#nine measures instead of eight

[mythrae]

There has to be a reason why Borislav Slavov made Down By the River, The Power, AND The Nightsong all very similar. And I am going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do!!!

[mediumgayitalian]

“Eight o’clock.”

Will’s jaw drops. “What?” He leans sideways to make deliberate and intensive eye contact with Switzerland, who deliberately and intensively avoids it, pretending to be folding laundry. “No way! Cass, tell him no way!”

“Not my business,” says Switzerland, smiling, for some reason, at Will’s oppression. “Your curfew is Lee’s to handle, you know that.”

“Yeah, when I was ten! I’m sixteen! My curfew is not eight o’ fu —” he thinks better of himself, mindful of Lee’s twitching eye — “fudging clock!”

“Eight is a perfectly reasonable curfew for a sixteen year old. Especially if you’re going out with that —” Lee scoffs — “boy.”

“It’s just Nico!” Will cries, nearly braining a poor visitor with the force of his flailing arms. The visitor, after a moment of careful deliberation and several vague, pointed screeching noises from Will, chooses to pull the blood-soaked t-shirt acting as a bandage tighter over their arm and seek help elsewhere. Wise. When he fails, after several extended minutes of flailing, to extrapolate upon his undoubtedly most excellent argument, he repeats, “It’s just Nico!” And then adds, for good measure, “You like Nico!”

“He is a bad influence,” Lee insists, as if he did not cry for five days when Nico asked for his blessing to date Will. “He has too much freedom, you know, his father lets him run amuck like some harlot —”

Will screeches again, so high this time it is soundless, and must be restrained by Gabriel’s firm grip on his collar from mauling Lee like a bear. Lee, in an uncharacteristically smart move — Carter must be rubbing off on him — takes a delicate step back to avoid Will’s clawing fingers.

“—and has no respect for his elders. You’re going to end up bereft or in jail should you keep seeing him, Will, mark my words.”

Will bares his teeth. “If this is about the eyebrow piercing, you sack of shit, I swear to the gods —”

“He looks like a criminal!” Lee looks around the cabin as if anyone is going to agree with him. He is met, instead, with seven raised eyebrows and nine heavy, deep-seated sighs, but remains stubbornly undeterred. Delusional enough to miscredit the incredulity to Will rather than himself, likely. Truly Apollo’s pride.

“I am going to hunt you to death.”

“So long as you’re back by eight.”

Will deigns, instead of a verbal response, to scream, loud and long, and stomp his way away from the cabin and across the common.

“I’ll take that as compliance!” Lee calls out after him. The scream, somehow, increases in volume, not breaking even as seven people trip to remove themselves hastily from Will’s path. “If you are not back there will be consequences!”

“I hate you!”

“Be safe! I will be waiting up!

“I hope you pass away in your sleep!” A pause. “I don’t mean that, but fuck you!”

“Children,” Lee scoffs to himself, retreating back into the cabin. “No respect anymore.”

“You’re a loser,” Diana informs him.

“It’s those godsdamned iPods, is what it is.”

“Oh my gods.”

———

next

[esamastation]

Part sixty of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-fix, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine

-

The demon is up to something.

The demon has been up to something ever since he'd crawled out of the Endless Abyss, and especially so since Shen Qingqiu died. The moves Luo Binghe has made have been blatant to the point of being insulting, cutting down obstacles and rivals left and right. He'd conquered the Northern Desert and he rules Huan Hua Palace, the wealthiest sect around, in everything but the name. And why?

Revenge, greed, demonic desire for dominance?

Liu Qingge doesn't care why. He doesn't really even care how. What is it to him if the Northern Demon Realm falls to a half-demon upstart, what do Huan Hua Palace's power struggles have to do with him? Nothing! They can mingle as much they like, they can tear eachother apart for all he cares.

And yet here he is, day after day, to challenge Luo Binghe to a duel. Because in his rotten halls, there is one thing Liu Qingge cares about.

Somewhere in Huan Hua Palace, there's the body of Shen Qingqiu.

Liu Qingge knows it, because the rumours about it are vile. They go at length about how Luo Binghe spends himself to preserve his dead master. How he slept in the same chambers as his dead master. How he didn't so much as let anyone touch his dead master, not even to wash him or clean the chambers.

And Luo Binghe never denied it.

Liu Qingge hadn't ever seen Shen Qingqiu's body, not since the awful day Luo Binghe had whisked him away - but he'd seen Luo Binghe. He'd seen him bereft, grieving, furious, raging, and always, always in denial. 

"I will bring him back. If you'd just leave me in peace to work, I will bring him back!"

Insanity. No matter how Liu Qingge wishes it could be otherwise… it's pure insanity. Shen Qingqiu is dead, he's long dead. Far too much time has passed. He must've reincarnated by now. Even if Luo Binghe could drag him back now, it would be cruel to force him into the shape of his previous life. As much as they might wish it… it isn't up to them.

Luo Binghe it's deluding himself. When he should've expressed his gratitude for his master's sacrifice, he instead besmirched his honour. It's shameful, and Shen Qingqiu would've been grieved beyond measure, had he known.

So Liu Qingge has made it his mission to get Shen Qingqiu's body back for a proper burial, and to hopefully knock some sense into Shen Qingqiu most favourite, most troublesome, disciple while he's at it. He would've done it already, if only the brat hadn't grown so damned strong in the Abyss.

And now… now Luo Binghe is up to something.

"Where is your master?" Liu Qingge barks at the nearest Huan Hua Palace disciple, upon arriving at the palace's gaudy, gilded gates once more.

"Apologising to Peak Lord Liu, the master is… busy," the disciple says with a mixture of resignation and nervousness.

Too busy to defend his claim on Shen Qingqiu? "We'll see about that," Liu Qingge mutters and draws his sword. 

With the Huan Hua Palace's warning bells ringing all around, the War God of Bai Zhan Peak rushes the gates and pierces his way through.

He's halfway in and on his way to the wealthier living quarters when Luo Binghe finally deigns to show himself.

"Liu-shishu," the Half demon growls. "This lord doesn't have the time for you now."

"If you don't have time for me, you don't have time for Shen Qingqiu," Liu Qingge answers and waves his sword, aiming it at Shen Qingqiu's student. "Release his body to us!"

Luo Binghe looks frustrated and harried - much like he has in the previous days as well. The demon has been busy, Liu Qingge knows - everyone knows. There's a strange movement in the Northern Desert, and everyone in Huan Hua Palace is on the edge. Something is clearly wrong, and Luo Binghe is distracted.

It's all the opening Liu Qingge needs to attack him.

But ultimately Luo Binghe's state of mind doesn't make a difference.

"I'm so close now! So close to finding him!" Luo Binghe snarls, pinning him down. "I'm not going to let anyone stop me, least of all you! You, of all people, should understand!"

"What's there to understand!" Liu Qingge answers with angry frustration. "Shen Qingqiu is dead! He should have reincarnated by now -"

"Shizun hasn't been reincarnated! He's transmigrated! He's stuck in another body but he's still out there, he's still himself!"

It sounds like nonsense. Annoyingly so, it also sounds like the type of nonsense that has the irritating way of being true. "What are you talking about?!"

Luo Binghe leans closer. "I know all about it. Shizun wasn't the original Shen Qingqiu - he took over his body when Shen Qingqiu died. With that body's death he moved on again, to another body, in another world. And he doesn't even know that his last body is right here, that he can come back at any moment! If only I can find him -!

"Shen Qingqiu isn't -?" Liu Qingge blinks at the crazed look on the half-demon's face. "You're crazy. You're lying!"

"I'm not! You remember it, everyone noticed it! Shizun changed - he became good!" Luo Binghe's hands clutch to Liu Qingge, convulsive, demanding understanding. "He became kind. We disciples of Qing Jing Peak thought he had a Qi-deviation - and I know the other Peak Lords tested him for possession."

They head, again and again. Yue Qingyuan had been obsessive about it, using every means to make sure Shen Qingqiu was who he was. They'd all failed. "How do you know he was possessed?"

"It doesn't matter how, what matters is finding where he went next!"

Liu Qingge struggles to free himself and fails. "Why?! You claim your Shizun is a spirit, a wraith possession another - why do you want him back?!" He means to sound forbidding, but his voice comes out barely incredulous. He knows why. The whole damned world knows why.

And there's still a traitorous part of him, going, what if…

"Because he's my Shizun," Luo Binghe says softly, and then suddenly drags Liu Qingge up by the collar of his robes. "Come here, Shishu - you can finally be of use to Shizun and help me."

Liu Qingge struggles, but is dragged away regardless - through the corridor and into a room he suspects might be part of Luo Binghe's personal rooms. They're grandiose and finely furnished, and there's a decorated doorway with curtains the he suspects might lead to a bedchamber -

But before he can try and take a look, Luo Binghe has pushed him forward, and in front of a great black mirror that dominates the room.

"The Looking Glass," Luo Binghe says with that crazed intensity he only gets about Shen Qingqiu. He's gripping Liu Qingge's shoulders from behind, his fingers like steel, his nails like knives. "It shows you what you most want to see, as long as you know what it is. I don't know what Shizun looks like now, I don't know where he is, so I only get vague images. But maybe with you here -"

"I'm not going to do anything for you!" Liu Qingge snarls.

Luo Binghe's nails dig into his shoulders. "Don't you want to see Shizun?" he breathes and leans in, his red eyes on the mirror. "Don't you want to see Shen Qingqiu - see your shixiong? To hear him call you Liu-shidi, one more time?"

As much as Liu Qingge tries to fight it, tries to not think… that does it. His mind immediately conjures up a mental image and a voice to go with it, of Shen Qingqiu smiling that teasing smile at him while playfully cajoling favours from him. No one, not even his sister, put so much fondness into addressing him.

"Shidii~"

As Liu Qingge stares at the mirror in trepidation, as Luo Binghe glares at it like he's trying to force the mirror into compliance… the black surface begins to change.

First they see green. Then some whites and blues. Then the picture is painted as though stroke by stroke to reveal a view of a forest canopy against the sky - and a man, tall and broad-shouldered with hair like spun silver, flying over tree branches with the grace of a Cultivator… but not with a sword. Instead the man is jumping on the thinnest of tree branches, seemingly light as a feather, barely even disturbing the leaves with his weight.

And in his arms is another man, slender with smooth dark hair and a mark on his upper dantian, clutching into the bigger man with barely restrained alarm as he's carried through the air. It's it him? The indignation looks familiar. The black-haired man is saying - shouting - something at the silver-haired man. Who looks down…

And smiles.

Liu Qingge gapes. He knows that smile.

"Shizun," Luo Binghe sighs, his eyes shining. "I found you, Shizun. I finally found you."

[fox-bright]

Rage Cheesecake with Oreo Crust, Whipped Chocolate Ganache Frosting, and Home-Grown Tart Cherry Topping

I took recipe-bits from all over and changed them into something that sounded more like what I wanted, so here's what I did today instead of committing a felony!

RECIPE BEHIND CUT

Oreo crust part:

* 25 Oreos

* 5 tablespoons of melted butter

* Pan--pie pan or springform, depending on how deep a cheesecake you want. This makes a nice, not-too-deep cheesecake in a nine-inch springform; it would be Too Much Filling in a pie pan, which would mean you have extra, and that's always fun too. An eight-inch springform is probably perfect.

1. Preheat oven to 350.

2. You may eat TWO OREOS. Crush the remainder. I have the best time with this when I use a food processor, but if you are *particularly* spirited today, this is a good place to take out some aggression. Just pulverize the things, filling and all, until they are all reduced to the consistency of sand.

3. Add melted butter and mix until it's like *wet* sand.

4. Put buttery chocolate sand into your chosen cooking dish. I use a little jar and push push push pat pat pat until it's all nice and level from the center of the dish to the edge and has no holes.

5. Bake for eight to twelve minutes. You want it to still look a little moist. Do not overcook!

6. Remove from oven and let cool. Don't move the pan around too much before it's cool or you risk fracturing the crust.

Cheesecake part:

* Two packages of cream cheese, room temperature unless you like cream cheese chunks in your cheesecake. No judgment, some people are into that.

* 2/3C white sugar

* 3 eggs

* 3 cups of sour cream (this is a very moist cheesecake!)

* Vanilla to taste

1. Preheat oven to 325F, that's 25 degrees LOWER than for the crust.

2. Cream sugar and cream cheese until smooth.

3. Add eggs, one at a time, mix until just blended.

4. Add all sour cream and vanilla, mix until just homogenous. Don't overmix or you get weird dry pillowy stuff instead of nice dense cheesecake.

5. Cook in prepared crust for approximately 50 minutes, until it's set at the edges but a little jiggly yet in the middle.

Note: Properly you'd do this in a bain marie, but I don't have one, so I wrap the bottom of my springform pan in aluminum foil and set the whole kit and kaboodle into a sturdy cookie sheet, put all that into the preheated oven, and pour water into the cookie sheet once it's safely on the oven rack. If the cheesecake starts to overcook on the top before the center is set, cover it with aluminum foil.

6. Remove from oven; let rest in bain marie/rigged pan for ten minutes before removing springform pan to clean towel. Let rest *there* until it's cool enough to put in the fridge. Cover and chill for two to four hours.

Cherry topping part:

* Sour cherries that have been frozen since last year, or a bag of cherries, or fresh cherries, whichever, approximately 4.5 cups which is too many for just this cheesecake but it's nice to have around anyway

* Granulated sugar to taste

* Corn starch

Or just pick up a can or two of cherry pie filling, in which case you can skip this whole step.

1. Defrost cherries. If you don't do this in a pot, there's a good chance that they will leak precious juice all over your clean counter. Don't be me; thaw that stuff in the pot you'll heat it in.

2. Once they're not a singular ice block but instead a bunch of big ice chunks, turn the temperature on low, maybe around a 2.

3. Once the cherries are separate from each other, add sugar to taste. This changes a lot depending on your cherries' tartness; I eventually used nearly two cups of sugar for around 4.5 cups of cherries. Usually I'd use a good bit less, but they're very tart this time.

4. Cook and cook and cook until the liquid is reduced by about a third.

5. Add corn starch. For those measurements I added about a tablespoon and a half. Remember to make it a slurry before pouring it into the pot; you can either do this with a little water, or you can spoon out some of the cherry syrup (don't burn yourself!), mix that into a little bowl along with the corn starch, and then pour it all into the pot. Bring back to a good bubble for four or five minutes, then remove from heat and allow to come to room temperature.

Whipped chocolate ganache part:

* 1 part heavy cream to 1 part chocolate (I just use Toll House. Everyone says not to do that. It's been fine).

1. Put the chocolate in a heatproof bowl.

2. Warm the cream on the stove until it's juuuust about to start bubbling. Stir frequently so it doesn't get a skin.

3. Remove from heat, pour into heatproof bowl over the chocolate.

4. WALK AWAY. I'm serious. Don't touch it. Don't poke at it. Do not, do NOT, attempt to stir it. Walk away.

5. After five minutes, come back and stir, stir, until it's all one thing. It should be like a very good, very thick chocolate syrup. You *can* just eat this, with a spoon. You can pour it over a cake, or dip strawberries in it. Chilled right as it is, it is a dessert on its own.

6. Let it cool to room temperature.

7. Come back and use your hand mixer or stand mixer to whip it up. This should get to a pipeable consistency; if it doesn't, you may need to incorporate powdered sugar. If you add butter and powdered sugar, you'll get a very stable buttercream.

Finishing part:

1. Remove springform edge from nice cold cheesecake.

2. Pipe or dollop whipped ganache in ring atop the cheesecake.

3. Fill the ring with cooled cherry filling.

4. Garnish further if you'd like. I used decorative Sixlets and some more crushed Oreo.

5. Finished!

[crystaltoa]

Had to say goodbye to my dog Bruce yesterday.

I'm a wreck.

But reaching the age of nine and succumbing to natural causes (degradation of his spinal tissue) was nothing short of miraculous given that over the course of his life, he had

Eaten rat poison

Had a heated argument with a scorpion

Fought at least two venomous snakes and won

Had to be prevented from fighting a feral cow

Escaped the yard of a friend who was dogsitting him, skipped town and was found two months later living in an off-grid shack with a hardcore survivalist guy who hunts camels with a bow and arrow and is known to have eaten his own dog at least once.

