to Whitepaw’s, then departed from their side. Bluefur settled a few paces behind her sister’s, and they left the Sunningrocks and ThunderClan behind.

As they followed the river, the water flowing past them and far away, Bluefur gazed across the water. The reeds rustled, and a flash of reddish-brown fur swept between them. Before she could meet the green eyes waiting for her, Bluefur charged forward through the long grass, kicking up leaves. 

“Are you that excited?” Snowflower asked with a laugh as she followed Bluefur. The grey queen laughed in reply, playing off her fears and shame.

They reached the Falls, where Bluefur gazed down at the rocks and spray for a bit before following past the bridge connecting WindClan and RiverClan. It was an odd twoleg thing that was rarely ever used. Fourtrees was next, and as they passed the hollow Bluefur admired the Great Rock. One day I’ll be standing up there, she thought, representing my Clan! It was a kittenish thought, but a nice one.

They reached WindClan’s moorlands, where the gentle breeze became a light yet buffeting wind. Snowflower’s long fur parted, and the pink skin showed underneath as they navigated the tall grasses where WindClan made their hunting grounds.

By the time the sun was setting they were almost entirely across the moor, and the sleepiness and hunger was beginning to set in. Bluefur sniffed at a few oddly large rabbit dens by the gorge, but ended up passing them by.

“There’s a barn,” Snowflower suggested, using her nose to indicate. “We can stay there, maybe?”

She was hesitant, but as they continued walking, the soreness in her pawpads encouraged her to agree. They slid under the fencing and into the freshly-harvested crops, the soft upturned earth a welcome feeling on sore feet. They made their way to the barn, where the warmth of the hay inside was welcoming.

They padded through the door, and Bluefur was shocked to see cats lounging on the hay bails.

“Hullo,” one of them said, a black queen with soft features. “You Clan cats?”

“Yes,” Snowflower said with a small nod. 

“We were looking to stay the night here,” Bluefur said, forcing the words out through her surprise. “Would that be alright?”

“Of course!” the ginger tom said, flitting his tail as he jumped down to greet them. “We love getting visitors. My name’s Fleck, and this-” he used his tail to gesture to the queen still on the hay bail - “Is my sister, Mitzi.”

Bluefur dipped her head to the two loners. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.

“Feel free to hunt yourselves full,” Mitzi offered warmly. “My daughter Soot can show you the chicken coop where the mice live.” 

From the depths, a black molly that was almost a perfect copy of Mitzi came out, slinking between bails. “I always was the best hunter.”

“Was not!” This was a black-and-white tom, laying prone beside a curled up tortoiseshell with a purple collar.

“I was the best hunter, once,” another tom said, this one a grey tom with pale gold eyes. “We were all the best, I think, at some point.”

“Anyway,” Soot said sharply. “Those are my brothers, Magpie and Mist. Magpie’s mate is Amber. My sister’s around here somewhere,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “She’s always kind of roving... her name is Piper. She looks like me but dirtier.”

“Be nice!” Mitzi scolded as the three queens made their way to the entrance.

Soot humpfed, then lead the two sisters out of the barn and back into the field.

“So where have you traveled from?” Soot asked casually as they walked.

“ThunderClan,” Snowflower replied. “We’ve been sent here on a mission.”

“Awesome,” Soot said. “A pawful of seasons ago, we had this tom named Stormkit live with us. He said he was from RiverClan.”

“That must be Crookedjaw,” Bluefur said with a nod. “I heard rumors he disappeared for a while as a kit.”

“Crookedjaw would be his name,” Soot said, with a bit of sadness in her voice. “He had a terribly broken face...”

Her voice trailed off, and the three queens took to hunting after a few more moments of walking. There was nothing but rat and mouse-scent, but Bluefur didn’t mind that. A lack of variety for a day was a small price to pay for such a big adventure and a message from StarClan itself.

They brought their kills back to the barn, where Bluefur sat a distance from the barn cats with her sister and tucked into the meal. Thank you, StarClan, for the food you’ve given me and my sister, she thought. And if you could, protect these cats, too. Not every cat must be in a Clan to be protected, right?

The thought bugged her, but she said nothing to her sister. She disposed of the prey-bones outside of the barn, then came back inside and curled up, grey fur brushing against Snowflower’s white. There she dozed, thinking of the big day to come.

[peace-and-light-poetry]

Like Cat and Mouse

She had a feeling That she was being stalked As the night sky loomed overhead

This was a long trek And she had to get to the end by sunup This was the quickest path

She felt dread and misled This path was the most dangerous Deceptively easy to navigate

She had to trek alone And she felt like she was being stalked She could only walk

Running would make it worse

She tried her best to walk standing tall If it saw that she was afraid, it'd go in for the kill The pathway had bones strewn about

But they were covered by the darkness

She could feel its presence If she makes a wrong move, then she'd die It was stalking her

Waiting for its chance

She couldn't stop She had to keep going To get there by sunup

She couldn't hear it Of course not but she knew it was there Hesitation is deadly

A mouse has to run gauntlet to get To its den

And she had to walk one To get to her destination by sunup Running or even sprinting will make things worse

She kept walking Carefully calculating her steps Under the cloak of darkness

As it stalked her

Sometimes, mice don't make it to their dens Still, she kept walking

She had to make it Otherwise, it would be over for her It's the shortest and most straightforward path

She was almost there And she could feel it getting closer to her Stalking her, playing a game

She was terrified But she couldn't show it Nor could she hesitate

She was now a few steps away And the sun was just coming up It won't be long

This mouse made it to her den The sun had come up.

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 1, Cat

Alone on wilderness patrol, König’s radio intercepts an enemy transmission meant for a SpecGru sniper. Within a beautiful and capable woman’s crosshair, something electric and treacherous takes root in his heart, and he decides to tempt his doom. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and it’s been far too long since he has had anything worth hunting.

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Huge shout-outs to @kneelingshadowsalome and @sprout-fics for writing some really great fics that inspired me to write this and for being such kind beta readers!

This work is inteded to pass as x reader or x OC in third person POV, German is from google translate, feel free to correct me if you can!

This project started out very small and has definitely spiraled out of control. To all readers, please enjoy and let me know what you think!~ Caedis

Pt. 1, Cat | 1.3k words | König POV | NEXT

“They call you… Maus?” König says into his radio. 

It’s a mistake. That he’s heard the transmission. That he found her position. He’s sure that she sees him, he knows he’s good as dead. 

He’d seen her file in a briefing. Some SpecGru sniper, relatively new to the force. Accolades nothing short of damn impressive but with a general disposition against war. She’s a good rule follower unless she hates the rule and then she tends to do her own thing. Overall, mixed bag, but too useful to refuse. She wouldn’t be on the force if she weren’t some sort of useful. 

Most of what he’d thought was, “Wow, really? That many targets? Seems temperamental. Wish I could’ve been a sniper. Seems much more peaceful.” And then a much quieter, general, passing: “She’s pretty.” 

And that was it, really. When he got moved to solo wilderness patrol, it was Klaus’s idea to give him intel on who he thought would be most likely to be on patrols alone. As the resident wilderness expedition expert, he thought it most reasonable to give König and a few others on similar patrols the basics on her and a few of her comrades. Quite mundane for his line of work, all things considered. 

The irony isn’t lost on him, that him doing the very thing her file warns his upper command about, “doing his own thing,” is what will kill him. He’s out about five miles from where he should be, dangerously far. But, he always had a weakness for the mountains. When he realized his route to do shipment surveillance was close to a ravine, there was no question in his mind that he was going to check it out. 

And it’s got him in a good-looking lady’s sniper scope, right as the sun sets behind her. She’s got a perfect shot. 

What's that silly English phrase? Curiosity killed the cat? 

He smiles about it, though. He’s happy it’s a sniper. Happy it’s a pretty one. 

“You’re not my target.” Is her response. She shouldn’t be able to radio back to him. 

Strange. 

“Not an answer. And who is then?” He quips back into the static, still not quite sure he believes she’s there. Even at every possible disadvantage, this is still his territory, he’s still the king of his little domain, of this minuscule set of battle strip. It’s pathetic, the only place he feels any sort of peace is at war. 

“Negative to both.” 

“Playing hard to get. That’s fine with me.”

He hears her chuckle before she shuts off her end. 

This is… most exhilarating. 

He finds her in the tree line, and he smiles. She’s across the 80-yard-long ravine. There’s a creek at the bottom, and interesting flora marks the cliffs all the way down. He wonders what wildlife drinks from the stream down there and if there are any decent caves he could find an opening to. If any could fit him, that would be. She’s found a good post, in the branches of an inconspicuous tree. That’s right, she specialized in tree climbing and tracking if he remembers her file well enough. It’s a pretty perch, no wonder she chose it. 

A younger part of him is jealous. The older part smothers that part down as he takes in the view. 

The sun is setting behind her. She’s very far away, but his skin prickles to life knowing that he’s being watched. The exposed rock of the ravine flames to life with amazing browns and reds, and the stone sparkles like rubies and tiger’s eye stones as the sun's rays catch it. 

It’s a beautiful place, really. It’s not such a bad place to die, he thinks. She’s a good shot. She’ll do it quickly. Nothing to fret about, really. It’s his own fault, anyways. 

He knows if he runs to or from her, he’s dead. So he stands still. 

Waiting. 

For what?

He doesn’t know. A fairy tale? An Angel? A sign from God? His own comms? The common sense to radio his own and tell them about the fucking sniper in the tree?

He doesn’t know. 

So he waits for her to make the first move. 

“If you turn tail,” She warns, his radio crackling to life, “I won’t shoot.”

He’s going to die, might as well have some fun at it. 

