#now i crawl back to my little hovel for another month

[doturtlesdream]

happy friday the 13th!! with the resident psycho in the cuntiest possible jason vorhees outfit

[hailqiqi]

One Bed(sit)

Happy One Bed Wednesday!!!

Here's my continuation of @sciroccoorion35 first chapter in our Round Robin roommates fic!

Words: 1,373

Read on AO3 here, or under the cut on tumblr.

Previous Chapter

Lockwood wished she hadn’t offered to share the bed.

The floor had been fine. No, really; Lockwood had slept in graveyards, under bridges, and (on one memorable occasion when he was ten) on his feet, wedged between a wall and a dusty wardrobe. He could sleep anywhere and Lucy’s floor really wasn’t that uncomfortable.

It was just…well, in all their long months apart he’d somehow forgotten that the blood of the far North ran through Lucy’s veins. When he’d asked why she’d chosen to live in what was (frankly) an out-of-the-way hovel, she’d shrugged and said, ‘It’s not much, I know, but it’s warm and dry.’

Apparently ‘warm’ had a very different definition where Lucy was from. Her bedsit was bloody freezing. Practically Arctic. Lockwood was flabbergasted at the lack of frost covering the windows. And yet, Lucy slept on, for what felt like hours now.

They’d turned in before midnight – early for agents, true, but it had been a long day after a long night after a long winter, and sitting around in that tiny space with all those elephants in the room had been awkward enough that sleep felt like the more dignified prospect. Lucy must have been as run down as she’d looked since she’d fallen asleep almost immediately, hair splayed on the pillow and expression relaxed and soft in a way that made him want to stay awake and simply gaze at her. It had taken him about thirty minutes to realise how creepy that behaviour was, though, so instead he’d settled down on her floor and tried to sleep.

At first he’d been determined to see it out despite the goosebumps riddling his flesh – after all, he was an agent, and a bloody good one, at that.A little cold was in the job description, and he’d had worse. Eventually he’d caved and added Lucy’s dressing gown to the makeshift floor bed, and then his coat, all the while mentally cursing George’s stubborn refusal to dig out the sleeping bag he knew he had somewhere (‘It doesn’t fit two, though,’ the bastard had said, and no amount of that’s really not necessary had made him budge. In the end, Lockwood had left the house with a pillow and quilt rolled up in a duffel bag after slamming the door on George’s smug smirk).

In the end he’d added any towels he could find as even more extra layers, and was digging through her laundry pile in the dark when his shuffling woke Lucy up. Sharp words were exchanged (another thing he’d forgotten: hell hath no fury like a Lucy freshly-woken), culminating in him being told to ‘Get in the bloody bed, Lockwood.’ And so, at 2 a.m. in the morning, a shivering Anthony Lockwood had crawled into the warmth of Lucy Carlyle’s bed.

Despite his protestations against George’s insinuations, Lockwood had, in fact, dreamt about doing this. If he was going to be honest, he’d pictured himself in Lucy’s bed frequently over the two years of their acquaintance – sometimes as an idle flight of fancy that was quickly quashed with a sledgehammer labelled denial propriety, sometimes as a secret, guilty, pink-tinged fantasy where little sleep was had, and – more recently – often as a bitter, self-flagellating daydream, tainted with the knowledge that it could have been possible if he’d only pulled his head out of his arse a few weeks earlier. Of course, regardless of the other details in the dream, Imaginary-Lockwood had always slept at the other end of the bed with his arms around her lithe form like real lovers do, instead of top-and-tailing like the small children they most definitely were not. Also, Imaginary-Lucy kept her feet well away from his ribcage, and her knees weren’t nearly as sharp.

Imaginary-Lucy’s bed was also a lot more comfortable, whereas Real-Lucy’s bed creaked with every tiny shifting movement, and was so lumpy he felt sure his back was bruising like the proverbial Princess and the Pea. The bed was warm, sure – and Lucy’s body was like a furnace, setting his own skin alight wherever they touched – so the goosebumps were gone and that was pleasant, he supposed. But really, at what cost?

Oh well, it was too late now. Lockwood still had his pride, and he refused to admit defeat twice in one night. (Also, the snarky voice in his brain that sounded like George couldn’t help but point out that it would be much easier to talk himself into sleeping at the other end with Lucy if he stuck with the top-and-tailing first, and Lockwood had built a successful business atop his ability to recognise opportunities when they presented themselves. The rest of him reminded himself quite sternly that that wasn’t the goal here.)

(But it was nice to dream.)

The discomfort was good, actually. Advantageous. The toes at his throat would help him stay awake, and that would mean he could actually fulfil his stated purpose and keep Lucy safe from intruders. They’d piled all of Lucy’s kit against the door, but at the end of the day it was still broken; Lockwood may have had absolute faith in Lucy’s skills, but she had to sleep some time and, at the end of the day, she was an attractive girl living alone. He’d have preferred it if she’d agreed to sleep at his place, but then Lucy was nothing if not stubborn.

Then again, at 35 Portland Row there was nothing stopping her from sneaking out in the middle of the night to throttle that Mailer boy, and well…it was Lucy. Of course she’d been rather calm about her bedsit being ransacked – shaken, naturally, but she’d kept her head straight and simply gotten on with things, an attitude that Lockwood had always thought of as her MO. Alas, in recent months he’d had to accept that her actual MO was to remain rather calm and practical in poor circumstances and then to continue remaining rather calm and practical while pulling some batshit crazy stunt like ‘running away to London’ or ‘sneaking out in the middle of the night to go freelance’.

He shoved at one of Lucy’s errant limbs (how many of them did she have?) and rolled onto his side to stare resolutely at the broken door in the dim half-light. Yes, it was better this way. Even if he did fall asleep, he was close enough that Lucy wouldn’t be able to sneak out on him again, so the bed was superior to the floor in all ways, mattress and girl be damned. After all, he was Anthony John Lockwood, and he would not be cowed by some slight dis–

A sudden kick to the jaw sent pain lancing through his skull, leaving him reeling as Lucy continued to squirm, her foot finding his throat and then his ear before she settled half sprawled on her front, one knee digging into his stomach. She let out a gentle sigh, and then whispered – clear as day in the darkness – ‘Goldfish in the newspaper.’

Wounded, sore, and annoyed, Lockwood propped himself up on his elbows and stared.

Lucy’s lips were slightly parted, her expression serene, looking nothing short of a goddess in the quiet night. At that moment, though, Lockwood wanted nothing more than to commit a little blasphemy and shove her bodily off of her lumpy, creaky mattress, consequences be damned. He should be on the floor. He should be back in Marylebone, for fuck’s sake, comfortable and warm and unmolested in his own bed. Yet here he lay, frustration building, unable to tear himself away and asking: Why her? Why her? Lockwood prided himself on his rational thought, logical decisions and carefully-weighted actions; as well as, of course, his looks. And there were so many girls in London, surely it would have been a trivial matter to fall for one a little more sane and a little less…Lucy.

But then Lucy let out a gentle sigh, snuggling into her pillow with a whisper of his name, and all was forgiven because Lockwood was, apparently, pathetic.

He thumped back down against his pillow, shoving her legs to the side to make space. The clock read 3 a.m. It was going to be a long night.

[purrincess-chat]

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH9

This is the first new chapter! Every last bit of it has never been read before (except by me and my betas)! What nefarious schemes will Adrien and Chloe try? Find out below!

Previous    First      Next      AO3

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Chapter 9: Emperor’s New Clothes

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Adrien asked as Chloe adjusted her wig. He peeked over the railing to the courtyard below with a frown. All of their classmates were gathered, enjoying their break—completely unsuspecting of what was about to commence.

“Of course it’ll work. These people are idiots who will believe anything.” Chloe snapped her compact shut and tossed it into her purse. “If they had any sort of intelligence, they would have seen right through Lila by now.”

“Yeah, but what if they-” Chloe pressed a finger to his lips.

“Just leave this to me, Adrikins. Being mean isn’t exactly your area of expertise.” She patted his cheek. “Little Miss Lie-la is about to be exposed. Now get into position!”

Adrien swallowed hard before climbing down the stairs to stand by the science lab door. Even though he agreed to help Chloe get back at Lila, he wasn’t entirely ready to deal with the guilt that came with it. Lila was a menace, and her lies needed to stop—that much Adrien could agree with, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his skin crawl.

To justify going through with it, he reminded himself why he’d agreed to help in the first place. Marinette didn’t deserve to be pushed away from her friends, and freeing them from Lila’s grasp would help her move on. This was for Marinette, and on those terms only, he could accept it.

“Hello, everyone! It’s me, your favorite superheroine, Ladybug!” Chloe called into the courtyard as she descended the stairs, and every head turned to face her.

“Is that Ladybug?”

“It is Ladybug!”

“Is there an akuma?”

Adrien hung back with a wince as a crowd gathered around her. This was for Marinette. Lila needed to be stopped. He agreed to this.

“Yo, Ladybug, what are you doing here?” Nino asked.

Chloe placed a hand on her hip. “Oh, I was just in the neighborhood being a super amazing superheroine and protecting Paris from akumas, and I thought I’d stop in and visit my bff. So where exactly is Lila Rossi?” Chloe pressed a hand over her eyes and scanned the courtyard.

“She’s over here!” Alya waved. Despite Lila’s best efforts to shrink behind Alya, her new bestie wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to talk to Ladybug.

“Ah, there you are, my bff. It’s been so long since we’ve last seen each other. You remember? That time I saved your life, and we became instant bffs?” Chloe crossed her fingers. “You haven’t returned my calls, so I was starting to get worried.”

“Lila’s been out of the country until recently, and she’s been super busy catching up on school ever since she got back,” Alya explained. She patted Lila’s shoulder with a beam, and Lila offered a sheepish grin in return.

“Uh, yeah…” Lila’s face blanched.

They had her cornered. This was actually working! Maybe Adrien wouldn’t have to get involved after all.

“Oh, right, you went to Achu to visit Prince Ali. Funny though, I talked to Prince Ali yesterday—his assistant wanted to make sure that Paris was safe for his upcoming visit, so naturally they called me—I asked him how your visit went, and he didn’t remember inviting you to come to his palace.” Chloe cupped her cheek in one hand. “How weird is that?”

“Wait, what?” Everyone turned to look at Lila who stiffened, and a smirk curled on Chloe’s lips.

“But you were gone for over a month, Lila. I thought you said Prince Ali invited you to come stay with him,” Rose said. She hugged her scrapbook full of Prince Ali magazine clippings to her chest.

“He did!”

“But Ladybug just said he didn’t.” Alix crossed her arms over her chest.

“Well, she must be mistaken,” Lila said. “I’m your friend. Why would I lie to you?”

“Ladybug is a superhero. She’d never lie to us either.”

“What’s the truth then?”

“Yeah, Lila, tell us the truth.” Chloe egged. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to hear it from someone else? I’ve got a pretty killer witness. Adrikins, be a dear and come over here.”

Adrien hesitated, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t go through with this. Even though Lila deserved it, he couldn’t bring himself to call her out like this in front of everyone. There had to be another way.

“Wait a second, Adrikins?” Alya’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think we have to wonder who’s telling the truth, do we, Chloe?”

“What? I’m not Chloe! She has way better hair than I, Ladybug, do. Plus she’s way funnier, prettier, smarter, and hey!” She spun around as Kim ripped off her wig.

“Ugh, we should have known,” Alya said. “You’re just upset because Lila beat you for class rep. Honestly, Chloe, grow up!”

“Yeah, Chloe, this is super lame.”

“Why do you always gotta pick on people?”

“You just can’t stand that someone’s getting more attention than you.”

Chloe shot Adrien a cutting glare as if to say, “Get out here and do your part,” but Adrien shot her an apologetic wince before ducking into the science lab.

“What are you doing? You can still stop that girl,” Plagg said when Adrien pulled his shirt aside.

“I panicked. I don’t want it to go down like this,” Adrien said. He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I just can’t do it.”

“So you’re just going to let her keep using everyone?” Plagg asked.

Adrien squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Transform me!”

“Nice try, Chloe, but Lila won fair and square,” Nino said when Chat Noir landed in the courtyard.

Chloe blew a piece of hair from her face grumpily. “You all are so stupid if you actually believe anything she says. Even Dupain-Cheng realized she was a liar. I don’t want to be your class representative anyway. You’re all so lame.”

“The only liar here is you, Ladybug,” Alix said, and Kim waved her black wig over her head tauntingly.

“Lila is a liar! Ask Adrien. He can tell you!” Chloe’s cheeks flushed an angry red.

“Dude, leave Adrien alone.” Nino groaned, shaking his head. “Just admit you’re jealous, so we can all go home.”

“I’m really sorry if I’ve upset you, Chloe. If you want, I can talk to Mlle. Bustier about letting you be the class rep instead if it means so much to you. I don’t want us to fight,” Lila said humbly.

“Liar!” Chloe stomped her foot.

“I’m not lying! I promise,” Lila said. She held up her right hand for emphasis.

“Oh really?” Every head turned around as Chat Noir laid his staff across his shoulders.

“Yo, it’s Chat Noir! Like for real this time!”

“What are you doing here, Chat Noir?” Alya pulled out her phone to record.

“I heard that m’lady was making a house call, so I thought I’d come by and make sure everything was in order.” He cast a smirk in Chloe’s direction. “But it looks like someone just wanted to play dress-up.”

Goading Chloe probably wasn’t his smartest move, seeing as she was absolutely going to kill Adrien for chickening out, but he needed everyone on his side. Taking cheap shots at Chloe was always an instant crowd-pleaser.

“So, since you’re so honest, is there anything you’d like to share with the class?” he asked Lila. “Now would be a good time to get anything that your friends don’t know about you off your chest.”

She didn’t seem deterred by his presence at all, eyes glinting with amusement. Chat Noir bristled, grip tightening on his staff. Lila held no remorse for any of her actions, and she’d cling to her lies until the very end. Chat Noir bit his tongue hard as she turned to everyone else and plastered on a pout.

“There is something I want to tell all of you…” She clasped her hands over her heart. “I’ve been hesitant because I know you all have mixed feelings, but I think Marinette is behind all of this.”

“What?” Chat Noir and Chloe said in unison.

“Why do you say that, Lila?” Alya asked.

“Well, the other day on my way home I saw Chloe going to Marinette’s house, and now she’s here calling me a liar just like Marinette used to do,” Lila said, letting her face fall into her hands. “I just don’t know what I did to deserve to be treated this way.”

Everyone crowded closer to her offering their sympathy as alligator tears rolled down her cheeks, and a host of cutting glares aimed at Chloe. They should have planned for something like this. Lila always bent the truth to suit herself.

Rage boiled in Chat’s core, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to tackle Lila to the ground. How could anyone be so despicable?  

“Hang on,” he said firmly, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I’ve met Marinette a few times, and she doesn’t seem like that type of girl.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure that’s true either, Lila,” Alix spoke up. “I mean, Chloe and Marinette hate each other. Chloe would rather die than set foot in her house.”

Alya pursed her lips and turned to Chloe. “Is it true? Did you go to Marinette’s house?”

Chloe averted her gaze, crossing her arms over her chest. “I did go to see Dupain-Cheng at her tiny, disgusting hovel, but…she refused to help me—stupid little goody-two-shoes,” Chloe said. She met Alya’s gaze head-on and squared her jaw. “But with friends like you, I’m starting to see why she left. She was nothing but nice to you losers, and yet you’d so easily believe that she’d help me get back at someone. You’re all so pathetic.”

“The only pathetic one here is you, Chloe. Lila’s never done anything. None of us have! We’re sick and tired of putting up with your crud,” Nathaniel said, and several classmates echoed their agreement.

“Whatever. I don’t want to be your class representative anyway if you’re all too stupid to tell the difference between a diamond and a lump of coal.” Chloe flipped her hair over her shoulder, hips swaying as she stalked to the locker room.

Chat Noir almost chased after her, but his staff beeped with a message from Ladybug. There was an akuma across town. Chloe was going to have to wait.

♪♫♪ Broken Pieces Shine ♪♫♪

Marinette chewed her pencil, tilting her head to examine her designs from different angles. Clara’s deadline was still several weeks away, but she already had tons of ideas. Would Clara like a tasteful pantsuit or a flowing gown? Which one said ‘award-winner?’ Maybe if she added a sash or changed up the neckline…

The lunchroom bustled several simultaneous conversations, condensed into a uniform hum in Marinette’s ears while she worked. She was vaguely aware of her friends at the table with her, but when Macy leaned in to get a closer look at what she was working on, she still jumped.

“Ooo, are those for you-know-who?” she asked.

“Shh!” Marinette covered her sketchbook and glanced around to ensure no one had overheard. “Yes, but they’re not final. I’m just playing around with some ideas.”

“I like them,” Macy said. “Look at this one, Eliott. Eliott?”

He was unusually quiet that day, but Marinette had been too enthralled in her own work to notice. His nose was buried in a booklet, seemingly as engrossed in it as Marinette had been with her designs. He only looked up when Macy stuck her hand in front of his face.

“What?” He blinked.

“Marinette is designing top-secret things, and she needs opinions,” Macy said.

“Can’t you ask Martin?” he asked.

Macy gave him an incredulous look. “Martin left 10 minutes ago to go work with his group on their science project. Weren’t you listening?” She scolded. Though in Eliott’s defense, Marinette hadn’t noticed either.

“Oh, sorry. Guess I was distracted.” He closed the cover but marked the page with his finger. “So what do you need?”

Macy shook her head, taking a bite of her cake. “You two are such space cadets today.”

“What are you studying, Eliott?” Marinette asked. She tilted her head to get a better look at the cover.

“I’m in a community play, and we have rehearsal tonight,” he said nonchalantly.

“Wow, that’s so awesome! What part did you get?”