Escaped from a yard with an eight foot barbed wire fence (not a scratch on him)

Developed a habit of licking cane toads to get high off the poison

One time just straight up swallowed a cane toad whole (puked it up and had Tummy Hurt for a day, no other apparent side effects)

TORE A LIGHT SWITCH PANEL OUT OF THE WALL (Electrician was simultaneously horrified and impressed, it left scorch marks on the wall but Bruce seemed unfazed and unscathed by the experience)

Now, don't get me wrong, he was a sweet boy and a generally laid back chill kinda guy. Everyone liked him. But he sure had his "hold my beer" moments.

Goodbye, old friend. Despite your best efforts, you lived long enough to have your first grey hairs. You've probably given me a few along the way too.

...Nine years still seems too short.

I will measure your life in stories instead.

[onthepyre]

Hi June! No.1 for the prompt meme if you feel inspired? 💖

hi calli!! thanks for dropping in <3 this is kind of loosely the "dirtiest white boy in america" period but honestly. fuck if i know. it's sad though

send me a number and ill write something angsty

1 - keeping things from the other to spare their feelings

Sometimes Dad had to bail, Mickey knew. When they were little kids, not smart enough to keep their traps shut, he and Mandy got dragged along, lying in the backseat, her head in his lap. Perks of being the youngest two, Mickey guesses. Seeing Indiana before they turned six. By the time Mom was gone, they were told to keep their heads down and wait it out while Dad fucked off to who-knows-where. It sucked, but it sucked less than having him home. It was tolerable.

When the pigs started sniffing around the Alibi, Dad got itchy. They were just around to "ask questions," but the proximity was enough. He had a bag packed in ten minutes, four loaded handguns tucked under dirty underwear and ratty cutoffs. It was damn near a rampage, but Mickey didn't have the sixth sense his siblings did that told them to get the fuck out of dodge. He didn't even realize the depth of shit he was in until Dad pitched a backpack at him and asked what the fuck he was standing around with his thumb up his ass for.

Arguing was useless. If he ran now, Mickey would be dead when Dad inevitably made it back to Chicago. So he took the backpack and stuffed it with a change of clothes and a handful of knives and cash, tucking his busted flip phone into a wad of underwear. In case he needed it, Mickey told himself. So he could contact Mandy if they were gonna be gone long. Not Ian.

That's what he told himself, at least, but when they were halfway to Dad's buddy's cabin in Minnesota and it slipped out that he was wanted for eight counts of trafficking, when Mickey's throat started to burn, he knew.

A nine hour drive meant sitting next to Dad all night. When they finally, finally made it, got out to stretch their legs deep in the woods, it set in. Mickey was very firmly stuck here, at least for the coming days, nobody to keep him company but Dad and the fucking raccoons.

Just about as soon as they set foot in the cabin, Dad was snoring. Mickey wasn't about to take his chances in the same room, only four feet of space between the twin beds. He crept to the bathroom, locked the door, propped a stepstool against it for good measure. He texted Mandy first, short and to the point: sos in mn.

Then there was the problem of Ian. He had, at best, one message to make sure he'd leave him alone. There was no telling how long it would take Mandy to figure out how the fuck to get him out of this three-room shithole, assuming he wasn't cursed to die in it. Mickey couldn't say nothing. Ian would get antsy, go looking for him. Say something he shouldn't. But he couldn't tell him what was actually happening, either, because he couldn't give Ian that false hope. Couldn't let him stay attached, pine, worry, wait for something that wasn't going to come.

He had to let him get over it like a normal heartbreak. Ian could cry for a week and then find some other South Side street rat to fuck instead, a thought that had Mickey gnawing on his bottom lip to distract from the pit in his stomach. Yeah. That was what he had to do.

cant c u anymore, he wrote. dont txt.

Mickey deleted both messages as soon as they went through. He allowed himself ten seconds to let it sink in. Knuckles pressed into his eyes, sitting on the toilet lit bent double, he sniffled once. Then, after a few shuddering breaths, he opened the door, and thank fuck, Dad was still snoring.

[contentment-of-cats]

Thrawn origin story headcanon

Thrawn is the youngest of three - Kivu'rai'neito, Kivu'rik'ardok, and Kivu'raw'nuru. Before Thawns was born, Vuraine became a merit adoptive to one of the Great Houses at nine and a blackdock engineer later in life. Vurika was taken by the CEDF to become a Sky-walker and had her memory wiped at five. Thrawn's parents tried desperately to hold onto him but they were a Common family. Thrawn's mother, who had already lost three children, became profoundly depressed and died postpartum after the stillbirth of a fourth child following Vurawn being taken by the Mitth. She was buried with honors. Thrawn's father did not remarry, nor did he father more children, and died in a berg rollover at the age of fifty-one.

It is illegal for a merit adoptive to contact their family of origin, but instead of the penalty falling on the adoptive, it falls on the family. Thrawn never tried to get in touch with his Kivu relatives or his parents to spare them the loss of employment, benefits, and even a possible prison term. Likewise a family contacting a merit adoptive would see their child severely punished for the family's attempt.

Thrawn's mother was the granddaughter of a former Sky-walker, born to a Lesser family and had been inducted into the program herself. There are Sky-walkers who wash out of the program, or who can't be retrained after a disaster in space. After one such disaster, Riv'kaein was adopted by a Great family at the age of eight. She married Kivu'sha'neza after obtaining a degree in pelagic aquaculture. She never spoke of her past, or her prosthetic legs, to any of her children.

Kivu'sha'neza was the Rentor equivalent of the Coast Guard, holding the rank of Warrant Officer, leading a squad of boarding troops. Rentor was home to deep-sea vents that spewed valuable gases (in liquid form because of the pressure). Pirates were ever-present and often from rival houses.

The Kivu, one of the most populous Common families, had a deep resentment to the casual gathering of their children, sometimes all of the children of a couple would be taken by higher-ranked families. Only Greater and Ruling houses can induct Merit Adoptives and though many are adopted in adulthood, the exceptional children of Common and Lesser families are taken as young as eight. Someone shows up at school, the child is called to the office, and never sees home or family again. Some of the Great and Ruling families openly refer to this as 'harvesting.' This trauma is one of the reasons for the punitive measures to stop contact between adoptives and families of origin.

Thrawn does not remember his oldest sister, but as long as he could remember, Vurika was his playmate and also his interpreter. She did all the talking for him. The team sent to take Vurika took her in full view of her brother while they played at the pre-school/day care. One of the sergeants still has a chunk of missing flesh from Vurawn's new meat teeth. Thrawn remembers it as clear as day.

Thrawn was offered a slot at CEDF boarding prep following standard testing at age nine. It was on Rentor, so he did get to see his parents. His mother was supposed to give birth about the same time the Mitth adopted him and he was sent to Taharim to finish his education.

His parents applied for emigration to one of the planets on the edge of the Ascendancy, thinking to make a run for it to Lesser Space. They were denied, despite being law-abiding subjects. When Thrawn became an adoptive the Mitth recognized that all three children were taken from this pair, and offered to allow them to emigrate or be adopted into a Great family after Vurivkae gave birth to her fourth child. They would not, however, promise not to take the child if it showed any talent.

There is no legal roadblock preventing a 'harvested' children from contacting each other as adults - if they can find each other. Often there is only the middle personal name to go on, as the beginning of the core name may change the way Vurika/Rik'ardok/Zirika/Borika did. Thrawn's eldest sister did look for her siblings when she was an adult, but did not find either him or Vurika.

Eli searched out Vuraine after he saw a young man who looked like Thrawn when the Steadfast visited the UAG base. Vuraine was now Stybla'rai'neito or Laraine, and her son was Stybla'raw'neza - called Arawne.

As always, these are my own headcanon and worldbuilding notes. YMMV. Please feel free to use them or not as you see fit.

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong With Dale - Part Seven and a Half*

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself. 

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

*Please note this is a bonus/missing scene

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] Part Seven.5 [Part Eight] [Part Nine][Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You hold still as the tailoress and her assistants draw their measuring tapes around you. 

After selecting your fabrics, the vendors needed to take down those displays to make way for various accessories and embellishments they also hope will be purchased. Some of the drapers sold those as well, but some independent milliners had also been invited to display their wares. 

While that change was happening, both you and Dale had been whisked off to let the clothing-makers take new measurements, in your case, or updated measurements, in Dale’s. Grandmother went with Dale, saying she needed to ensure they knew that Dale would be recovering from the dip in weight caused by illness and she’d not have them forget take that into account, leaving you to manage on your own.

Your maid helps you out of your current dress, a light green one, and into the undergarments which you expect to be wed in. The chemise is a gift from your sister, with beautiful maroon ribbon throughout it, finer than any other such garment you usually wear. Then came a pair of white stays and your newer underskirts—corded to give your skirt the right amount of fullness for the current fashion trend.

The tailoress is efficient as she takes your measurements, keeping up a steady stream of chatter to her apprentice and letting you know ahead of time how she wanted you to move or if she was going to reposition you herself. 

The curtains around this area make it easy to forget that on the other side of the room, Dale is also in some state of undress, but the thought is never far from your mind for whatever reason. You don't know why such a thought won’t leave your be–they certainly never bothered you before, either with regards to Dale or regarding other students at your school. 

Instead, you try to distract yourself with the fashion plates Grandmother passed to you before she went with Dale. For all you are sure Dale shall choose a very fine suit pattern, the truth is there is less variety to men’s suits these days. He is likely to choose some fine embellishments and you’re sure his waistcoat will have high quality and elaborate embroidery, but the actual cut of the suit is unlikely to be a difficult decision.

Even for your own dress, the primary decision with the fabric chosen is the neckline, sleeves, and waistline. Even your options are not hugely disparate. Despite the tailoress working around you, with your maid’s help, you are able to study each plate and rank your top choices for Dale and Grandmother’s approval with relative ease. Between the efficiency of the tailoring process and the quiet, you are able to recenter yourself from how overwhelmed you had abruptly felt earlier and rejoin the Northridges’ in a more settled mindset.

You spot Dale, who has already finished with his fitting, inspecting some boots. When you join him, you frown in confusion at them–not sure what they have to do with wedding clothing accessories. Dale must read the confusion on your face as he says, “There is a fashion in the capital to have new boots fashioned for a wedding, in addition to the other clothing. Can you not tell these are specifically designed wedding boots?”

You stifle a smile behind a carefully raised hand, now able to tell when Dale is having fun. Beyond the fact that the shelf of boots, while of high quality leather, are indistinguishable from normal boots to your eyes, his eyes twinkle as he smiles down at you. His playful mood is infectious. “Of course, my Lord. How could they be anything but for such a specific and important occasion? Nothing like ordinary, everyday boots at all.”

“Alas, I do believe this will not be a fashion trend my Grandmother will entertain as anything more than an admirable attempt of the cobblers to wring some additional coin from our wallets.” He holds out his arm for you to take. “I must turn away from this display before I grow heartsick over what I cannot have.”

You barely resist the urge to shake your head at his dramatic playacting, but take his free arm without hesitation. “And what shall you distract yourself with instead?”

“Aside from my lovely bride’s presence?” You duck your head, not able to even look at him at such a tease–the original Dale would never say such a thing unless ironically, but it did not seem so with this Dale. But was there another meaning? Why did he express such sentiments? To flatter you? To what end? “Surely there are other decorations here which can catch our interest. Does any table in particular stand out to you?”

You scan the room, noting many milliners have quite different displays. Were they all told to focus on one accessory? Evidently not all, so you head for the table with the greatest variety of accessories. Everything from parasols to lace trimmings to bonnets are arranged for your viewing. You examine a shawl, wondering if, given the weather, one was necessary or if perhaps you should be reviewing the parasols instead. It would not due to be burned from the sun on such an auspicious day.

Dale wanders over to the table next to this one as something catches his attention while you continue to slowly circle the original table. While fashion these days requires many accessories, people varied in what they purchased new for a wedding. Many only polished up what they had or wore their best, the older or richer the noble family, the more was bespoke for the occasion. Northridge was not particularly wealthy, but they were an old house.

The cost for a wedding was also something that varied, often unspoken to those not involved unless one family wanted to show off their wealth or culture. Your parents had been very clear about the finances of your betrothal. You had a larger dowry than was typical for a youngest daughter of little distinction–nominally in the interest of seeing you well settled. Unofficially it was to see you settled quickly, with minimal digging into your past health issues.

Your mother had implied that they would see you dressed well, but no more than what was appropriate. That your dowry was already more than generous. You thought there had been a compliment mixed in with these instructions, when Mother said you were not one for frivolous adornment as it was and so should not find it hard to resist. Mostly having to be judicious with your wedding clothes had seemed like another thing you could not have. She had said if the Northridges’ wished for anything more well-to-do, they could cover the cost or take it from your dowry themselves. 

So you knew precisely how much you had to contribute to your wedding clothing and it was for the dress alone, with perhaps one new accessory. You think through your clothing in your mind, trying to determine what you have that will do and therefore what item you should purchase to cover what you lacked.

“What do you think?” Dale has walked back over to show you some lace cuffs that are very finely worked. They might be the most expensive lace cuffs you’ve seen. Well, aside from your schoolmate’s, heir-apparent to the Jasika duchy, who loved lace above all else, including her considerable allowance. You resist your immediate response regarding how much they must cost and focus on their appearance alone.

“They are exquisite,” you say truthfully as you let him usher you over to the lace table he has been perusing. “They will go well with your suit.”

“I think so as well. Which do you think will go best with your dress?” Dale sets aside his own lace to look over the gauzier style usually attached to the ends of gown sleeves. “How long were you anticipating the sleeves to be?”

You blink. “Pardon? I was not going to. Not on my dress. Truly, I do not need the extra embellishment.”

Dale pouts. “But it is our wedding. If that is not the occasion for embellishment, what is?”

You struggle to find the right words to say that, as your dowry would go directly to Dale at the wedding itself, you did not control how it was spent, with only enough for the dress alone at the moment. The Northridges had acquiesced to that deal with no counters. That had been Grandmother and Grandfather, not Dale–did he not know that you could not afford such adornment?

“With the silk brocade for my fabric, I do not believe I require additional decorations,” you settle on, hoping he will understand.

He does not, frowning. 

“What is that, dear?” Grandmother has rejoined the two of you. “Are you not preferential to lace? It is of the highest quality and locally produced. I had hoped you would consent to wearing a collar mantle of it as well, to match. I have seen that you prefer plainer dress–which speaks well to your modesty and sensibility. However, I should think this was an instance where such restraint was not required.” 

Her words echo Dale’s own from earlier and you find yourself similarly unable to form an intelligent response. “Oh, no-that’s not it at all. I, I simply…” You wring your hands together as you try to find the words. How do one remind someone else they hold one’s pursestrings? 

“Is this about the manner in which your parents divided your dowry?” Grandmother leans in close to say, “That is of no consequence. I assure you there is no better use for one’s dowry than on the wedding.” 

Grandmother’s voice drops even lower, so none of the vendors can hear, “Pay no mind to the cost our enterprising entrepreneurs have listed. I will not have them overcharge us, however, a wedding is known to be a veritable catalyst to the local businesses and we intend for this one to be so as well.” She leans away and says in a clearer voice, “Indulge an old woman in spoiling her grandchild and his bride, will you not?”

Grandmother pulls away completely before you can respond, turning back to the table. “Some lace fringe for your sleeve caps would be lovely. Unless you wished for full length sleeves?”

“I,” you start to say before giving a slight shake of your head, trying to rally your thoughts. “No, as it will only be further into summer by the wedding. I had believed capped, shorter sleeves would be best.”

“As I anticipated,” Grandmother says, triumphant. “These are all suitable, which do you prefer?” She has selected four specific lace trims. You're still trying to catch up to the idea that Grandmother wishes to have you so fully outfitted for the wedding. In the end, you realize you’re waiting for Dale’s protest–that he would not want to waste your dowry that will be his on such trinkets for you.

Instead, he’s bent over the trims before he looks up at you. “I like the first and third, but of course the choice is yours, my Lady.”