“I will- if you tell me why they call you Maus.” His accent lingers on the word, just about the same in Deutsch as it is in English. Maybe that’s where the Brits got the word from in the first place? Some Germanic mountain peoples from long, long, long ago? 

He can’t see her in detail, she’s much too far. But with his hazy memory of her file, he imagines her face contorted in with the effort of deciding what to do. He thinks of her blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. He thinks about her flexing her fingers around, but not squeezing, the trigger. 

She seems to chew her lip on this one. He already knows her code name, it’ll do very little good or bad for him to know just why. 

“I’ll bite, soldier.” She says, hurriedly, like someone might walk in on their little game. Like the teacher is about to find the two kissing in a supply closet at the school. Like she knows this is bordering dangerously close to bloody. 

“Quid pro quo?” She asks. 

It’s not a no. 

He smiles. His cheeks get red as they flick upwards in a grin of pure giddiness. What a fun way to die. Playing a silly little game like this? Fantastic!

“I think you know.”

“König?”

“Ja.” To his delight, her accent scraping its way around his call sign, the only name he cares about at this point, isn’t half bad. Being so seen on the battlefield should make his chest tighten, but not quite like this. It’s wrong, but then again he actually enjoys war so maybe he’s never quite been right, either. 

“Why?”

It’s his turn to laugh and rush out a response. He sits down on the ground and opens his legs as wide as they’ll comfortably go and rests his cheek in his hand propped on his thigh. If he’s going to die, he’s going to give her a pretty show. He’s going to die comfortably lazing around like a cat on a windowsill, taunting the stray tabby outside who so desperately wants to claw him to death. 

“You first, Schatz,” he downright purrs into his mic. He’s no fool, if he could see her up close, he would not be flirting with disaster like he is currently. 

He can’t see her, she’s much too far away, but he imagines her chest constricting beautifully and her biting her lip. He imagines her lips pressed into a thin line while she claws into her upper arm, trying to regain control. Like it’s all a silly game. And, maybe it is.

Cat and mouse. 

He likes the sound of that. 

Her voice returns to him, low and slow like she’s dragging her tongue over every syllable like she’s trying honest-to-goodness to taste him. 

“Maybe next time, König.” 

He can hear the smile in her voice. Maybe she’s enjoying the game, too?

A shot rings out, and his blood whistles and boils. It hits the tree 6 feet to his left at exact head height. His ears start to ring, but he’s entirely unharmed as birch bark splinters around him. 

“Position compromised, moving.” Is what she radios to her command. 

“Rog, Mouse.” Command calls back. 

He sees movement from her position, but he knows she’s much too far for him to get to her in time. He laughs bright and loud and gets himself up off the ground. 

“Nächests mal, kleine Mäuschen.” Next time, little mouse. He says, to no one in particular. It’s been a long while since König has had so much fun like this on the battlefield. At a genuine disadvantage, put into a position that size and strength alone won’t remedy. And he’s sure as hell not ruining it by telling anyone, no matter how dangerous that is. 

A game of cat and mouse? 

Good. 

It’s been far too long since he had something worth hunting.

[shouldnt-be-allowed-outside]

Here is a list of all the Disney plus movies from A-Z. I will edit it as I watch them and put the watched ones in a new post! Also i might watch some out of order (might do some Christmas movies this month!). Might skip some that I have already seen. I’m making this list to see how many movies are on Disney plus! I would love for someone to make a list of the movies that are Disney but NOT on Disney plus so I can watch those after these. Here I go!!!

Big big friendly giant

Big

Big business

Big cat games 2/21

The big green

Big hero 6 - love!!

Big shark rule

Big Sur wild California

The biscuit eater

Bizarre dinosaurs

Black beauty

The black cauldron

The black hole

Black is king

Black panther

Blackbeard’s ghost

Blank check

Bolt

Born wild: the next generation

The boy who talked to badgers

The boys the Sherman brothers story

Brave

The brave little toaster to the rescue

The brave little toaster goes to mars

Breaking 2

Bride of bogeys

Brink!

Brother bear

Brother bear 2

Buffalo dreams

Buried truth of the Maya

Cadet Kelly

Camp nowhere

Camp rock

Camp rock 2

Can of worms

Candles how

Captain America the first avenger

Captain America the winter soldier

Captain America civil war

Captain marvel

Cars

Cars 2

Cars 3

Case busters

The castaway cowboy

The cat from outer space

Chadwick Bozeman a tribute for a kindly

Halloween house party

Epic Holliday showdown

Chasing the equinox

Cheetah

The cheetah girls

The cheetah girls 2

The cheetah girls one world

Chicken little

The Christmas star

Christopher Robin

Narnia the lion the witch and the wardrobe

Narnia prince caspian

Narnia the voyage of the down treader

Cinderella

Cinderella II

Cinderella III

cloud 9

Clouds

Coco

Coco in spanish - sorry not going to watch

A celebration of the music from coco

College road trip

The color of friendship

The computer wore tennis shoes

Confessions of a teenage drama queen

Cool runnings

Country bears

Cow belles

Cradle of the gods

Dad napped

Darby o gill and the little people

Davy Crockett king of the wild fronteier

Davy Crockett and the river pirates

Decorating Disney holiday magic

Deep blue

Den brother

Descendants

Descendants 2

Descendants 3

Diana in her own words

Diary of a wimpy kid

Diary of a wimpy kid rodrick rules

Diary of a wimpy kid long haul

Dinosaur

The Disney family singalong

The Disney family sing along volume 2

The Disney holiday singalong

Disneyland around the season

African cats

Disney nature bears

Disney nature born in China

Disney nature chimpanzee

Disney nature the crimson wing

Disney nature monkey kingdom

Disney nature oceans

Disney nature penguins

Disney nature wings of life

Disney nature diving with dolphins

Doctor Dolittle

Dr do little 2

Doctor do little 3

Doctor strang

Dolphin reef

Don’t look under the bed

Dori’s reef cam

Double teamed

Dougs 1st movie

Dr. Zeus’ Horton hears a who

Drain Alcatraz

Drain the Bermuda Triangle

Drain the Great Lakes

Drain the oceans: WWII

Drain the sunken pirate city

Drain the titanic

Duck tales the lovie

Dumbo (animated)

Dumbo (live action)

Earth live

Easter island unsolved

Eddie the eagle

Eddies million dollar cook off

Egypt’s treasure guardians

Eight below

Elephant

Emil and the detectives

The emperors new groove - LOVE

Empire of dreams

Epic

Escape to witch mountain

The even Stephens movie

Ever after

Expedition Amelia

Expedition mars

Fairy tale weddings

Fairy tale weddings holiday magic

Fantasia

Fantasia 2000

Fantastic 4

Fant4stic

Fantastic mr. fox

Far from home

Ferdinand

Finding Nemo -2/21

Finding dori

Finest hours

First kid

Flight of the navigator

The flood

Flubber

Taylor swift folklore

The fox and the hound

The fox and the hound 2

Frank and Ollie

Frankenweenie (animated)

Frankenweenie (live action)

Freaky Friday (1976)

Freaky Friday (2003)

Freaky Friday (2018)

Free solo

Frenemies

Frozen

Frozen 2

Full-court miracle

Fun and fancy free

Fuzz bucket

G force

The game plan

Geek charming

Gender revolution

Genius

George of the jungle

George of the jungle 2

Get a clue

The ghosts of Huxley hall

Giant robber crab

Giants of the deep blue

Girl vs monster

Glory road

Go figure

Godmother

Going to the mat

The good dinosaur

Good luck Charlie

Gotta kick it up

The great mouse detective

The great muppet caper

Great shark chow down

The greatest game ever played

Greatest showman

Greyfriars bobby

Guardians of the galaxy

Guardians of the galaxy vol 2

Gus

Hacksaw

Halloween town

Halloween town 2

Halloweentwon high

Hamilton

Hamilton history has its eyes on you

Hannah Montana the movie

Hannah Montana and Miley city’s concert

Hatching Pete

The haunted mansion

Heavy weights

Hello dolly

Herbie goes bananas

Herbie goes to Monte Carlo

Herbie rides again

Hercules

Hidden figures

Hidden kingdom of China

High school musical

High school musical 2

High school musical 3

High school musical the musical holiday special

High school musical the musical the series the special

Hocus locus- 10/20

Holes

Holiday majic quest

Home alone

Home alone 2

[fan-clan-fun]

Skyclan Reborn Chapter 2: Home is where your nest is

The sky was streaked with pale pink blue, signaling the coming dawn when they awakened, uncurling from each other. Sky was eager to set out, tail twitching restlessly as he waited for his mate to finish making dirt.

She  came back around the corner and rubbed up under his chin. “So, where are we going?” she said.

He froze. Oh, right, he probably needed to know that. “Uhhh…” he trailed off, embarrassed. “Maybe to the dawn side of the city? No, wait. We should go just outside the city. More prey and less competition!”

Shiloh purred in agreement. “Sounds like a good option. Only problem is I don't know much about that area, and some of the city cats might find it difficult to navigate and hunt there.”

Sky had already started off towards the corner before she had finished.  “That's okay,” he said as they paused to check a nearby road before crossing. “We haven't figured out the boundaries yet, so we will all have to learn the area.”

They crossed the road and many others like it, until they reached the edge of the city. There was a four lane road ahead of them, more dangerous than the normal  ones. Cars were far faster on this one than others, and it was busier.  They had to wait a long while, and took it in two parts, resting in the middle before finally passing over the last two lanes.

Once they got to the other side, and were met with the quietness of the upward sloping forest, they were able to speak again.