“Oh, it’s nothing special…” Eliott sat back with a smirk and shrugged.

“He’s being modest. He’s playing one of the leads, and he’s super excited about it. He memorized his lines in like 3 days, but he always reads over the script again before rehearsals.” Macy finished her cake and stood up. “I’m gonna get another drink. Help Marinette with her designs!”

“Fine, but can you get me a slice of that cake, please?” Eliott requested. He pressed his palms together with a smile. Macy rolled her eyes but headed for the dessert stand anyway.

“So, you got a lead role. What play are you guys doing?” Marinette asked, and Eliott tossed her the script.

Miraculous! The Battle of Heroes’ Day

“Oh, so it’s about Ladybug and Chat Noir,” Marinette said with as much casualty as she could muster. “Wait, if you’re playing a lead role then that means…”

“You guessed it, m’lady.” He winked.

Marinette bit back a laugh. The director definitely cast the right person. Put Eliott in a blond wig, and even she’d believe he was Chat Noir.

“That’s so awesome! When is it opening? I’d love to come watch.” She passed back the script, and he found his page again.

“Not for a couple more weeks, but if you want, I can see about getting you into one of our dress rehearsals soon,” he offered.

“Really? Yeah, I’d love to.”

Macy returned with Eliott’s slice of cake, but not before Gabrielle locked on target. “Did you save any cake for the rest of us? No wonder your uniform looks so tight these days.”

When Macy froze, Marinette turned to Gabrielle with a glare. “She got it for Eliott because some people don’t spend all of their time thinking about themselves.”

“I think about other people all the time,” Gabrielle said with a wicked grin. “I’ve actually been feeling sorry for Macy after Simon rejected her three weeks ago. If only she were prettier, then maybe Eliott would be more than just a friend.”

“Eliott and I aren’t like that.” Macy shot back.

“Clearly,” Gabrielle said with a grunt. “Tell me, Eliott. Have you ever thought about dating Macy?”

“Well, no, but-”

Gabrielle threw her head back with a laugh, and Macy’s cheeks flushed a deep red. She stormed from the cafeteria, tears bubbling in her eyes. Gabrielle watched her go with a triumphant smirk that made Marinette’s blood boil.

“You should go after her,” Marinette said to Eliott.

“Trust me, she doesn’t want to see me after that.” He shrugged and returned to his script.

“How can you say that? She’s your best friend, and best friends should always be there for each other no matter what!” Marinette slammed her palm on the table, but when Eliott refused to look at her, her jaw clenched. “You’re wrong. I think you’re the exact person Macy wants to see right now.” She didn’t wait for his reply before gathering her sketchbook and chasing after Macy.

The halls were empty and quiet, the chorus of chatter from the cafeteria fading as Marinette raced down the stairs. Macy was nowhere in sight, and Marinette didn’t know where to begin looking for her. After a week, Marinette was still learning her way around—not to mention still learning her new friends.

If it were Alya, Marinette knew exactly where to look, which treat from the bakery would always cheer her up, and as a last resort, where she was ticklish. She didn’t have those ins with Macy yet.

Eliott would know.

Eliott… How could he sit by while his friend was upset? Didn’t he care about her at all? If they really were best friends, then why didn’t he stand up for her and believe her when she said she was hurt? It was so obvious that Gabrielle just wanted attention. How could he let her come between them? Why did he let her walk away? Shouldn’t he chase after his best friend and make sure she was okay? Isn’t that what friends were supposed to do?

Marinette leaned against a row of lockers, shoulders heaving and tears stinging her eyes. Wasn’t she a good friend? Didn’t she always take care of everyone? So why would they turn their backs on her? How could they leave her all alone?

“What’s wrong, Marinette?” Tikki poked her head out of Marinette’s blazer.

Marinette sat on the floor with a sigh, resting her head against the lockers. “It just gets so hard,” she whispered. “Always being there for everyone. Being the one to fix everything for everyone. Sometimes I just wonder… who will be there to fix me when I need it?”

“You’ve got me,” Tikki said. She floated up to nuzzle Marinette’s cheek. “And your parents, Master Fu, Adrien.”

Marinette smiled at that, petting Tikki’s bulbous head with one finger. “Thanks, Tikki. I needed a friend.”

Screams echoed up the hall, and Marinette jumped to her feet. Shaking off the last of her doubts, she slapped her cheeks and took a deep breath. She wasn’t alone, and she would make sure her friends never were either.

“That sounded like it came from the cafeteria. I think it’s safe to say we know where Macy is,” Marinette said. “Transform me!”

Terrified teens with crooked teeth and unibrows rushed past as Ladybug entered the cafeteria. All around the room, her classmates cowered from the akuma zeroing in on Gabrielle in the center. Macy had become the perfect porcelain doll carrying a mirror in her hands—no doubt where the akuma was hiding.

Ladybug hooked her yoyo around Gabrielle’s shoulders and tugged her to safety, even if she deserved whatever punishment Macy was about to give her.  “Get somewhere safe,” she ordered.

“Duh,” Gabrielle said. Ever the gracious one.

“You’re welcome.” Ladybug rolled her eyes as Gabrielle raced off.

With Gabrielle out of the way, the akuma settled for Thomas. She held her mirror in front of him, and his handsome face broke out in angry red zits. The misshapen students fleeing the cafeteria all made sense. Gabrielle told Macy she wasn’t attractive, so now she was making everyone else look the part instead.

“You shouldn’t have let her get away, Ladybug. I think everyone here would like to know what she’s ashamed of,” the akuma said.

While that much might have been true, Ladybug wasn’t in the business of agreeing with one of Hawkmoth’s villains. “Revenge is never the answer, Macy. You’re better than this. Let me help you.”

“I’m not Macy anymore. My name is Mirror-Mirror!” she shouted. Her glassy eyes bore all of her pain, the real Macy screaming inside. “If you want to help me, then give me your Miraculous!”

Ladybug dodged her strike, flipping backward onto a table. Mirror-Mirror wasted no time charging in again and again, the destructive force of her anguish taking its toll on the cafeteria. It was impossible to get a hit in edgewise without seeing herself in the mirror, and Chat Noir hadn’t turned up yet.

“Kitty, I’m battling an akuma, and I really need your help! Where are you?” Ladybug spoke into her yoyo phone. Looks like she’d have to navigate this one on her own. “Lucky Charm!”

A slingshot seemed straight forward enough, but what could she use as ammo? Nothing stood out, and in her moment of distraction, she barely dodged a flying table. Her lucky charm skittered across the floor as she stumbled into her landing, and Mirror-Mirror closed in.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall, what darkest fears hide in us all?”

“No!” Ladybug tried to shield her face, but it was too late. Her eyes locked with her reflection, and she sank to her knees, all of the fight leaving her body.

What was happening? Everyone else got pimples or big feet, so why couldn’t she move? If Macy’s mirror made everyone unattractive, then why? Why did she feel so…helpless?

What darkest fears hide in us all?

Of course! Her mirror didn’t just make people unattractive. It turned them into the thing they’re most ashamed of—the parts of themselves they hid from the world. And what was Ladybug ashamed of? Failing? Perhaps. Having her identity exposed? Probably.

But as Mirror-Mirror reached for her earrings, their eyes locked, and she saw what she truly feared. The mirror didn’t take her powers. It took her will to fight. More than anything she wanted to save Macy. To save Alya. Her friends. Everyone. But her legs refused to move.

Ladybug’s greatest fear wasn’t losing. It was being powerless to help the people she loved most.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered, head falling.

Mirror-Mirror’s fingers closed around her earrings, but before she could remove them, Chat Noir’s staff struck her side, sending her flying into the wall.

“Ladybug!” He rushed to her side. “Sorry it took so long, m’lady. Are you alright?”

“No.” She shook her head.

Chat Noir cast a nervous glance at Mirror-Mirror as she stood up. “Come on. We’ve gotta move.”

“I can’t,” Ladybug repeated.

“Are you hurt?” Chat Noir bent one of her knees. “M’lady? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t save her, Chat Noir.”

He searched her expression before scooping her up and leaping out of the way of another attack. He set her down gently and brandished his staff. Would he leave her one day too? What if she couldn’t protect him either?

No. That was ridiculous. Chat Noir would always have her back.

You thought Alya would have your back too. Look how that turned out.

That was different. Lila was manipulating her.

Who’s to say a villain couldn’t do the same to Chat Noir? He could turn his back on you.

He wouldn’t.

But he could.

Ladybug squeezed her eyes shut, pushing against the darkness clouding her mind. Ever since she became Ladybug, she’d always relied on her head to get through tough situations. Now even her own thoughts were working against her. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Macy needed her help. She needed to save her friends.

Mirror-Mirror kicked Chat Noir in the gut, spreading him on his back. His staff rolled into Ladybug’s feet as Mirror-Mirror closed in. She needed to help him, but her legs wouldn’t budge. Her lucky charm was only a few yards away. If she moved now, she could reach it before Mirror-Mirror changed Chat Noir too.

But what was the point? Even if she did reach it in time, she still hadn’t figured out what to do with it. This battle was over.

“Hey, Macy!”  Eliott stood in the doorway, shoulders squared and head high. His hands were balled into tight fists to hide how they shook as he approached.

Ladybug assumed he ran away after getting zapped just like everyone else, but he looked completely normal. She hadn’t seen him since she left to find Macy, so he should have been in the cafeteria when Mirror-Mirror first attacked. Had he gone to look for Macy after all?

Mirror-Mirror abandoned Chat Noir, freeing him to rush to Ladybug’s side. He retrieved her lucky charm on the way and placed it in her hands. “Come on, Ladybug. Think.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you earlier,” Eliott said, and when she raised her mirror, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Go ahead if it will make you feel better, but it’s not going to do you any good.”

When Eliott remained unchanged, she lowered the mirror with a growl. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Because I’m already the thing I’m most ashamed of,” Eliott said. “I was a bad friend to you, and that hurts me more than anything else ever could. Marinette was right. Friends should never turn their backs on one another, and that’s why I’m never going to abandon you again.”

“LB.” Chat Noir placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here. What do you need?”

Eliott hadn’t abandoned Macy, and Chat Noir wasn’t abandoning her. Not all friendships were destined to fail. So long as she held onto her faith in the people she loved, everything would be alright.

Ladybug turned the slingshot over in her hands. If she combined it with Chat Noir’s staff… She loaded the slingshot and aimed for the pillar diagonally across from them. The staff ricocheted off the wall, soaring right into the mirror. The glass shattered, and a black butterfly fluttered out.

Chat Noir pulled her to her feet, and she captured the akuma with one swipe of her yoyo. She took a deep breath as Miraculous Ladybug returned everything to normal, the last traces of her insecurities fading. When Chat Noir offered her a fist, she stretched up to hug his neck instead—he didn’t complain.

As Hawkmoth’s magic faded, Macy collapsed forward into Eliott’s arms. “What happened?” she groaned.

“You were akumatized, but I’ve got you,” he said gently.

Students filed back into the cafeteria, cheering for another victory over Hawkmoth. Gabrielle stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed over her chest, and Eliott eyed her with a frown.

“I know I should have stood up for you, but Gabrielle didn’t let me finish,” he said. “You’re not just a friend to me, Macy. You’re my family, so of course I’ve never thought of you that way.” When Gabrielle rolled her eyes, he continued, “I think this has shown us that we all have things about ourselves that we don’t like, and just because I’ve never seen you that way doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re really beautiful, Mace.”

Macy hugged his neck, prompting more cheers from their classmates. Ladybug and Chat Noir used the noise as cover to slip silently out the door.

♪♫♪ Stall Me ♪♫♪

The day was over when Adrien made it back to school. Most of the students had already gone home, and he believed Chloe had too until he rounded the corner to his locker. He was going to have to face her eventually, though he hoped to delay it a while longer.

She didn’t say anything, but he knew that look all too well. Arms crossed, hip cocked, lips pursed. It was the same look she gave her butler when he took too long to bring her sushi, and Adrien lowered his head like a puppy awaiting a scolding.

“Chloe, I-”

“Oh, now you want to speak.” She quirked a brow.

“I’m sorry!”

“What happened?” She demanded. “I needed your help, and you didn’t have my back. We could have exposed her!”

He averted his gaze. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you stick to the plan?”

“It just didn’t feel right. I panicked.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Next time I’ll do better. I promise.”

“Next time? No one in this school is going to believe anything we say about her now because you chickened out!” She jabbed his chest with her finger. “I hope your conscience is happy. You made me look ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! Maybe I should leave like Dupain-Cheng.”

“Chloe-”

“No! No more excuses. If you really want to stop Lila, then call me when you’re actually ready to do something,” Chloe said. With a flip of her ponytail, she shoved past him.

Adrien leaned against his locker with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Mirror-Mirror didn’t have to show him what he was ashamed of—he already knew. He was a coward, and now everything was ruined.

[namfine]

Payment in Full

⫸ pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

⫸ word count: 3k

⫸ summary: After rescuing a strange man from being attacked by Robo-bots, the price you demand as payment is one he is all too eager to pay.  

⫸ tags: 18+, smut, choking, spanking, deep throating, pounding, oral sex (fem and male receiving), foreplay, safe sex, rough sex, one night stand, light dirty talk

⫸ a/n: Whattup, Admin Zesty here! For my first post I wanted to delve into one of my favorite aesthetics with one of my favorite people~ I hope you all enjoy it!

- ☆.｡.:* Zesty .｡.:*☆

“We don’t have to do this, y’know.” The man’s lips brushed your ear, making coherent thought nearly impossible. You were standing in a dimly lit room, sparsely furnished save for a simple old bed and decrepit dresser. The only light came from three old wax candles scattered throughout the room, and the exposed window on the western side that boasted quite a stunning view of the skyline. It could almost be deemed beautiful from this distance. Namjoon (or at least that’s what the man said his name was) had wrapped himself around you from behind and was lathering your neck with lazy, gentle kisses.

“I want to.” You responded, twisting yourself around so that you were facing him, hands spread on his wide chest. You ran them over his toned arms, careful to avoid his wounds, before wrapping your arms around his neck. Arching your back and balancing on your tippy toes, you reached to cover his mouth with your own.

Namjoon responded with equal fervor, chasing your lips like a swimmer to oxygen. Before you knew it, he deepened the kiss and you found yourself clawing at his clothes, his hands roaming over your body to cup your ass, wanting, needing. You were aching to feel something, anything, other than the familiar worry and frequent despair that clouded your senses on a day to day basis. Everyone’s senses. It was, after all, a rough time to be alive

A terrifying time and yet, here you were in some mystery man’s hovel seeking the only distraction from the world you could still afford - meaningless sex with a stranger. Well, kind of a stranger. You did save his life after all. He owed you one.

And it seemed he was eager to pay.

“Condoms?” You asked. Babies were out of the question. You could barely feed yourself.

Namjoon nodded and pulled a small foil package from the beaten down dresser. “Covered.”

You were pushing him now, herding him towards the old mattress on the ground with only a stringy old comforter and some worn pillows. When Namjoon’s legs hit the bed he crumpled back, pulling you down to straddle him. Your heads bumped in the process, and you let out a pain filled groan. Namjoon broke the kiss to pull back and rub his forehead, letting out a soft “Ow.” You barked out a laugh and sat back on his thighs, looking down at his smug grin. .

“So, Y/N,” He began, testing your name on his tongue. He propped himself up on his elbows so that he was closer to your face. “Thanks for the help back there. I literally didn’t think I would make it out of there alive.”

He wouldn’t have. You knew this.

He tenderly touched a bruise that was forming on his jaw. “Damn police bots have really gotten high tech these da-- shit!” He hissed, pushing too strongly on the wound. You grinned back down at him and his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “So, you do this often?”

He smiled at his pick up line and you felt your heart melt. You were honestly just happy to be getting some dick and couldn’t afford to be picky, but goddamn did you get lucky. He was beautiful.

You smiled before reaching out a hand and tracing the lines of his jaw, careful to avoid the bruises he had gotten from the bots before you arrived. “Definitely not. Haven’t come across many viable options in the apocalypse. Definitely not any as handsome as you.”

Before you could react, his brow crinkled, revealing a sly smile, and he flipped you both over so that he was covering you with his body. You barely got out a surprised yelp before he dropped down to give you a tender kiss. You opened your mouth, instinctively deepening the kiss and granting him access to your tongue before quickly nipping on his bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth. Payment for the flip. Namjoon groaned into your mouth and ground his pelvis down onto yours, gently rolling his hips into you. “Want to play dirty, huh? I’m gonna need you to calm down, little girl.”

You rolled your eyes as you moved to reach for his shoulders, aiming to push him off and regain control.

“Ah, ah.” Namjoon swatted your hands away, using the weight of his body to pin you to the bed. “I think you’ve been bossy enough this evening.”

You wiggled your body beneath him, but Namjoon continuously ground himself down into you, creating a rhythmic pace that had your thighs clenching together and your pussy pulsating. You could feel the thick form of his cock pressing into your pelvis, already hard, as he struggled to control your movements and keep up the pace. He leaned down to press firm kisses down your neck, your collarbone. One of his massive hands slid up your body and gripped your clothed breast. He massaged it roughly between his fingers, and you lurched up into his touch, loving the feeling of another person’s hands on your body for what felt like the first time in forever.

Namjoon continued his assault on your neck and breast as his other hand worked to open the buttons on your shirt. In a matter of seconds, he had undone them all with surprisingly deft fingers. He finally loosened his hold and lifted his body enough for you to scoot out from under him and sit up. It was a joint effort but in a few minutes, there you both sat, naked save for your underwear.

Namjoon’s fingers traced the lines of your body, his eyes soaking it all in. You had no clue how you looked, fresh from a street fight and months of malnourishment. Your sensitivities, your scars, your blemishes. He observed them all and didn’t flinch.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, reaching out to trace the curve of your hip bone. He took it all in - accepted it.