You look down at the fine lace. Truthfully they are all very pretty and you have no preference. Reaching out, you pick up the first with one hand and the third in the other. Grandmother leans closer to see the details more clearly. She taps your left hand. 

You nod. “Yes, I believe the third would be lovely with the brocade.”

“Wonderful,” Grandmother says, putting them over with Dale’s chosen cuffs. “Now, I am aware it is no longer an aspect of high society to wear gloves, but I am afraid I shall have to insist for the wedding.” Grandmother strokes her own light blue gloves. 

Dale doesn’t appear to mind, merely walking over to the other side of the table to inspect the gloves available. When you start to follow, Grandmother steers you over to another table. “Missus Glass is where I purchase my own gloves and they are the superior ladies choice, I assure you. The softest and most comfortable by far.” 

When you lean down to take a closer look at the options, Grandmother tuts, “It is not enough to look at these, you must try them on. Go on, dear. You shall be the one wearing them.”

She waits patiently, sharing stories about her other children’s weddings as you try on a variety of gloves for her benefit, eventually settling on a light cotton pair of gloves. After receiving Grandmother’s approval, with only minimal tutting at the open weave before she admits they were more than acceptable for summer, she goes over to where Dale was examining some canes. 

You find yourself heading back over to the dress forms of Dale’s parents' clothing. Dale was to use his father’s handkerchief, but you are supposed to figure out some way to augment your own outfit with something from them as well. The obvious choice is some part of Dale’s mother’s silver, but that’s also the most delicate and well constructed part of the outfit. Anything you might take seems like a black mark against the way it is now, the whole it has managed to remain these years.

You slowly circle the form, trying to see how it is specifically put together and what seems the most easily removed without damage. You wonder what your parents might send in response to the letter you promised Grandmother you’d write. While aiding in your sister’s wedding, you heard all manner of comment about how weddings had changed, but your mother had never said anything about what became of her actual dress. Most likely she will provide jewelry of some sort, you think and so do not touch the jewelry on a pedestal nearby.

Perhaps…you move closer to inspect the round hat and its connected veil. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dale walk over to join you, obviously in a far better mood from these days as opposed to yesterday's endless discussion.

“I was thinking that perhaps your mother’s veil would be the best way to incorporate some of her clothing into mine,” you say, gesturing to it pinned to the mannequin’s neck.

“A good idea,” Dale agrees, already reaching out to unfasten it. “The silver will go very well with your hair.”

You blush at the compliment, barely resisting the urge to reach a hand up and make sure he’s seeing the same plain hair on your head as you see. “The rest of the dress is so finely put together, I fear any other alteration could never live up to it.”

Dale nods absently as he takes the hat and veil from the form’s head. He turns you to a nearby mirror with confident hands on your shoulders. More quickly than you expect, he slips behind you to arrange the hat and veil onto your head. You freeze, not wanting to damage such an artifact. You feel Dale delicately arrange the veil and your hair, adjusting some braids so it sits better on your head. 

“What a lovely idea,” Grandmother coos before she leans closer for a more critical look. “I don’t believe the hat suits you though—and it's not the fashion anymore.” You agree, it makes your hair an odd shape and the black would not go with your dress. “We shall have that piece detached from the silver train. The decrease in length shouldn’t be a problem since you’re shorter than Qiana as it is.”

“Are you certain? I wouldn’t want to damage it.” Remaking these items is what Grandmother spoke of, but it's such fine, delicate work.

“Nonsense, it is meant to be worn–not kept in a crate somewhere in the dark. Dale,” she asks imperiously, “fetch one of those little caps so we can see how the veil would look with it. We shall ensure your bride is the finest in years.”

You stare at your reflection, which thankfully does not look as bewildered as you feel. Everything is coming together so quickly and easily, it's as surprising as it is rather wonderful.

Dale smiles to you in the mirror and goes to do as he is bid.

[Part Eight]

[thatredheadwriter]

absolution

javi gutierrez x reader (2.7k)

Javi misses your date and has some making up to do.

A/N: This started because I was listening to MAMMAMIA by Maneskin on repeat and I couldn’t stop thinking about Javi G on his knees in front of his lady. These two love the pants off of each other (literally).

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Javi Gutierrez of The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

fiance!Javi

some D/s dynamics (not hardcore)

dom!reader

sub!Javi

use of religious language to describe sex (there’s a theme, idk)

oral sex (male + female receiving)

anal fingering (male receiving), just a little as a treat

a very sexy dress (link in case you’re having trouble visualizing)

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

-

10:42 pm

You’re seething as the numbers tick higher on the small clock beside the huge king-sized bed. One thing that never changed in all the hotels you visited with Javi, they all had the same shitty, annoying alarm clock sitting by the bed.

Shooting for this most recent project had so many locations–between photography, location shoots, studio shoots–and Javi insisted on being there for all of them. You’ve spent the last eight months crisscrossing the globe after your fiance and his passion project, watching him work to the bone for some sort of perceived perfection while the rest of the world turned on without him.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

Javi made reservations at the hotel restaurant for seven o’clock and promised he would be there. In all your time knowing him, he’d never broken a date with you, or anyone for that matter. But when eight o’clock rolled around, you settled back in your chair, called the waitress over, and ordered.

The mushroom risotto was delicious and the chardonnay tasted as expensive as it billed. You had the rest of the bottle sent up to your room for good measure. And now you’re waiting. Because good food and wine have sated your hunger, but not your fire.

It’s not until 11:03 that you hear the electronic click of the lock and your fiance finally enters the room. He strides in with his back to you,

“Late night?” you clear your throat and retrieve your half-finished glass from the low table by your seat.

Javi turns on a dime and his mouth falls open. Even from your seat across the room, you can practically see his pupils dilate as he takes in your form, clad in the sexiest dress you’d ever braved. It featured a false wrap-style v-neck, and for the kicker–double thigh slits. If you moved a certain way, it was clear you weren’t wearing underwear beneath.

You’d shown up at dinner dressed to the nines, dripping in the jewelry Javi had bought you over the years. And you’d left the same way. In the suite, you’d dressed down, putting your heels away in the small closet and taking everything off except for the earrings you always left in and the pendant he’d gifted you for your first anniversary–a single blue-green sapphire set in white gold that hung just perfectly at the crest of your cleavage.

“It’s the same color as the sea back home. Reminds me of you, because well, you’re my home too,” he’d explained as you had looked over it speechlessly.

“Have you eaten? My dinner was delicious,” you stand and turn your body to face the window, but your eyes stay on him.

You see it in his eyes. The exact moment he remembers the date he planned and everything he promised you, swept up in time and replaced with this crackling tension between you.

“Mi amor,” his face pales instantly as he crosses the room to you, but you hardly give him a glance. Instead, you lazily sip at the wine in your glass and circle the room to maintain your distance. “Please forgive me. I got caught up at work. I’m so sorry.”

“I waited for you, Javi,” you finish the wine and set the glass on top of a dresser, striding languidly towards the bed. “Alone in that damn restaurant.”

“Fuck, my love, it was never my intention to leave you there tonight. The shooting ran late and then the director wanted to go over some things, and then one of the actor’s agents called about a contract dispute…It’s a poor excuse, I know. I just now got away, and…Please forgive me, mi amorcita.”

“I won’t be a bystander in your life, Javi,” you settle yourself on the end of the bed and part your legs so the fabric parts around them. “It hurt me, sitting there alone. I miss my fiance.”

Javi drops to his knees in front of you, his gorgeous face twisted in anguish. “Please, tell me how to make it up to you.”

Showing the slightest mercy, you reach for him and relish the way he leans into your touch. With the softest grip on his golden chocolate curls, you guide his cheek to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. “Beg.”

So close to what he wants, he’ll never take it without your permission, even as he eyes the wetness peeking out from under the slit in your skirt.

“I want to taste you, please. I want to drown in you and feel you cum on my tongue. Let me give you as many orgasms as you can take.”

“I don’t know if you deserve it,” you muse, pretending to be distracted by something on the bedspread. The truth is, you know you’ll cave as soon as you look him in those gorgeous brown eyes.

“Please, princesa, I know I fucked up,” his accent weighs heavy with his distress. Javi’s hand traces up and down the outside of your thigh, “Let me make it up to you.”

You look down at your fiance, and your heart breaks a little. He didn’t mean to forget dinner, and you know he feels awful. Besides, he’s been terribly stressed with his new project and it’s not like you two have spent much time together lately, not like you used to.

“Okay, Javi, I forgive you. Now make me cum,” you purr.

A giggle escapes when he hooks his arms around your knees, forcing you to land back on the bed with a light bounce.

“I am so fucking sorry, mi querida,” he growls, sucking and kissing up the skin of your inner thighs. “I swear on my life, on my father’s grave, it will never happen again.”

You want to remind him that maybe now isn’t the best time to bring up his dead father, but then he swipes his thumb against your clit and all that comes out is a high-pitched moan

“Fuck, Jav,” you reach down to bury your hands in his curls and feel him nip at your skin in response.

“Never leaving this bed again,” he licks the flat of his tongue up your slit and you buck your hips up, chasing the sensation. “Can’t leave you, can’t leave this.”

Javi is a man used to the finer things in life. It’s what happens when you grow up on a huge estate, surrounded by servants, never wanting for anything. But one thing has always sated him, left him content and pliant at the end of your fingertips, and he’ll drink at it for hours if you let him.

You’re still clothed, however the dress you’d specially chosen for the occasion is just garnish. He’d been meant to savor it all through dinner, feast his eyes before taking an indulgence of the flesh, but you were never one to deny your lover. Especially when his absolution feels so divine.

From the first time he took you to bed, Javi made it a point to learn you. He was certainly a skilled lover, but over time he’s grown incredibly attuned to every little sound, every little twitch and jerk as he works you over. And he’s certainly eager.

A steady-building pleasure grows in your belly as he licks from your entrance up to your clit, over and over. Each time you can feel the proud jut of his nose bumping against that little bundle of nerves as he dips lower.

Your first orgasm comes quickly, and your fingers grip hard at Javi’s hair. But he doesn’t stop. If anything it spurs him on further. The taste of your first release drives him on and you can’t help but cry out when he sucks on your clit.

-

You’re not sure how long it is, or how many times you’ve cum, but eventually you’re overstimulated to the point of pain. You push Javi’s head away from your core, making him whine.

“S’too much,” you pant, “Gotta give me a break.”

At the blown-out look in your eyes, he’s worried. “Did I do too much? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, Javi, you never hurt me. M’just sensitive is all.”

You reach for him and he obliges, laying down beside you on the bed. Now that he’s finally close, you pull him in for a deep kiss, whining when you taste yourself on his tongue. When you need air again, he just kisses and nips down your jaw, still putting his mouth to really good use.

“I’m so sorry, mi amorcita,” he murmurs into the tender skin he soothes with a kiss. “My mind has just been so-so…scrambled lately.”

“I know, Jav. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

At your confession, his face falls. You know he never wants you to worry about anything.

“You work too hard, Javi,” you continue, running your hand down his exposed chest. “Too much espresso, not enough sleep.”

Your love sighs deeply under your touch, a weight lifting at your words. “I will do better.”

“Let me relieve some of that stress?” your lip curls in a smirk as your hand slips lower and lower until you’re fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Just below, his zipper is struggling to contain an impressive erection, the thought of which already has you salivating.

Javi flushes, voice raspy all of a sudden. “I still have some making up to do, no?”

You shake your head as you slip from the bed beside him into nearly the same spot he was in moments ago. “This night was supposed to be about you, cariño. I’d like to get it back on schedule.”

He doesn’t breathe as you settle into position, a serpent preparing to strike. Your hands run up and down his clothed thighs, just to feel him tremble beneath you.

“Easy, baby,” you soothe. “Gonna let me get you all nice and relaxed?”

Looking up at him, you wonder how you got so lucky. His curls are disheveled, sticking every which way from your grip on them as he brought you to ecstasy after ecstasy. Sweat glistens across his golden skin, flushed from the summer heat and more. You want nothing more than to bite his bottom lip, the one that sticks out as he pants for breath, nodding eagerly as you finally cup his bulge with your hand.

“Words,” you click your tongue at him.

“Yes, please.”

With his consent, you take your time with his belt, removing it completely from the loops and setting it to the side. Then you’re undoing his pants, careful not to pinch or pull on the skin that pushes up against his waistband. As the button pops open, you lean forward and give the imprint it left behind a kiss, and Javi shudders above you. You’re just as methodical with the zipper, pulling it down tooth by tooth until it reaches its end.

When you look back at your fiance, his face is caught in a mixture of concentration and ecstasy, eyes pinched shut as his chest heaves with the struggle of staying still.

“Javi.”

Deep brown eyes find yours in a heartbeat, searching for answers, instructions, pleasure. Whatever you’re willing to give.

“I love you.”

Immediately he relaxes, the curve of his spine returning to normal as some of the energy pent up from his day releases, leaving only room for you and the pleasure that’s to come.

“I love you too, mi princesa.”

“Tell me you want me to suck your cock.”

A groan rattles somewhere in his chest and his knuckles go white as he grips the sheets. Javi is vocal about giving you pleasure, but tends to go mute when asked about his own. But you’re not doing anything else until he asks for it. You want him to get used to asking for what he needs. You won’t let him burn himself out like this anymore.

“I want-I want you…mierda. I want you to suck my cock. Please,” he rasps, little more than a whisper.

You grin up at him as your hand slips under the band of his boxer briefs to find the weeping head of his cock. “You’re so good for me Javi,” you praise as you run your thumb through the dribble of precum that’s gathered there. “Telling me what you want. I love that, thank you.”

He’s more than ready when you finally take him out, but you still take your time. The first sloppy kiss to his head and Javi is digging his fingers into the bed below, brow knit in concentration. You work your way down to his neatly trimmed base before coming back up the other side.

Javi’s fingers thread through your hair, not insistent, just an anchor to the present. He tugs lightly when you first swallow him down, curses dripping from his kiss-swollen lips. After all your time together, you know exactly what it takes to get him right to the edge. Your tongue works the underside of him as you lazily bob up and down.

Your eyes cut to his to find them glued on yours as you work him. “Fuck, Jesus, querida, stop or I’m going to-”

You pull off of him, but your hand still works up and down his shaft. “You’re going to cum for me Javi, just like this. Let this be your final penance.”

With that you go back to your task, taking him down your throat until your eyes water. Two of your fingers gather some of the spit and precum that’s dribbled down to his base and you use it to gently work against the tight ring of muscle just a few inches below.

Javi looks divine like this. The tendons in his neck bulge as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s screwed his eyes shut and you wish you could be in two places at once so you could lick the bead of sweat away forming at his temple.

“Wanted to- wanted to, fuck- I wanted to fuck you like you deserve,” he pants through gritted teeth. “But this is…” He doesn’t finish, because that’s when your fingers press in to breach his ass, and a low groan rattles through his chest.

The taste of him hits as you curl your fingers against his prostate. His fingers scratch against your scalp as you swallow against him again and again until he’s a shaking, muttering mess above you.

You release his softening cock with a soft pop sound and grin up at your utterly wrecked, not-a-stressed-bone-left-in-his-body fiance. As he tries to catch his breath, you rise from your position on the floor and hope Javi can’t hear your knees pop as you slide onto the bed next to him.

Javi pulls you in for a kiss and tugs you up the bed so you can lay beside of him. He doesn’t pull away until you’re firmly tangled in his embrace.

“I love you, and I’m so sorry about dinner.”

You smooth a hand over his disheveled curls. “Javi, you’re forgiven. Just don’t forget that you have a life outside of work. I will do everything in my power to support you in whatever you choose to do, but I won’t watch you neglect yourself. I love you too much.”

“I hear you. And I will…I will try to do better.”

“That’s all I ask. Maybe one day this week you can let the cast and crew have a break and we can have a do-over for dinner?” you ask hopefully.

“Yes, I think maybe Tuesday, or Wednesday. We’re supposed to shoot with-”

“Details later, Jav,” you silence him with a peck to the lips. “You never answered my question earlier. Did you get a chance to eat?”

He winces a bit and gives you a look, “I had some crackers and hummus from food services.”