“I think that road would be a good dusk side boundary.” Sky commented. His white and gray pelt was a stark contrast against the dark green and brown shadowed undergrowth. High above them the tops of oaks and maples crowded together, while smaller trees grew in patches of rare sunlight. Actual ground plants like ferns and bushes were thick and jumbled, but the two cats managed to pick their way through them on paths worn into the earth by large prey animals.

For Sky it was a land of wonder, and although he had not been back in the area for many moons, he was able to point out with his tail several landmarks which Shiloh could use to guide herself out and down back to the city. He was glad then for those few moons of misspent energy as a youth, trying to live out the fantasies of his grandmother's stories. Now he would be fulfilling them after all.

In his contemplation and excitement, he realised he had gotten several tail lengths ahead of his mate. He was about to turn back to wait for her when an unsuspecting mouse ran right over his paws. On instinct he lashed out, and although it was a poorly aimed strike, it knocked the mouse off balance long enough for him to finish it off. With a smirk, Sky wheeled around with the mouse in his jaws to deposit it at his mate's paws.

Shiloh looked him up and down, whiskers twitching with amusement. “I was about to ask where that abundance of prey was, but I see the question answered itself.” She looked down at it curiously. “You caught that quite easily. I guess these prey creatures are not accustomed to equating our scent with danger. That will be useful.” She munched on it quickly, not wanting to disrupt their journey.

They followed the line of the ridge, up into the mountains, until reached small break which led into a valley. Their side had a steep sharp incline, and although they heard it, they nearly stumbled upon the stream rushing at the bottom of the valley because of how dense the foliage was. At this point in the valley, the stream was choked in on both sides by steep banks, and the water was deep, rushing with a dark undercurrent. Sky glanced over at Shiloh with a question in his eye, and she returned with a shake of her head. Not a safe camp. They followed the stream in its roundabout way, which at first seemed to go closer to the city and then veered off. The steep walls tapered down to a smoother area and the stream split off into another valley junction. But there the trees were too sparse, the cover not good, and there were even traces of humans and firepits. They continued on.

By the time they finally found something it was mid-day, and hot. They had been dipping their paws occasionally in the water when they needed to cross, and were partially in the water when they came around a bend. The little area was breathtaking, with shallow quick moving water and little islands of grass and stone. One bank was a nicely forested area with massive rhododendron bushes dipping into the water. The other side was a broken cliff face, which looked to be the remains of some old waterfall. At the base, the water had eroded the rock, and even in one spot there was enough space that bushes grew from the water to the craggy broken stone. Several secluded niches were visible, and Sky headed towards one, fascinated. Shiloh followed, choosing her paw holds with the utmost care as she crossed the stream.

“This looks perfect!” Sky said, rummaging through the bushes around the stone face.  It was a struggle for him to focus, every movement and flash of color stimulating his senses and catching his attention.  He heard Shiloh pass nearby with a scrabble of claws and pebbles. She called out to him, “Love? Come here real quick.”

He obliged, scrambling further up the stony bank to meet his mate at a jagged crack in the wall face. The tortie she-cat, pelt sparkling like ripples on water from the sun on her pelt, scraped at the wall, dislodging pebbles and dirt and widening the hole. Sky tried to help but she turned and just stared at him until he backed off, tail flicking back and forth silently. No one messed with a pregnant she-cat when she was determined to do something. Instead Sky just watched, occasionally turning his gaze back over the little stream.

It wasnt long before the hole was big enough to squeeze into, and Sky immediately recognized that Shiloh had been looking for a den, a safe place to build a nest for kitting. The thought made him a little skittish. She couldnt possibly be kitting yet! His mate squirmed into the hole, and he followed nervously, opening his mouth to see if he could detect any changes in her scent.When he pushed through, he found a smooth moss covered cave, high enough he could stretch paw-tip to paw-tip and just barely reach the top, with enough floor area for three or so sprawled cats. Besides the entrance they had just dug, he could see a few areas with cracks in the mostly earth outer walls, sheltered from the outside by roots and rhododendron leaves. It was virtually invisible.

“Perfect.” The word was slightly breathless coming from the heavily pregnant she-cat, and Sky caught her subconsciously kneading the ground a little, as if to test it. She noticed his smug look and immediately her ears went sideways and eyes narrowed. “Dont be too pleased with yourself. If we are to sleep here, we should find something to make a nest.” Sky almost protested something about mothers making their own kitting nests when she cut him off. “No, that would be unwise, you might get lost or trip into the stream because you are so distracted by everything.” Sky drooped, but didnt deny  it. He didnt have the best track record of staying focused.

Instead he purred warmly, hesitantly rubbing against her, “Its Sunhigh anyway, lets rest til dusk, and then we can find some prey for our bellies, and you can find some material to use in the nest.” Sky was glad that instead of stiffening and listening to her instincts, Shiloh returned his purr and gave his jaw a lick.

“Sounds like a good compromise.” She murmured.

They settled then, cuddled together, alternating between grooming the other and dozing in the pleasant little cave.

[apologeticbepo]

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ with @hopefulgeorgia (continued from here)

 Bepo was brave. Bepo was a warrior. Bepo was a mink and that meant he knew how to put up a fight. But that did not mean he was that fond of warfare. To put it in easy to comprehend, childish terms... They had started it.

It was easy for the Polar Tang to go unnoticed when submarines were not anyone’s first choice of vessel, for pirates and marines alike, and thus it couldn’t be said the Heart Pirates were used to spotting other submarines when travelling underwater. Oftentimes it was easy to forget the atmosphere altogether was a reality when all the windows showed was an immense blue sprinkled with the rainbows that were the sea creatures, the most beautiful painting in existence for it was full of life, and the only one that mattered. This world was so gorgeous the idea of dismissing life ‘outside’ was tempting... 

Or so it would be, were it not for the oxygen running low and the need for the sunlight great. And let’s not get started on the need for fresh air twenty people and a bear had when living in a cramped place with a great need of stinky oil all the time and meals fashioned out of canned goods when produce, eggs and milk disappeared... Oh yes... There was flatulence and the obvious inability to crack a window made it harder to enjoy the view when the air was pungent...

Fortunately, the Tang had a few tricks of her own to make life bearable and fun most of the time, though advanced technology would never replace the sun and the fresh air.

Unfortunately... this was one of those days.

Bepo’s tongue stuck out. His mouth was all he had to breathe, because his nose was plugged with a wooden clothes peg. Being a bear, his sense of smell was greatly acute, meaning he was the first one to smell fresh laundry and those yummy meals prior to the time of hardship known as ‘can season’, but also the first one to smell oil leaks and foul scents. Such was the case of the farts Shachi and Penguin released in a competition against each other, after a modest lunch of beans. If their criterium was pungency of the smell or how loud the cracking noise was, he did not know. And he did not care.

“Do you guys really have to do that?” Where was Captain to tell them to shove a cork in it when needed? Probably in his study or in the medical room. Or maybe in the bathroom - just because he was a doctor that didn’t mean Law had to divide his time between two work areas.

“Shut up. It’s not like you fart soap, you know? Besides, we’re bored”

A perfectly poor excuse, the mink thought but decided to ignore the sass and keep track of the inertial guidance system. Sometimes there was not much for a navigator to do but check Log Poses, Eternal Poses and controls to make sure the Tang was following its route with no complications. Bepo may not know much of the so-called lingo but he made sure to keep track of each and every mishap the sub encountered, writing it down in her log.

“There’s lots of things you can do if you’re bored” suggested the equally bored mink. “Like cleaning the kitchen or doing the laundry or...”

Though only a duo, Shachi and Penguin ganged up on Bepo as though they were the entire crew. “Bepo! Are you bossing us around?” They feigned shock and Bepo reacted with genuine distress, shaking his head to deny it and apologising in a frantic way. He did not want to play captain!

While the Heart Pirates went about their boyish antics, a pirate ship nearby picked up on the usually ignored submarine. A massive ship it was, resembling a cargo vessel, clad in metal as though it were armour. It made the yellow sub look insignificant. Wooden elements were conspicuously absent save for its flooring. More curious than its design was the technology it housed, apt for a submarine. It was its sonar that found the Tang as if it was naught but an oversized fish or funny-looking juvenile mammal.

There was a ‘puru puru’ chant and immediately the crew stopped arguing. The snail in question was normally a quiet creature, just sitting there on the dashboard and keeping them silent company. In fact, this was the first time it rang. Working at a low frequency, this Den Den Mushi was a means of radio communication and a counterpart to the regular snails one expected to find in a ship. It was not expected to ‘ring’ at all unless the same technology was used - submarine technology.

A message was transmitted once the speaker-microphone was raised and a brave ‘Hullo?’ worthy of note uttered. Bepo’s first thought was that someone was in distress, blindly transmitting at whatever similar vessel might be near, and what a lucky thing it was for them that it was the Polar Tang they should reach! Captain would listen to them and help, provided a nice reward lay in the horizon of certainty or in case mercy descended upon him. But contrary to Bepo’s expectations, what the Heart Pirates got was a sassy, mean, gross ‘That’s a cute sub you got there!’

Cute?! No way! Sure, the Tang was not the most terrifying vessel ever to sail the seas, not even the most fear-inspiring one currently sailing the Grand Line but to call it ‘cute’ was disgustingly patronising! Only her crew could call her thus. Who even called any vessel with the word ‘DEATH’ painted on it ‘cute’?!

“Such a puny thing... We almost took it for a goldfish!” There was laughter from the other side. Bepo couldn’t bear it.

He stole the speaker-microphone from Penguin’s hand. “Apologise! You apologise right now!” At being asked who the fuck was talking, Bepo miraculously calmed down and replied “Sorry! My name is Bepo and--” Penguin cut him off with a 'DON’T APOLOGISE YOURSELF, YOU IDIOT!’