Your eyes soaked him in as well, admiring the lithe muscles of his body and the marks from his earlier tussle. He looked relatively unharmed save for some abdominal and facial bruising, and a few scratches that you made a mental note to clean later. Honestly, he was the picture of the perfect male physique. You felt yourself grow wetter.

The desperation from earlier seemed to have been released from both of you as Namjoon crawled across the mattress, taking your face in his hands and pulling you in for a surprisingly tender kiss. His lips were slightly chapped and there was a bit of swelling on the lower one from a punch, but you didn’t mind. You melted into his embrace, happy, safe. He laid you back down on the mattress and placed gentle kisses down your body, pausing at your breasts. He took each one into his warm mouth,  paying special attention to each nipple. He tugged gently with his teeth before swirling his tongue around the sensitive tip. You groaned at the sensation, fingers curling into the dirty comforter. You could feel his smile at your response and he proceeded down your body, hands quickly replacing his mouth.

Namjoon peeled your soaked panties off your form and when his lips met your soaked pussy, you could have screamed. Could have, but didn’t, catching yourself as you remembered that this was not a safe place. You were sure the bots were still searching the city for you both and these were desperate times. People were eager to turn each other in for some extra cash. Better no one knew you were there at all.

The thoughts were quickly brandished from  your mind as Namjoon licked up your slit and moved to your clit. Your hand found purchase in his shaggy hair and you tugged, a breathy moan escaping your lips. Namjoon took the sensitive nub into his mouth, sucking and pulling while one hand still worked your breast. He  growled at the pressure on his hair as you hold tightened and resumed his assault on your soaked pussy, plunging his tongue in and out of your hole.

You were on the brink, ready to explode and Namjoon intended to give you just that. He increased the pace, bringing a hand to massage your clit and in a few second flat you felt the pressure building.

“Namjoon, I- I’m going to-” You gasped, writhing beneath him.

He continued the assault and you boiled over, your orgasm wracking through your body in waves. Namjoon worked you through it, gently massaging your clit and softening the plunges until you were finished.

He pulled back and you shivered at the lack of contact. You looked down to find him staring intently at you, head between your legs, your juices on his lips.

What a pretty sight.

How did I get so lucky?

Namjoon didn’t move and finally curiosity got the better of you. “What is it?”

He pressed a chaste kiss to your mound, running his hands up your thighs. “I just, I want to remember this moment. Remember you.”

“Oh, pretty boy, you’re not gonna have any trouble remembering me.” With that you released your grip on his hair and sat up, edging yourself lower on the bed. You pushed Namjoon gently, your intent obvious, and he rolled himself onto his back. The thick curve of his cock was visible through his briefs and it was all you could do not to grab it right then.

Leaning over him you kissed his pelvic bone, giving it a sharp nip that extracted the most delightful gasp from your victim. Your hands massaged circles onto his chest working lower and lower before finally allowing yourself to palm his cock through his underwear.

“Oh, god,” Namjoon groaned, hips flexing upward, his head falling back against the wall. “That feels amazing.”

“It’s about to get even better,”  you promised, pulling at the band of his underwear. You tugged it down his massive thighs, letting his cock spring free. It was an impressive length, nothing extraordinary, but it was beautiful, just like the rest of him. You ran your fingers over it gently, teasing him. Namjoon groaned when you finally took him into your hands and gave him a few short pumps, before loosening your hold and working him with your hands, feeling him growing firmer and larger beneath your grip.

“I think . . . this is . . . the best thing . . . that has ever happened to me.” Namjoon panted, beads of sweat lining his forehead as you worked your hands up and down his cock. “I should get arrested more often.”

Well, if he liked that. . .

The second you started pressing soft kisses to his throbbing cock, you knew you had died and gone to heaven. The noises that Namjoon made were some of the most beautiful sounds you had ever heard. He was trying to keep quiet, trying to muffle his little groans but the few that got through made you crave nothing more than the feeling of him filling you to the brim. Knowing you had elicited such groans and soft pants from such a strong man- god damn.

You took his head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip, before slowly taking him further. In a few short minutes you had him clawing at your hair, pawing at the mattress, as he struggled to control his natural instinct to thrust up into you.

Good thing you were here to break that instinct.

You opened your mouth further, ignoring your gag reflex, and took him even deeper until you felt him hit the back of your throat.

“Jesus c-christ. How d-did you . . . ?” Namjoon stutterd.

You worked him in and out of your mouth, increasing your pace and you felt him tremble below you, losing control.

“Fuck this,” Namjoon reached out and gripped your head, holding it into place as he began to thrust eagerly into your warm mouth, hitting the back of your throat with each stroke. He let out a few breathy groans as he increased his pace, your fingernails digging into his thighs, eyes watering, but focusing on hollowing your cheeks to give him the best experience.

You could feel Namjoon growing close as his pace began to sputter out, his thrusts getting deeper and deeper when abruptly- he pulled out.

“That’s enough of that,” Namjoon pushed you over roughly so that you lay on your belly. He gripped your ass, raising it into the air and took a second to admire the view, running his long fingers around your curves and down your slit before inserting two into your entrance and curling them inside. You moaned. “When I cum, it’s going to be inside you.”

He took his time, slowly plunging his fingers in and out of you with one hand and stroking his length in the other. When he was ready he wrapped his arms around your middle and lifted you up so that your back was flush against his chest, his cock the only thing between you. You had no clue where he pulled it from but you heard the unwrapping of the condom and in a few seconds, he was ready.

“I’m about to fuck you so hard, baby girl,” he whispered hoarsely into your ear. “But you better promise to be a good, quiet girl for me. Can’t have you bringing the cops down on us again.”  

Namjoon released one hand to line himself up with your entrance and his other hand massaged smooth circles into your abdomen. His breath, hot on your neck. You tried to back into him, to force him to work faster but all that earned you was a chastising noise and a harsh smack on your ass.

“Ah, ah,” Namjoon said. “I haven’t heard your promise yet.”

“Namjoon . .. . “ You groaned, grinding your ass back onto him. You could feel his dick. It was literally right there. But it wasn’t where you needed it to be.

“Say it.” Namjoon demanded, tugging on your earlobe with his teeth. “Say it and I’ll give you what you want, baby girl.”

“I promise,” you breathed, not able to fully eliminate the whining in your tone. “I promise to be quiet.”

Namjoon released your earlobe and pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade, rolling his hips into your ass again so you could once again feel how hard and ready he was for you, before giving you another harsh smack on the ass. “You promise to be quiet, what?”

“I promise to be quiet for you, Daddy.”

He groaned at the pet name. “That’s a good little slut.”

When Namjoon finally pushed into you it was all you could do not to scream. If there was any survival instinct left in your brain at that moment, Namjoon possessed it as his hand immediately reached up to cover your mouth. Screaming, would mean death and thank god one of you remembered that. His other hand traced back up the front of your body, to find your neck, and he squeezed down ever so slightly, choking just a bit of air out of your lungs before he began to move. Pulling out slightly, and gently moving back in. Testing the waters.

God, did he feel good.

“You like that, dirty little girl? You like the way I feel inside you?” His voice was hoarse in your ear as he struggled to move slowly. His natural instinct was to pound into you until he reached completion but- patience, he felt, was one of his best virtues.

You nodded, grinding back onto him, eager for more. The fill of him inside you was so perfect, so complete, like a piece of you was missing this entire time.  Namjoon, getting the message, pulled out and this time slammed back into you harshly, tightening the hold on your throat.

“You like that? You like the way I destroy your pussy?” He grunted, setting a relentless pace, smacking in and out of you creating the lewdest of noises. The only thing keeping you upright at this point was the hand around your neck, choking the air from your lungs. Each thrust was punctuated by a harsh grunt from Namjoon that had you quivering, chasing your next release.

Namjoon tightened his hold around your neck as his pace began to get sporadic and released his hand on your mouth so that he could rub frantic circles onto your clit, helping you along. You whispered his name like a prayer as he pounded into you, chasing his release but still working his finger for yours.

When you came, you came hard, your pussy clenching around his dick furthering his pleasure, milking him thoroughly. You were still in the blinding throes of orgasm when you felt him clamp down on your shoulder,  thrusting even deeper inside you and crumpling over your body, throwing you on to your hands and knees as he found release deep inside you, his body shuddering with each wave. He groaned through his orgasm, thrusting even deeper with each pulse.

When he was spent, he rolled you both onto your sides, slowly pulling out but holding you close to his chest. For a few minutes, you both lay there in silence, watching the hover cars zoom around the skyline, the city awake despite the late hour.

It was Namjoon who broke the silence first.

“I’m happy that you got to me before those cops finished me off.”

You turned to nuzzle into his neck, soaking in his scent. You knew perfectly well what tomorrow would bring. How you would leave him behind to continue your hunt for survival. It was better to have as few connections in this world as possible, you had learned. Saved you a whole lot of heartache. but for now, for now you were happy just to have found another person on this god forsaken planet that sought a human connection as much as you.

“Me too.”

[stanakaashiforclearskin]

Big Jeans w/ Iwaizumi

Synopsis: Iwaizumi finds a pair of your oversized jeans on your bedroom floor and thinks they belong to another guy.

Pairings: Iwaizumi x fem!reader

Genre: ✨fluff✨

Warnings: mentions of cheating (╥_╥)

Word Count: 869 words

Iwaizumi Hajime

you and iwaizumi have been dating for few months now

you two were in the same class and after being assigned to work together on a project he finally confessed his feelings to you one day with a bouquet of flowers and red coating his cheeks

you have sleepovers every friday night and you alternate houses each week

he still goes to volleyball practice though because he’s a good boy

“hey babe you’re still coming over tonight right?” you text him

he replies quickly (probably during a water break) “yeah, i’ll be there around 6”

you stayed at his place last week so you haven’t felt the need to clean your room since the last sleepover at your house two weeks prior

midterms are coming up soon so you are in the middle of studying when you finally check the time

it’s 5:27pm and you scramble to begin the slow process of tidying your hovel of a bedroom

iwa is generally someone who is on time everywhere so you think it will be ok by the time he gets there

~wELL~（ミ￣ー￣ミ）

he wants to surprise you with pastries from your favorite bakery in town he’s a big softie and comes knocking on your front door only a few minutes after you begin cleaning

adrenaline and panic shoot through your veins as you realize he’s standing on your porch right now waiting for you to open the door

your parents are visiting family this weekend so you can’t ask your mom to stall him for you

opening the door, you see him standing there with the food in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. a gentle smile is on his face, just for you

“are you going to let me in or am i just gonna stand out here all night?” 

he takes off his shoes when he steps inside and sets the pastries on your kitchen counter

he opens the bag and starts showing you everything he bought (◕﹏◕✿) babey is so soft for you

you have to explain that your room is still messy so you’ll have to wait to eat :(

big man iwaizumi has a burning need to spoil his little princess so he insists on helping you clean

remember to thank him later ;)

the two of you enter your room and you both begin to pick up clothes from the floor

as you reach for a shirt under your bed, iwa (unknownst to you) stumbles across a pair of your jeans

now, this is not a regular pair → ~it’s your favorite~ hehe and you thrifted them a couple months ago from the men’s section of your local thrift store

aka they’re huge

but iwa, being unaware of your shopping habits, takes one look at the label and feels his heart drop

he was planning on telling you that he loved you uwu tonight

after seeing the pants though he wants to cry into his pillow o(╥﹏╥)o or punch flattykawa

iwa has always been a little insecure due to his friendship with oikawa, so he is very upset by the thought that you would want someone else instead of him

he can’t help the hardness in his voice when he asks you whose pants those are

“y/n, are you cheating on me? whose pants are these?” “iwa what are you talking about-” “you know exactly what i’m talking about.”

your heart races as you scramble to think of why he’d accuse you of such a thing until he shoves the pants onto your bed 

relief floods through you as you realize it’s all a misunderstanding

“...those are my pants…” 

“am i supposed to believe that?” poor iwa can’t put two and two together even though he’s never once seen you wear a pair of skinny jeans

you approach him slowly and reach for his hands

patiently, you explain to him how you buy a lot of men’s clothing and how those are actually your jeans

babey is so embarrassed

iwaizumi profusely apologizes, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck

he presses light kisses to the place where your neck meets your shoulder as he lovingly murmurs affirmations to you

you hug him back, making sure he knows how much he means to you

“you know i love you, right, hajime?”

iwaizume.exe has stopped working

he stares at you open-mouthed. you said both i love you and his first name for the first time this boy goes absolutely feral

jk but he does turn into a blushy baby 

iwa leans in, letting his lips brush lightly against yours 

he was so scared that you didn’t love him back 🥺

he gently pushes you onto the bed and you crawl under the covers, waiting for him to join you

he crushes you against his chest, softly stroking your hair 

this touch-starved ace rarely initiates physical contact, so take advantage of it while you can

food downstairs forgotten, you both begin to doze off, wrapped in the arms of one another

as you drift into sleep, you hear iwaizumi whisper something into your hair

“i love you too, princess”

[senseandaccountability]

Fic: I have outlived the night

The prompt from @heyitsharding was “Somewhere in that library of the past”, a quote from Borges. And preferably Loghain. Title borrowed from another poem by Borges. Angst and characters and a couple of quotes from The Stolen Throne borrowed from Bioware. Ages are… estimations, I guess. Don’t come at me with numbers. And I think we’ve established by now that I emphatically do not write drabbles. If you can’t stand to read fic on tumblr, it’s also here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971537

History is a broken circle:

1.

He’s a child, then a young man, and they hide from the usurpers on the throne.

Safely tucked in between the lush trees, Loghain’s father teaches him to fight and parry, to ride and hunt. They’re outlaws but they’re not outlaws; he explains the distinction thoroughly, tirelessly.

“You do right by the people who depend on you,” he says. “There is no excuse for a man who doesn’t.” —

He’s sixty-five and hides in a deserted hovel in a town marked by the Blight and even more so by a ruler’s mistakes and betrayal of his own people.

The irony is not lost on him.

2.

He’s nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and love burns in his chest; Rowan doesn’t want it and he has no use for it so he doesn’t understand why it doesn’t go away. It seems entirely unreasonable for his body to betray him in this fashion.

And then, suddenly, she’s in his arms and he _melts _into her in a way that is anything but dignified but he cannot find it in himself to care. Her hair is a fire around them and his hands gentler than he has ever willed them to be before; when she kisses him, finally, it tastes of salt and iron. It’s broken, whatever it is that they have; it’s more than enough.

Between the desperate charges and daring strategies he feels in every duel, every narrowly won victory, that one of them will die young.

He always assumes it will be him. —

“She asked for you.” Maric’s voice is ice inside the summer warm castle. It cuts through the room that separates them. “On her deathbed. I told her you were right beside her. She… lost her eyesight towards the end.”

His voice breaks something beneath Loghain’s breastbone. He curls his hands into fists where he stands by the window in this castle of ghosts. Rowan, bold and commanding, forever a breach between them and he knew it would be this way, knew it would never cease to be this way despite Gwaren and Celia and the endless string of days and duties that has followed. Rowan, lionhearted and daring, moves around them and he wonders how many times he must lose her.

“I’m-” he says but this grief that does not belong to him is beyond words.

There’s a faint sound of Cailan and Anora playing in the garden, their child-hearts sturdier, lighter. Or perhaps they simply scar in more subtle ways.

“Come,” Maric says eventually. “I’ll show you where she rests.” —

Celia dies slowly, a pain stretched out so thin over months and months that it hollows her out.

He’s not there for all of it, useless in the face of a battle that is not his to fight.

He’s not there for most of it, cannot bear the thought of her capable body and ferocious will being tempered by sickness, her loved features marked by fate; for as long as he lives he will never forgive himself for this particular weakness. He even tells her as much.

“Oh Loghain,” Celia murmurs when he sits by her side. “You never forgive anyone for anything. But you will have to forgive me for taking my leave now, I’m afraid.”

He’s there in the end and then there’s another grave that he never visits. —

He’s fifty-one and the funeral feast they hold for Maric cuts a hole in him, bleeds him dry.

It’s the last straw, he thinks, mercifully unaware of the endless losses that will soon follow.

3.

He’s nineteen and there are thirty men answering to him where he prances around in full disguise in order to be mistaken for a prince. To be mistaken for a commander though he’s still just a commoner and though he knows the only reason anyone listens to him in the first place is because he’s tall and broad-shouldered, stern like his father before him. Erratic and stupid as far as qualifications go, but it’s what he has.

He charges the tiny army up towards a patch of land they stand a chance of defending and they win, they do. After the next attempt, however, he carries two dead knights back to their camp and the blood never really comes away from the ridiculous shirt Maric has let him borrow.

“We’ll burn it,” he states, despising his own voice and how it shakes.

— He’s fifty-five and there are thousands upon thousands of soldiers in his ranks.

Staring at the attacking horde, keeping his mind clear and his hands steady, he sacrifices a few hundred of them as he walks away from the Blight. He knows their names, their villages; he liberated their nation so they could be born free and flock around the Hero of River Dane.

He rides back to Denerim in silence, denying everyone the right to even look at him.

“You heard the teyrn,” Ser Cauthrien snaps, a horse’s length behind him, an ugly echo. “Do as he commands.”

4.

He’s five and sees his father’s face through the gaps between the narrow planks in the barn where the Orlesian soldiers have stormed in, shouting at each other in a language Loghain does not understand. But he understands terror and he understands _hide, darling, hide and keep really quiet _and even if he does not see his mother’s face he can hear her breathing. Quick, pained, muffled - then nothing.

Nothing as he crawls up to her later, when the joyless laughter and strange grunting has subsided.