“Let’s call down for room service and then you should get some rest. I plan on letting you do some more making up before you head off to set tomorrow.”

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // september 15 // prompt: pleasure // words: 980 // explicit sexual content // part 1

For all his confidence when inquiring about Regulus’ piercings the first time, they actually took it quite slow. Regulus wanted to wait for James’ piercing to be healed up before they did anything, so the first few dates were rather chaste. Nothing beyond making out on the couch or on the sidewalk or in the car or- well, you get the picture.

It was during one of those moments that James had discovered piercings number eight and nine. He’d laid Regulus out on the couch, taking his time to twist and tweak his pierced nipples until Regulus was shaking with it. But still, their clothes stayed on.

So when they finally get around to it, James is feeling pent up and desperate and “ready, Regulus, I promise, I’m so ready, please just-”

But Regulus shushes him, taking his time to stretch James out, fingers twisting this way and that until James is a writhing mess on the bed and Regulus thinks he’s prepped sufficiently. It takes another few moments of James mindlessly begging and Regulus putting on a condom, but eventually finally thankfully, Regulus leans over to kiss James as he presses up against his hole.

James’ back arches as Regulus slides in, breath stuttering in his lungs. “You okay?” Regulus murmurs, voice low in James’ ear. James sighs as Regulus settles, giving James a moment to adjust.

“Yeah, ‘s good.” He clenches once for good measure, silently giving Regulus the go-ahead. When Regulus eventually finally thankfully starts moving, James lets out a low groan.

He’s so focused on the feeling of having Regulus inside, of being so close, that he almost forgets about the piercing. When he notices it, though, his vision whites out a bit at the edges.

The pleasure is twofold; the slow drag of Regulus inside him followed by the piercing at the base of his dick catching on his rim. James moans, low and long, as Regulus works his way toward a steady rhythm.

“You’re amazing,” Regulus moans, voice low and strained. “God, you feel amazing, fuck.”

“Faster,” James begs, “please.”

Regulus, the little shit, slows down instead. “Patience,” he tells him, but it sounds strained. Regulus swivels his hips so he hits the spot inside James that makes him see stars.

“Shit,” James pants. He feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin; Regulus thrusting inside, the piercing pushing against his rim, Regulus’ musky scent all around him. He tries to bear down on Regulus to nudge him into speeding up, but Regulus grabs his hips and pins him to the mattress, limiting his mobility. His fingers bite into the skin of his hips. James hopes it bruises.

The idea of being marked by Regulus, of being claimed, sends a thrill through his body. He needs more, but Regulus’ grip simply tightens as he keeps his pace slow, hips grinding into James.

Frustrated, James reaches for Regulus’ hair, tugging at it until Regulus comes closer. James kisses him, except it’s more like he’s moaning and panting into Regulus’ mouth because he can’t catch his breath with how good Regulus feels.

His hands slide down to Regulus’ neck, then his shoulders, then his chest. James twists and tugs at the nipple piercings, causing Regulus' hips to stutter, a low moan ripping from his throat.

James feels pressure build up, the tell-tale heat sparking down his spine. He clenches around Regulus involuntarily, back arching off the mattress. He’s so close, he can almost taste it, just a few mo-

“You can’t come yet,” Regulus tells him, stilling. “Want you on your knees first.” He pulls out of James, who moans at the movement and then whines at the emptiness. When James doesn’t move fast enough, Regulus hurries him along with a light swat on his ass that has James’ dick twitching.

“Fuck you,” James mutters, petulant.

“Next time.”

James settles on his hands and knees, stretching out until his back is arched, throwing a sly look over his shoulder. Regulus looks like a wet dream; pale skin flushed down to his shoulders, glowing with sweat from exertion, black curls sticking to his forehead. His piercings catch light when he moves, and James whimpers when Regulus tugs at the piercing on his lip, seemingly lost in thought.

“Barty told me, back when you first came in for your appointment, that he knew you were my type from the second you walked in. He was right. Look at you,” he says reverently.

James wants to tell him off for mentioning Barty while they’re having sex, but right as he opens his mouth to do so, Regulus nudges the head of his dick against James’ rim. James’ head drops forward again with a groan, glasses slipping off his face, lost somewhere in the sheets.

Regulus pushes the rest of the way inside and immediately starts moving again, not giving James a moment to catch his breath. The slide of the piercing over his rim is so much more intense like this, James feels his toes curl.

Regulus’ hand shifts, one stays on his hip, but the other slides to James’ lower back, pushing down on him to make him arch his back even more. “You feel so good,” he grunts between thrusts, “tight and warm, just right. Just for me.”

“Yeah,” James pants, voice thin and breathless, “just for you.” His fingers clench in the sheets as Regulus hits that spot again. And again. And again, until James is spilling all over his own stomach without being touched.

The continued drag of the piercing over his sensitive rim is almost too much, but it only takes Regulus a few more thrusts until he’s coming, spilling inside the condom. They stay like that for a moment, locked in pleasure, panting and satiated.

“Yeah, big fan of piercing number ten,” James says, punched out and breathless. “Looks good and feels good.”

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Running from the Flames {9}

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x OFC Warnings: 18+ only, kissing, alcohol - this is a work of fiction and the events are not based on reality. Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten || Eleven* || under construction

“Go,” I urged as I pushed Pierre to the door but he wouldn’t budge. “I’m not going to be the reason you miss out on fun stuff.”

Pierre took my hands from where I had planted them on his chest and kissed my palms. “There’ll be other parties, mon ange, and next year when we come back it’ll be from the top of the podium.”

“People are going to blame me.”

“Then I’ll tell them the truth.” The walk had completely sobered him up and he was once again talking clearly and back in English. But now that he was sober he wasn’t interested in going back to the casino and getting drunk again with his friends. “You are completely to blame.” He laughed as my jaw dropped. “What? I want to spend my time with you, and Addie. You make me happy. The parties are good at filling the emptiness inside but that’s all.”

When he put out like that I could hardly keep pushing him towards the door and so I stepped into his embrace instead. “What happens tomorrow? Or next week, Pierre? How does this work long term?”

“We make it work, because it’s worth it,” he answered honestly. “I have three days off and if you’ll let me, I’ll follow wherever you go.”

Butterflies erupted in my tummy and while my head warmed me we were moving too fast my heart ignored it completely. “I don’t actually have anything planned, I was going to play it by ear for the next two months until I have to be in Paris for the job I have lined up.”

Hope filled Pierre’s face at the news and he eagerly led me to the couch, tugging me down beside him to make our plans together.

“Three days and I’ll see you in Spain,” Otmar confirmed after we had finished our late breakfast and he shook hands with Pierre before turning to me. “And what about you, kiddo?”

I looked at Pierre and he winked back, our plans already made together for the week ahead - at least. “I’ll be there too.”

With that, we waved Otmar off as he left to go to the airport and spend a few days at home before the next race in Spain. 

Overnight the city had changed dramatically and aside from the grandstand seating that was still being dismantled, the streets were back to normal and far emptier with most of the teams leaving. With everyone leaving Addie was in a terrible mood, after all the goodbyes to Grandad and then Poppa Otty, plus the new found friends she had made in the Alpine team, she became clingy and stuck like glue to Pierre. 

“Sweetie, you are going to choke him,” I chided as I loosened her grip around his throat from where she was piggybacking on his back. 

She fought against my hands, holding on even tighter. “Don’t want Pear to go.”

“Pierre,” I tried to correct her, but it was a work in progress.

“Pee-year,” she repeated.

Pierre laughed at the attempt. “Close enough.”

“Pierre isn’t leaving us. We are going to spend the next few days taking a little road trip with him. If that’s alright with you?”

He grunted as she suddenly bounced excitedly on his back with approval at the idea and I helped her off him so we could head back up to our room to pack our bags. Pierre had already checked out of his hotel so it was just mine and Addie’s to pick up and I was grateful to have the extra pair of hands and a large SUV to fit everything in.

“Did she hurt you?” I asked as I noticed him putting pressure on his lower back with the heel of his hands when we entered my suite. 

“No, she’s fine, I’m just stiff from yesterday. Street races are bumpier than the circuits.”

I wasn’t a masseuse by any measure of the word but I didn’t want Pierre to be in pain and sent Addie off to her toiletry bag to get her bottle of baby oil while I pointed to the couch. “Take your shirt off and lay down,” I ordered him as Addie quickly delivered the bottle. 

“I’m fine,” he tried to insist but I gave him the same look I had when he lied about his gums hurting. 

“It’s over two and a half hours to Marseille and it might get worse,” I coaxed, reaching for the hem of his shirt when he placed his hand over mine. “You don’t need to be all macho.”

His hand fell away and I pulled the loose cotton shirt over his head, laying it over the arm of the couch so it didn’t get crinkled. Pierre jumped slightly when I poured the oil down his spine and again when my cold hands touched his skin. He soon relaxed into the soft cushions as I massaged his lower back and the oil warmed from the friction.

The relaxation only lasted until Addie decided she didn’t want to miss out and started to ‘help’ smearing the baby oil all over his back and shoulders and trying to copy what I was doing. 

We soon learnt that he had a ticklish spot when Addie prodded his ribs and he jolted in response with a laugh, “not there.”

Even a two year old knew that giving away a ticklish spot was an invitation and she was not wasting the opportunity. English quickly turned to French as Pierre tried to scramble away but he was trapped by the back of the couch, his pleas for mercy not something she was able to understand.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said when I finally recovered from laughing and caught Addie’s hands to stop her from trying again, “or he won’t want to take us anywhere. You can take a shower if you want, or you’ll get oil all over your shirt.”

While Pierre was in the bathroom I packed my suitcase and checked there was nothing of Addie’s left lying around or under the beds. Satisfied I had everything, I piled our belongings by the front door and called reception for a bellhop to help take it to Pierre’s car.

I had just hung up the room phone when my cell phone blared to life. 

“Dr Pascoe, did we have an appointment?” I answered, confused because I didn’t remember seeing an email from her. 

“No, no, I saw some of the Formula One news in the papers here and I thought I would check in to see how you are doing.” 

“Oh, that’s kind of you, but I’m actually handling things pretty well. Pierre is a great support and it is easy to be open with him.”

“That’s great to hear, and what about Trent Gordon? He’s always been a trigger when we have spoken.”

I sat down on the couch and hung my head in my hands. “I still can’t believe what he did. What if Erik tries to get custody of her? She’s safe while he’s still in prison but then what? I don’t want to have this hanging over me for the next seven years.”

“Your mother is a brilliant lawyer, you should speak to her when you can.  For now, I suggest you focus on what you can control. Use the exercises we have been over in our sessions and write down what positives there are in your life right now.”

“She’s too wrapped up in some big case to worry about this.”

“Don’t underestimate what a mother will do to help her child, I’m sure she can find time for you. I’ll check in next week but you have my number if you need to talk before then.”

I dropped my phone on my lap after hanging up and sagged back into the chair. Positives, positives, think of the positives. 

I had a healthy, happy child

We were going to have the summer of a lifetime together

I had met a wonderful man who treated me and Addie with respect

I felt like I had a place I belonged again - the paddock

The mental list worked to make me feel better and I took a few deep breaths before the bathroom door opened and Pierre stepped out.

“Ready to go?”

Addie was already at the front door sitting on her suitcase eating crackers, even though she’d  had breakfast not too long ago, and she jumped up in an instant. “Ready!”

He walked over to me and offered his hand to pull me up as the doorbell rang. “Perfect timing,” I said with a smile, feeling like the planets were aligning for us and giving this road trip a blessing. “Marseille here we come.”

Click here for chapter ten.

@my-only-way-tocooperatewithlife

[chrisbuckleydiaz]

Nest ao3

They get the call two hours before the shift is over.

Buck isn’t working, Dario from C-shift asked if someone could switch so he could go to a baseball-game and Buck offered.

Eddie is glad he isn’t there, doesn’t have to see it. It’s a boy. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. Skateboard vs. SUV. Tale as old as cars. He was probably on his way to school. His backpack lies five feet away, burst open. Eddie and Dario are busy with recovering the driver - but not busy enough. 

The ride back is quiet. Eddie’s stomach churns at the thought of the boy - his parents, his dreams, his future. Their shift is over, so there’s no need - except survival - to store those thoughts away. 

Maybe he had been into Guardians Of The Galaxy the same way Chris is right now - playing the game night after night. Maybe his parents had been at their wits end on how to coax him away from it.

Maybe he had spent every afternoon at the skatepark and came home on time and did his chores without having to be asked twice.

Maybe he’d wanted to become a pilot or a vet or a kindergarten teacher. Maybe he’d wanted to hike the Appalachian trail after graduation. 

Eddie takes a shaky breath, steadying himself by grabbing his own thighs. 

There’s a figure leaning against the glass wall of the locker room when they pull up at the station. Eddie feels Cap’s hand squeezing his shoulder in passing.

“Bobby texted me,” Tommy takes a step forward, forehead creased in worry.

“Oh.”

Eddie comes to a halt one, two feet apart from him.

“Evan is dropping off Christopher at school and has therapy after,” his voice is soft and measured.

Maybe Eddie almost flinched at the mention of his son. 

He knows Buck’s schedule - all of their schedules actually, they have a shared calendar, so he’s not sure why Tommy mentions it, but he doesn’t really care either. He nods.

“Yeah.”

“You want to grab breakfast?”

“Not sure I have an appetite,” Tommy nods, eyes warm with understanding, “But I could do with coffee.”

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

Tommy wraps him in his arms as soon as Eddie approaches the car and Eddie lets himself fall into the older one’s arms. 

“I’ve got you.”

Eddie inhales the familiar scent of Tommy and stays still for a moment, while Tommy rubs circles over his shoulder blades. Eventually Tommy pulls back, kissing his temple.

“You feel like driving?” 

He shakes his head and doesn’t let himself worry about the logistics of letting his car behind in the 118’s parking lot. Instead he climbs into the SUV. There’s soft rock music quietly playing and Eddie remembers with a sense of gratitude that Tommy rarely listens to the radio but has a number of curated playlists on his phone.

“Feel free to change that to whatever you feel like.”

“No, it’s - It’s good.”

Tommy rubs his thumb over Eddie’s hand while backing out of the parking space. 

“La Rosa ok?”

La Rosa is a tiny café in Ocean Park that has an elaborate coffee and breakfast menu and its own mascot in the form of Cupcake, the owner’s dog. Christopher, naturally, absolutely adores the dog.

Eddie nods and a short while later they find seats on the backyard patio that is equipped with seats in all different forms and colors. 

“Talk to me. Tell me something. A story. Whatever.” Eddie doesn’t let go of Tommy’s hand even for a second, not when they walked here and not now, after they ordered.

Tommy hums, thinking for a moment, then he smiles and Eddie feels better already.

“I used to spend a lot of my holidays at my aunt’s house. When I was eight or nine, my cousin became really obsessed with Back To The Future . We would watch the first and the sequel - the third one wasn’t released yet - like every other day. He could recite half of the script. And I guess I had something like a crush on Marty, but that’s not the point of the story,” Tommy winks and Eddie squeezes his hand, “The town my aunt lived in had - no joke - the same kind of clock as in the movie on the town hall. I think in the movie it wasn’t town hall. Anyway. One evening, there was a thunderstorm raging outside and my cousin begged his mom to let us go outside. Not sure what he wanted to do, since we didn’t have an actual time machine, but he begged for like half an hour. My aunt obviously refused to let us go and my cousin got so mad he didn’t speak to her the rest of the evening.”

While Tommy told his story, the waiter brought their order: Café con leche for Eddie and a mocha and strawberry muffin for Tommy.

“Did you like spending time at your aunt’s?”

“Yeah. She was a really kind woman that also took no shit. I mean, she had to be, growing up with my dad, I guess. She was really into quilts”, he frowns, “I should have a quilt of hers somewhere, now that I think about it.”

Eddie smiles at the thought of a keepsake like that when he feels something nudge his knee. It’s Cupcake, who’s looking expectantly at him.

“Hey, bud,” he greets him, instantly starting to scratch his ears, “It’s good to see you!”

He lets himself get carried away and baby-talks to the dog for a while. So long, that when he looks up again, Buck is standing behind Tommy, hands on his shoulders. Both of them are smiling fondly at him.