Law, who had this paradoxically unnatural and intrinsic ability to materialise himself demanded to know what the hell was going on. He said nothing of the aroma still lingering in the control room - and which was doomed to stick around for at least another day if they were lucky to reach the island Bepo had his eye on in about an hour and allow the Tang to breathe fresh air - and the mink could not tell if Captain was just that used to bad stenches - far from him to insinuate Law was flatulent, but bodies are smelly things whether dead or alive - or if the urgency of this surprise and stupid call just robbed his complete attention, leaving the topic of farts behind.

The following exchange of words over the radio Den Den Mushi was so unpleasant Bepo pulled his ears down, hoping the fur on the top of his head would muffle the swear words. The bodiless voices dared Law and his crew to ‘keep up’, to which his face lit up and he smiled like a deviant child who’s being asked to come and play. Everyone knew what that meant... But before they could give chase, something hit against the Tang’s side.

“Shit! That almost hit the starboard diving plane!”

Oh dear! Such a hit was even worse than one directed at the hull. Bepo was feeling lost. His martial arts did not do when there was no enemy for him to kick but being a navigator almost as much as he was a warrior, he answered his captain with a loud ‘Aye, aye!’ when Law called his name - just the name sufficed for the mink to know what he wanted. If the pirate foes wanted to play underwater warfare, the Tang, too, had projectiles to send their way and it was Bepo’s job to avoid as many hits as possible, while trying to keep the course steady. 

The chase started, both vessels advancing westwards. Checking the inertial guidance once again, Bepo noted the enemy was taking the same route so they must be travelling to the same island. This he communicated to his captain, who eyed yet another monitor, this one broadcasting images from the sub’s outside the round window did not show. 

A plan was devised. Making use of the geography before the island’s surrounding reef, combined with a cat-and-mouse game and a joke on the human ego, the Heart Pirates managed to attack the anonymous ship and lay low for a while before calling an ambush. Such was the advantage of a cute, puny sub!

“Captain, we hit their rudder!”

At this emergency stop, the Polar Tang emerged to continue battle under the clouds. Were they fighting any other ship, Bepo might have stayed in the control room to provide an escape when all was said and done. Since the metallic vessel possessed equipment capable of detecting submarines and establishing underwater communications, though, there was no way he would not take a peek at this technology and steal it, if he deemed it helpful to his navigating and, by extension, helpful to the man he’d swore to follow and obey wherever he went a long time ago. And, why not?, sabotage it too... which Bepo would come to regret and apologise for it that meant people would be left drifting until death came for them!

The Heart Pirates boarded the metallic ship, finally looking upon its Jolly Roger consisting of a serpentine-looking animal. Bepo might have been able to identify what it was if only he had time to study it.  Now, let it be said that, by now, Trafalgar Law’s crew had sized up the enemy and, without wishing to underestimate them, was able to tell they were more talk than force, even if by all accounts their firepower seemed superior when underwater - again, point to the smaller submarine with more freedom to move about! With the battle entering its second act on the foe’s ship’s deck, Law’s Devil Fruit gave the HP a good advantage. 

Leaving Captain and crew behind, not out of cowardice but because he knew they could handle the situation without his help, Bepo entered the cabin, kicking unconscious whoever got in his way. The ship was rather empty inside, with more and more crewmates making their way up deck in order to fight the enemy they had clearly and erroneously underestimated. 

“Let’s see what they got here”

The first thing that caught Bepo’s attention amongst and against the machinery was the twin snail of the one on the Tang’s dashboard, specialised in radio communications. Bepo hesitated... He could not hurt it! But he could not leave it behind with it being rare equipment... What to do? As a solution, the mink freed the Den Den Mushi from the attachment cords and placed him in the pocket he had on the inside of his jumpsuit, which he used to keep maps when necessary - and very, very much folded - and Law’s Vivre Card. Law kept Bepo’s as well.

As for the rest of the controls, Bepo recognised most of them and decided they were not worth the effort of stealing, as they rivalled the Tang’s. A powerful choreograph of kicks is what they met, as did the sonar which had detected the yellow submarine, but a portable sonar coated in yellow he did take, locking it in his armpit. If anything, it could be useful for their seabed exploring pastime.

The journey back outside was easy, or as easy as finding your way in a vessel whose layout you don’t know can be. The bear could use his sense of smell to find the breeze and the sea, and so he did. 

On deck, he found incoherent yelling and whining and his Captain’s smile flashing in greatness. As far as Bepo was concerned, they should return to the Tang and continue their journey, bypassing the island they had been routing to and continue ‘can season’ a bit more, until a new stop was on the horizon.

Something watched from behind the main mast. It was big and furry and Bepo thought he saw a bear ear poking through before it was gone in less than a second. Was it waiting to pounce on him and attack? Avenge its fallen comrades? Or was it scared, trying to remain hidden behind a structure that was not large enough for its frame?

Still holding the portable device, Bepo stopped, ready to face the enemy. Could he be imagining things, though? Just then, the panda revealed itself and Bepo knew it was a female panda out of intuition and unexplainable knowledge, whereas any human would not make much of a clothed bear as either a female or male until they announced their sex.

A few bullets still darted around, hissing in the air but it was something altogether different that struck Bepo, right in his heart. All this time... he had thought himself alone. There were bear minks back in Zou, of course, but without his brother, without seeing a fellow bear as he travelled first Law and the original team even before they were a crew, and then under Law’s Jolly Roger, there were moments when Bepo felt less hopeful about finding a mate. A friend. A friend just like him, who knew how it was like to be a bear and how it was like to be a mink.

My, how his human friends had made fun of him for wondering whether there would be female bears at Amazon Lily... And here it was! A female bear. Even if she was a panda, judging by her distinct fur. She wore rags - thank God she was not naked to Bepo’s eyes! - and... A collar. So... she was a slave.

Hatred filled Bepo as though his body was naught but air and there was plenty of room for the feeling to use him as a mold. The first bear mink he saw and she was a slave to humans, just like most humans would have it. He did not have to know anything about her to feel sympathetic and angry, for of the human race he knew more than enough.

The panda was both fearful and courageous, telling him to stay back in a warning-like fashion.

“Easy, easy!” Bepo lifted his free paw as a sign of peace. “Sorry! My name is Bepo... That’s my crew. Yes, we... We killed these pirates!” Well he had not but there was no way Bepo would point digits at Law as though he were the one to blame, The Captain was never to blame. “They started it!” He uttered in a sort of boyish way. The panda was making him feel embarrassed and even more bashul than usual for some reason...

Waving with his paw as if it were a white flag - it was already the right colour - Bepo advanced a booted step forward. Then another. He wanted the panda to understand he meant no harm. “What’s your name? I’m Be-- Sorry, I already said that... I will find the quartermaster’s key for you, alright? And then you tell me your name, ok?”

[mudshadow]

it occurred to me I should prob write down all these fools stories so heres a VERY long one for these two under the cut

Joker was born into a happy household. He had both his parents, King and Queen, and a sweet elderly man as his twoleg. He was born with five other littermates; they were all given to other families once they were a couple moons old, but Joker’s twoleg decided to keep him because he was charmed by his odd coloured eyes. Sadly, not long after, when Joker was only 5 moons old, his family’s twoleg quietly passed away during the night and wouldn’t wake up the next morning. People came to collect their twoleg’s body, and nobody ever came back for the three of them. Joker, King, and Queen were forced to leave their home in hopes of finding food and hopefully even someone else to take care of them. They traveled around for a couple moons, living off of scraps from garbage cans, and eventually ended up a few towns over in a bigger city. Unbeknownst to them, they accidentally ended up in a group of rogue’s territory, and decided to bunker down for a while because food wasn’t too hard to come by compared to other places they had been. Joker had been able to pick up hunting live prey pretty easily since he was so young when they had left their old house, so he would often go out hunting on his own. On one of these hunting trips, he met a red tabby tom named Durian. Durian was kind to him, letting him know the best places to find rats and mice and hunt, and they’d usually see each other whenever Joker went out to hunt. One night, after witnessing Joker gulp down a mouse he had just caught, Durian approached Joker, carrying two plump rats. Durian told Joker he had hunted too much that night, and that Joker should take the rats back to his family for dinner. Joker happily accepted the prey and brought them back to King and Queen who were both pleased and proud by the large meal their son had accrued for them. A few sunrises later, Joker woke up late in the morning and both his parents were dead beside him. Joker was horrified by the sight before him, and gave in to the overwhelming instinct to run and run and not stop until he physically couldn’t go on anymore. By the time Joker found a bush to hide under and rest, he was multiple towns away, far from the bodies of his parents and far from Durian. Joker kept traveling for another few moons and ended up in some woods on the edge of a little town, and decided to settle down there. He lived there for a year, enjoying the privacy of the woods and easy access to the town if he needed anything from it. He took the year that he spent living in these woods to think about his actions and what exactly had put him in his situation without his dear parents, and after thinking about this for a year, he eventually came to the conclusion that Durian had tricked him into feeding his own parents poisoned prey. He immediately decided to retrace his old steps back to the city where Durian lived, where his parents had died. It took him another long few moons, but luckily when Joker got back, Durian was right where he had been all that time ago. Joker spied on and watched Durian and his group of cats for a little while, and slowly started picking them off and killing them, one by one, until Durian was the last rogue of his group left. Joker confronted Durian, forcing him to confess that he gave Joker those poisoned rats all those moons ago, because he hadn’t taken kindly to a group of soft and squishy housecats settling in his territory. Durian begged for his life, but Joker attacked him and they fought; Joker lost half of his right ear in this fight and Durian lost his life. Joker took up residence in what used to be Durian’s territory and set up a nest for himself in a nearby grassy park, which was the part of his new territory that most reminded him of the woods he used to call his home.