Nothing as he sees the blood between her legs, the strange angle of her neck. He’s almost a grown man before he fully grasps what they had done, truly done  to her and it makes him throw up in a bush, makes his first fumbling attempts with a girl clouded by fear of accidentally doing the same, fear of invisible lines being crossed and a bright, giggling voice in his ear I won’t break, big fellow, do you want me to beg? —

He’s fifty-five, has lived so many wars that he’s lost count and Arl Howe stands in the middle of Loghain’s office, folding his hands over his stomach.

“Highever is taken care of, my lord.”

Loghain looks into the goblet of spiced wine, pressing back the flurry of regrets and doubts.

“My men were thorough, my lord. They are dead. All but the oldest son - Fergus - though the Blight will certainly take him and we killed his heir, at any rate.” A quick, sly smile. “And made the wife spread her legs.”

The goblet trashes against the stone wall once Howe is gone, leaving a terrible noise in its wake.

5.

He’s twenty-two and it rains in the little village north of the Wilds where he encounters Mother Ailis again. The war is over, has moved from the battlefields into the ones who were there, conducting it. He breathes war, dreams it. When he turns, he expects to see attacking forces; around every corner there’s a corpse.

Despite the rain she takes him by the hand and leads him to the place where she put all the bodies to rest, the garden of outlaws that she had known that no one would acknowledge once the fighting had subsided, the souls she has guarded ever since.

“Here is your father’s grave,” she says, softly, pressing his hand between her own. “He was so brave.”

And Loghain cries.

“Forgive me,” he says, mumbles the awkward confessions against the soaked chantry robes as Mother Ailis takes him in her arms and holds him like the small child he feels like he never could be. “Maker, forgive me.”

For all that he has done, for all that he has yet to do.

“There is nothing to forgive, Loghain,” she says but they both know that isn’t true. —

“I yield,” he tells Bryce Cousland’s daughter, kneeling before her with his sword flat on the floor, his neck bared in defeat.

He’s fifty-six and it’s not forgiveness he’s asking but close enough, the closest he will ever be to it now.

6.

He’s eighteen and his father sends him away to protect the rebel prince who has put them all in danger but seems to have won the loyalty of Gareth of Oswin within seconds all the same.

“Don’t ask me to just leave you,” he protests, a dread so thick he cannot breathe through it is filling his entire body. He sees his father’s face through the narrow planks of the barn again, sees him return home that afternoon, drenched in Orlesian blood, telling Loghain they need to run. “I won’t do it.”

“That’s exactly what you will do,” his father replies and in that dreadful, shivering moment Loghain can feel his entire future unravel.

“Do your best,” his father says because that’s what his father always says, the only oath he will hold his son to. —

He’s fifty-seven with darkspawn blood in his veins and on his way to Orlais.

“Do your best,” Elissa tells him in Amaranthine.

Loghain nods, like he once nodded to his father. “Of course.”

7.

He’s eighteen and defiant, his fist in Maric’s face, the loss of his father raw and painful in his throat, twisting his voice into thorns.

“You can’t knight me to make me throw my life away for you,” he spits.

He’s wrong about that; he’s wrong about so many things. —

He’s older than he thought he’d ever be and the wars are still raging inside his bones. Other people’s wars for other people’s reasons though he has stopped to think of them as such, borders so easily dissolved in the face of old gods and holes in the fabric of the sky. Humbled at long last, perhaps. It’s about time.

In a recovered Keep in the middle of the desert, he sits wedged in between the odd agents of an Inquisition he has little reason to question, though even less reason to fully grasp the scope of.

The Fereldan Commander looks at him with the gravitas of someone with a purpose to his glances and Loghain searches his memory. He remembers most lieutenants, would like to think the same goes for the soldiers though time hasn’t sharpened every sense and the details of his years of command have indeed begun to blur. He wasn’t at Ostagar, at least, that particular event has bone-hard contours at the back of his mind.

“You helped Uldric overthrow the Circle at Kinloch Hold,” the man says, finally, when they’re alone under the stars. “I served there.”

“I see,” Loghain says, because suddenly he does. “Yes, that was - unfortunate. Though it was never my intention to cause a…”

“Bloodbath?” The commander sounds grim, but there’s a softer edge to his tone, a grim sort of humour pushing through. “I wondered why you did it, back then. Now - now I have an army allied with rebel mages.”

In the distance Loghain spots the Inquisitor, a battle-scarred noble carrying an exquisite longbow and a bravery that is laced with doubt. He feels the same kind of certainty around her as he once did at the Landsmeet, though he has no desire to delve deeper into that tonight.

“Do you think she’s the Herald of Andraste then?” he asks the commander instead.

“I don’t know,” comes the reply, then a hesitant, poignant: “I don’t care. She’s the heart of this order nonetheless.”

The commander clears his throat.

”I see,” Loghain says again.

8.

He’s five, he’s eighteen, nineteen, twenty, forty-six and fifty-five, he’s fifty-six, fifty-seven and ready to die.

Instead, he lives. —

He’s sixty-five, he’s ancient, and the nightmares of the Fade taunts him, without much success.

You destroy everything you touch, it says, as though his greatest fear would be the truths spelled out in plain sight.

“Welcome to the club,” Hawke laughs harshly beside him. “We hold meetings in Kirkwall every fortnight.”

“_I _should be invited after this,” the Inquisitor grunts, firing a burning arrow into the partly corporeal body of a rage demon.

They fight their own despair, they fight the Fade itself until the inevitable end.

“Fight well,” he says, glancing sideways into the monstrous being that blocks their only escape and he’s a young man again, looking into his father’s grim determination. “You won’t die while I draw breath.”

And raising his sword one last time he thinks of Anora, thinks of Ferelden, thinks of the oath his father made him swear. Do your best.

Perhaps he has, at long last.

History is a broken circle but the Fade snaps shut around him with a soft, liberated gasp.

[doomedandstoned]

Big Oaf Bring The Thunder For Raucous New Record

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Cover Art by Graham Gibbs

Introducing BIG OAF from Atlanta, Georgia, the band with a name you just gotta love because it matches the stride of their swagger. Formed by brothers Crew Gibbs (guitar, vox) and Graham Gibbs (drums) in 2016, the pair were joined by bassist Matt Whiteside a year later. From there, the power trio went to work forging its sound in the fertile soil of the Atlanta heavy music scene, which has delivered no small share of wonders -- from breakthrough and crossover acts like Mastodon, Black Tusk, Kylesa, Whores. and Royal Thunder, to savage undergrounders such as Zoroaster, Order of the Owl, Demonauta, GRUU, Sons of Tonatiuh, and Negative Wall.

Big Oaf started life as a purely instrumental proposition, but as their songs evolved over several years of live performances, the trio decided adding vocals was the right choice. How right they were! One thing led to another and by early 2020 Big Oaf teamed up with recording engineer CJ Ridings to lay down some tracks. COVID-19 threatened to put a kink in the works, but the band persisted, wrapping up their eponymous record over the summer months. Let's explore it, shall we?

Opening track "Elephant" comes barreling through the gate like a crazed pachyderm on the lam, full of guts and glory. After travelling a pathway of atonal broken chords, everything grinds down to a mammoth's pace, while the singer warns: "you ain't built for this kind / the elephant in the room."

"Chew" is the song that convinced Doomed & Stoned to host the Big Oaf premiere. Its opening riff is staunchly Sabbathesque, but takes on a melancholy turn. Crew Gibbs sings with plenty of heart, reminding me at times of King Buzzo, and with humor that's just as dire: "I told you I'd eat you / you taste like a rat."

Without missing a beat, Big Oaf lumber ahead with "Shove." I can almost picture some drug-addled drunk pushing his way into bars, stomping through clubs, getting into fights with randos, and generally becoming a belligerent pain in the rear as dusk turns to dawn.

We find ourselves smack dab in the middle of "Nowhere" next, perhaps in some kind of a psychogenic fugue, boxing our way back through uncertain times to regain a sense of safety, stability, normality. The power of wordless songs is they have a tendency to direct one's imagination towards some awfully strange places.

Crew's rough and rumble vocals greet us again at the beginning of "Tooth and Claw," backed by a sawing riff that sears right into your noggin with surgical precision.

Stripped raw Tooth and Claw We all fall To nature’s law

"Antswarm" rouses a mean nest of fire ants -- a source of endless fascination for me as a kid growing up in Texas. After a good rain, you'd see 'em scurrying out of their hovel like clockwork to rebuild the foundations of the nest. Once I was posing for a picture on a family trip to neighboring Louisiana when a swarm of those fuckers crawled up my legs and started stinging me all over. I had to strip down to my undies in front of God and (worse) my parents just to get them off of me.

The jammin' "G.H.T.S" (which is an abbreviation for something, not quite sure) rushes in next and by the time "Never Learned" cues up, we're connecting with our emotions -- deep, red, and raw.

I am driving nails in my coffin Standing in my grave (my grave) Circumstance has led me to this place Never learned how to behave

The tempo increases midway through, emassing speed and power as it chugs along like a steam-driven locomotive with a mind of its own. We're not quite sure if this one will come to a graceful end, either, as it breaks away. I envision a ton of moshing going down to this song.

Big Oaf - King Of Town

Perhaps the secret to Big Oaf's appeal throughout the record is they don't stop.  The massive assault comes off much like I imagine one of Big Oaf's live sets would, sans interruptions for tuning and the like. This is one to take with you to the gym (if and when you return). It makes me want to start pumping iron again...well almost/maybe not.

"King Of Town" restores my faith in the riff. As a reviewer, you just hear so much stuff that sounds alike, so I love when a band charges forward with spontaneity, confidence, and vigor. The start-stop sequences feel like they could stand in for a defibrillator, if needed. I can see the advertising slogan now: "Big Oaf: guaranteed to restart any heart."

The album comes to a crashing conclusion with "Hangover," a song that simply refuses to go down in a katzenjammer...not without a fight (or at little more hair of the dog).

I”m too drunk to get up Leave me here, I’m just fucked Slave to what’s in my cup Pushing my fuckin’ luck Forever hungover

As the material would suggest, the Big Oaf is just itching to hit the stage again. The band relayed this to us:

The feel we are going for with the album was to keep it as raw as we would play it live. We wanted to really give people the range of our energy but also to be unapologetically heavy. Though our influences are present in pieces of songs, we want this first record to be a taste of what’s to come. As we write this now there are several new songs that are well into development. This is the first record, but not the last. We have big fat plans for much much more."

Big ups to Big Oaf on a smoking hot debut, which will be released digitally on Friday, November 13th and on a limited run of 100 red vinyl in January (pre-order here). For fans of Mastodon, High on Fire, Big Business, Melvins, and (of course) Black Sabbath.

Give ear...

BIG OAF by Big Oaf

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[youremyplayground]

Beauty of the Shore - Chapter 7

Hannah furrowed her brows as she looked at their hands, both of them quickly pulling away from each other. She suddenly felt nauseous. When she looked at Kun’s face, she felt the sensation of being pulled underwater. Just before it felt like her head was submerged, her phone began to ring. The nausea and weird feeling disappeared after they broke eye contact. Fumbling, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and answered without looking at the number as Lilly started to babble about random things to the just as confused Kun.

“Hello?” Hannah noticed she sounded like the breath got knocked out of her.

 “Hannah? Lianne and I talked about something, but we’d like to have yours and Lilly’s input on it. So can you two come back?” Astra’s voice sounded higher pitched due to excitement.

 “Uh, yeah. Yeah. We’ll head back right now.”

 “Okay, dear!” Astra squealed.

 Hannah shakily hung up the phone and put it back in her pocket just as Lilly asked Kun if he ate fish food to which he just laughed, confused. Hannah’s nausea started to slowly come back.

 “Lilly, your mommy, and Auntie Astra need us back home.”

 “Awww, but I wanna talk to Kun mooore” She whined.

 Hannah looked between the two and saw that they both wore matching looks of disappointment. Kun then looked at the little girl and held up a finger, signaling them to wait then dove under the water. Hannah caught a glimpse of his tail, sending chills down her spine. It looked familiar. But she couldn’t place where she’d seen it before.

 After about 2 minutes, Kun resurfaced with two pretty shells in hand. They were both scallops with the one he handed to Lilly being little and mostly white but a bright magenta at the base of the shell and the one he handed to Hannah being about half the size of her palm and covered in deep purple stripes. As soon as he set it in her hand, another shock went through her arm. Except this one wasn’t quite as bad as the first one and instead left tingles as if she had been laying on it.

 “I’ll see you again?” Kun asked, giving Hannah puppy dog eyes.

 “Well I live down the road, so I’m sure you will.” Hannah laughed.

 She stood up and as soon as she looked down at the water to Kun again, her fear of the water came rushing back. She was at least comforted in the fact that if she and/or Lilly landed in the water, Kun would save them. But that didn’t mean she wanted to go in the water again. Especially when the sun was setting.

 Once they got back to land, she looked over her shoulder to Kun who smiled widely and waved.

  Kun felt excitement bubbling in his stomach as he watched the two humans walk away and couldn’t figure out why. Something about Hannah just made his stomach do flips. He felt his smile light up his face as Hannah and Lilly walked up the beach and Hannah turned around one last time. He waved at her and saw a small smile on her face.

 When the two humans were gone, he looked down at his hands in wonder as they were still tingling. He started to feel the excitement turn sour as he remembered what Taeyong had told him. Chills went down his spine. He quickly shook it out of his head and instead started to swim back to his little hovel. When he got there he noticed 3 sharks circling the reef. Then he saw Taeyong’s red hair diving in and out of separate caves, clearly looking for something.

 Something else started to bubble up in Kun’s stomach. Something he’s never felt before. It was like his insides were being stirred and something was trying to come out. Quickly and quietly, he swam to the cave he was staying in and grabbed his bag before booking it out of there and swimming away from Taeyong. He may be faster than Kun, but if he wasn’t ever alerted to him, he should be fine.

   Hannah felt a huge rush of nausea hit her as soon as she and Lilly stepped through the door. She could hear Astra’s voice speaking excitedly in the living room. Lianne laughed at whatever she said, before replying something in another language. Hannah helped Lilly out of her coat and took her own off before walking into the living room.

 Astra and Lianne sat on the couch, Astra practically in Lianne’s lap. Lilly ran over and picked up her drawing and markers and sat down by the TV and started to tell Lianne about how they saw the mermaid again. Lianne just smiled and played along. Astra turned her head around to look at Hannah as she slowly walked in.

 “Are you feeling alright, dear?” All excitement disappeared from her voice. The protective mom was back.

 “I’m just tired. I had a nightmare last night and didn’t sleep very well. I’m fine, Mom.” Hannah waved her off as she sat down in the recliner then looked at the two women, “So what’s got you two excited?”

 Astra and Lianne shared a look and did that thing where they had a conversation with their eyes. After whatever their eyes said, they both turned to look at Hannah with huge smiles.

 “We’ve decided to get married,” Astra began, “However, we were thinking about going back to our homeland for the venue. I was worried about Lianne having to work, but we discussed it and-”

 “Breathe, darling.” Lianne interrupted as Astra’s voice got higher and higher pitched.

 Hannah laughed. Astra was only ever like this when Lianne was around. Normally, she was very stoic. Protective, as you know. But only ever talked as high pitched when she saw a spider or a snake. Astra took a deep breath and nodded.

 “About time you two get married! You’ve been dating forever.”

 “Mmm,” Lianne hummed, kissing Astra’s temple, “I quit my job and will be dropping Lillith off at her father’s and we will be back in a month. We both have many places we fond places off and the homeland is a… expansive place.”

 “We just wanted to know if you’d feel safe with me leaving for so long.” Astra reached out and touched Hannah’s knee.

 “I’ll be fine, Mom. Go. Find the perfect wedding place. If anything, will YOU be okay without me for that long?” Hannah chuckled.

 “I don’t wanna go back to Daddy’s!” Lilly screeched suddenly.

 Hannah winced as Lilly began to scream and cry. She rubbed her temple and waved to her mom as a goodnight and started to walk upstairs as Lianne tried to get Hannah to stop crying long enough to explain everything.

    “Heiran. No, no, no. That name won’t work for where we’re going. Hmm. I should ask mortals for a name.”

 “Darling. Are you sure about this? You want to take her from her family when she’s this young?”

 “I’m too terrified that he’ll do something drastic if I don’t. I know this is an evil thing to do, but if I’m saving this child, it’s the least I could do.”

 “I guess that makes sense… What are you going to do about her being a mermaid? The mortals will notice.”

 “I’ve begun a spell to attach me to her glamour. If it wears off I’ll know.”

 “A spell like that will-!”

 Kun was startled awake by a boat engine firing up at the dock above him. Honestly not the best place to sleep because if it wasn’t the boats it was the feeder fish nibbling on him as they searched for leftover bait from the humans.

 He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the surface of the water and saw bright sun rays streaming through. Today was a nice clear day, it would seem. Kun couldn’t hide his smile at the thought that he might be able to see Hannah today. Glancing at the boat, he bit his lip as his heart soared at the thought that that could be her and her friends.

 Slowly, he began to swim to the surface but stopped about 3 feet away from it. His eyebrows furrowed as he saw a short dark-skinned woman standing next to a very tall pale woman. Something about the short one made his skin crawl. It was the same feeling he got from Taeyong.

 Quickly, Kun dove back down to where he was sleeping and shook his head before looking up at the dock. He needed to figure out why she had that effect on him. He quietly swam to the surface under the dock and listened to what they were saying.

 “Darling. Why don’t you just tell her the truth?