“Did you sneak up on us?”

“A buffalo herd could have trampled through here and you wouldn’t have noticed,” Buck teases, rounding the table and sitting down next to Eddie. He leans forward, his hand cupping Eddie’s face. “Hey, baby. Chris says hi.”

Eddie swallows a whine when Buck withdraws his hand to grab the menu.

“I’m starving! I hope they still serve the three-cheese omelet.”

“Any thoughts on how to spend the rest of the day? My on-call doesn’t start until noon.”

Eddie shrugs, stirring his café slowly. Buck musters him.

“Your eyes are teeny-tiny, Eds.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’m a teeny-tiny bit tired.”

Tommy smiles. “I could do with a nap.”

“Same.”

“So that’s decided then?” Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

“Looks like it,” Buck nods and grabs a fork to dig into the omelett.

When Eddie wakes up two hours later, Buck is propped up against the headboard, scrolling on his phone.

“Did Tommy have to leave already?” Eddie pats the empty side of the mattress.

“Hey sleepyhead. No. He’s looking for something in the garage. Didn’t want to tell me what,” Buck shrugs. 

Eddie hums, positioning himself in Buck’s lap. Buck immediately starts scratching his head and Eddie sighs. For a while, they’re quiet.

“You want to talk about it?” Buck eventually asks.

Does he? 

“I assume you have the context?”

“I texted Bobby.”

Eddie clicks his tongue, looking for words.

“I know that we have to suppress the fact that this planet is a really fucked up, unsafe place because otherwise…,” he shakes his head, “But it just hit me. Full force. Life isn’t safe and I won’t be able to protect him.”

Buck’s still caressing his hair.

“You think…,” he clears his throat, “A pedestrian hit by a car - that - You think that brought up something else as well?”

Eddie looks at him, looks at his face that’s so full of love and care and gentleness, and blinks.

It’s not like they don’t respond to that kind of call at least once a week. But the combination of a fourteen year old teenage boy and - his stomach clenches painfully.

His breath stutters, resentment rising in him. But Buck beats him to it.

“Grief is incredibly messy, Eds. There’s no endpoint to it.”

“I know,” he rubs his face, “But I have this,” he gestures towards the room, “I have you, and Tommy, and Chris is thriving … Then why -”

“Because you love her. Emotions don’t ask for reasons.”

Eddie huffs out a breath, still frustrated. 

“It’s not going to get any easier if you’re trying to will the feelings away.”

He glances at Buck, a retort about therapy speech on his tongue when he hears rummaging in the living room.

“I guess he’s done,” Eddie claps his hand and pushes himself up, calling out, “Tommy, you wanna shoot some hoops?” 

“Eddie,” Buck sighs, but his expression is so incredibly soft that it makes Eddie’s heart skip a beat.

He halts and bends down to give Buck a kiss. “I love you.”

It’s half past eleven, so they have at least half an hour until Tommy’s phone might go off and Eddie feels the stress bleed away from his body ten minutes in. He’s okay. Chris is okay. Tommy is okay. Buck is okay. They’re okay.

It takes Eddie all the self-control he has to not to hug Chris when he’s picking him up from school. Hugs in front of his friends are uncool. At least hugs in private are tolerated, yet.

Chris climbs in and sits down in the passenger seat (it took Eddie two weeks to adjust to that. He isn’t sure if Buck has adjusted yet.) and promptly connects his phone to the car radio. 

“Learned anything exciting today, mijo?”

His son starts talking about the three types of sedimentary rocks and Eddie doesn’t get half of it, and surely isn’t as excited about it as Buck would be, but just hearing Christopher talk, and be excited, is enough to make him fill with warmth.

“I was thinking, if you’re done with your homework before dinner, we could watch a movie after.”

Christopher glances at him.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Smart kid.”

“And Tommy is on call.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “That sounds a lot like a no, champ. Are you ill?”

Christopher scoffs. “I’m just confused. I mean, yeah, of course. As long as it’s nothing boring.”

“Just want to do something nice. And the aquarium really doesn’t fit into a weekday-schedule.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

By some kind of miracle Tommy is still at home when they have dinner and has the brilliant idea of making popcorn. 

Buck and Eddie get settled on the couch, while Chris throws his legs over the armrest of the armchair. 

“One second,” Tommy sets down the second bowl with popcorn and disappears for a moment. Eddie frowns but Buck shrugs cluelessly. They select the movie and Tommy comes back, holding a quilt in his hand. 

“I found it,” he beams at Eddie and sits down next to him, so Eddie is squished in the middle (they really have to get a bigger couch). WIthout hesitation he spreads the quilt over them and Eddie marvels at the colors. It’s obviously a coincidence, probably some gendered bs, but Eddie’s heart fills with warmth when he sees the squares in different shades of blue and turquoise. 

“Tommy, that’s … It’s really beautiful.”

“My aunt made it for me when I was ten,” he explains to Chris and Buck, “I found it in the garage this morning.”

Eddie rests his head on Tommy’s shoulder while caressing Buck’s hand with his thumb, while the opening credits of Back To The Future start playing.

The world might be a fucked-up place, but he has his own little corner inside of it. And that’s everything.

[ink-and-dagger]

Copia Slow-burn sneak peak 👀

So yesterday my follower count hit a number that wouldn't ordinarily be a considered a milestone, but because I'm in the Ghost fandom it definitely is 🎉

BUT I don't have any fics ready to go to celebrate... So I figured I'd share a little sneak peek of the multi-chapter project I've been working on instead.

It's a slow-burn Cardinal Copia romance, and I've chosen the below section because it makes me giggle and I also think it's a pretty good introduction to the reader character.

I'm not going to be giving away the full summary or title just yet, but all you need to know right now is that our sweet, naive, accident prone reader is attempting to break into the Ghost Ministry grounds in the dead of night...

[I hope you enjoy. Any feedback at this stage is super welcome 🙏🏼]

[Unedited draft - may be subject to change]

You adjust your rucksack and turn back towards the Ministry to examine the iron fencing which encircles the grounds. It must be around eight or nine feet tall. The twisting spikes which adorn the top are blunt – more decorative than an actual measure to prevent trespassers – but the vertical bars ensure there are no footholds with which to climb.

You gnaw at your lip. Going home is not an option. You refuse to admit defeat before you’ve even begun. You could wait until morning – find somewhere to hunker down out of the wind until someone comes to unlock the gates – but a well timed duet of thunder and lightning sends that idea scattering. The storm is fast approaching, and you’ve no choice but to find a way in. You’ll be of no use to anyone if you die from exposure.

This is merely the first trial on your pilgrim’s journey.

The sky flashes once more, and the light bounces off a tree trunk fifty yards or so down the perimeter of the fence; a gnarled old oak, with several branches overhanging the very barrier you’re looking to cross. Perfect.

You assess your route as you jog over; plenty of protruding knots and handy branches to grab. You’ve always been a strong climber, and you’re halfway up the trunk in almost no time at all. The lichen-touched bark is thick and tough beneath your palms, and the smell of sap and budding young leaves is bitter-fresh. A tiny, unconscious smile curls the edges of your mouth. It’s so much nicer to climb without someone scolding you from below. 

Before long you’re swinging a leg up and over to sit astride one the thicker branches that breaches the Ministry grounds. You start scooting yourself forward, bit by bit.

Ten feet away from the fence. Eight. Six.

The branch begins to bow beneath your weight. 

You scoot faster.

Four feet. Two—

A splintering snap at your backhas you diving forwards with a panicked yelp. Your fingers latch over the top of the fence just as the wood gives way beneath you; sending your body swinging straight into the iron bars with a resounding clang. You maintain your grip, even though the impact turns your entire skeleton into a glorified tuning fork, and you pray that your kneecaps only feel like they’re broken.

It takes a bit of heaving, but you manage to pull yourself up into an awkward crouch atop the fence; feet slotting in the gaps between the decorative spikes. You peep back over your shoulder towards the branch, now hanging by a few feeble splinters. You wince.

“Sorry tree,” you apologise softly.

The drop you’re now faced with isn’t exceptionally far, but it’s high enough to give you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut, but that only makes your head swim, and your muscles tremble with the effort of stabilising your gradually withering balance. 

“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” you mutter. You can hardly squat here like the world’s most graceless monkey all night. You puff out several quick breaths that don’t actually do anything to help calm your nerves, and then you tip forward.

For a surreal half-moment you’re completely weightless, legs extending, ready to meet the ground—

An almighty rip sunders the nighttime peace, and you jerk to an abrupt halt; shoulders hitching right up to your ears and feet dangling freely beneath you. With some difficulty you manage twist your head to peer upwards from the corner of your eye. 

Yup. Backpack. Spike. Seems you’ve been promoted from graceless monkey to idiot scarecrow.

“Fiddlesticks,” you curse beneath your breath.

You wriggle in midair in an attempt to dislodge yourself. And when that doesn’t work you try kicking backwards off the railings. Of course that only succeeds in swinging you out over the lawn, where you somehow manage to twirl a full circle in the air, (thus twisting the straps into a hopeless muddle above you), before your spine crashes back into the iron fence. Hard.

“Son of a mongoose.”

Why is it that stuff like never happens to anyone else but you?

The bag tears a little more, and you drop an inch lower. You begin frantically cycling your legs, threshing around like a fish out of water— 

The fabric gives way, dumping you into an undignified pile upon the Ministry lawn. 

In the grand scheme of things it’s far from your worst ever landing. The ground is spring-time soft at least, and your panicked squawk could have easily been mistaken for a fox or some other nocturnal creature. Still, you take a moment to lay face down and reevaluate your existence.

The contents of your bag lay scattered around you; nothing more than a few items of clothing and some toiletries. A cheap flip-phone with only a single stored number. A small book, bound in black calfskin leather…

The grass flashes brilliant emerald, and a clap of thunder follows barely a second later. You push yourself up onto your knees with a groan and tug what’s left of your rucksack off your back; grimacing at the pitiful scraps in your hand.

Only the heavens aren’t content to let you sulk for long. They open upon you.

A sheet of rain sweeps across the grounds. A torrential curtain of chilled water that freezes your shocked gasp in your throat and plasters your hair to your skull within seconds. You scramble around the grass on your hands and knees, gathering your meagre belongings and shoving them unceremoniously into your tattered rucksack, hugging the haphazard bundle to your chest as you clamber to your feet—

—and promptly slip back over.

The sky blazes and crashes overhead.

“Not! Helping!” You yell pointedly out into the night, but the blustering wind snatches your voice and carries it away to nowhere. 

You push to your feet, quickly grabbing the sweater and socks which escaped your bundle when you fell again, and manage to remain upright this time as you begin your sprint up the lawn. The rain drives against you with a vengeance, slicing at your skin like tiny knives and leaving you squinting as you battle your way through its ceaseless assault.

The Ministry complex looms just ahead, and you make a dash for what looks to be the main entrance. But as you draw near, you’re greeted with a sight that until now had remained hidden by the crest of the hill. A white-hot needle of terror pierces straight through you, and you skid to an unbalanced halt mere feet away from the promise of cover. You clutch your belongings tighter against your chest, as though they might muffle the pounding of your heart, and you stare wide-eyed down at the marble tiling set in front of the porch. 

A giant, gothically-ornate rendering of a crucifix. Or it would be… were it not upside down.

.

.

[bugwolfsstuff]

Wine Child chapter 1

Finnally finished chapter 1 and two of this fic. But i will only be posting those chapters here. the rest will be going on Ao3:

Summary: Mr D pisses off Hebe, gets dumped at camp as an 8 year old.

Chiron: Just a quiet day in Camp Half-Blood....I wish.

It was quiet at Camp Half-Blood. 

That alone should have been my first hint that something was about to go very wrong.

It was the afternoon, Apollo was midway through his daily drive in his sun chariot. Campers were peacefully going about their scheduled activities, and Mr. D hadn't turned anyone into a dolphin.

I was at the archery range instructing the Hephaestus cabin: Issac had actually hit the target and not my back, Shane hadn't gotten into an argument with Kayla Knowles from the Apollo Cabin, and Harley had refrained from shooting his siblings (A very big achievement for him. He will be getting extra dessert at dinner.) Everything was going smoothly. 

Of course, in Camp Half-Blood, even the smallest moments of peace never last long.

I was speaking to the head counsellors, Jake and Nyssa, at that moment about adding proper safety measures to their workshop in cabin nine (despite what some believe, we do have some safety standards at camp, just not very high ones) when suddenly the chatter around us got very quiet.

The unusual hush that fell over the children made me pause mid-sentence. Hephaestus's children were usually quiet like their father, yes, but not to this degree, especially not when they're talking about machinery.

I turned to see what silenced them and internally sighed.

"Good evening, Lady Hebe," I said calmly.

"Hello, Chiron," She replied.

As the goddess of youth, Hebe preferred to take the form of a young woman. Today, however, she looked like a little girl with blonde pigtails, and if I didn't know better, I would say she was around seven or eight. 

She was holding a gym bag almost as big as she was...that was also moving...I don't think gym equipment does that.

She was also smiling.

Which didn't bring me any peace of mind.

"Me and Dio got into a little argument." She said, looking up at me.

Of course he did. Why does that not surprise me in the slightest? I thought. I, of course, did not verbalize my thoughts. That'd be blasphemy....However true it is. 

Instead, I smiled and said, "Ah, sorry to hear that. What kind of argument did you have? If you don't mind me asking."

The fact that she was telling me this scares me. Gods can be dangerous when angered, especially when another god is the one to anger them. If Hebe was angry at Dionysus, then she might take it out on someone he cares about.

Someone like Pollux.

"Well, it's a funny story, really." Hebe's 'innocent' smile persisted as she started swinging the gym bag gently back and forth by the straps. Whatever was inside the bag did not appreciate this movement and started to move even more fiercely, like it was trying to escape. 

"Dio had said some extremely offensive words to me about youth, and I simply couldn't let that slide. So, I decided to teach him a lesson about the value of youth."

Campers had started to gather around us. Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase pushed to the front of the crowd to see what was going on.

My eyes flickered toward the gym bag, and a sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Whatever was inside, it seemed alive and determined to escape.

Hebe's eyes swivelled around to look at the other campers, her grin widening. She twirled the bag straps in her hand, pulling the bag upwards before tipping it upside down.

"What I didn't account for was how whiney he was. So then I thought, hmm, where was the best place where he could learn to appreciate youth? Nowhere else but summer camp!"

The pit in my stomach settled as my eyes focused on the bag, muffled sounds of protest emanating from it as it struggled. I think I just figured out what was in the bag, and gods did I hope I was wrong.

"Welp, I must love you and leave you, demigods!" She unzipped the bag, dumping its contents on the grass, and my worst fear was confirmed.

Purple eyes looked up at me with pure fear.

"No more monsters!"

-----

Chapter 2 on tumblr here

[monako-jinn-stories]

Echo X Fem!Reader FanFic

A Returning Echo ~ After the Citadel

Main Master List

Story Master List

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Thirty Eight

It's the moment I've been waiting for heheheh

The sky is grey as you push yourself up with weak arms. Explosions land all around you, lighting the sky up with flashes of red, orange, yellow, and white. The ground shakes as the Separatists continue to lay into your battalion. The only hope you have left is Bomber Squadron.

You look up to the sky as they fly overhead. You’re vaguely aware of Hex and Steele to your left, and Sans to your right. Aid is there too, wrapping up Steele’s leg as Hex holds him still through the agonizing screams. Aid turns and stands, taking a few running steps away before vomiting up his rations. You both turn to the sky at the same time, and now everyone is watching Bomber squadron.

And then you watch it all happen, and when it’s over, Aid vomits again.

***

Three Months Ago

“Aleiah!” Fives says cheerfully as he walks into the shop. Tup shares a look with Dogma, who just shrugs his shoulders, following behind the ARC who had said they were going on a very important retrieval mission.

“Fives! What a lovely surprise! It’s been too long,” Aleiah says, walking over to wrap him in a tight hold. “How have you been, my dear?”

“Fantastic! Living the soldier's dream.”

“More like nightmare,” Tup whispers to Dogma, who nods in agreement.