Slatekit was born to her mother Pikesplash and her father Graywillow. She was born with two other littermates, who sadly passed away a couple days after being born, having been very weak since Pikesplash had given birth to them. Slatekit was the only surviving kit of the litter and both her parents just loved her to death, especially after the death of their other two kits. When Slatekit reached 5 moons old, bored and unsupervised in camp, she ended up sneaking out and went exploring her clan’s territory. She ended up by the river flowing out from the lake, which had swelled from recent leaf-bare rains. Clumsy on her young paws, she slipped on some stone and fell into the river. She had practiced swimming in the shallows by the RiverClan camp enough to stay afloat for a little while, but she was too weak to fight the current to make it to shore, and so she was swept out of RiverClan territory. She was knocked unconscious at some point while she flowed down the river, and she briefly regained consciousness to find herself on a gross muddy shore, but she quickly passed out again. The next time that she woke up, she was in a shiny metal cage in what she assumed had to be a twoleg deg. She was too weak to try to escape, and let the resident twoleg take care of her for about a moon. Once she was feeling well and energetic again, though grateful for the twoleg’s care, she managed to escape the twoleg’s den through an open window and found herself in a rather large and daunting city. She had no idea how to make sense of this place she found herself in, and easily got lost looking for the river.

Slatekit eventually happened upon an open grassy area in this busy city of twoleg dens. She decided to stop here for the night, slightly comforted by the presence of the few groups of trees. Slatekit crawled under a scraggly bush and went to sleep. When she opened her eyes the next morning, she found herself being stared at by a scarred face with odd-coloured eyes. A large, older black and white tom loomed over her and he spooked her for a moment, but when he saw she was awake, he asked her what she was doing in that part of town. She quickly came over her slight fear, excited to finally see another cat and launched into her story about how she ended up there. The tom, whose name he revealed to be Joker, definitely hadn’t asked for her whole story, but since he was familiar with the river she mentioned, he pointed her in the direction of it and turned his back to stalk off into the rest of the park. Slatekit called after him, thanking him, and quickly ran off in the direction Joker had indicated. Try though she might, Slatekit ended up getting lost on her way to the river, completely bewildered by the maze of twoleg dens, but she managed to retrace her steps and her scent back to the park by nightfall. She crawled back under her bush, and tried to keep her eyes open for Joker, but she quickly fell asleep from how tired she was by trying to navigate all day. Come morning, Slatekit was ecstatic to see Joker glowering over her again when she woke up, and quickly told him about her attempt to leave the city and how lost she got and how hungry she was at that point, and begged him to lead her to the river. Joker reluctantly agreed after she pestered and pestered him, if only to just get her off of his territory. Joker quickly caught a meal for her and they headed out in the direction of the river, They reached the river by sun-down and Slatekit was overjoyed. Joker quickly turned to leave and Slatekit started to panic. She rushed in front of him, trying to block his way, telling him that she didn’t know how to hunt and she would never be able to make it home all on her own. Joker asked why he should bother concerning with her any longer and Slatekit said she’d follow him all around his territory and she knew that any threats he might make to her were empty because she could tell Joker would never think of doing anything sinister to a harmless kit like herself. Joker found himself again reluctantly agreeing to travel with Slatekit up the river until they found her home, promising to catch her food and possibly even teaching her how to hunt if they found the time.

Joker and Slatekit started on this journey as near strangers but grew closer and closer as they traveled together to find the lake territories. Joker was callous to her at first, but after a few nights of watching her shiver from the cold leaf-bare weather, he found himself curling up around her to keep her warm. Though a moon isn’t very long, with his own help, Joker felt like he watched Slatekit grow from a helpless little kit into a little bit more competent of a cat, able to survive on her own, and her endless energy and overall cheeriness ended up warming his old, hardened heart. After a number of years chasing other cats off of his territory in this city, Joker had forgotten how wonderful companionship is and by the time the two of them finally reached the lake, Joker found himself thinking of Slatekit as if she were his daughter and loving her as if they were really kin. Slatekit felt similarly; however reluctant Joker had taken care of her at first, he ended up putting his whole self into his care for her and his teaching her how to care for herself as well. Even though she loved her biological father, Graywillow, back in RiverClan all the same, Slatekit loved Joker like a father too.

Arriving back at RiverClan, Slatekit’s parents and the rest of RiverClan were overjoyed to see her alive and well again. Though, while Slatekit was gone, Pikesplash and Graywillow had fought over Slatekit’s disappearance and their relationship had fallen apart. Joker stayed as a guest for a couple of days, but then talked to the newly apprenticed Slatepaw about how he should probably leave, as he didn’t want to impose on her family and Clan. Slatepaw panicked again, and begged him not to leave, she told him she loved him so much and she couldn’t bear not having him around to look out for her and be there for her, if Eelstar didn’t think there was a place for him in RiverClan, Slatepaw could convince her that such a place existed for him. Though it broke his heart, Joker tried to convince Slatepaw to not make such a big deal of his leave, he’d lived alone for years and Slatepaw would forget about him not long after he left; Slatepaw never gave him the opportunity to argue that, though. She went to Eelstar, who quickly agreed to take him into RiverClan after all he went through for Slatepaw, and told him there would be an open nest for him in the warrior’s den. Though unsure at first, Joker took up the RiverClan leader on her offer. Joker found himself much happier being able to stay at Slatepaw’s side, and though he has trouble connecting with most of the rest of RiverClan, they mostly accepted his presence in their Clan, though swimming isn’t particularly Joker’s strong suit. After about a year of living with RiverClan, when Slatepaw earned her warrior name, Slateskip, Eelstar offered to give Joker his own warrior name, but he politely declined, claiming his name was his only real reminder of his beloved parents, and he wouldn’t be able to bear being called anything else. During that year with RiverClan as well, Joker found himself bonding with Graywillow over their similar feelings and relationship with Slateskip, and Graywillow confided in him about the demise of his relationship with Pikesplash, and the two toms fell in love with each other slowly, their daughter supporting each of them all the way.

[terminallydepraved]

Epithymy Chapter Eight

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Silva began to regret his decision pretty much as soon as Hisoka, vile Drow Lord of the Western Undercity Hisoka, insisted he stay a few days before his payment could be gathered. He had already felt horrible enough with the guilt eating at him, but now he had the added stress of being a human in a den of Drow. At any moment, he expected to be attacked, either by his gracious host or his spurned and betrayed lover.

You deserve it, his inner voice muttered as Silva once again checked every inch of the guest room for traps or hidden poison caches. After what you did to Chrollo, you deserve anything coming to you.

Frowning, Silva let the mattress fall back into place. He deserved a lot, but thinking it like that wasn’t going to help things. If only Hisoka had come and met him sooner, perhaps Silva wouldn’t have had to think about this at all. He could’ve been up above by now, his gold in hand as he paved the way for a cushy future without a backwards glance. Now he had to live with the guilt and the fact that he probably wasn’t ever going to see that gold.

He had to live with the fact that he had betrayed one of the best things he’d found during his travels.

Silva grimaced at the floor. Part of him wished there was some poisoned dart or bladed trap waiting for him in this room. What an ass he had been. The sooner Hisoka could gather the gold, the better off Silva would be. Chrollo would escape again no doubt, and then Silva could relax knowing that things had worked themselves out in the end.  

 A knock sounded on the door and Silva nearly jumped out of his skin. Who could that be? He reached for his knife on the bedspread, slipping it into his boot should it prove to be an assassin. Silva hadn’t seen hide nor hair of another soul since he had been shoved unceremoniously into this room after Hisoka had whisked Chrollo away.

 Opening the door just a crack, Silva peered out into the hallway. “Who is it?” he asked, eyes going wide as whoever it was shoved on the other side, moving him easily, almost as if he weighed nothing. Silva struggled to brace it shut, but his attempts were in vain. A dour-faced Drow woman stood in the doorway, looking anything but out of breath after that display of strength.

 If she had any thoughts on his attempts at denying her entry, she didn’t make them obvious. “The master sends for you,” the servant said quietly, her nose wrinkled in distaste. Her white hair was wound into a tight bun on top of her head, her eyes a piercing red color that reminded him far too much of fresh blood.  

 “Does he have my pay?” Silva asked, on edge. Did Drow not need to blink? Her gaze was disconcerting.

 Instead of answering, the servant narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down as if she found him wanting in some regard. “No,” she said finally, meeting his eye after one last disapproving pass. “It is time for the evening supper. His lordship wishes for you to join him. Follow.”

 Before Silva could so much as ask why, she was turning and leaving, her pace fast enough that he rushed to follow after her. He barely had the time to close the door behind him before jogging down the hall, her gait misleadingly long for how short her legs were. “Hey, what’s the rush?” he grunted, catching up just as she turned a corner. Silva tried to keep his bearings but the harried pace and unsettling decor made it difficult.

 The servant just harrumphed, holding her head high as she led him through the halls. “His lordship shall not be kept waiting,” she said, barely glancing at him as she spoke. “Tis the height of rudeness for a guest to assert himself so.”

 It was the height of rudeness where Silva came from to treat a guest so abrasively. Silva held his tongue on the insult he wanted to lob, contenting himself with the thought that as fast as they were walking, he’d soon be where he needed to be and free of her company.

 He was proven right when after only another minute or so, they came upon a pair of thick, polished doors. The servant stopped and reached out a hand, opening them with an ease that surprised Silva. For her slight frame, he hadn’t expected to see such strength, but then again, he supposed that Drow were made of tougher stuff than humans. Peering past her, he looked inside, eager to see if Chrollo were anywhere to be found inside.