[notstars-doors]

Take Me Back To The Start

Dick and Wally haven't seen each other in eight years. After breaking up in their early twenties, life and families and Doomsday events just kept getting in the way. Now, both single with kids, they find each other again. Can they build a life together, after all this time? Can they put aside their old problems and help each other through their new ones? Only time will tell - if they let it. 

read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16527137/chapters/38714402

"Liv, you've got so many AUs already half written! Are you ever going to finish them instead of coming up with new ones every few months and then disappearing again?"

*throws another one at y'all and crawls back into my hovel

I'm just trying to have a good time, okay?

(sidenote: big shoutout to @lesbiangraysons​ for all the help with this fic, literally could not have come up with half of the ideas for it without you <3)

When Dick wakes up in the morning, Wally isn’t there.

He stretches out leisurely, his arm reaching across the bedsheet in search of a body that isn’t there. Dick frowns through his sleepy daze, lifting his head and blinking open tired eyes to see empty space next to him.

Hm.

Sitting up slowly, he gazes around the room. No clothes on the floor, the door ajar – no sign of Wally at all. The sinking feeling in his chest starts to settle into a heavy lump in his gut as he curls his knees against his chest, burying his hands in his hair. He really shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. It’s not like Wally to just up and leave without saying good-bye, but then again, does he really know Wally anymore?

It’s not like they’d set any rules or discussed future plans. They hadn’t really discussed anything since getting back to his apartment last night. They didn’t really find the time.

~

“New place then?”

Dick smiled as he unlocked the door. “Needed a little more space.”

“Did Bruce buy this building too?” Wally chuckled, leaning against the door frame.

“I didn’t actually ask for this one. He just… did it.”

Wally shook his head, a stupid grin plastered on his face. “Some things never change.”

Dick lead the way into the apartment, tossing his jacket on the rack to their right, Wally following suit. “You expected change from Bruce Wayne?”

“I learned a long time ago to never expect anything from Bruce Wayne.”

Dick grinned, flopping down onto the soft, worn leather of his couch. Wally – in proper Wally fashion – made his way into the kitchen. He rifled through cupboards, clearly disappointed in his lack of findings, then opened the fridge. Dick sent him a sheepish smile as Wally turned to him, gesturing exaggeratedly to the empty space within.

“Dude. You’re thirty-two. How are you a grown-ass man and you’re still incapable of feeding yourself?”

“…Alfred?”

“Jesus…” Wally huffed and swung the door shut, crossing the room to settle on the couch next to Dick. “Some things really don’t change.”

Dick laughed and poked Wally in the side with his toe. “You sure haven’t.”

“Oh?” Wally grabbed Dick’s ankle before he could pull away, raising a challenging eyebrow. “How so?”

“Still a glutton.”

“Speedster.”

“Same thing.”

Wally’s eyes narrowed, a glint of mischief flashing through them before he yanked on Dick’s trapped ankle and pulled him flat on his back. Dick yelped in surprise, hair disheveled from static cling, as Wally shifted on the cushions to hover over him.

~

Dick shakes his head, clearing the memory from his mind. Don’t think about that now. It happened. It’s in the past.

The past was about six hours ago, but it was still the past.

He slips an old pair of sweatpants on, stepping out of the bedroom and padding into an empty apartment. Empty living room, empty kitchen. Dick swallows hard, making his way through as if he isn’t disappointed. As if he hadn’t been hoping Wally would be sitting at the island. Waiting for him.

He doesn’t know why he thought Wally would stay. They’d found each other in a bar by chance. This wasn’t a date. It was a hook up. Casual.

Simple.

Wasn’t it simple?

Dick sighs, switching on his coffee machine and waiting for it to brew. Too much shit in his head to deal with before coffee, that’s for sure. As he watches the dark liquid drip into the pot, he leans against the counter with a sigh.

Alright, so they have a history. They’d dated. But Dick has stayed friends with every one of his exes, it’s one of his few natural talents. Zatanna, Roy, Kori… they all stayed in touch. He has to with Kori, they have Mar’i together, but they still love each other. That’s never gone away.

But somehow, he and Wally haven’t seen each other in eight years.

A lot can change in eight years.

~

“Anything different about me?” He asked softly, planting his hands on either side of Dick’s head.

Dick pondered it for a moment, gaze flickering over Wally’s face. Eight years had done good things for his old best friend. Wally still looked as good as he did when they were younger, but his jaw was sharper – a little more square. His hair had gone more of a copper tone than the bright fiery orange it used to be, and the laugh lines around his eyes were more prominent. His green eyes were darker too, a deep emerald that Dick could see himself getting lost in if given the time.

Wally was different, but in very subtle ways. His cockiness was confident without the bravado – like he finally understood how attractive he really was. His movements weren’t awkward or gangly. There wasn’t anything gangly about him anymore. Even at twenty-two, Wally hadn’t fully grown into himself – now, at thirty-two, he definitely had.

“Not really.” Dick murmurs, eyes falling to those oh-so-familiar lips a few inches above him. “You’re still… you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Wally leaned in a bit, watching every change of Dick’s expression for discomfort – like he used to.

“Is that a good thing?”

Dick bit down on his lower lip, wondering if that still effected Wally the way it used to.

“I think so.”

When Dick finally closed the gap between them, Wally met him halfway.

~

Dick jumps a little when the coffee machine beeps, not realizing how caught up in his thoughts he’d gotten.

It’d been nice – really nice – to catch up again after all this time. To learn about each other all over again and fill in those missing pieces of their lives. How they’d managed to slip past each other for eight years, Dick would never know. He supposes that marriage and kids and world-ending events sort of get in the way of that kind of thing. But seeing as they both still know Roy, Dick wonders how valid that argument really is.

Maybe they just didn’t know how to find each other again after drifting apart like they had.

It’s not an easy thing to do when you’d been with someone every day for so many years, only to suddenly realize that you weren’t the same people anymore. Things had changed, and you didn’t see it coming. You didn’t fit anymore.

We fit together well enough last night. So, what does that mean?

Dick rubs the sleep out of his eyes, leaning heavily against the edge of the counter. That doesn’t matter anymore. Wally’s gone. Wally left, without saying goodbye. None of that matters anymore if Dick isn’t going to see him ever again.

Maybe in another eight years time. Maybe they’ll run into each other again and have another night of desperate nostalgia.

Dick wills away the hope that wells up in his chest at the thought.

He takes a mug out of the cupboard, about to pour out the steaming liquid, when he hears the front door open with a click. Suddenly wide awake, Dick whirls on the spot, muscles tensed and ready for conflict – only to see a tall, redheaded figure creeping into the dimly lit front hall.

Wally.

Wait – what?

“Wally?” Dick asks softly, his throat still dry and scratchy from sleep. He’s not sure if that’s why his voice breaks.

Wally spins on his heel, revealing a brown paper bag and a coffee tray with two cups in hand. The brilliant smile on Wally’s face when he sees him knocks the breath out of Dick’s lungs. “Oh hey, you’re up!”

Dick blinks in surprise, staring at the items as Wally gets closer, carrying them over to the island and setting them down next to his coffee mug. “Uh. Yeah.”

“I figured I’d go get breakfast, since we’ve already established that you’re useless when it comes to food. I wasn’t sure if you still take your coffee the same but there was a Starbucks and I still remember your old order, so I just took a chance and-” Wally seems to notice the mildly shocked expression that must be on Dick’s face, pausing to stare at him for a moment. “You okay?”

Dick shakes his head to clear it for the second time that morning, still a little thrown from the emotional whiplash of Wally coming back. He’d been gearing for a day of trying to forget Wally. Forgetting his touch, his voice, his… everything. And now Wally’s standing in front of him again, breakfast in hand, having woken up early to fetch it for them because for once, Dick is unprepared.

“Uh, yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Dick plucks the paper cup with his name on it out of the tray and takes a sip, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards when he tastes the coffee order he’s been using for the better part of a decade. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Wally frowns, glancing down at the mug on the counter, then back up at up Dick, who’s desperately trying to avoid his gaze. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

“You didn’t… you didn’t think that I-”

“No, of course not-”

“I swear, I’ve only been gone five minutes.”

“Wally, it’s fine-”

Dick doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before finding himself pressed against the edge of the counter, coffee cup snatched out of his hands – which is good, because he uses both to catch himself on the cool marble surface as Wally invades his space. His breath hitches in his chest as Wally traps him between both arms – much like he’d done the night before – gaze stern as he stares into Dick’s eyes.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go again, did you?”

Dick almost swallows his own tongue when his heart decides to leap into his throat at those words. He can feel his cheeks warming at the close proximity. His heart is pounding, pulse racing. He feels like a giddy teenager again, and Dick wonders if that’s just the way that Wally makes him feel. How he’s always made him feel.

Wally doesn’t give him the chance to answer, nudging his nose gently against Dick’s in a soft gesture that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. “I just found you again… You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

It takes a gargantuan effort to find his voice, and when he does, it’s sarcastic. “I mean, technically you’re the one who left, so really who’s to blame here-”

The smile that spreads across Wally’s face is even more brilliant than the last, and if given the chance that alone would have shut Dick up, but it doesn’t because Wally is kissing him now and he tastes like coffee and vaguely of powdered sugar and Dick is absolutely melting into it. Wally’s hands come up to cup his jaw, thumbs rubbing gently over the short stubble on his cheeks, and the touch has Dick grasping at Wally’s baggy t-shirt like his life depends on it.

He’s being pressed hard into the countertop and he really doesn’t care because Wally’s mouth is on his, warm and familiar and so, so Wally and regardless of anything they did last night, it still takes his breath away. It’s like vertigo and déjà vu all at once, the feeling of Wally’s body against his. It’s so familiar, yet still so different – bigger, stronger, but still everything that makes him Wally. Every touch is new, but practiced, as if they’ve done all this before – because they had. Years of friendship, of a relationship, of a complicated and intertwining history that ended so long ago, but picked right up again where it left off. They’ve both changed, obviously, yet somehow still know each other well enough to drive themselves crazy.

Dick’s hands drop lower, resting on Wally’s hips, and would have wandered further if he didn’t feel a recognizable fabric hugging his waistline. His fingers dip into the band, snapping gently at the elastic as he breaks the kiss with a smile.

“Did you steal my sweatpants?”

Wally grins against his lips, both of their eyes staying closed as they lean their foreheads together. “Didn’t have any of my own here. And I figured we were still the same size.”

“That’s a bold assumption, thinking you can just steal my clothes like that.”

“What can I say? I’m hopeful.”

Dick opens his eyes at that, watching Wally look up and meet them with his own. Despite the laugh lines carved permanently in the corners, those eyes haven’t changed one bit. They still shine the same way they did after their very first kiss, still glint in joy and swim with worry the same way they had when they were seventeen and stupidly in love.

If there’s anything that Wally West has always been, it’s hopeful.

And if there’s anything in particular that made Dick fall in love with him all those years ago, it was that optimism.

Maybe that optimism is contagious. Or maybe that desperate nostalgia is clouding his judgement. But for the first time in a while, Dick feels comfortable. He feels wanted.

He feels right.

In Wally’s arms, warm and fuzzy and just a little lightheaded, Dick feels like this could be right again. If they give it a shot.

Dick thinks maybe they could.

“So, what’s for breakfast?”

[theessaflett]

To All The Ghosts I’ve Loved Before: A Farewell Letter to 53a

Written by Elisabeth Flett 

Elisabeth perches on the bed mid-move, March 2019.

How do you say goodbye to something that can’t say goodbye back?

That was the question I found myself asking as stood in the middle of my boxed-up flat, my beloved home for the last four years.

To understand the magnitude of this impossible farewell we need to go back to June 2015, when a unhappy, stressed-out 19 year old first stepped inside 53a. Like so many other second year university students these days I was emerging battered and shaken from a disastrous flat-share, my fresher’s week hopes and dreams of a rosy uni experience from the year before long since gone. I was out of my depth, winging it and wearing my best jacket and quite a lot of make-up in the hope that the estate agent wouldn’t realise that I was still a teenager. Nightmarish images of the truly uninhabitable hovels I’d viewed the previous year with my soon-to-be new flatmates had played in my mind on the bus journey there, as had all the warnings from concerned friends that moving into a flat on my own would be a terrible idea. What would happen if I was burgled? What about if I became horribly ill and needed someone to look after me? As I stood there in the empty flat, the estate agent hovering impatiently next to me, I could see that at least the worry of this place being a hovel wasn’t going to be an issue. Okay sure, there were some cracks and peeling paint here and there, but compared to the underground basement off Brick Lane I remembered viewing in 2014 (no windows, mouldy sofa and nuclear bomb-site worthy toilet…the most worrying part was that I genuinely considered it as a possibility because we were so desperate) it was practically a paradise. The shower was in the main room. The toilet was in a tiny cupboard so small that you couldn’t really shut the door if you sat down on the loo.

It wasn’t much. But it would be mine, and mine alone.

“I’d like to put a deposit on the flat,” I said, trying to feel like an adult but only succeeding in feeling like a child pretending to be a grown-up. A truly terrifying amount of money passed hands, and that was it. I was moving into my first ever studio flat. Sure, it was on the same street as two strip clubs and next to a kebab shop, a nightclub and a taxi delivery service, but what could go wrong? Single living, here I came.

It seemed like a great idea until the first night on my own. Lying there terrified, I listened to every creak, every grumble from the traffic, and was convinced that a hundred axe-wielding murderers lay in wait outside my front door. What was that noise from the landing outside? Should I call the police? My parents, wearily supportive, took my hysterical whispered 1am phone call with good grace but suggested that since this was going to be my living situation for the foreseeable future I should find some way to cope with these entirely irrational fears of horror movie break-ins. Thankfully, it didn’t end up being a big problem; one night of not being hacked to pieces was all it took for me to settle down to the idea that I probably wasn’t going to be horribly murdered in my sleep. It was just as well, as not long afterwards I had my first real nighttime “Situation”…

Picture the scene. You’re nineteen. You’ve recently moved into a flat, on your own, into a part of London you don’t know. For all the above reasons, you’re a bit on edge anyway. And then, at 2am, you’re woken by an almighty crash. I’m talking loud. You lie there, wide awake, hoping that it was part of your dream. And then you hear it. The ominous hhhhssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Worried now, you get up, turn a light on, blearily searching for the hissing noise whilst still mostly asleep. You grew up in a house with a gas cooker so in your sleep-ridden state you first check the electric hobs for any suspicious smells, then when that unsurprisingly doesn’t give you any clues you check the boiler in the hallway. It’s not that either. At a loss, you then step into the tiny toilet cupboard, noticing the floor is wet. Something has broken in the toilet, maybe? You idly notice a can of air freshener on top of the toilet cistern, move it out of the way. And then, very dramatically, the bookshelf on the wall - the one your father built himself but didn’t screw in quite enough, the one that had fallen directly down onto the air freshener can and by some mad, wild law of physics was balancing on its nozzle head, causing the air freshener to spray all over the bathroom, the one that now with no air freshener can beneath it continued its downwards trajectory - came crashing down onto my head, with all its contents along with it. Dazed, I lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, surrounded by broken bits of bookcase and battered paperbacks, and mused that this was definitely not on the list of things people had warned me about.

Some of the challenges I had to cope with were a little more expected, if entirely unwelcome.

I have, embarrassingly enough for someone who grew up in the countryside, a very real phobia of rodents, and discovering that I had a few mice for visitors in the winter of 2015 was enough to send me in a state of terror that I found very embarrassing but could do nothing to ease. My Top Two Least Dignified Mice Moments over the years were probably when A) a mouse ran across my floor and I screamed hysterically into the phone to a friend who had to then talk me down from the chair I’d jumped on when spotting the offending rodent, and was still stuck on despite the mouse having run off half an hour previously. B) was a little more traumatising; finding a dead mouse next to my kitchen bin and finding out that I couldn’t “pick it up and put it in the bin” as my Grandma impatiently suggested when I phoned her…because my knees actually gave out when I tried to pick it up and I just fell over whilst hyperventilating. Another London friend of mine very kindly rushed over and came to my aid. I was so grateful I even forgave her when she waved it towards me going,” Look, it’s all stiff!”

Various challenges came up over the years: the time that water came through the light fittings and dripped from doorways because a water tank on the roof had burst; the time that water came through the kitchen ceiling; the time that the toilet upstairs leaked into my Toilet Cupboard…three times in four weeks, but who’s counting; the time that my shower, fridge, washing machine and tap all broke in the space of a month; the time that the creepy guy next door tried to persuade me to take him in as a roommate despite there only being one bed in my flat; the time that the floor started to move; the very scary time a group of drugged up guys were hanging out outside the front door and wouldn’t let me in; the time I was stuck in bed with flu for three days and, as warned by those friends when I first moved in, I indeed had to crawl to the sink myself rather croak out a request for water to someone else. The front door was regularly graffitied. The electricity meter could only be topped up by a easily losable key card. The stairs creaked, and got steadily more creaky over the years, the front door lock broke more times than I can count and the street fights stopped being exotic entertainment and starting just being annoying within the first few months. I hadn’t quite anticipated the sheer level of noise the combination of shops and venues on my street would bring, and the long summer nights full of boomboxes blaring at 3am, screamed arguments about who sold who the wrong type of crack and people vomiting onto the pavement outside the apartment were not my favourite times at 53a. By 2016 I was in a relationship and my girlfriend at the time was not at all as keen as I was about seeing the whole thing as an exciting observation on modern society. “I think someone’s being stabbed,” she would darkly mutter to me as we lay in bed trying to sleep despite the traffic noise blaring outside. “There’s not enough screaming,” I would mutter back with a yawn. “That’s just your average fight. Go back to sleep.”  “I would if there wasn’t about fifty cars beeping outside your window. Oh, and now there’s a street cleaning lorry too. I can’t wait for you to move.”

In the end it was our relationship that moved on before I moved out of the flat, but having a second opinion on 53a did cast a few small doubts in my mind about the place. Was the traffic a little too unreasonable? Were the nighttime brawls a little too regular? Despite these musings I continued to love my little hide-away, my safe haven from the world.