“Now, that’s not what I mean, boy. How have you been? And what about y/n?” she asks softly while giving him a sympathetic look.

“We both really miss him,” he sighs, leaning against the wall. “We try to be there for each other as much as possible. It’s just hard, you know?” 

Aleiah nods, gently placing a hand on his arm. “I know you didn’t come here to talk about him, so what can I do for you?” The bright smile returns almost instantly to Five’s lips at her question, reminding him of why he’d come. “And who are these two handsome men with you?”

“This is Tup,” Fives says, throwing his arm around the younger trooper’s shoulders, who smiles shyly, “and this is Dogma. These are my two little shinies that I get to babysit.”

“Babysit?” Dogma says, “we’re not babies-”

“Shh, what did I tell you about talking to your superiors?” Fives says, putting a hand on his hip.

“You said the only people who get proper respect were the nat-borns, Cody, Wolffe, and Fox,” Tup speaks up.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Fives mumbles to himself. “Well, new rule: never disagree with Fives.”

“That’s a dumb rule,” Tup whispers to Dogma, who grimaces and nods again.

“Oh, be nice to them,” Aleiah says, walking over to shoo Fives away from Tup and Dogma, “Fives is a character, as I’m sure you’ve figured out already,” she says to them, “only listen to the serious stuff he says.”

“Hey, everything I say is serious!” he counters, frowning at her before she waves him off dismissively.

“So, may I ask again what brings you here?”

“Well, ARC-Trooper 5555-”

Dogma is cut off in the middle of speaking as Aleiah whacks him with a tape measure. “You should know by now to not use numbers, and say names instead.” She gives him a brief glare, and he swallows hard before nodding.

“Right, sorry, Mrs…”

“Orno. Aleiah Orno,” she says, giving him a kind smile now.

“Well, Mrs. Orno, ARC- er, Fives informed me and Tup that we were on an important retrieval mission.”

“Important retrieval?” she repeats, giving Fives a confused look. “I don’t have anything here. Unless someone broke in and hid something.”

“Oh, I was wrong,” Fives says, stepping forward, “I meant a special request mission.”

“Wait, are you saying that you drug us out here to ask for something?” Tup questions, and Fives gives him a wide grin.

“Precisely,” he confirms before turning back to Aleiah. “I need a custom baby onesie.”

“A baby onesie?”

“Yeah, it’s for y/n. She…she never got the chance to tell Echo.” Aleiah places a hand gently on Fives’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. He smiles at her softly before composing himself again. “I want her little girl to have a onesie from her best uncle.”

“So you want one that says Hex?” Aleiah teases, earning an amused snort from both Tup and Dogma.

“Haha,” Fives says while rolling his eyes, shooting the shinies a glare.

Aleiah moves away from him, walking over to her counter while mumbling to herself. “There it is! Now,” she says, holding a datapad in her hand, “go ahead and tell me the details.”

“Well, I want the front to say ‘ARC-5555’ across the top, with a giant ‘#1’ in the middle, and ‘UNCLE’, on the bottom. Then on the back, I want it to say ‘Fives’, across the top, with a giant ‘5z’ below it. Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket, “I have a picture I drew.” He hands her a very poor drawing of the shirt design he had imagined, and she holds back her own amused snort as she takes it.

“Well, we know Fives could never make it as an artist,” Dogma whispers to Tup.

“Alright,” Aleiah says, pinning the drawing to a board full of notes, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much, Aleiah. You never fail to make the best clothes!” Fives says. “Oh, speaking of which, we need some 501st pj’s for these two as well.”

“Normal measurements?” she asks, and Fives nods. “Alright, I’ll get on those as soon as I can. Come back next zhellday, and everything should be ready.”

“Thanks again!” Fives says, shoving the shinies through the door, “you’re the best!” Aleiah chuckles to herself as she watches Fives run along with the shinies trailing behind, who are no doubt wondering what in the world is going on.

***

You’re frozen in place as you watch the smoke rise up. You can hear yelling all around you, and faintly feel a hand on your shoulder, trying to shake you back to reality. You turn to see Sans’s desperate eyes, and you finally snap yourself out of it and push yourself to run over. Smoke engulfs you as you run forward, and you shoot your arms out, carelessly using the force to throw rubble out of your way as you search.

***

Two Months Ago

Mai-Lee walks in to see you and Echoa laying on the floor, with you watching as she crawls around. She’s been learning and growing fast, much faster than normal babies. It’s almost as though she has accelerated growth. Doctors and scientists have run tests, and you’re currently waiting for results. Could Echo’s quickened aging have passed on to her? “You have a visitor,” Mai-Lee says, smiling as Echoa waves a tiny fist at her. She walks in and kneels down, taking Echoa into her arms and poking her nose. “They have a gift for you,” she says as Echoa giggles.

You smile and watch as Mai-Lee sets Echoa back down before standing. “Will you send them in?”

“He was right behind me,” she sighs, setting a hand on her hip. “That man, I swear.”

“Fives?” you guess, and she nods in confirmation. “Tell me about it. He never knocked, either. Not even when he knew me and Echo were busy.”

“I feel bad for Shaak Ti having to deal with him,” she giggles.

“At least he’s not as bad as Anakin,” you reply, “I don’t even want to imagine what Padmé puts up with.”

The sound of footsteps running down the hall catches everyone’s attention, and Echoa perks up when she hears Fives calling out. “I’m coming, Echoa!” He practically crashes into the room, catching himself against the doorframe at the last minute. “There’s my little princess!” he says, rushing over to pick her up and spin her around. Her giggles filled the room and a smile shines on Fives’s face before he holds her against his chest.

“What brings you to Dohbar?” you ask, and Fives shoots you a look.

“Echoa, obviously.”

“I can see that,” you reply, waving to Mai-Lee as she excuses herself. Fives sits down next to you, setting Echoa in his lap before taking the bag he has off his shoulder. 

“I have a gift for you,” he says, and she patiently looks up at him before he takes out a little baby onesie. You read what it says and then let out a long sigh, shaking your head. “What, you don’t like it?”

“You’re borderline Anakin level ridiculous,” you reply. He just ignores your comment before flipping it around so you could see the back. “Are you really expecting me to put that on my daughter?”

“Yes,” he immediately replies, and you let out another sigh before snatching it from him and picking up Echoa, carrying her over to the table to change her outfit. Once she’s in it, you hold her out for Fives to take into his arms. He has the biggest smile on his face as he holds her, and you can feel the joy radiating, even without the help of the force. “It’s perfect!” he says, and you let a small smile come to your lips as you shake your head. 

“You’re going to spoil her too much,” you comment, leaning back and using your arms to hold you up. 

“Non-sense,” he counters, “it would be impossible to spoil her too much.”

***

This wasn’t a part of the plan. This should never have happened. That cannon had been destroyed, you had been sure of it. There’s no way it could have been operable, and even if it was, it could never have made that shot.

But it did.

***

One Month Ago

“So, the results of the tests came back,” you say as you hand Fives a drink you’d just poured. You clink your glasses together before both taking a sip. Shaak Ti isn’t drinking tonight, but she’d joined Fives on his trip to Dohbar to finally meet Echoa.

“And?” she asks, Fives nodding in agreement to her curiosity.

“She does in fact age faster,” you reply. “It seems as though she doesn’t age as fast as the clones, though. Instead of aging at a rate of two years for each year, she ages at a rate of 1.5 years for each year.”

“So, how old is she technically right now?” Fives questions, and you think for a moment.

“I guess she would be…three months? Since she’s technically only two months old.”

“She’s growing fast then,” Shaak says, “Are you sure you want to go back so soon? You might miss some important moments.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” you sigh before taking another drink. “The Council is already on me about it, and besides, I don’t want to wait much longer. I’m getting antsy.”

Shaak takes a sip of her non-alcoholic drink, and you can tell she’s holding a comment back. You know some Jedi don’t approve of your eagerness to fight, despite them knowing you came from a warrior-based planet. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get back out into the battles,” Fives starts, “but you have to keep your daughter in mind. You’re her only surviving parent, and I know Kwol and Ahni would take care of her for you if anything happened, but still.”

“You have to ask yourself what you care about more,” Shaak adds, “your life as a Jedi, or your life as a mother.”

You drink the last bit of your drink before setting your glass down on the table in front of you. “Echoa’s awake,” you say, standing and swiftly moving to the door, “I’ll be heading to bed after I check on her.” You don’t see their reactions, but Fives nods before finishing his own drink while Shaak lets out a sigh, her fingers tapping nervously on her glass. She didn’t mean to upset you, but she’d spoken honestly. 

You usually fought with only a small care for yourself, mostly worried about your troopers, but now you had someone else to fight for, to survive for. And as you look down at her in your arms, lolling back to sleep, you know Shaak is right. But you can’t choose between the two lives, just like you couldn’t choose between being queen and a Jedi. It’s all or nothing with you, and you’re determined to make it work.

You set her back in her cradle, brushing the hair from her face,. She sleeps with her mouth slightly open, and you can’t help the absolute love you feel flow to her through the force. And when she subconsciously sends her own love back, your heart feels full to the bursting point.

***

The body is so mangled that you can barely even recognize him, and if not for the signature paint on his armor, or the way your eyes had been following him ever since you saw the cannon blast, you wouldn’t have been able to name him. His hair isn’t even recognizable as his own style. A sob leaves you again, and your knees shake as you fall to the ground at his side.

***

Two weeks ago

You wait in the hangar for your newest guest to arrive. You had thought he was joking when he said he would visit your daughter, but you should have known better. It is Cad Bane, after all.

Your hands rest on your hips as you impatiently stand there, and you can’t help but wonder if he is purposely late just to get on your nerves. 

No, you think to yourself, he’s a professional. He’s not late unless there’s a good reason.

A gurble from the ground catches your attention, and you look down to see your daughter sitting up and waving her arms widely. You let a small amused smirk come to your lips before you turn fully to her. “What is it, Echoa?” you ask gently. She scrunches her face and lets out an annoyed sound, waving her arms more frantically. “Do you want me to pick you up?” She beams at that, and you let out a huff. “Two minutes ago you wanted to be sitting on the ground,” you mumble to yourself while bending to pick her up. Just as you turn back around to gaze out of the hangar, you see a ship flying in, one you don’t recognize, but can clearly tell it’s owned by Bane. “Time to meet your bounty hunter uncle,” you say in a tone that would suggest slight irritation as you walk towards the ship.

“Now, don’t be like that, little lady,” Bane says as he walks down the boarding ramp. He twirls his toothpick in his mouth before smirking and glancing down. “Oh, what a doll,” he says, reaching out towards Echoa. You hesitantly let him take her into his hold, and watch as she stares up at him while she’s in his arms.

“So, what brought you here?” you ask, motioning for him to follow you inside. 

“I thought it was about time to meet her,” he replies, and you let out an amused snort. “Fine, I was on my way back from a bounty and thought I should stop by.”

“That’s more like it,” you mumble. “I’m afraid you can’t stay here for long. I’m heading back to Coruscant today.”

“Already?” he asks, pausing in his steps to look at you with a questioning look. You just shrug and nod, and he looks down at Echoa again. “I’ve heard things. People making up their own theories. I’ve done as best I can to keep her name and life out of the underworld, but it’s not exactly easy.”

“I appreciate all that you have and are able to do.”

He waves his hand dismissively, gently brushing a hand down Echoa’s cheek. “I can see for myself that some theories are true, or have some truth to them. She ages faster, doesn’t she?” he asks, and you swallow hard before nodding. “With her father being a clone trooper, it isn’t hard to guess,” he assures you. “There was no leaked information. I haven’t even heard her name uttered yet.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” you sigh, taking a seat on a couch. You motion for Bane to join you, and he sits across from you in a chair. “I can’t stay here forever though, and I’ve already explained it so many times.”

“I know, little lady,” he says, “I know you well. But I also know you’ve heard this many times from many others, but I’ll be the next to say it. You have to keep her in mind when you make decisions, especially ones that endanger your life.” You bite your tongue to keep your snark from coming out, and just nod. He’s right, everyone else has said that, and it’s the truth. But it doesn’t make it any easier. “Would you want a body guard for her? Someone who can keep a constant eye out? I’d be happy to give you a discount for my services.”

This time, you let out an audible laugh at his words. “Bane, we both know I’d never say yes to that.”

“It was worth a try.”

“I appreciate the offer, but she’s plenty safe here. Besides, wouldn’t your presence here just bring more attention?”

“It might,” he admits, “but then again, I’d have your royal guard to keep me safe as well.”

“She’ll be fine without you,” you say, and your tone ends the topic. “I need to get ready,” you say while standing up. “You can stay with her for a little bit longer, or you can go ahead and fly out.”

“I suppose I should get going myself,” he says, standing up before handing Echoa back to you. He leans down and places a gentle kiss to her forehead, whispering, “take care, little doll.” He then straightens up and looks at you, an authentic smile gracing his lips. “We’ve known each other for a long time,” he starts, “and I know how much you’ve been through. I’m proud of you, y/n. More than you could ever know.”

“Thank you, Cad,” you reply, returning the smile, “I’m glad you’ve stuck with me this long, and through everything.”

“I wouldn’t dream of letting you fall,” he says before moving closer and planting a kiss on your forehead. “Goodbye, little lady. Take care, for all of us.” You nod and watch him leave, heading back towards the hangar. No one would ever quite understand your bond, but he was the one who first discovered how poorly your adoptive parents had treated you. How you’d been kidnapped and a ransom was set, and the former king and queen just told the bounty hunter to keep you, do what he wanted with you. That you were a burden to them anyway, and they’d be better off without you. He’d also been the one to hand you back to Codo, and make sure he understood that you were to be taken care of, and if anything else serious happened to you, Bane would find Codo and punish him.

Just before he reaches the hangar door, you notice Mai-Lee almost run into him. He catches her as she tries to stop herself, clearly in a rush. You snort in amusement as you watch Mai-Lee’s cheeks warm as she profusely apologizes, and then watch her almost crumble when Bane lifts her hand up to his lips to place a gentle kiss before letting her hand go and giving her a tip of his hat as he pushes open the doors to the hangar.

***

Wake up, you tell yourself. Wake up, it’s just a dream. It’s all in your head, it’s not real.

You sit up and let out a yelp, chest rising and falling as you pant and try to catch your breath. Sweat drips off of your body, and you distantly feel your limbs trembling. You let out a sigh, briefly reveling in the fact that it was just a dream.

But then again,

Jedi don’t ‘just dream’.

The hum of the Venator lights in your bunk area are like sirens in your ears. Pushing yourself up off of the bunk, you feel layers of sweat rolling down your body as you stand. It isn’t hot in here, in fact it’s kind of chilly, but the dream you’d just had set your body temperature soaring. Fear and anxiety shake your legs as you stumble towards the refresher. 

Quickly slipping your clothes off, you jump in the shower, spraying cold water and then hot water onto yourself. You want to wash the sweat off, and burn out the images in your mind. It couldn’t have been a vision, it’s not possible. You’ve never had one before, why would you start having them now? And if it was a vision, then why did it have to be him?

You pull yourself from the safety of the refresher and redress in clean clothes before heading up to the bridge. As you walk past troopers, they nod and greet you, many of them having not seen you in quite a while. You smile back to them, exchanging pleasantries before continuing on. 

“There she is,” Steele says as you finally join him, Hex, Sans, and Aid on the bridge. “We were about to send Sans to go get you.”

“Sorry,” you reply, “I feel asleep, and then I had a quick rinse off.”

“Well, you’re just in time,” Hex says, “we’re about to leave hyperspace, and then make our way down to the surface.” 

“Shall we run through the plans one last time?” Sans asks, and everyone agrees. While you stand there listening, you can’t fight it when your mind wanders to that dream. Certain parts of the plan might go wrong and provide the chance for it to come true, and that’s what makes it hard to focus. 

A gentle hand on your shoulder brings you back to the holotable in front of you. You blink a few times before looking up to see concern in everyone’s eyes. “Are you okay, y/n?” Aid asks you, and you turn to see his hand still on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you swallow, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re breathing heavily and you look pale.”

“I just…” you start, shaking your head before finishing. “Bad dream, that’s all.”