 A hall large enough for a banquet opened up before Silva, the servant letting him enter first. The ceilings were high, far higher than the outside of the manor seemed to be capable of boasting, and from the very center hung an elaborate, antiquated looking chandelier. Though it held at least a hundred candles, none of them were lit. Instead, the glow of fox fire illuminated the room, glistening eerily off the polished silver plates and cutlery clustered on one end of the enormous table.

 Looking back at the servant, Silva cleared his throat. “Where is his lordship?” he asked, noting how not a single sound could be heard throughout the grand hall. “Am I dining alone?”

 The servant sniffed. “He will be here shortly. Take a seat and begin.”

 If she were any chillier, Silva might freeze solid. Nodding his head, he let out a low sigh, looking back at the places set at the table. There were three places set, two close together and the other a few seats away, back to the door. Silva didn’t need to ask to know where he was intended to sit. Despite that, he still turned back to look at the servant, only to find her gone, nothing but dead air and silence in her wake. It figured, he thought, walking towards the table, that he would be left here alone to await Hisoka.

 At least he didn’t have to wait for dinner. The table was already laden with food, from dishes that ranged from whole beasts to stewed vegetables, to bowls filled with all manner of things Silva couldn’t properly identify. He sat himself down in the seat meant for him, judging the food with a careful eye. It certainly smelled edible, even if some of it looked less than normal.

 “Ahh, you beat me here,” a voice called out, and Silva startled a bit, whipping around in his seat to take in the man entering. Hisoka made his entrance quietly, slipping through the door with a grace that seemed to belong to all Drow. He was smiling as he always seemed to do, clothed in a an ensemble that looked more expensive than Silva’s axe with a neckline just as dramatic. His sharp, dark collar bones framed a pendant of turquoise, one that matched Chrollo’s ever-present earrings.

 “Your servant was very brisk,” Silva said, watching the Drow navigate around the table and seat himself in one of the chairs across the way. “I’d be surprised if I didn’t beat you here.”

 “Ah, well, Nvidia doesn’t like to waste her time on duties below her,” Hisoka smiled. “You understand. How have you found your rooms? Are they to your liking?” He gestured at the food before them welcomingly. “Of course, help yourself while we get acquainted. If you are a guest here, we should be civil.”

 The way he worded it sent Silva’s instincts ringing vaguely somewhere in the back of his mind. “They’re fine. You obviously do very well for yourself,” he said, looking between the dishes carefully. “And, while I’ve got it on my mind, what of my payment?” Silva asked, helping himself to the food closest to him. Meat was usually a safe bet, and he took some of whatever beast it was on the platter at his elbow. Hooved feet and wings? It smelled good, at least. “You’ve kept me waiting for a while now. I’m inclined to believe you don’t intent on paying me.”

 Hisoka waved his hand errantly, pouring himself wine from a silver decanter. “It’s being seen to,” he said offhandedly, taking a sip before he bothered to serve himself any real food. “Such impatience to be paid. It’s almost as if you don’t trust me.”

 Silva didn’t say anything. He let his look do the talking for him. It prompted a laugh from Hisoka, one that sounded a lot warmer than Silva expected it to. The Drow rested an elbow on the table and stared at him, a small smile on his lips as he took Silva in. Silva ignored him for the most part. Whatever the meat was, it was pretty tasty. Somewhere between a chicken and a goat, but tender enough that it seemed to melt in his mouth.

 “So,” Hisoka began, his golden eyes unsettling enough to make Silva stiffen in his seat.

 “So,” Silva parroted, refusing to be intimidated. He took another bite, brow raised.

 “My blackbird tells me that you partook of his many charms while he was away.” Hisoka folded his hands on top of the table, hand too close to his knife to bring Silva any measure of comfort. “I must say, I’m not fond of the idea.”

 It took only a moment for Silva to parse out what he was saying. The moment it clicked was the moment Silva began to look for an exit, swallowing the bite of food far too quickly to be safe. “Did he now?” Silva replied, wondering just how angry Chrollo was if he were selling Silva out too. As discreetly as he could, Silva edged his boot closer, keeping his own knife within easy reach should he need it. He glanced down at his plate for a moment, wondering if it had been wise to eat so readily. Could it have been poisoned?

 Hisoka rested his cheek on his propped up hand, blinking slowly at Silva like a cat debating on going after a mouse. Where Chrollo’s features were soft, Hisoka’s were deathly sharp, his cheekbones chiseled enough to cut should someone get it in their head to try slapping him. Hisoka hummed and smiled, his mood unreadable. “He did,” he said, the pointed white of his teeth just visible past his grinning lips. “He was quite vehement in his rejection of me, but he found the time to make sure I knew just how… close the two of you had become whilst on your travels.”

 Was it just a Drow thing to be so damnably vague? Did he know, or was he trying to get Silva to admit to something? Silva wasn’t going to sit here and sweat just because Hisoka found it fun. “We work well together,” he decided to say, figuring that if Hisoka wanted to play, Silva would play too. “Chrollo is a good match to me. He takes direction well.”

 “Why, thank you,” Hisoka preened, leaning forward with a smile. “You should have seen how unruly he was the day he first fell into my arms. It’s been a lot of work, but I am most proud of the result.”

 Something like jealousy pooled in the pit of Silva’s stomach. So they were talking about sex. He sat back up but kept his boot near, just in case. “About that,” he said, noting how Hisoka perked up at the potential for more. “How did you come to… know Chrollo? For someone so predisposed towards wandering, I find it hard to believe he settled into a life of luxury easily.” Or willingly, for that matter. “Half-Drow aren’t typically accepted down here, are they?”

 Leaning back in his seat, Hisoka looked at Silva thoughtfully. “Curious, aren’t you?” he murmured, rolling his eyes. “I suppose Chrollo told you enough to make you so. He is such a wonderfully contradictory puzzle, isn’t he? He came to me first,” Hisoka said, tapping at his bottom lip as he spoke, “some odd half-century ago. I’d certainly never seen the like of him before, so I simply felt I must have him.”

 The way Hisoka made it sound, Chrollo was just a pet to him. Grinding his teeth, Silva narrowed his eyes. “Came to you?” he prompted, recalling how Chrollo had said he hadn’t been born in the Underdark, but he had ended up there. “In what way?”

 Hisoka visibly adored Silva’s prodding. He smiled his sharp-toothed smile and laughed a little. “In the way that most do,” he said, raising a blood-red brow. “He broke into my manor, pilfered my valuables, and then came for my head. I can still remember it as if it were yesterday. He looked so beautiful bathed in my servants’ blood.”

 Hisoka paused there, laughing at whatever expression Silva wore on his face. “Oh, did I shock you?” he asked, leaning forward in mock concern. “Why, did he never tell you? I’m rather notorious in these parts. My dearest blackbird heard of a reward placed on my head by a rival family and felt the need to fill his purse. It’s all rather romantic if you know how to appreciate such things.”

 Coming from a Drow, Silva shouldn’t have been so surprised. He leaned back in his seat, eyes still wide at the thought. “Why didn’t you just kill him?” he asked. “He tried to kill you, didn’t he?”

 Waving his hand, Hisoka scoffed. “And waste such perfection? I can always buy more servants, but a lover like that is hard to come by. It’s as you said, after all,” he led, eyes dancing. “Half-Drow are a rarity down here. I simply had to have him.”

 “And of the family that sent the hit?” Silva offered.

 Hisoka’s smile grew. “I’m afraid they’re no longer with us,” he said cheerfully, taking his wine glass by the stem to sip from it. “Of course, I had no official hand in that. Our government frowns upon such infighting, and I am nothing if not an upstanding member of our society.”

 Silva snorted, taking up his own glass and drinking from it. If it were poisoned, Hisoka would see to him dying even if he did abstain. “I’m sure you’re the picture of civility,” he deadpanned. Drow society wasn’t a very talked about thing up on the surface, but Silva had heard tell of the government, or what passed as government to them. If a family were caught fighting with another, both were liable to be eradicated in the name of preserving the peace. It hardly stopped the infighting, but it meant that those who were predisposed to it were forced to work carefully to see their success met.

 “That is what my government says,” Hisoka chimed, laughing a little. “What the rest say depends on my mood.” His eyes cut to Silva, hard and shining like citrine. “And what does my blackbird say to you of me, since we are on this topic? I’m sure he has told you all kinds of cruel things to gain your pity.”

 “I don’t pity Chrollo,” Silva said, setting his glass back down. “If you’re wondering if he’s bad mouthed you, he hasn’t.” It would have been better if Chrollo had. Maybe then Silva wouldn’t have brought him back here. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly his favorite person either right now.”

 “And for good reason,” a smooth voice cut in. Silva didn’t startle, but it was a near thing. Hisoka’s gaze was focused somewhere over Silva’s shoulder, and Silva turned too to take in the one they had been talking so much about.

 Chrollo was dressed now in clothing that Silva had never seen him wear before, things probably more befitting of his beauty and status than the dark leather and worn linen he had worn up above in Silva’s company. Silva’s mouth went dry at the sight. If this had come calling for his head, maybe Silva could see the logic behind keeping Chrollo instead of killing him.

 “It’s lovely to see you join us, Chrollo,” Hisoka greeted, standing graciously to hold out the seat next to him. Chrollo moved with infinite grace, his slender arms distracting, bared as they were in the lace work top. The silvery…. was it really spidersilk? Silva supposed it must have been, given the proclivities of the Drow. It created a beautiful contrast to his skin, his flowing skirt exposing his thighs through the open panels on the sides. Silva let his eyes wander, hating that Hisoka did the same. Something like this felt like it should only be appreciated alone, intimately. Silva didn’t want to share any part of that with Hisoka.