How to describe 53a? 53a was:

chipped green paint

neon light

creak of floorboards

lamplight casting soft shadows at 1am

Radio 2 Jazz programmes and the smell of incense

overground train rumble

afternoon sunlight streaming through dusty windows

mug balanced on bed, laptop open

candle flickering,  polaroids on kitchen tiles

evenings full of laughter, mornings full of sleep

first hellos

last goodbyes.

This flat was always so much more to me than just a place to live. It was where I rebuilt myself, where I found the bits and pieces of my soul that had got lost, trampled and hidden along the way during the previous years and painfully, painfully, dragged them back to me until I was whole once more. It was the backdrop for my first love, and my first heartbreak. It saw dinner parties, welcome parties, leaving parties, parties where no-one showed up and parties where everyone showed up and brought a bottle of rum with them for good measure. It was where I practised for my final exams, where I decided what to wear for my first day at work, where I celebrated one year out of university, then two. This place has heard many words, some hard, some soft, and many ghosts live inside these walls.

It was the ghosts, in the end, who helped me decide to leave.

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

It’s a difficult thing, leaving. Not for everyone, of course - there are some people out there who find change exciting, crucial to how they live their life. I am not one of them. Or rather; I feel like people who say that they like change just don’t notice enough about the world around them.

It’s almost impossible to “like change” if you begin to take note of every single little thing that is rudely adjusted around you, without the slightest warning or heads-up.

What do you think of when you think of an example of “change”? Chances are it’s something big.

Moving to a different job, maybe. Getting married. Or something a little smaller, like getting a new haircut. This is what I’ll call the “top tier” of change, and it’s the only tier that a lot of people notice as they go about their lives. There are, however, other levels below that “top tier”. Things that, if you’re me, clump together to make life just a little more hard to cope with, just a little bit more stressful.

For instance:

If the old bus stop pole that I’m used to seeing every morning has been replaced by a new, less dented bus stop pole, the seat I usually take has someone else sitting in it, the train comes at 8:57 rather than 8:55, the chair I like in the cafe I always go to has been moved to another table, there’s a different person from normal on the check-out and they’ve changed an ingredient in the drink I always get, I find out that the podcast I listen to on Tuesdays has started releasing new episodes on Wednesdays instead and then I get an email informing me that an upcoming rehearsal I was expecting to happen in one venue has been moved to a different venue that I’ve never been to before… That, for me, is a very stressful morning. Now, take that level of what I’m going to call Change Stress and apply it to something as enormous as moving house, especially from somewhere that has as much meaning for me as 53a. It took the front door breaking again, the thought of yet another summer listening to dubstep outside my window at 3am and a really stellar flat showing to convince me that it was time, but here I was. Moving for the first time in four years. And boy, it was hard work.

My moving house priorities would have seemed very odd to people helping me organise and pack my belongings. (…If they hadn’t been my aforementioned long-suffering parents, that is.) When there’s such a big uncontrollable change looming over someone as change-phobic as I am, I tend to bury into tiny details and get very annoyingly intense about them being just right.  “No, the tea lights go in the left hand corner of this box! We need to unpack everything again now. No no we can’t pack the radio there, it’s the third item that I’m going to put on my desk, next to the pen pot and opposite that picture frame!!!”  A total slide into insanity and Change Stress are hard to differentiate.

“I was walking around my East Village neighbourhood…you know…you live so much life in these very small blocks, and these routes that you take every day…You grow so much, you know, when you think about who you’ve been in this tiny amount of space… you’re living with the ghosts of yourself.”

The singer St Vincent might have been talking about her time in NYC East Village when she spoke these words in an GQ interview about her song New York, but they resonated with me as I watched the YouTube video in early 2019 sitting on my bed in London. It occurred to me that I was also surrounded by ghosts; both ghosts of myself and ghosts of people I had met, been friends with, fallen out of friendship with or had simply drifted away as folk tend to do at the end of university. The streets surrounding my flat were filled with memories, both good and bad, and 53a itself was groaning with the weight of so much life lived under one roof. 2015 was a long time ago, I realised. Everyone else in the polaroids on my wall from parties now long over seemed to have moved on. I should move on too. To have new experiences, to make new memories, and, in time, to make new ghosts.

Now, as the spring sunlight of March streamed through the windows of 53a, I looked around at the boxes and crates and felt a sense of profound loss mixed in with the fatigue and stress of moving and the excitement of what was to come. There was one more thing that I needed to do.

I laid a hand on the wall, breathed in the smell of wood, paint and dust. “Thank you,” I whispered.

It may have just be my imagination but I’m sure, just for a second, that I felt a slight energy through my fingertips, an acknowledgement of my farewell.

Maybe 53a could say goodbye, after all.

[yarti]

[ Lette ] [ On Which We Stand ]

Story Below:

His mustache brushed across my cheek. Bristles, clinging and poking, calling me to attention. My eyes opened to his otherwise smooth face. His crusty pink paint catching just enough light to be visible across his tanned hide. Behind him, a sheer black abyss. The room consumed by shadow. The light of the firepit beamed across my face, illuminating little else. My lips parted, teeth showing ever so slightly as a wide smile crept across my stern face. "Did you fall asleep?" his gruff voice chimed in. It echoed oddly through the room though I gave it not a second thought. It soothed these tired bones to their core. His every breath pressed his chest against mine, and my own back against his. His arm around my side gave a subtle squeeze as he spoke. My answer, a contented mumble, the shutting of eyes, the nestle of my cheek against his. I then became hyper-aware. In but a moment, something changed around us. My skin crawled, hair standing on end. I opened my eyes again, his expression had changed. A look of some shock at my sudden departure. Behind him, three burning dots, just off in the corner of the room. I stumbled backwards, mouth coming agape. I tried to speak but not a word would form. I stuttered, alarming him further. He turned, peering into that dark corner. He could not see it, but it was there. As clear as day, as clear as a moon on a darker night. Larger now, like signal fires on a distance hill they blazed. He spoke, a degree of worry in his voice. It echoed again, the air vibrated to his tune. Something was wrong.

"What is the matter?"

I could not answer. Shakily I stood, frozen before him as the apparition drew ever nearer. Directly behind him now, I could see slightest silhouette behind flames. A man, with three eyes. Not him, not again. This was a dream. No, a nightmare. My shaking hands, I could see. The wrinkles of stress of my latter years, gone. I was young, this was wrong. My dear looked at me. A sudden sadness across his visage. His flesh churned, his cheeks puckering. A gash flashed across his right cheek. He recoiled. Tears raced down my face at the sight of him. Another, across his right cheek and nose. His face a grimace now. Ages passed by his skin, leaving their own marks. His eyes took less notice of me, staring forward. Blankly. I tried to speak again but to no avail. The figure had engulfed him by this point. His transformation ended, leaving him as a pitiful weary old man. At once he turned, his hands glowing brighter than those fires. Violet tendrils arching across the room. His voice soared, a high pitched squeal in a voice unlike his own. Bolts flew into the figure and with that, they both disappeared. The room shook around me as I turned, racing to the door. I threw it open to a blinding flash. I awoke then and there, once again in my bed. Drenched in sweat, the room, hot and humid. I lay there for an hour or so, trying to make sense of yet another vision. It was comforting in a way. The thought that something out there somewhere had saw it fit to gift me with these confirmations, as frightening as they may be. Confirmations by night that I had done the right thing, or at least that there would be some resolution at the end of this day. Everything had lead to this moment, in this town, in this bed on which I lay. It was a miraculous thing and I knew little what to think of it. I told myself perhaps it was Azura, but who can say. The nightmares of that man had plagued me for many years, I still knew not who he was or what relation he had to my situation or to Sanbosm, but perhaps it would all be revealed by the end of this day. I threw the sheets from my bones and tugged on a pair of pants, making my way across the dimly lit room, intent to get some fresh air and collect myself. The sound of the lively town filled my ears. Still hyper-aware, the sweat drops from my drenched form pinged the door frame at my feet, every droplet louder than the lightning and thunder that had filled that dream room moments ago. My vision but a blur, I squinted out into the world stumbling through the doorway. Sunset from the look of things, a distinct pink tinge hung about the horizon. An ear piercing buzzing sound overwhelmed my already reeling senses. My breath heavy, I looked down at myself, my bare hands and arms crossed with the troubles of my times. The metaphorical blood of this journey lay thick on them. It came crushing down on me yet again. With a sigh I lifted my head skyward, just in time to catch the source of the buzzing. I watched a mounted wasp descend in some far off part of the town. A crowd of some sort had formed at it's destination, an important visitor perhaps. It was of little importance to me. The buzz grew quieter by the second, an ease to my ears. I then took note of a family crossing the street. A Nord man, tall, strong armed. Below him, two Dunmer children. The little girl frolicked just ahead of them, leading the parade. The boy clung to his mother's dress, occasionally looking back at the docks. The mother, one arm flung around her partner's waist, walked elegantly in the middle of the four. I could hear them talking, a happy family. That should have been me. It could have been me. I brought hand to my face to wipe away another round of tears. The merry parade had turned and were on course to walk past my rented hovel. As they stepped closer, the mother made eye contact with me. Her face changed, evident even from this distance. Surprise, no, shock. She stopped in her tracks, clutching at her partner's waist. Her free hand began to glow, shock becoming anger. From across the way she screamed.

"NO, not here!"

Hands still aglow, she lowered herself, clutching at her children, drawing them close to her. The man watched her with some awe but made no attempt to stop her, as though her outburst were some common occurrence. She looked up at him, explaining herself I imagined. I had no qualm with her, I turned to return to my bed. Hoping for yet another attempt at rest before continuing my investigation the next morning.

"Why are you here, mother?"

Her voice crept into my ears, tangling amidst my own thoughts. I knew that voice. It all fell together in one moment. Though my eyes fail me, hers, unladen by age had no trouble recognizing my face from this distance. Feeling faint, I wheeled around to face her again. The man stepped forward, waving his arms, coming between us.

"Now, now. There's no need for that, I'm sure it's not like that."

"Lette?"

He questioned from across the path. It had been many months since I had heard my own name. Longer still spoken by a Nord. I stumbled down from the doorway, a slow hobble. Bare feet on damp soil. My feet sunk up in it, the muck going all about my toes in the process. Making my way to them, the sight of my tears seemed settle her wrath. The glow about her hands dissipated.

"Child", I croaked. Arms outstretched to meet her. With some hesitation, she rose and stepped forward. The children darted around her back, heads peeking up at me from behind her dress. The man lowered his arms, allowing me to pass. She stared deeply into my eyes as I made my final approach. There would be so much to discuss, the things that should have been said, the things that have came and the things yet to come. In a now distant part of my mind, I still clung to the notion that this was not the end of this day. There would be yet another reward before it's conclusion. It was all leading to this moment, in this town, the ground on which we stand. The next step. The unending cascade of emotions was overwhelming.

"Why are you crying?"

Her voice now quiet, nearly a whisper. A single tear emerged from her left eye and began it's descent as I collapsed against her chest, arms racing to embrace her. We lingered for minutes, possibly longer. Memories flowed, I relived our entire time together in but a moment. Her birth, the distance, coping with bloody work, her rebellious side and how she came to disappear. There were oh so few moments between us, few words even. No closeness of any kind. I was no mother to her. I thought it too late but here we are. It dawned on me that we had never even shared an embrace. Not in all of her years. This was the first. What could I say? Nothing could do the moment justice, so I said nothing. We would have more than enough to say in the coming days.

[thirdfavoritemom]

Deal Breaker (Io Toshinori x Shoto Todoroki)

hey there’s mentions of abuse, so please please don’t read if that will trigger you p l e as e

“Wait, Io, what?” Izuku asked, utterly floored by the words that had just left the mouth of his best friend.

Io looked at him in confusion, not really sure what was wrong. Until Shoto’s fists clenched at his sides and Io felt as if she was 2 feet tall in comparison. She hadn’t felt so small in a long, long time. Not since Him. Not since she managed to escape. 

But she hadn’t ever told anyone abut Him. Not until just now. Not until Ochaco had asked if Io had “ever even had a boyfriend before?”

“Yeah, one.” Io had told her with a shrug before really thinking about Him for the first time since starting UA “He was.....the worst...” and her voice must have betrayed something, because that’s when she got the questions.

Before she could answer Izuku, Shoto’s hand was on her arm, making her blood run cold.

“What do you mean?” Todoroki asked, his voice dangerous and low, which obviously distressed Toshi, so he tried to clear his throat and sound less....livid? 

“Io-” he began, but seeing her flinch as if he had raised his hand to hit her made him stop speaking entirely.

“Io, please, you have to explain..” Ochaco said softly, glancing at the two boys with somewhat of a warning in her face, telling them to shut the fuck up. “When you say he was the worst....” But Uraraka didn’t want to finish her thought in fear she was right.

“I...Well, He...”

3 Years Ago

“You know your’re beautiful, Io?” His deep voice dripped like honey down her neck as he peppered kisses in his path, earning a breathless “you keep saying that, idiot,” from Io and he smirked against her collarbone, nipping there gently before Io (once again) pushed him away.

He groaned in annoyance when she told him “not yet” for, like, the 8th time this fucking week. “Then when?” he demanded, the doting, sweet voice replaced by one filled with anger.

Toshi shrugged, rolling her eyes as she pulled herself to her feet. 

The early morning sun  pooled into the dingy room from between even filthier blinds, swathing her small frame in golden light as she pulled her sweater from the night before on over the tanktop she’d slept in. “I don’t know, asshole, I’m just not ready yet.”

He scoffed from his spot on the twin-sized bed they’d shared the night before, eyeing her with a type of...malice, she’d never seen there before. “He when do you think you’ll finally cover up that shit on your back? I told you, my tattoo guy can do it for cheap.”

She winced a bit, as if his words were a whip that reopened the year-old marks on her shoulders, and she had to bite her lip to keep from saying something back. That might make him more mad.

Io kept her back to him as she slipped her sneakers on and packed her bag, not wanting him to see the tears welling in her eyes. That bastard knew what her scars meant. He knew about her father. Shit, he knew how much she hated them, and he still said something so cruel? But she was pulled from her mind when she felt his arms suddenly wrap around her middle as he pressed himself against her back. 

She could feel his boner through her jeans and it made her feel...dirty. “It’s been, like, two months, babe. You can trust me, I’ll be gentle-” he purred in her ear, making her skin crawl as she tried to gently remove herself from his now vise-like grip.

“Dude, let go. My foster parents are already gonna be pissed, I have to go.” She spat, finally forcing herself away from him and stumbling forward, steadying herself on the half-broken dresser.

“Fuck them! They treat you like shit! Stay with me another night, babe, come on~!” he whined, practically floating towards Toshi to caress her cheeks “You deserve better, babe.” he cooed, and her expression softened as he kissed her nose.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have better now do I?” she asked with a smirk before pecking his lips and grabbing her backpack and skipping out the door. 

The walk from his apartment to school took Io about 30 minutes, but she didn’t really mind it. Hell, it was better than the 10 minute drive with her oldest foster sister, anyway. These were her 30 minutes. No shitty ‘parents’, no boyfriend, no anything. Just her and her music and her thoughts.

Speaking of thoughts, Io couldn’t help but remember the anger in His voice when she told him no again..how much longer would he put up with it? Or how hard he held her when she tried to move, or how he mentioned her scars for the sole purpose of hurting her. Why was he acting so..off? Io couldn’t rememebr doing anything in particular to him, so why?

Io shrugged, chalking things up to him having a bad morning and continuing through her day, soon forgetting anything had happened at all.

But what started as a bad morning turned into a bad week, and a bad month, and a bad six months. She went through two more foster families and he kept getting meaner, angrier, harsher. 

It got to the point when she’d train just to avoid him, preferring to spend extra time to herself before facing his wrath when she got to his disgusting hovel of an apartment. 

This went on like this; His cruel and spiteful words, her intense and exhausting training, His torrential downpour of negligence and anger, her further isolation from her peers to avoid upsetting him, His borderline physical attacks on her, her closing in on herself and closing off her mind so that it was as if she wasn’t even living anymore.. It just continued.

And she took it. 

Io filtered through foster home to foster home, a hollow shell that did nothing but practically kill herself training every day for what she told herself was vengeance for her father, but more realistically kept her mind focused on something other than the fact she hated herself and everything, hated living, because of Him.

But she found her happy place; one that wasn’t a training ground. 

One gold nugget among hundreds and hundreds of pieces of dirt.

And finally, Io Toshinori snapped.

“Get back here you miserable little whore. We aren’t finished yet.” He growled, grabbing her by the hair and aiming a blow directly to the middle of her back. He had never hit her before. He feigned like he would, be he knew her quirk and never chanced it. 

She could feel the force coursing through her veins. She could feel the power jolting to her fingertips. 

She’d been training to be the best since her father died. 

She’d be training day and night to get into UA. 

She’d been killing herself to fight villains. 

And this was her chance.

She whipped around to face him, a wicked grin splitting her face in two.

The police wanted to incarcerate her for what she did to Him. She was almost exempt from the UA entrance trails. But her foster family fought for her, and won.

And slowly, she removed herself from the shell she’d built. She found happiness n her new home, found joy and laughter and herself again.

And she got into UA by placing 5th.

And she met the most amazing people there.

She also found Todoroki, a beautiful, caring, soft boy. A boy that didn’t ever call her fat, or tell her that her scars were anything less than a trophy to love and cherish and be proud to wear. A boy that had his own damage, but was able to have so much love for her. And fuck did she love him so. fucking. much.

The three around her just...stared. 

Her, in front of her, were her two best friends and the boy she loved so completely, so desperately, and it dawned on her that this might be a deal breaker for him.