“Dream?” Steele questions, exchanging a look with his twin, “Jedi don’t dream. They have visions, right?”

You shake your head, fists clenching at your sides briefly. “No. For the sake of my sanity, and anxieties, I need to believe it was just a dream.”

Steele and Hex exchange another look, and Sans takes a step closer to you. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

“No,” you instantly respond, eyes going wide before leaving him and finding that one trooper you’d dreamt of. When your eyes rest on him, your mouth goes dry, and you barely whisper out, “I can’t.”

The members of Jawa Squad, save for Tie who isn’t with the group, all look towards where your eyes went, and you feel them freeze in place. Steele reaches out to squeeze Hex’s wrist for stability, and Hex just keeps a stoic expression. Aid swallows hard, and you can tell he’s fighting back a wave of nausea. 

“We won’t let it happen,” Sans says, his tone uncharacteristically stern and serious, almost as though he’s commanding it to the galaxy. “We can’t.”

As the Venator comes out of hyperspace, you watch as the trooper stands up. When he notices everyone looking at him, he gives his signature smile and waves before shooting finger guns as he begins to walk closer. Steele releases Hex’s wrist with a sigh, and Hex glances at his twin from the corner of his eye, giving a brief nod of assurance. 

“So, are we all ready to go?” you hear Tie, who is now with you and the rest Jawa squad, ask, and you turn slightly to give him a nod. “Great! I’ll go get the transport pilots ready,” he says before heading off, speaking into his comms to tell everyone to get to the hangar.

“It’ll all be okay,” Aid says to you, and you can tell he’s also trying to convince himself. You give him a smile, nodding again. It seems like you can’t speak, the fear of what may happen is silencing you, and you don’t know what you could possibly say if you do end up finding that mangled clone body.

You lead the rest of the troopers on the bridge down to the hangar, and wait until everyone is on board their transports before you hop into your starfighter. Maybe if you did things a little differently than normal, then he might survive. Or maybe going away from the normal is what killed him in the dream. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands, the stress over this getting to you. Taking deep breaths, you try to calm your nerves before you sit up and look out the view port.

“Are we ready to take off?” you ask over the comms, and Tie replies with an all-set. You lead the way out, flying over to where the main camp will be. When Jawa Squad lands, you hop out and join up with them. You exchange brief nods before Hex and Steele take their part of the battalion, while you and Sans take your part. Tie lingers in the camp with Aid, and you watch them closely, memorizing them as they are now.

“It’ll be okay,” Sans says, gaining your attention by resting a hand on your shoulder. You just give him a weak smile, nodding silently before stepping forward to begin to lead the troopers. Each step you take sends a wave of guilt through you, and you have to fight your urge to stop and go find that one trooper and tell him to just go back to the Venator and wait in safety until the battle is over. But that wouldn’t work, either. He’s not the type to sit back and watch his brothers die while he’s in safety. Especially not those in his squad.

“We can do this,” you say suddenly, setting your mind. 

Sans turns to you and you can feel the smile from under his helmet. He nods and raises his blaster, turning back to the enemy. “After you, General Jinn.”

You let out a snort at the title and give him a playful nudge before igniting your lightsaber and running out of the cover you had been marching in, exposing yourself to the enemy.

It seems like all in the same second, the sound of battle explodes from everywhere. Troopers charge behind you as you begin deflecting enemy shots. It doesn’t take long for the Separatists to start using their cannons, and Tie isn’t yet back with the other pilots to drop your own explosives on them. They had been ready for you and you’ll end up paying the price.

“We need to prioritize taking out those cannons,” you yell into the comms.

“Two groups of five take each cannon,” Sans shouts into his, “one group focus on taking out the cannon, and the other group focus on providing support and cover fire.”

“On it!” a few troopers respond, and you watch as they grab others close by before heading off. You watch as Uma, Skipper, Bullseye, Ripple, and Lightweight decide to head off, and you can’t help but feel a rush of fear run through you. You take a step towards them, but Sans’s hand on your shoulder stops you. He shakes his head slowly, and you give him a pleading and fearful look, but he just tightens his grip.

“They’ll be okay,” he replies, before the sound of shrieks rips through the air. You instantly turn and run towards them, towards the sound, out of Sans’s grip, and you see them on the ground with smoke coming from nearby. You can only beg the Maker to have let them get out of the way in time. As soon as you reach them, though, the cannon fires again.

The ringing in your ears is the first thing that you notice. Next is the pain in your body, mainly in your head. Then you the smell of burnt plastoid comes from all around you, and your heart lurches into your throat. You swallow hard, trying to keep yourself from being sick. When you finally open your eyes, you’re met with Lightweight lying motionless beside you. You try and choke out words, but all that comes is a cough. 

The sky is grey above you, and you feel yourself absentmindedly pushing yourself up with weak arms. It feels as though you’ve done this before, and you don’t feel in control of your actions. It’s almost like you’re just watching yourself go through the movements, unable to stop them.

Explosions land all around you, and the sky lights up with flashes of red, orange, yellow, and white. It would make a beautiful painting if all those colors were swirled and mixed together. But this isn’t art, this is war.

The ground shakes and you nearly lose your balance as the Separatists continue to lay down the fire on you and your battalion. Thankfully, it seems that their numbers have dwindled down greatly, and the only real threat is the cannons.

You feel the bile rise in your throat as you realize that there aren’t enough troopers to be able to fight the droids and take down the cannons. That leaves only one option, and you nearly sob at the thought of it. Your only hope left is Bomber Squadron.

Almost as though you hear it from a distance, your comm screams with the words of Sans commanding Tie to take out the remaining cannons. You hear Tie respond, but his words don’t register to you. Just the sound of his voice, the hope, the pride. The bravery.

A groan of pain catches your attention, and just a couple meters away, you see Hex and Steele on the ground. You hadn’t realized earlier that you were so close, but it doesn’t matter now. Not with what you see. Steele’s right leg is missing from the knee down, and Hex is shouting at others to get help, to get Aid. You swallow hard again before finally looking back at Lightsweight’s squad. You can’t feel any of their force signatures, and your heart breaks as you realize you lost them all. Uma, Skipper, Bullseye, Ripple, and Lightweight are dead, all because you hadn’t been there in time to save them.

The sound of gunships catches your attention, and your heart stops beating, your lungs stop breathing, as you look up to the sky. Bomber squadron flies overhead, and you feel the blood drain from your face. Your hands shake at your sides, but all you can do is stand and watch.

You’re only vaguely aware of Hex and Steele to your left, but Aid is there now as well. He’s wrapping up Steele’s leg while Hex holds him still through all the agonizing screams. You’ve never heard such noises from Steele, and you never want to again.

Once he’s done with Steele’s leg, Aid stands and turns to walk away, before taking a few running steps. You watch as he vomits up his rations, and anything else that might be in his stomach. You can feel the fear coming from him, even though you’re not close by. It’s strong, and you feel more hurt pile onto you. Sans runs over to Aid, holding him gently as he trembles on his knees. 

You and Aid make eye contact once he regains his composure, and you hold it for a few seconds before the sound of gunships catches your attention again. You both turn to look at the sky as Bomber squadron flies over, and everyone else around you watches as well. Your heart seems to both race and not beat at all, and your lungs don’t feel like they’re working. Even your vision threatens to give out, but you will your body to keep working.

There’s nothing you can do but watch as it happens. The blast from the cannon fires in slow motion, and every second drags out as it flies towards the squadron. Of course, it had been aimed at the ship in front, and leaders are always in the front of the squadron. Tie is always in the front of the squadron. 

In what feels like hours, but is only a matter of seconds, the blast hits Tie’s fighter, and you let out a scream as you shoot your arm out, trying to use the force to somehow make him dodge it, or fling the blast away from him. But it’s no use, and his ship is already plummeting to the ground. 

The sound of it crashing onto the ground is one that will haunt you forever. The metal crumbling and fracturing cuts through the battlefield like a knife. Somehow, your knees are still holding you, and from your side, you hear Aid vomit again. Steele is screaming out in grief now, with Hex holding onto him for dear life as he too trembles where he kneels. Their eyes are locked on the ship, just like yours. All the comes from Sans is silence.

You’re frozen in that spot as you watch the smoke rise up from the wreckage. You can’t will yourself to move, to go check to make sure he didn’t somehow survive. Maybe you’re hoping that if you don’t go over, you’ll see Tie fly above you, saying something snarky over the comms about needing to get home to his boyfriend. But the yelling that’s all around you proves that you’re hopes are wrong.

You faintly feel a hand rest on your shoulder, trying to gently shake you back to reality. You don’t notice until then that tears are streaming down your face, and you’re screaming where you stand. The feeling of your throat going raw gets you to stop, and you turn to see Sans’s desperate eyes. It’s then that you’re finally able to pull yourself back together and run over to where Tie’s ship crashed.

Smoke engulfs you as you run forward, and your heart pounds in your chest with each step you take. You don’t know how you’re even running, as your legs feel like lead. When you reach the wreckage, you throw your arms out, carelessly using the force to try and throw rubble out of the way as you search for him.

This hadn’t been a part of the plan. It should never have happened. The cannon that hit his ship shoulder have been destroyed, it was destroyed. You saw it yourself. There’s no way it could have been able to shoot him down, even if it had somehow been operable. But it wasn’t destroyed, and it was operable, and it had shot him down.

When you finally find him, Tie’s body is so mangled that you can barely even recognize him. If not for the signature paint on his armor, you might have been able to convince yourself it was someone else. But your eyes had been following him ever since you saw the cannon blast, and you knew it had to be him. If you didn’t have these clues, you never would have been able to name the trooper as Tie.

When you pull off his helmet to take his pulse, his hair isn’t even recognizable as his own style. It’s matted with blood, and you look away from it before you see too much. There’s no mistaking the way his eyes are closed, or the way you don’t feel a pulse or breathing. Your knees shake and you fall forward on your hands. You’re sobbing at his side, unable to do anything else but beg the Maker that this isn’t real.

Wake up. Wake up, it’s just a dream. It’s all in your head, it’s not real. Wake up. Please.

When you open your eyes again, it’s the same as when you closed them. You let out a wail of agony as you punch the nearest piece of metal. You don’t notice how your hand starts to bleed, or how the skin on your knuckles is ripped away. All you can see is Tie laying lifelessly in front of you.

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[owlseeyoulaterpal]

Like Real People Do, Chapter Twelve

Gale Dekarios x Named! Tav x Astarion Ancunín

Chapter Synopsis: Seraphina battles with the tension between her and Astarion after his confession and with her intensifying distance to her goddess, Tymora.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Four. Chapter Four and a Half. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine. Chapter Nine and a Half. Chapter Ten. Chapter Eleven.

Read on ao3.

Word Count: 4.5k

Notes: I moved across the country recently so this went on an accidental hiatus, but now we're back to our regularly scheduled programming of me yapping about my tiefling baby. Incredibly excited for the next few chapters as I wrap up Act 2 in this fic :)

Learn more about my Tav, Seraphina.

Chapter Eleven: What do I stand for?

Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck Some nights, I call it a draw Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle Some nights, I wish they'd just fall off But I still wake up, I still see your ghost Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know anymore

The words refused to leave Seraphina’s mouth. Her knees did not buckle, and her head stayed level, resistant to bowing. She took a deep breath and tried to will herself to kneel, lower her head, and pray. But her body was defiant. Or perhaps it was her soul. She slowly began to spin the ring that adorned her right index finger, desperate for her hands to be busy.

Seraphina could hear everyone around her packing up for their travel today. She wouldn’t have much time now. And yet, she couldn’t do it, even as she cast guidance on herself. It was a wonder she could even still tap into her divine magic when her soul felt so unsettled. She started to let out a groan, but immediately stopped when she felt someone watching her.

Ever since Shadowheart pointed out how often the wizard’s gaze settled on her, Seraphina had become aware of when Gale was looking at her…which was often. Though, the eyes on her now could’ve easily been Astarion’s. Her tail twitched as she heard the ground crunch behind her. The steps were not measured and feather-light, so faint they were almost imperceptible. They were lumbering and imprecise, the steps of someone whose knees ached more often than not. Seraphina relaxed. She didn’t know what she would do if it was rough black leather armor entering her peripheral vision instead of deep purple robes that smelled of parchment.

“I do hope you’re not regretting spending your night listening to me read the ramblings of a deranged necromancer,” Gale joked as he approached and stood next to her. “Instead of heading off to cut short the life of that Beshaba worshipper.”

She felt a tinge of guilt. When she told Gale of that conversation, he immediately assumed that her desire was to strike down the assassin. Seraphina couldn’t speak the words to even imply that she was the tiniest bit interested in discussing exactly what Beshaba’s offer was. There were still a few hours left before his ship departed…

“Hmm,” she said. “I thought you said any god would be honored to have me worship them?”

Gale blinked at her before he seemed to successfully recall the conversation and he chuckled. His rumbling laugh and the sparkle in his soft, adoring gaze were enough to banish some of the darkness that was encroaching on her heart.

“Yes, I did. Quite a sharp memory you have. You must’ve been quite bothersome as a student in the temple, I reckon,” Gale said, which made Seraphina nod with a mischievous smirk. “Perhaps I should have added that only a worthy god should have the blessing of your piety.”

“I suppose...” Seraphina said thoughtfully. But what makes a god worthy? Were any of them worthy?

“I wasn’t regretting last night,” she continued with a weak smile, placing a hand on his arm. “Today I can’t quite seem to…find the words to say in my morning prayer – or at least what I think is morning out here.”

Gale’s eyebrows lifted and he turned to face her more directly, but she continued looking past him into the darkness just outside their camp.

“I must admit this is a bit surprising. What has brought this on?” he asked. Seraphina barked out a laugh.

“What didn’t?” she replied. “Was it hard for you to pray to Mystra after everything that happened?”

Gale took a deep breath and exhaled. She lifted her head to look at him and his eyes were glazed over with grief.

“I…went through stages. There were days where I spent so much time at her altar, begging for a response, that the sun would sink beyond the horizon, and the moon would rise before I considered standing up. There were days when I would stew in my own vexation, and I avoided even casting a glance at her statue,” Gale replied, his voice becoming breathier as he now seemed to look off into the distance, taking himself back to those days in his tower.

“I doubt that anything I experienced on the emotional spectrum made a difference in how Mystra chose to respond to my transgression,” he said. Seraphina’s hand wandered down Gale’s arm, ghosted over his wrist, and she softly grabbed his hand.

“The gods are incredibly fickle, even towards their most devout followers. We truly are at their mercy,” Gale whispered. He squeezed Seraphina’s hand.

“Do you think it’s possible for mortals to take control back?” she asked.

“I believe we’re in control of how we respond to them and their demands. But raw, unbridled control over the directions of our lives, control that surpasses even the power of the gods?” Gale’s jaw clenched and, a moment later, he slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps we’ll find out,” Seraphina whispered. When she went to pull away from Gale, his hand clutched hers, keeping her in place.

“Seraphina, if your mind is wandering where I believe it is, I beg you to move with caution,” Gale said, his voice firm. “It is one thing to turn away from a god. It is another altogether to flee in order to worship a deity that they despise.”

“It’s bad enough that we travel with a Shar worshipper. I won’t inflict a Beshaba upon us, Gale,” she faked a laugh. She went to pull away again. As their skin separated, cold instantly seeped into Seraphina’s bones and she wanted to take his hand again. She wanted to take his hand and say the truth: she was in love with him, and she would risk any punishment from Tymora if it meant she could destroy the Absolute and save Gale’s life. She would devote herself to Beshaba if it rid her of her wild magic, ending the threat she posed to Gale and herself. She wanted to tell him she would do whatever was necessary to keep them safe, to keep them from blowing each other up, to make it so they could be alive together.

She chose to say nothing – for now – and she turned to walk towards the dwindling campfire. Her breath hitched when she made eye contact with Astarion, who was standing near the fire. His lip curled into a sneer as his eyes flicked towards Gale and back to her. A sharp sting in her chest nearly made her fall to her knees. He quickly averted his gaze and continued filling his pack. She stayed on the opposite side of the circle to finish preparing her belongings.