 But Chrollo didn’t even look at Hisoka, and he sure as hell didn’t look at Silva. He simply snatched up the plate and a fork as he moved, bypassing the proffered seat entirely to sit further off. Hisoka frowned and Silva hid a smile. He wasn’t sitting by Silva, but at least he wasn’t sitting by Hisoka either. Wordlessly, Chrollo began to fill up his plate, eating quietly and ignoring the eyes on him.

 Hisoka cleared his throat, glancing at Silva for just a second before addressing Chrollo again. “We were just talking about you,” he said brightly. “I’m pleased to see our words summoned you like a blessing. I can’t begin to say how much you grace us both with your presence.”

 Silva stared at Hisoka blandly. What on earth was he going on about? Did he think pretty words alone were going to be enough to get Chrollo to forgive them? What an idiot. Chrollo wasn’t even pretending to act like he had heard, instead opting to stare at Silva suddenly with a gaze as intense as it was surprising.

 “Your knife.” Chrollo’s words were clipped. Polite but distant.

 Silva blinked. “My what?” he asked, his mind immediately jumping to the one in his boot. Did Chrollo want to stab Hisoka for his attempts at flattery? He was reaching for it already, delighted by the thought.

 Chrollo closed his eyes, sighed, and then opened them again. “Give me your knife. I can’t cut this meat,” he said, looking like every word he had to exchange pained him.

 Leaning back up, Silva flushed. “Oh,” he said, taking up the knife beside his own plate. “Yeah. Sure–”

 “Pet, why don’t you use mine?” Hisoka quickly interjected, already standing up, knife in hand. “Or, better yet, I’ll cut it for you–”

 Chrollo’s shoulders tensed and he didn’t bother looking away from Silva as he spoke. “If you don’t sit back down right now, Hisoka, I’m going to jab my fork in your eye.” His voice was as cold and effective as ice. Silva shivered and Hisoka froze in place, eyes wide as he stared at his lover taking the knife from Silva.

 Hisoka sat back down with a muffled thud, mouth a hard line and back stiff. “I hardly think the situation worthy of threats, pet,” he muttered, glaring at Silva for some reason. “Aren’t you mad at him too? Why am I the only one being spurned by you so viciously?”

 “Well, I would say he’s got more reason to be angry at you, don’t you think?” Silva offered, a grin on his face as he helped himself to more of whatever it was he was eating. Knowing Drow, it was probably some horrifying cave creature, but with Chrollo there, his appetite had returned in full. “All I did was my job. You’re the over-obsessed lover who sent out hunters to retrieve what you thought was yours.”

 Hisoka clasped the edge of the table so hard that the wood groaned quietly in protest. “I would say that creatures nearing the end of their pitifully short lives shouldn’t aspire to speed up the process by goading their betters,” Hisoka replied, his voice level in a way that got Chrollo’s attention.

 “I’m mad at you both,” Chrollo said bluntly, stabbing at his food with an annoyed air. “You should stop competing for a losing title.”

 Silva smirked. “Did you hear that? I think that’s your place in this race.”

 Hisoka bristled. “Oh, no,” he said, gesturing towards Silva. “That honor is all yours. You are, after all, so painfully old. It would be cruel of me to deny you of your rightful title as the Loser of Losers when you’ve no chance to better yourself in this lifetime.”

 Oh, that was hilarious coming from a creature twice Silva’s age. He readied himself to say as much, but was cut off before he could even open his mouth. Chrollo stood up, his chair screeching across the floor in disapproval. The air froze in place and Silva stared at Chrollo, Hisoka doing the same.

 “You’re both unbelievable,” he said, his hands resting on the tabletop, eyes frigid enough to freeze them both in place. “Absolutely unbelievable. Is this all a game to the two of you? Is my agency a joke to be laughed at?”

 When he said it like that, Silva just felt like an ass. He chewed the inside of his cheek and met eyes with the fuming, beautiful Drow. “Of course not,” he said, balking a little when Chrollo turned the force of his glare solely on him.

 “That’s absolutely rich coming from the man who trussed me up like a stuffed pig and dragged me back here against my will,” Chrollo hissed. “You’ve already shown how much you value my freedom, since you quite literally put a price on it.”

 Hisoka let out a soft snicker and promptly earned Chrollo’s undivided attention. Silva relaxed a little when the focus shifted off of him and onto the other Drow. He half felt sorry for Hisoka for what he figured was about to come.

 “Don’t you dare laugh, Hisoka,” Chrollo said coldly, his gaze as frigid as an icy wind. “I’m so angry I could break something.”

 Silva had never seen Chrollo so angry before, and from the looks of it, neither had Hisoka. The dining hall was deathly silent, Chrollo glaring down at the plate in front of him. He looked as if he were half considering lobbing it across the room. Silva got ready to move in case he did. There was no telling which of them would be the target, but he supposed if there was one sure-fire way to test who he was most mad at, it would be that.

 Instead of acting on the anger he no doubt felt, Chrollo instead crumpled. His shoulders fell and his angry frown turned into an expression of pure sadness. “It doesn’t feel like I’m home like this,” he whispered, his hands clenching on the edge of the table, knuckles white. “You’ve locked me in a cage and expected me to say thank you for it.” He looked up, meeting Hisoka’s eyes. “We’ve been together for fifty years and you still don’t even know me.”

 Silva’s eyes went wide when Chrollo grabbed him by the shirt, yanking him from his chair with a strength Silva hadn’t been expecting. “We’re leaving,” Chrollo told him, glaring back at Hisoka as he dragged Silva towards the door. “Don’t try to follow. I don’t want to see you if you’re going to act like this.”

 Hisoka stood up to protest, but they were already halfway to the door. “Chrollo, come on!” Hisoka called out. He had the sense to stay put, at least, not moving to follow them. “At least stay through dinner!”

 Chrollo shoved Silva towards the door, whirling around in a flare of silk and lace to glare daggers at his lover. “I’ll eat when and where I please, Hisoka,” he nearly snarled. “You’ve lost the right to share in my company.”

 And Silva hadn’t? He didn’t try to ask, though, not when Chrollo turned back towards him. Silva had seen kinder looking dragons than the Drow right now. He let Chrollo snatch up his arm again and drag him through the heavy doors, not bothering to take a last backwards glance at Hisoka as they did so.

 The pace was quick and the mood smothering. “Where are we going?” Silva asked gently, wincing when Chrollo’s nails began to cut into his arm. Was it just a Drow quirk to walk so fast?

 “To your room,” came the simple, barbed reply.

 “Can I ask why?”

 Chrollo snorted, turning a corner, the pace not letting up an inch. “Because nothing will sting him more than me willingly putting you before him,” he replied, smiling an unkind smile that seemed to waver, already on the verge of falling. “He’s… He’s too self-centered to think anything different.”

 Silva let that sit in the air for a moment, nearly tripping over his feet as Chrollo dragged them down another hall. He was beginning to recognize the portraits now. “Are… Are you okay?” he forced himself to ask, wincing again when the nails cut deeper.

 “No,” Chrollo said flatly, ending the conversation there before he drew blood.

 Silva was glad Chrollo seemed to know his way around, but when they stopped in front of his door, Chrollo didn’t bother asking before he opened it and shoved Silva inside. Silva stumbled and caught himself before he fell, turning around to see Chrollo following him inside too. A thousand thoughts tore through Silva’s mind at what Chrollo could be planning. Was he going to kill Silva himself?

 The moment the door closed was the moment Chrollo’s haughty, imperious mood crashed around his feet. Chrollo leaned against the door and covered his face with his hands, sliding down to sit on the ground. Silva didn’t know what to do, his instincts telling him to comfort while Chrollo’s body language screamed to go away.

 “Chrollo,” Silva called out gently, approaching slowly because he had to try something. Even if it were a trap, which he was beginning to doubt more and more every second, Silva was honor bound at this point to do whatever he could to make amends. “Do you want to be alone?”

 The Drow’s narrow shoulders hunched, his hands trembling in front of his face. “I want none of this to have happened,” he answered after a moment of nothing, his voice shaking as much as his body. “I want to wake up and still be on the surface with a man who wouldn’t sell me out and with a lover who had enough restraint to keep himself from dragging me back before I was ready.”

 Silva grimaced, his guilt doubling. He hadn’t wanted things to go like this. He hadn’t wanted Chrollo to be so miserable. Inching closer to the Drow, Silva sank to his knees and reached out a hand, resting it on Chrollo’s shoulder. When it wasn’t shaken off, Silva moved closer. Chrollo didn’t protest when Silva pulled him into his arms. He didn’t protest Silva stroking through his hair or kissing his head, offering what comfort he could.

 “I’m sorry,” Silva said, feeling Chrollo tremble. “For what little it’s worth now, I’m sorry.”

 “Do you even know what you’re sorry for?” Chrollo mumbled, holding Silva to him, refusing to let an inch of space between them.

 His skin was soft where the lace left off, and Silva stroked along his back, kissing his even softer hair again just because he could and Hisoka couldn’t. “I’m sorry for making you feel like this,” Silva said, meeting Chrollo’s eyes when the Drow deigned to glanced up at him, dark eyes liquid and as black as night. “I’m sorry for thinking that I knew best when it came to your happiness.”

 “You don’t,” Chrollo whispered, lips trembling a bit. “No one knows best but me.”