That he didn’t know how fucked up she really was.

“I understand if you want to break up. I can see how this could be pretty overwhelming to learn, and I know I should have told you before you asked me out, but I pretty much hate myself for ever being so weak and I was really hoping you’d never know. Your dad mentioned it to me, when you let me meet him. He told me he didn’t like me because of it. But I, of course, told him to go fuck himself becasue as long as you like me I don’t care, but i can definetly see how this would make you super not-like-me-anymore and-” Io was rambling, refusing to look Shoto in the eyes, until she was in his arms.

Shoto’s arms were so..different..than His. Shoto’s arms were strong and warm and protective. They held her to calm her instead of to intimidate her. 

And relief flooded her body when he told her to shut up, but in a good way.

[fierypen37]

Held Captive

Another chapter a bit early, lovelies!

Part XXXIII

“Wake up, love. There’s something you need to see,” Jon’s sleep-rough voice pierced a dense fog of confusing dreams. Daenerys made a low groan of protest, nestling closer to him. Their bedroll trapped body warmth, and for the first time since mounting Drogon at Casterly Rock, Daenerys felt warm all the way through. Languor from lovemaking helped too, the feel of him hard and hungry within her made her toes curl. Winter had just begun and already she longed for spring. Jon chuckled, peeling back the bedroll.

At the sudden chill, Daenerys struggled up, swiping hair from her eyes.

“What is so urgent, Ser?” she said, with narrowed eyes. Jon’s sable eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat up and eased into his jerkin.

“The storm stopped,” he said. Daenerys strained her ears. Beyond the murmuring of the fire and low-voiced conversation beyond the tent, the constant roar of wind now lay silent. Daenerys arched a brow.

“And that merits waking me?” Jon shrugged. A wince crossed his face at the stretch of his shoulder. Daenerys’ gaze wandered over him in mingled concern and admiration. The months apart had stripped what little softness lingered on his body. She could count his ribs; his cheeks were leaner. Iron-hard muscle flexed beneath moon-pale skin. New bulk bunched at his shoulders and arms. His bright, steady gaze and easy smile reassured her.  

“Perhaps I missed you,” he said quietly. Her heart melted.

Daenerys crawled over to where he leaned against the tent support, nestling into his side. She was relieved by the smooth, even rise and fall of his chest, the steady grip of his hands. On the mend, thank the gods. Jon drew her close with a harsh sigh. Daenerys breathed a kiss on his cheek. Comforting him was a balm to them both, holding pain and exhaustion at bay. His sweet words were at least partly true. Unhampered by the storm, the two of them could safely fly for the Isle of Faces. They would be sure to leave their compatriots with Stark’s men.

“Now that the storm has broken, I can summon my children,” she said.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said, his breath warm in her hair.

“I trust you with all that is precious to me,” she said.

Daenerys tilted her chin to meet his eye. She paused, chewing on her lower lip.

“Did—Did you mean it?” she asked. Jon’s muscular throat flexed as he swallowed hard. Dark grey eyes wide, he gave her a mute nod.

“You were raving with fever before that. I didn’t know . . . I wasn’t sure . . .” she trailed off, her cheeks aflame.

“It was a poor excuse for a proposal, to be sure,” he said with a trembling smile. Giddy energy swept away the lingering grip of sleep. Her heart thudded in her chest, nearly quivering with joy and fear both.

“Try again,” she said softly.

A mirrored joy lit in Jon’s eyes. He nudged her side, gesturing for her to rise. Daenerys climbed upright, and Jon clasped her hand between his. He cleared his throat, intent and serious.

“Growing up a bastard at Winterfell, I never thought much about having a wife or sweetheart. ‘Why bring more bastards named Snow into this shit world?’ I thought. Then a woman crossed the sea like a singer’s story come to life, a queen with dragons and Dothraki screamers and Unsullied warriors. And I wanted her more than my next breath, almost from the very start,” his voice trembled a little, and Daenerys bit her lip to ward off the rush of emotion.

“Over time I saw how she cared for her people, how she wanted to remake the world into a better place, how she took the time to make a bastard captive feel more at ease. I was lost to Daenerys Targaryen before I even knew it.” For herself, his words broke a chink in her armor and flooded her like sweet summer rain, and tears slid down her cheeks.

“I am still a bastard, but now I am also a knight, a commander, a dragonrider, brother to Warden of the North, son of Eddard Stark. I swear before any god who will listen that I will shield your back, offer you counsel, I will be your lover and help-meet for as long as I draw breath. I ask humbly for your hand,” Jon asked, pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. His sable eyes held hers, swimming with emotion.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. Jon surged up, snatching her into a fierce, tearful embrace. He showered her face with kisses, then took her mouth with his. Urgent and hot, tasting the salt of joyous tears, Daenerys clung to him. Jon broke off panting, his eyes wide and searching.

“Are—are you sure? What about--”

Daenerys interrupted him with another searing kiss, adding a sharp tug on his hair. Jon’s stifled sound was one of pure need. Passion boiled up hot and quick. She longed to drag him down to the bedroll and ride him hard until he knew in his bones who he belonged to. Instead, she broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his.

“What man could compare to you? You are knight and dragonrider, my second, born of noble blood. And I love you with my whole soul. You are mine, Jon. Now and always.” Jon exhaled a shaking breath.

“I love you,” he breathed, sealing the words with another kiss.

A crash behind them made Daenerys break the kiss. Ed offered a sheepish smile from the ground, having tripped over the lip of canvas across the door opening.

“Good tidings, my queen. My apologies, I overheard and I--”

“Get up, idiot. Mucking about like a misshapen colt! Forgive me, my lord, my queen,” Brienne said, hauling Ed up by the scruff of his neck. Daenerys’ heart soared in the clouds with her children, so she forgave the gaffe with grace.

“May I be the first of offer good wishes on your engagement, Your Grace. May your union be fruitful and your reign long and peaceful,” Willas said with a courtly bow. Daenerys stifled the pang at the ‘fruitful’ bit. Gods, did Jon really understand what he’d be giving up by marrying a barren woman? She stuffed the thought into the recesses of her mind to feed upon in a quiet moment. Daenerys threaded her fingers through Jon’s. For now, there was only joy.

 ~

 Jon fancied his feet scarcely touched the ground. Daenerys had said yes. She would be his wife. The thought filled him with a breathless joy, chased by a bastard’s instinctive wariness. When would the axe fall? Would she wake up one day and regret it? His name that was scarcely dry on the parchment. Jon shook off such grim thoughts.  

It was torture to allow her to leave the hovel, but she was the only one who could summon her children. Brienne and Ed accompanied her, to guide her to a clearing large enough for Drogon to land. Maester Jaron mulled over his medicine chest, wrapping precious vials in felt and tucking them amongst the others. Jon and Willas set about gathering their meager belongings.    

Willas cursed, sinking to a seated positon by the fire. He stretched his bad leg out before him, kneading the thigh muscle.

“It aches down to the marrow in weather like this. Like an old crone with the ague,” Willas said with a sour smile.

“I’m sure Sansa won’t mind,” Jon said, settling Longclaw on his hip. Jon made a testing twist. His wounds ached, but only slightly. Food, rest, and medicine left his mind clear and his legs steady beneath him. Willas’s hands stilled, green eyes shadowed.

“Before she slaughtered most of my kin, Cersei entertained a match between us,” he said. Jon wrestled the tent into a neat bundle of canvas wrapped around the support poles and stakes.  

“Is that when you started writing to each other?” Jon asked, tying off the bundle with a flourish.  

“Aye.” Silence fell between them for a few moments.

“Does she know?” Jon asked with a sidelong glance. Willas’ green eyes, set on a catlike slant, blinked in startled innocence.

“Know what?”

“That you’re in love with her?” Jon said. The air hung thick and tense between them. Willas did not meet Jon’s eye, suddenly absorbed in the laces of his boots.

“I suppose it’s obvious. Given the lengths I went to in order to see her safe.”

“I won’t claim to know Sansa very well. She disliked having a bastard brother, but, I’d like to think she has enough depth to recognize a man of worth.” Willas met his gaze, so full of tender hope, Jon felt a soul-deep pang of sympathy.

“Thank you, Snow.”  Jon nodded. Gods help any man who falls in love. The thought made him smile.

 Daenerys returned, and hand in hand they made their way to the clearing. Fresh snow crunched under his boots, the air a sharp, scoring cold. Sullen grey clouds lingered overhead, but hung frayed at the edges. Shafts of sunlight peeked through. Beyond a copse of trees crouched Drogon. The stark black bulk of him against the snowfall was striking. His heat made the snow hiss into tendrils of steam on the ground and trees around him.

Daenerys murmured something low and quick in Valyrian. The dragon’s horn-crowned head turned, fixing Jon beneath a hot, amber-red stare. Drogon lowered his head even with Jon, his deep hum made Jon’s bones rattle. Jon lifted a hand to touch Drogon’s snout. His scales seared Jon’s skin, even through the barrier of his gloves.

“You up first. Let it be someone he trusts before we add passengers,” Daenerys said.

Jon broke Drogon’s gaze, kissing Daenerys’ gloved palm before climbing up Drogon’s spikes to a spot behind the saddle. The maester skittered up, followed by Ed, Brienne, Willas, and lastly Daenerys. All four of the passengers were paler than the snow below them, Maester Jaron’s with a greenish tinge. Jon prayed the poor man wouldn’t vomit on Drogon. The dragon would take exception at this without a doubt. Daenerys settled in the saddle, grinning over her shoulder.

“Hold on tight to the nearest spike. Don’t squeeze too hard with your legs, it irritates him. Soves!”

The close press of trees made for an awkward take off. Drogon uttered a deep-throated roar, so loud it made Jon’s ears ring. Dragons had no care for goldcloak hunters, he thought. Drogon coiled his muscles beneath him, then in one powerful upward leap, launched them into the air. The heavy flaps of his wings gained height. The wind roared in his ears, pushing him back against Drogon’s uncomfortably warm scales.  

Jon muttered a curse under his breath as Drogon’s legs crashed into the upper treeline. Limbs snapped and crashed, snow flew in a powdery arch. Daenerys urged him upward with a shift in the saddle. Gods, that look of concentration and exhilaration of her face made his heart lurch in his chest. Jon leaned forward, nestling close to her, content to share the joy of flight. They won free with some effort with only open sky above them. Jon grinned, watching the hovel and kingswood shrink and disappear amongst the blank, snowy landscape. He relaxed into the striving muscles of the dragon as they climbed in the sky.

King’s Landing loomed to the north, snow-wreathed with chimney smoke rising in gauzy black fingers. Jon couldn’t see a single person outside the gates. The city was locked up tight. He strained his gaze east toward the Blackwater, but could find no sign of Asha’s ships in the distance.

As they flew higher, Rhaegal and Viserion joined them. Jon’s smile widened as Rhaegal approached glittering green in errant shafts of sunlight.

“He looks bigger!” Jon shouted over the wind. Rhaegal roared, the sound sharp and rich like a bugle. The two dragons swooped and twisted around Drogon, Jon grinned as their wind rocked them to and fro. A squeak from behind him made him look. Ed’s were large as saucers, fixed on Viserion’s glittering white form almost within arm’s reach above him.  

“I think he has grown!” Daenerys said with a grin.

Jon frowned in concentration, reaching out for Rhaegal. A presence waited, warm and thrumming. He pushed the thought of welcome, of friendship. He focused, feeling . . . something. An emotion that was not his own, but too far away to sense the tenor. Frustrated, Jon blew out a breath through his nose. Rhaegal flew even with Drogon, bronze-gold eye fixed on Jon. Daenerys half-turned.

“I think he’s trying to tell you that you have been gone too long,” Daenerys said, her voice torn thin by the wind.

“I’m trying to connect with him,” Jon said. Daenerys’ eyes, deep, rich blue in the light, eyed him with mingled admiration and speculation. She snatched a quick kiss.

“Don’t get frustrated, my love. It took me years to learn the trick of communicating with them, and I nursed them at my breast,” she said. Jon could think of no reply as he watched Rhaegal veer north, sleek and powerful.

They flew north, and it wasn’t long before Robb’s northern army spread below in a carpet of milling men, horses, and tents. Jon leaned over, seeking any sign of an opposing host and found none. Viserion roared, then Rhaegal was a deeper echo. Drogon finished with his own, strident and loud.

“Hold on!” Daenerys said, angling Drogon into a low dive toward the body of the pitched army. Jon felt his belly flip at the movement and laughed. There was nothing to match dragonflight.

He glimpsed Robb’s tent with its Stark banner snapping in the wind. Jon urged a thought of parting to Rhaegal. The thrumming presence seemed to accept this, though Rhaegal blew a puff of hot smoke in Jon’s direction. With a careless shift, the green dragon and his brother turned south to seek a meal.

At Daenerys’ command, Drogon found a strip of open ground to land on. It was equal parts terror and delight seeing the ground approach so swiftly and feel Drogon’s powerful body shudder at the impact. Daenerys’ mastery was complete, and Jon bit back a surge of arousal. A goddess indeed, who could master fire made flesh.

Maester Jaron was the first to touch ground, staggering a few steps away before he vomited up his breakfast.

“Poor man,” Daenerys said, brow creased in sympathy.    

“Gods above,” Ed muttered, following at a slower pace. His green-tinged pallor said he might follow the maester despite his disgust. Brienne unlashed the tent and rucksacks. Drogon gave a muscular shake to rid himself of the irritating encumbrance. Brienne then helped Willas off of Drogon’s shoulder. Deprived of his cane, Willas’ limp was painful and awkward as he made his way closer to Daenerys. He bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am blessed beyond measure to have flown with your dragons,” he said, his voice trembling. Daenerys nodded, accepting his obeisance with grace.

“You are most welcome, Lord Tyrell. Have a page guide you to my Warden’s mews. I am certain your grandmother is eager to hear of you,” she said. Brienne bowed as well, motioning for Ed to follow suit.

“It has been an adventure, Your Grace, Ser Snow. I must take my report to Lady Catelyn wherever she may be,” she said, gesturing for Ed to follow.  

Daenerys and Jon leapt off Drogon. Daenerys pressed her forehead to Drogon’s snout, murmuring love words in Valyrian. Together, they watched Drogon leap into the sky to dance with his brothers. Jon offered Daenerys his arm.

“Let’s find Robb. We have much to tell him,” he said.

The Warden of the North was not in his tent, but his serving men were quick to offer a warm meal. Jon sank onto the bench in Robb’s tent with a sigh. The runny camp stew with chunks of rabbit and beef amid thin brown gravy was ambrosial after weeks of hardtack and jerky. Daenerys ate with equal zest, uttering a pleased sound as she tore a fresh loaf of sourdough bread in half. Jon poured ale from a flagon and groaned in delight.

“Thank the gods Robb thought to bring ale,” Jon said, draining the horn cup in one pass and pouring more. Daenerys’ nose wrinkled, but sipped without demur. The page laid the bundle of Jon’s clothes on the table and bowed.

“My la—I mean Your Grace, I could not find any gowns for you. The—the only women traveling among us aren’t . . . aren’t suitable--” the young smooth-cheeked page flushed crimson, staring at the toes of his boots with absorbed fascination. Daenerys arched a brow, glancing down at her black steel armor, at the crowned helm set aside on the table. Jon pressed his palm over his mouth to hide a smile.

“A fresh tunic and trousers will do, perhaps a squire’s size. A gambeson too, if there is one to be had,” she said with some asperity.

“Yes, Your Grace! Right away!” he said.

“They are not used to your ilk here, love,” Jon said as the tent flap fell closed behind the page. Daenerys tossed her windblown braids over her shoulder with a careless flick of her head. She had the look of a smug cat grooming herself in a windowsill.

“I suppose not,” she said.  

The page returned with garments for Daenerys, and offered to guide her to the bath. Jon was loath to be separated from Daenerys, but since the two of them were merely engaged, he could not enjoy the pleasure of bathing with her. Daenerys squeezed his hand before parting, saying she had raven scrolls to send. The thought of Tyrion choking on his wine when he read Daenerys’ announcement of their engagement made him smile. The page led him to a tent where a barrel tub waited. Jon sank into the heat of the tub with a sigh, at the moment content.