Nothing about this morning felt normal. At some point, it had become routine for Seraphina to wake in the vampire’s arms with Astarion’s quiet whispers, delicate touches, and gentle kisses to her neck and shoulders rousing her from sleep. They would help each other put on their armor and Astarion would wait, albeit impatiently, for her to finish her prayer before he handed her breakfast to her. When they set out to deal with whatever horrors awaited them that day, he was never more than a few steps behind her. In the night, Astarion would join Seraphina in her tent, or she would come to his and the cycle would repeat. 

But that was before Seraphina knew that it was all an act. When had Astarion’s affections and attention become genuine? She would probably never know. Truthfully, knowing which actions of his had been deceptive would probably break her heart more. There was nothing to do with the love she held for him except lock it away and try to move on. It wasn’t possible to trust him again. Was it?

Seraphina dared to look up and Astarion was already looking at her as he slung his pack over his shoulders. His expression gave nothing away as he turned and went over to Shadowheart. 

Shortly afterwards, their party departed out into the cursed lands again. 

x x x

“Tsk’va! Where is the druid?” Lae’zel hissed.

“He just needs more time!” Wyll shouted.

“Gods, we may not have much time left,” Gale panted.

Their party stood on a rocky ledge, surrounded almost entirely by violent victims of the shadow curse. 

Their venture to the Thorm family mausoleum was interrupted by their discovery of Art Cullagh’s lute after they felled Malus Thorm in the House of Healing. Having to travel back to Last Light to assist Halsin in his personal mission to finally cure this land of the shadow curse wasn’t ideal, and neither was the current situation.

As she looked out at the swarm of enemies before them, Seraphina lifted her hands.

“Ira et Dolor!” Seraphina roared. A wall of gigantic flames sprouted from the ground, cutting through the crowd of undead.

Suddenly, a blanket of cold enveloped her. She gasped as ice flooded her veins and she gritted her teeth as she attempted to continue concentrating on the spell that was now keeping most of the sea of enemies at bay. Her knees buckled and her staff fell from her hands as her armor seemed to turn to stone, her body unable to withstand the weight of it. Seraphina forced her head to turn through the pain, only to see the looming figure of a Wraith, its dark tentacles wrapped around her. 

Thwick.

Thwick.

Two arrows shot through the Wraith, flying over Seraphina’s head as the Wraith vanished with a ghastly groan. Astarion emerged through the dissipating shadow, and he thrusted her quarterstaff back into her hand.

“If you’re going to send us into unnecessary battles like this, you better stay alive to see them through,” the vampire hissed.

“Focus on the archers,” she responded. Despite his hostility, Astarion followed her directions. Gale appeared at her other side.

“Lean on me if you need to,” he whispered. Seraphina immediately leaned against him, and they stood back-to-back as Gale dropped an ice storm on the undead emerging from the nearby water.

Seraphina shook her head quickly to try and ground herself as she struggled to raise her arm for her next spell. That Wraith never should’ve been able to sneak up on her. Her focus was faltering, and she was putting everyone else at risk. After Halsin returned with Thaniel, it was during their battle with the indignant spirit Oliver that Karlach spoke up.

“Soldier, you’re leaving your left flank wide open. Where’s your head at?” Karlach said as she threw her pike at the shadowed owlbear. 

As their party freed the tieflings and gnomes from the prison of Moonrise, it was Wyll that saved Seraphina from what would’ve surely been a fatal smite from one of the prison guards.

“Stay sharp, Seraphina. We need your head here with us,” the warlock commented.

At the tollhouse, a wail from a shadowed skull paralyzed Seraphina. Shadowheart helped Seraphina to move with a well-timed sacred flame eviscerating the visage.

“Keep focused,” Shadowheart scolded. “What’s the plan here?”

At the Waning Moon, Lae’zel knocked Seraphina out of the way of an explosion of fiery spew from the mouth of Thisobald Thorm.

“T’chaki! Pull yourself together!” Lae’zel shouted as she yanked the tiefling back to her feet.

Seraphina didn’t know how to explain herself and any words she attempted to come up with to say to anyone fell flat. Astarion, Wyll, and Karlach wouldn’t understand. Lae’zel, Gale, and Shadowheart were so devoted to their deities. Worshipping Tymora felt like it was in her bones and now her inner turmoil made her feel like she was being torn asunder. She’d lived her entire life and made nearly every decision in accordance with what she’d been taught in the temple. Who was she if she wasn’t following Tymora? It terrified her to even try and think of it. And yet the thought couldn’t leave her mind. Without Tymora, Seraphina’s confidence was obliterated.

The last few days had passed in a blur of enemies, injuries, familiar faces, and moving back and forth across the landscape. Seraphina’s only reprieve became when it was time for rest, and she would join Gale in his tent. Thankfully, Gale enjoyed staying up late. It was comforting to have his company. Every time she entered his tent, Gale had already planned how they spend their night – usually with a bottle of wine prepared as well. One night, they simply read different books while sitting next to each other. The next night, Gale had his lanceboard out. The following night, he had pulled out a map of the Sword Coast and asked her where she had traveled in her adventures. Those moments gave her peace – and set her body on fire at the same time with some of the heated looks Gale gave her as the bottle ran dry.

But tonight, she longed for solitude. The longer she stayed awake, the more she thought of Tymora. Karlach and Wyll were keeping Arabella entertained tonight, so Seraphina stumbled away from the campfire, her body aching for her bedroll and the bliss of being unconscious. But she should’ve known that nothing would be that easy.

As she turned to tie closed the flaps of her tent, familiar black shoes walked up on the other side. Seraphina tensed as she opened the flaps, looking up from her knees to see Astarion.

“Hello there,” he said.

“Well met,” she nodded.

Silence.

“Did you need something?” Seraphina asked.

Astarion awkwardly shuffled his feet. She looked at his face and she relaxed, some of her iciness melting away as she took in his appearance. To say he looked pathetic would be an understatement. He was frowning, which wasn’t strange, but he looked exhausted and gaunt.

“This is hardly something I want to ask of you at the moment, but you can imagine that it’s quite hard to find suitable prey out here in this wasteland,” he said. Seraphina blinked at him and Astarion grunted in frustration, crossing his arms.

“I need a little blood, darling. It’s…been a few days,” Astarion murmured. She searched her mind and realized the last time he fed from her was when they were all at Last Light.

“Of course. Come in,” Seraphina replied.

She shuffled further inside her tent and sat down, her back facing the opening, and she tilted her head, exposing her neck. She hoped that this would be a short visit. Her heart began to race as she felt Astarion sit behind her, his presence suddenly filling all the empty space in the tent. One of his hands grasped her shoulder and the other held her head, his cold fingers brushing her scalp and sending a shiver down her spine. Her tail twitched from where it draped over Astarion’s leg.

“May I?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

Astarion’s lips briefly grazed her neck before his fangs entered her. She sighed as she felt her blood flow from her and into him. He took long gulps, soft groans of satisfaction escaping him as he fed. Astarion’s hand drifted from her shoulder and began to trail down her torso, resting on her waist. 

It was too familiar. It was too much. She blinked back the tears welling up in her eyes as Astarion leaned closer, her back pressed against his chest. Mere days ago, she would’ve leaned into him. She counted to thirty in her head.

“That’s enough,” Seraphina gasped. Astarion’s fangs pulled out, but he didn’t pull away. She clenched her eyes shut and her hands gripped the fabric of her sleeping pants when Astarion lapped at the blood leaking away from the puncture wounds.

“Delicious as always,” Astarion said. Seraphina straightened and the hand that was on her head fell to her arm. She didn’t want to tell him to pull away, but she had to. They couldn’t stay close like this.

“I…uh, have things to do before bed. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she stammered, pulling away and turning to face him as her head spun from the blood loss, his hands falling to his legs.

“Ah, yes. Wouldn’t want to keep you from the wizard’s bedroll,” Astarion grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“I was planning on spending my night alone,” Seraphina said evenly.

“Why would you do that when Gale of Waterdeep is waiting just across camp for you?”

“Mind your tongue, Astarion.”

“You certainly can’t keep yours to yourself. Tell me, was anything of what you said the other night even true? Did what I had to say simply provide you an easy exit to finally go after the man you truly wanted now that touching you won’t cause him to level a city?”

His sudden vitriol sent her reeling.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that. Nothing has even happened between Gale and I,” Seraphina replied. “I didn’t expect any of this and we’ve lived every day not knowing if we’ll even have our souls or our bodies in a few hours. I wasn’t going to turn my heart from love. You…you have no idea how I’ve felt. To care so deeply about two people – one of them doomed to die if the tadpole didn’t do it first and the other seemingly only interested in sex and a superficial relationship.”

“I didn’t even want to have sex with you. I didn’t want that then and it’s not what I want now,” Astarion snapped. “You – you made me feel things I’ve never felt before, but it was stupid. All of this was. Enjoy your night. Sweet dreams.”

He angrily exited the tent, but the tension remained. Seraphina’s mind swirled. She thought about Astarion’s words tonight and everything he said in his tent that night that changed everything between them. She turned the words over in her mind over and over again as she laid on her bedroll. There had to be a way forward for the two of them, but she couldn’t figure it out.

And then a different realization struck Seraphina as she slowly let sleep consume her.

She hadn’t prayed today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Or…even the day before. For the first time more than a decade…Seraphina wasn’t praying to Tymora.

The thought didn’t unsettle her.

x x x

Camp was quiet except for Arabella’s chatter the following night. Everyone was bloodied, bruised, and drained after the events of the day. Completing the Gauntlet of Shar was no easy task. Shadowheart had angrily insisted that they continue through the final door, but Seraphina had to tell her how foolish such a thing would be after the beating their party had received at the hands of Yurgir the orthon and his merregons. The Sharran wisely pointed out that killing Yurgir wasn’t required, but for Seraphina, it absolutely was. Astarion’s need for it to be done was reason enough. Even if he had been unreasonably cruel recently, she knew that his brooding wouldn’t last.

Seraphina couldn’t help the sneer on her face as Raphael theatrically explained the infernal contract that had been carved into Astarion’s skin. 

“And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere,” the cambion purred before disappearing in a puff of black smoke, leaving behind an air of sulfur.

Seraphina looked at Astarion and his face was…surprisingly blank except for his furrowed brows and his pursed lips. It was odd, especially when her own body hummed with anger for the vampire lord that awaited them in Baldur’s Gate.

“Hmm…” Astarion hummed.

“We’ll stop Cazador,” she said, crossing her arms to give her hands something to squeeze.

“You still think it’s that simple,” he replied with a scowl.

“You’ll never be free while he’s alive, so there’s only one option for us.”

He frowned and his eyes focused on the ground.

“I hate how right you are,” he grumbled. “I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone. But if I’m the key to this power he craves, he’ll never stop hunting me.”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

“I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me,” Astarion said.

“I told you I would. I’ll make good on my word,” Seraphina nodded.

Astarion looked her up and down carefully. He scrutinized her face, his eyes staring into her own before darting over her eyebrows, cheeks, and lips.

“Yes, you did say that…I believe you,” he said.

Astarion stalked away and disappeared into his tent. Seraphina turned to look towards the campfire. Everyone sat around the fire with Arabella and Thaniel nearby playing with Scratch and the cub, who had recently been named Swoosh by Arabella. Gale stood at the cauldron, crafting their dinner.

Seraphina’s heart skipped a beat as Gale burst into laughter at something Halsin said. His smile was hypnotizing, and she wanted to walk over and be the one to make him laugh like that again. He must’ve felt her staring because he looked up and their eyes instantly met.

He grinned at her, and she took moved forward, pulled towards him like a moth to a flame. And then she stopped. The weight of her sadness hit her, and she couldn’t take another step. She smiled back and turned away, going into her tent.

Seraphina isolated herself, drinking from a bottle of firewine while surrounded by empty bottles as she crafted an overabundance of potions. Her hands ached and the weight of her coin pendant against her chest almost made it difficult to breathe. At least the scent of all the herbs was pleasant.

A rustle at the opening of her tent made her jump and she whipped around only to see Astarion crouching at the entrance, a bowl in his hands.

“It’s getting quite late. You haven’t eaten,” he commented.

“We don’t have too many food supplies out here. You can save it for Arabella,” Seraphina replied.

“Resist your urge to be so damn selfless for once.”

He fully entered the tent and shoved the bowl into her hands. She stifled a moan at the enticing smell of the soup. Astarion watched her and, as she finally lifted the spoon to her lips, he looked away, observing her surroundings.

“I believe we have more than enough potions, darling,” Astarion said, gesturing at about ten healing potions.

“I’m just being careful. We could use a few more elixirs,” she mumbled around a bite of carrot.

“If you tell me the recipe, I’m happy to assist you. Keep eating.”

He scooted closer to her and picked up an empty bottle. He moved over her mortar and pestle and looked at her expectantly.

“There’s really no need, but I appreciate the offer,” Seraphina replied. Astarion didn’t budge. She sighed in defeat and looked over the ingredients.

“Take…some mergrass and three hill giant fingers. Crush both of those please.” 

He smiled at her, and he got to work. She ate as he crafted elixirs, his hands a little clumsy at first handling the pestle and keeping the salts and suspensions within the mortar, but his dexterous fingers eventually got quite used to the motions. He asked her quite possibly a hundred questions about alchemy, ingredients, harvesting, and storage of ingredients. She chose not to question his curiosity because it was nice to just talk for the first time in a while.

As soon as Seraphina finished her food, she shooed away Astarion’s hands.

“I’ve only done two!” he protested.

“And I appreciate it, but I really can handle it from here. I quite enjoy it. It’s a mindless little activity that keeps my hands busy,” Seraphina said.

Astarion pouted. He looked around her tent again. He seemed anxious to be doing something himself. She was reminded of one of her young nieces, Inyis, who loved asking questions and investigating anything she could in any room she entered. He reached over and grabbed her pale blue robes, inspecting the fabric.

“Well, you simply can’t walk around with your clothing in this condition,” Astarion’s finger glided over a rip that she had received courtesy of a bonesaw in the House of Healing. “Do you want me to sew this up for you?”

“It’s not that big.”

“Must you be so difficult?” Astarion huffed, dropping the robe. “I’m trying to repay you and you’re making it impossible.”

“Repay me for what?” Seraphina asked.

“For…” Astarion hesitated. “For risking your neck to help me kill that orthon. You didn’t have to, and I almost expected you not to after all that’s happened between us.”

“You could just say ‘thank you,’” Seraphina shrugged.

“Hmm,” his eyes darted to the ground before he looked up at her again, his jaw stiff. “Thank you for helping me. It was very kind.” The words sounded clunky and foreign coming out of his mouth.

Seraphina smiled.

“You’re welcome, Astarion,” she replied.

Astarion’s eyebrows furrowed.

“You truly want nothing from me? After everything I’ve done and said to you?” he asked. 

“My love is freely given, Astarion. You never needed to do anything to earn it and you’ve never needed to repay me. Though I wouldn’t mind you not being an ass every now and then,” Seraphina said. “But you don’t owe me anything.”

His eyebrows lifted and his lips quivered as he stared at her. 

“Why?”

 “I care for you very much, Astarion. I think I always will,” she whispered. “I…I wish that things happened differently, but I can be your friend. I want to be your friend if you’ll let me, if that’s what you want.”

It would be a process to build a friendship with Astarion without any romantic or sexual entanglements. Seraphina knew how she loved. She knew the kind of relationship she desired was something that Astarion wasn’t ready for – and it could be something he may never want. But she wanted him in close in her life for however much time they had left.

Astarion’s eyes glistened.

He held out his hand. Seraphina placed her hand in his and Astarion placed his other on top of hers, staring at their hands for a moment as his thumb gently rubbed over her knuckles. His cold touch sent a shiver up her arm, but she didn’t pull away. She wasn’t going to run from him again. If Astarion needed someone to run to, Seraphina was prepared to be that person. She didn’t know fully who she was without Tymora, but she knew that she could, would, and did love with all her heart.

“A friend. I’ve had more than my fair share of lovers but…a friend?” Astarion murmured, almost speaking to himself. He lifted his head and, as he smiled, the cold Seraphina felt in her body was suddenly replaced by warmth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend,” the vampire said. “Until you.”