 “I know that now,” Silva hushed, moving a lock of Chrollo’s hair behind his delicate ear. He really was so pretty, wasn’t he? Soft lips, dark eyes, skin as smooth as the petals of a flower. Silva held back on the urge to kiss him, knowing now wasn’t the time. After all he had done to Chrollo, that time might not ever come again. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

 Chrollo’s face crumpled, and for a moment, Silva feared him on the verge of tears. His small form fell heavily against Silva’s chest, and Silva lifted him easily, toppling them back onto the bed until Chrollo was laid out along his chest like a small, miserable kitten. “T-then why doesn’t Hisoka?” he stammered, hiding his face in Silva’s shirt. “Why doesn’t he understand what he’s done wrong? I would’ve come back. Why didn’t he just wait for me to come back?”

 Because he was an idiot? Because he was selfish, possessive, jealous, controlling? A thousand answers flooded Silva’s mind but he held his tongue. He stroked Chrollo’s back and held him while he shivered, letting the Drow hide his face when the tears eventually began to fall. “It’s okay,” Silva soothed, knowing it was poor comfort to give. “He’s an asshole, but he does care about you, right? Maybe he just needs more time to realizes where he went wrong.”

 Chrollo managed a ragged laugh. Tear tracks lined his cheeks when he looked up, but he still smiled through it. “I never thought I’d hear you defending him,” he said, voice wavering as he hiccuped a little. Wiping his eyes, Chrollo looked around the room a little, slipping off Silva to settle in beside him, their legs still tangled together. “Can I…” he began, biting his lip even as he fought another sob. “Can I stay here tonight?”

 Silva would be a bigger fool than he already was if he even thought of saying no. “Of course you can,” he said softly, moving to get up. This was a big manor. Silva could find some other place to sleep. He had seen some sofas in a sitting room a hall or two away. It would be a tight fit, but he had slept on worse.

 Just as he was about to slip off the bed, a small, slender hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place. “Where are you going?” Chrollo whispered, sitting up a little.

 “I was going to give you my room. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Chrollo was still upset with him. Silva wasn’t so much of an ass as to force the Drow to put up with his company when he wanted nothing to do with him.

 Chrollo averted his eyes, but his grip on Silva’s wrist was firm. “You don’t have to go,” he whispered softly after a moment of silence. He glanced back up at Silva, his trembling lips striving to look cocky. “Because, you know, nothing pisses Hisoka off more than us sharing a room.” Chrollo even managed a laugh. “It would be a good punishment for him. Once he realizes I’m not back in our room.”

 Silva smiled warmly at Chrollo, letting him have his excuse. “It would be,” he said, tugging his hand free so that he could shuck off his shirt and toss it to the floor. He paused a moment later, looking back at Chrollo. “Or… Did you want me to keep it on?” There were boundaries now. New ones that Silva had no idea how to navigate.

 But Chrollo just rolled his eyes, shaking his head a little as he laid back down in the bed. “I don’t care, so long as you don’t expect anything to happen,” he mumbled, tucking himself under the fine sheets. “I’m mad at Hisoka, but not mad enough to go that far.”

 “Fair enough.” Silva pulled back the sheets and slipped in himself, Chrollo’s body a smooth line against his shoulder. He turned onto his side out of habit, his arm tucking around Chrollo’s narrow waist loosely. Freezing again, he cleared his throat, the question on his lips but Chrollo already answering.

 “It’s fine. Just know I’ll figure out your punishment soon too,” Chrollo whispered, followed by some short, musical noise that must have been the Drow language. The lights went out a moment later, and Chrollo settled in against Silva’s front, his small hands resting atop Silva’s arm. If Silva imagined hard enough, he could pretend Chrollo was holding him there.

 If only that were true. Silva held back on the sigh in his throat and instead settled for kissing the back of Chrollo’s neck. “Good night, brat,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The day had been long and treacherous and filled with aggravation and relief in equal measure. It was well past the time to rest and his body seemed to agree.

 And if he heard a good night returned to him, he would chalk it up to pleasant dreams. To think otherwise would be pushing his luck.

[aion-rsa]

UFC 4 Review: Best of the Series, But Still No Champion

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Here’s a brief summation of my Career mode experience in EA Sports UFC 4 over the past week: My fictional fighter, Cullogan Ogle, began his career with a kickboxing background. He stormed through the amateur scene and first few professional fights in the UFC, tenderizing opponents’ thighs with a brutal array of leg kicks, lead leg side kicks, and nasty oblique kicks.

But along the way, behind the scenes, Ogle spent much of his training camps working on grappling. He drilled armbars, kimuras, and d’Arce chokes, steadily leveling them up to become more effective. Ogle got so good at them, and I enjoyed chasing submissions so much, that by the time he had earned his legacy as the Greatest of All Time, the ex-kickboxer had secured way more subs than KOs and TKOs.

No way would I have taken the grappler’s path in any previous EA Sports UFC game. The submission system from the first three titles, released between 2014 and 2018, was far too obtuse. The fact that it was scrapped entirely by the developers for UFC 4 says everything you need to know about its popularity.

In its stead, two new mini-games were added to the mix in UFC 4, one each for choke and joint submissions. Both mini-games pit players in cat-and-mouse chases using colored bars. The attacker aims to overlap the bars long enough to secure a tapout, while the defender must evade long enough to escape. Finesse is key, so button mashers who go crazy on the inputs won’t last very long. It’s a much easier system to explain to someone than the old mini-game, which should never be spoken of again. The finesse element also makes sense to anyone who has grappled before (this guy right here).

The choke mechanic utilizes the left stick to smoothly move the colored bars around a ring-shaped overlay. The fact that the choke submission game converted my Career fighter from a kickboxer to a submission ace should speak volumes about how much I embraced it. The featherweight division knew to be wary of my array of unorthodox windshield chokes and Peruvian neck ties. As a gamer who has earned his Brazilian jiu-jitsu blue belt, I’ve been waiting for a grappling system I actually enjoyed playing. It’s here in UFC 4, and I’m glad to have it.

Chasing joint submissions, with their entirely separate mini-game, is a different story. It’s simple enough, with players using the left and right triggers to move those colored bars along a smile-shaped arc. At first, I really enjoyed it, even preferring its pressure-sensitive input execution to the choke attacks. But I eventually found that, even on lesser difficulties, AI fighters had little trouble escaping no matter how well I executed the mechanic. Mind you, Ogle’s submission attributes were maxed out, and opponents’ often were not. I hope the developers can patch this to make it a more viable option in Career fights. Fingers crossed.

It’s puzzling that there are two separate submission mechanics to begin with. Those who opt to play using the new, simplified Grapple Assist controls on the ground will have to pay attention to which submission the AI selects when they hit the sub input. You wouldn’t want to start using the triggers while going for a choke. Why not go with just one or the other? How about giving players the option to use their favorite mechanic for all submission types? It’s weird.

Release Date: August 14, 2020 Platforms: PS4 (reviewed), XBO Developer: EA Sports Publisher: Electronic Arts Genre: Sports

But enough about the ground game because, judging by online player tendencies during the pre-release EA Access and review window, UFC 4 bouts will usually resemble kickboxing contests. Turns out that real people just want to hit each other in this game, which is nothing new for EA’s series.

Also not all that new is the striking in UFC 4. It’s not untouched from the previous game, which was released about two and a half years ago, but it feels a bit too familiar given the amount of time that has passed since UFC 3’s release. Some of the most complex strike inputs have been simplified by a difference between pushing and holding, say, the X button. But the system is still dense, necessitated by the number of different strikes fighters have in their arsenal. As UFC president Dana White is wont to say: “It is what it is.”

Happy to report that the microtransaction farm known as Ultimate Team has been retired. Instead of using real-world cash to build a stable of fighters, UFC 4 has gone the trendy route of allowing players to buy coins to cop swag for your created fighter/avatar. And, because this game allows fighters to compete in the cage wearing masks, shirts, and other gear that doesn’t comply with the UFC’s Reebok uniform policy, there are plenty of ways to deck out your fighter in a way you like. Currency can be earned in-game as well, at a much slower rate, so it’s not a necessity to spend extra cash just to customize your fighter with Super Saiyan Green hair.

And that ties into the fact that UFC 4 is built around Career mode. Visual customization is a part of it, but the bulk is, of course, building your fighter into the GOAT. The premise is familiar to anyone who played UFC 3, but it’s unfortunately not much more cinematic than that game, either. You’ll get a few cutscenes early on and one at the very end, but on the whole Career mostly involves navigating menus and going through training drills between fights. These UFC games could use a more story-driven experience, a la FIFA, NBA 2K, or even the old Fight Night Champion boxing game that many from the UFC development team worked on nearly 10 years ago. 

What I did enjoy was the Fighter Evolution system, in which performing actions leveled up moves. Make an opponent or a training partner tap to an armbar or drop him/her with a crane kick, and those moves will level up. Every time a move levels up, you earn points to distribute to broad attributes like Recovery or Takedowns. It’s a pretty sweet and intuitive system that offers a great feedback loop, at least until my fighter hit an overall five-star rating, with about 12 bouts to go before retirement. After that, it was a slog to the finish line.

The rest of the UFC 4 experience is a mixed bag. Sure, there’s plenty to like, such as the addition of Daniel Cormier to the commentary team as well as the new, unique Kumite and Backyard fight venues. Some fighter models are phenomenal doppelgangers, but others are lesser copies. And, unfortunately, hardcore MMA fans will cry foul when they find some glaring misspellings among customization options (Mauricio “Shogun” Rua, not Hua, no matter how you say it out loud). That one ticked me off and hopefully will be patched ASAP. 

But, all in all, UFC 4 does indeed add up to the best iteration of the EA Sports UFC games. It just has a long way to go before it’s ready to stand among the other sports titans.

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