[shellalana]

Frigid

((writing prompt from Deep Water Writing Prompts))

The sweltering heat was something people of Artemis grew up with, so sitting on the solitary bench in the hot sun meant nothing to me. It was several hours later when the sun had dipped below the horizon and it started to grow cold that I started to get cold, never mind the fact that my bus still hadn't shown up yet. The only bus route, I'd been told, driven by a man with a face you couldn't trust. Which covered a lot of people, since I'd come to this backwater planet. Bloodwing screamed on my arm, and even though she knew to stop after a small nudge to her feathered chest, she persisted. Someone was approaching and she wasn't entirely sure she looked the look of them. Neither did I, for that matter. I'd been sitting at this bus stop for hours, thinking I was the only person to hear about this Vault, and now I was going to have competition. Or worse: having to split my gains with them. The first thing I noticed was the shock of red hair, so bright and so daring, I wouldn't bat an eye if the bandits went after her first. In fact, it'd be a pleasant piece of work to use her as bait so I can get my shots off. Blood fluffed herself up and shook her head; she was against the thought. Lucky for me she's the bird and I'm her handler instead of the other way around. The second thing I noticed was the lack of a weapon on her hip. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of that small yellow jacket, and she walked with a swagger that reeked of "don't fuck with me." Whether that was something she carried with her to keep people away or she could really fuck up your day, I was about to find out. She sat on the far end of the rusty bench, her hands still in her pockets, and drew herself as far from me as possible. Which I was fine with. I wasn't here to make friends. Bloodwing, on the other hand, adjusted her wings before hopping onto the bench with a clattering of talons and hopped closer to the woman. I probably should have stopped her, but I wasn't interested in taking a spiteful nip to the arm, so I let her be. She drew warily closer to the woman, her wings outstretched, ready at a moment's notice to take flight if she needed to. And if the woman had any ill intentions, she'd find a bullet in her head even sooner. Bloodwing gave her a gargling chirp before her final hop, and found an errant thread on the jacket to bother. The red-haired woman slowly removed her arms, and I tightened the grip on my revolver. Bloodwing flinched only a little but happily went back to shredding away the loose string. "Nice bird," the woman finally spoke, her direction entirely focused on my bedraggled companion. It was then I spotted the third thing that was strange about her: the swirls of blue lines that peeked out from her her jacket sleeve. They wrapped around her arm in intricate patterns and finally stopped at her wrist, their meaning entirely beyond comprehension. Something tribal, I assumed. That seemed to be the trend around here. "Nice tats," I returned, though I didn't lift my head to acknowledge her. There was no point in getting touchy-feeling on a place like Pandora. "Waiting long?" "Coupla hours." And it probably be a few more until the bus actually showed up. "Let's hope it's here soon." She slowly raised her arm, palm up, and held it out for Bloodwing to examine. If my mood were worse, I probably would have told her to fuck off and leave my bird alone, but Bloodwing seemed to be enjoying the attentions of someone else for a change. Not that I needed her being socialized, that would be counterproductive to her purpose. And to prove my point, she hopped onto the woman's arm with a fluttering of her wings and gave another feral call. The woman giggled somewhat in response, and tentatively raised a finger to the creature's neck. I bit back on a grin when she got a well-earned nip for that mistake. It had taken months for Bloodwing to even let me scratch her neck, and I still had the decades-old scars on my fingers to prove it. The game was over, however, though Bloodwing lingered near the woman, investigating every inch of her clothing to see if there was something else to play with. But the longer we waited, the more we came to realize that the bus wasn't coming. It also looked like the sun hadn't moved an inch below the rocky horizon line, and I was beginning to wonder whether it had been hours or five minutes that had passed. The woman's irritation, however, revealed that it wasn't a trick of the mind as she stood up in a huff. Bloodwing hopped away from her, just in case this woman had been trying to trick her. "Screw this, call me when the bus comes." She stretched her arms over her head, and meandered to one of the closer, run-down buildings. Screw that, I thought. That bus comes, I'm leaving without her. More for me. In the quiet of the land around us, I heard a familiar sound that seemed out of place for the surroundings: running water. At first I thought it was a hallucination from the heat, but the more I focused on it, the easier it was to tell that it was coming from the building the woman had disappeared into. A running shower. Might not be a bad idea to check it out, now that I thought about it. A quick sniff of my inner sleeve, and I discovered that I smelled worse than I originally thought. No use jumping in now, though. My new "friend" probably didn't like company. As I stood outside the hovel of a home, large plumes of steam eked out of the barren doorway and windows. They added a pleasant moisture to the air that made it somewhat easier to breathe, and I yearned to feel the refreshing sensation of warm water on my skin. "Mind savin' some hot water for me?" There was a squeak of bare feet against the floor, and I assumed that I'd startled her. It was a few seconds more before she responded. "Sure thing." Her voice was more jovial than I expected, and I couldn't be sure as to why. Still, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She soon exited looking quite refreshed and surprisingly dry, though the lack of light was making it a little hard to tell. "Knock yourself out, tiger," she said with a playful wink. Her eyes seemed to glow in the ensuing darkness, but I didn't put much thought to it. I had a date with a hot shower and feeling clean again. Bloodwing took up her post outside, on the roof just above the doorway. Except no matter how long the shower for, no hot water came. The bent pipe sticking out of the wall spat out slightly rust-brown water, and it was more frigid than the air outside. Still, I wasn't about to stroll out there naked and ask her what happened to the hot water, nor did I want to crawl back into my grimy clothes with sweat still clinging to my skin. I curled within myself when the freezing water hit my back, and a pathetic scream tore its way out. Being this cold should be illegal. Without any soap, I took to massaging the water across my skin in an attempt to feel better, but it only seemed to be making me more miserable by the second. "Enjoying your shower?" I heard from outside, and almost slipped on the floor in fright. Showers this frigid, without even a squeal from her. She hadn't been shivering either, nor had there been any goosebumps across her skin. I was starting to think that maybe this woman wasn't human at all.

[bewered]

Infinite. Cường sits still for the world. He feels more than his quiet lets on. Warning for: death, suicide, sensory overload.

He doesn’t know where he puts it all, but he’s patient as the rains start, muted, light in his ears and soft on his thoughts.

It begins brewing when the morning, grey-toned, stirs alive. Song-like, he mutters at first to himself, regrettably if not endearingly obtuse. It finger-plucks the Hanoian canopies, shivering them with murmurs of the rotting and the phantomed as it rolls with the wet plummeting off the trees. Chilled. Loud. Cường holds his umbrella, and the voices smack the cover. He thinks of how they bleed with the mid-April chorus, lightly buzzed, sugared, pocked with the rain and the honey of the blooms.

But then: why aren’t you’re listening to us? It’s dull, scratching at his ears. Cường walks. He shuffles out his keys reaching the humble of his storefront, and thinks, ‘I am,’ sleepily in his skull. 'I always am.’

But you aren’t really, the answer throbs back. It cracks like radio static, tickling and surreal. You’re only hearing us is the actual truth of it. Not listening. You’re never as close as we’d like you to be.

But aren’t you supposed to be?

He says nothing. You servant to everyone else. He lowers his umbrella, pushing in with the twinkling of the bellchimes that hug the top, and lets their cheer smother the dead.

We’re hurting, after all. Why won’t you listen to us? Always crushing your medicines… Aren’t we worth your care?

He pauses. He doesn’t know where he puts it all, but his dam is cracking as he fingers out the ginger root. But he hasn’t yet realized it. He thinks of mashing paste.

And you can balm our achings like you devote so much of your life to. And you can remember us, think of us when no one else will, remembering to never or forever forget. Won’t you do that for us, child?

Cường settles at his mortar. His head’s bowed low, and a skeletal hand, mangled and looking two months into starving, slips about his wrist.

Because you feel more than you ever let on, don’t you?

He turns for his pestle. The woman brings a friend, and the smell of petrichor, like peat-rot, slips furtive through the window.

We know you do, they mutter in tandem now. We hear you cry sometimes, there in the dark when you feel everything, the entire world coming down on you. And no one but us is ever by your side. Right? We’re the only things you know with confidence.

She comes into view. Cường doesn’t flinch, their visions trembling just beyond his periphery, shaky and muted, but morosely familiar. They’re always like this; they’ve caverns where their eyes have ought to be, and theur skin’s sloughed off where their neck sits shrunken. Hungry. So, you see I’ve been forgotten for so long. Can you measure it, boy, the countless years of forgetting? He works on his medicine. Muscle peers through their jowls shriveled cancerous, and the teeth in their mouths sit cracked and yellowed. Their fingers drum his knuckles. One slips in closer, mouth hording pustules popped and blistered.

Because we can read yours. Hundreds, it seems like. So sad… No one ever thinks of you. But you showed us yours–now, we’ll show you ours.

Cường jolts. “ I never cared to.” He shudders, their fingers rifling through his scalp, and it feels just a little like they’ve sunken in—parasitic, hungry, slipped beneath his flesh and wormed beneath his bones.

'I—’

Was meant for this. Meant to hold it all. You were meant to weather everything and heal, listen, but bottle it deep. Why else, of course, would you be seeing us, boy?

His head whirrs.

Why else would you shut down like you think it’s escape?

“I don’t.” Cường stares on, wide-eyed at the shelf on the far wall. His world begins to tremble, and the still of the air, beaten with the outside rain, starts to swim beneath his feet until it churns, roars, yowls like ocean-song.

He breathes. Memory takes reality. It isn’t his memory. He’s watching how they die—

Gasping, one crushed along the scorching pavement, teeth in her mouth and pupils whizzing. She gurgles. Her long hair sticks along wet ruptures, cheek burst with impact and road rash, blistering and unforgivably skinning, as the tell-tale of clot flowers in her eyes. She looks like a cherry, ripe. She looks about to pop, split. Blood dribbles out her nostrils, and she twitches, heaving around a shout that never, corked in her belly, ever comes out. She wants to cry. Cường hears motorcyles in the distance. They hit her and they ran, and whiskey and laughter and panic hits the air.

I was afraid. I was so angry. I couldn’t say goodbye to the one person I knew.

Cường’s pestle drops. Despair, helplessness, rage, regret — the rain turns to deluge outside, and the scene shifts with a cold crash of thunder.

My sister. My only family left. I never came back home, and it hurt her to wait for me. Days into weeks. She decided maybe she’s ought to follow, find me–

And so…

Cường’s frozen. Grief crushes him as though born out of his own, square in the middle of his chest, and renders his breathing forced. He almost chokes. His palms drop to the edge of the countertop, vials of hand-plucked sage clattering near the lucky cat, and he clutches as though met with the danger of death — of drowning, head pulled beneath a current, the intrusive weight of grieving howling in his bones.

An anchor. 'I’m going to sink.’

He sees a noose made of twining. He hears a snap in the forest, and the callous, whispering indifference of the trees.

Thunder cracks again. He sees ankles in the air. Forgotten and unknown, her body wastes in summer where maggots dig greedily, hovelling in her nose for food and refuge.

It’s…

A lot? But you’ll endure it. You always do. And today, it’s us, but tomorrow, someone new, someone different, some new pain to unpack and unbury.

'Do I have a choice?’

Light fills his eyes. No. Cường startles into reality, sorrow deep in the hollow of his gut, and stares, unblinking, where his Buddha shrines reflect the strike of lightning. He feels heavy. There are stones in his chest, their burden so mountainous, and a flurry of feeling without any one name. Hurt and sorrow. Grief and anger. Regret and despair. Memory and missing, missing you, missing the time we could have had, missing your laughter over dinner.

God. He–

Cường cries. He doesn’t realize it, but the wet streams down his face unbidden, uninvited, and hushed beneath the rain beyond the still open for, puddles weeping, crawling toward tiles. The ghosts fade, something like mirage. But they’re still in his head, flashes of their memory, until he sits there smelling months-rot in sickly sweet among the shelves.

Another roll of thunder. He startles back awake. Every sound is too much. All the light blares too strongly.

Everything. Everything is too much, too beyond me, too heavy, he shudders, breathing, tears at his lashes.

Too bad.

He doesn’t know where he puts it all, but even he isn’t so infinite. You carry more than you know, and that, all on your own, is your special burden, isn’t it? For us. We come first. Everyone else.

Cường retreats to the back room. No one else comes in but a river more of ghosts and hurt.

Let them, he relents, tired. He feels more than his quiet lets on.

It’s worse today. He’s always at something’s mercy, some whim, but new day, same tragedy-poetics.

[araneaes-order]

Angels We Have Heard Ch. 2

Last Herald-Mage Fanfic

Follow up to In the Bleak Mid-winter my “fix-it” rewrite of the canon ending. (’Cause, C’MON!!!) This is several months later, because no way these two aren’t gonna meet up again.

In the Bleak Mid-winter | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |  Visit my master list

Word Count: ~4800

Rating: Mature for themes of suicide and substance abuse and stuff, I don’t know, I try to err on the side of caution, I think it’s fairly fluffy really

Tags: Canon mm, ^attempted suicide, ^substance abuse, comfort, mourning, singing

On AO3.

Chapter Synopsis: We get Stef’s perspective on chapter 9 of In the Bleak Mid-winter. Van tries to makes this thing fluffy. Stefen thinks they should stick to angst.

Stefen hadn’t ever thought about what he’d do with his freedom because he’d long given up on the idea of it.

Early on he’d still thought there’d been a chance, and sure, he’d had plenty of silly plans back then. Plenty of dreams of how he’d get away. He’d learned.

This—he didn’t know what to do with this.

He’d thought when Dark found him in bed with the Herald he’d kill him for sure and he was ready for it. When the Herald seemed to go mad and then passed out he hadn’t understood. When Master Dark made him take the unconscious man with them he was sure the master would kill them both out on the frozen top of that mountain and he hadn’t minded, at least for his own sake.

When instead the Herald had woken up and started pulling away at Stefen’s head, taking something from him he hadn’t known he had to give, it was the strangest thing he’d ever felt, worse than when Dark had mucked around in there, and he’d panicked at first, but then he’d caught on, and he was okay with that too, even knowing he wasn’t meant to survive it.

Sure, he fought when he had the chance—and even if Dark’d knocked him arse over head for it, it had felt fucking fantastic to stick the bastard—because fighting was what he did, what he’d always done, and he didn’t know any other way.

When the Herald had started unraveling the song in his head, stretching it out between them until it felt like something else entirely, and he’d thought he was dying, he should have fought; but with the Herald holding him, tucking him in close, like he was something worth holding, it was better, and he hadn’t wanted to fight anymore. It had been peaceful, even if it hurt.

He hadn’t wanted to wake up again when the other Heralds came, pious and pure, all dressed in white, with all their big white horses. They didn’t trust him with their hero, wouldn’t let them be alone, wouldn’t let him sing for him. He’d stayed for a while but finally he’d struck out, after the army had come, more watchful eyes, more judgement.

More horses, that weren’t those things that only looked like horses—and it was easy enough to nick one of those.

He knew the way back south, though he hadn’t been so far in years. After his first two tries at running away, Rendan had put the fear of the devil in him, and he hadn’t tried again.

This time he just kept going, but he’d only gone a few days before he started wondering where he was heading. There was only one place he’d known and he hadn’t the first idea how to get back. But he figured it out.

And it was strange to walk those streets again, see the derelict buildings still standing, smell the sour, down-river air. Strange how a place could feel so different and still the same, for only a decade.

Berte was dead, buried in a narrow, pauper’s grave, on the mercy of the local temple. It was more than the old bitch had deserved and Stefen hadn’t gone to see, though he thought about it. Janne was gone, no one knew—or cared—where he’d gotten off to. Maybe he was dead, maybe not. But ten years later his ma was still working at the big house.

The old skinflint who’d rented Berte the hovel they’d lived in had died of fever, and his nephew had taken over and was still renting it out. No better ideas, Stefen had paid a few coppers he’d earned with his songs and moved back in.

Damned if it didn’t feel like he’d never left.

The faces were different, older or missing, but the ones that had replaced them were hauntingly the same in every way that made a difference: hard, hungry eyes in hard, hungry faces. It was the kids that bothered him the most. He hadn’t thought anything of it when he’d been growing up wild with the thieves and the prostitutes, his stupid schemes, his dreams of getting out, but now he looked around—and fuck him, it just wasn’t fair.

What he stupidly hadn’t counted on at all was the trouble he’d have feeding his demon down here. Oh, there was dreamerie, plenty to be had, but it was all the weaker stuff for burning, the liquid was passing rare this far south it seemed, and the bit he’d managed to track down had only been available well on the other side of the river and for a price he could never have swung.

Seemed Master Dark had been doing him a kind one, all that time, and wasn’t that something?

He took what he could get, always had, but it was weak stuff, too often cut to hell with other herbs so it hardly even took an edge off.

When he was sober he hung out with the little ones, sharing what he had, not with them really, though they were the beneficiaries, but with his ghosts: Damen, Janne, a nameless girl just on the other side of womanhood. They appreciated his songs more than the people who tossed coin for them, so he supposed there was some sort of balance in him sharing some of that coin with them.

He composed some songs, always had from time to time, couldn’t really help himself. Most of it was maudlin shite, but he had a few raunchy ballads that would get the lads and their ladies moving, and those played okay.

Then he did that one—it had been brewing up in his head since he’d taken off south on that stolen army pony, maybe even since he’d seen the Herald, staggering in from the snow at the guard post. Hells, maybe it had been his head since he’d been born, it felt like, the way it had practically poured out of him when he’d given up and let it.

That had been his real money maker. Everyone liked to hear about heroes, and it was a new story no one knew yet. He sailed on that song for a good while. It got around, eventually, weird as it was to hear someone else sing it down the road, their own little flourishes, their own—unimpressive—voice.

He wasn’t bothered, no one could own a song, no more than you could own breath or thought.

But he did feel a little different about that song. It was his song for the Herald, the hero. The stupid fool who’d made him face down his master, and then had killed him, letting Stefen be a part of it. He’d set Stefen free, thought maybe not in the way Stefen would have preferred.

He thought about him, too much. Wondered how he was recovering, wondering where he was—back at the castle by now, had to be, that’s where Heralds lived, wasn’t it? Especially the important ones, like Herald-hero Vanyel Ashkeveron.

He looked for him, without meaning to, always an eye on the crowd for that black hair shot with silver, those eyes, that snooty white mare. Never saw him, of course. What, was he gonna leave his castle and go looking for Stefen like some fairy-story prince? Nah, Stefen didn’t live in that world, even in his dreams.

He drifted, listless. Sick as he knew it was, he wanted to follow old Berte down her smoke-scented road out of this place. He stayed, and he sang and then he’d shoo the young ones away and try to lose himself in the same shack where she’d died.

Sometimes, when the place was full of smoke—it was probably baked into the wood by now, he shouldn’t even need to burn more of it—he’d swear he could hear her breathing, shuffling in the corner. Once he thought he felt her old, thin arms around him like when she was feeling soft and they used to curl up, bellies full from the coin he pulled in with his songs.

Another ghost.

Weeks past, and months. It didn’t get better. It didn’t particularly get worse, but it was bad enough as it was.

The kids—all the damned kids. It didn’t get better for them, either. For them it was going to get worse. Every year older took ‘em closer to the big houses, or to a prison cell, or a noose, or to a narrow grave on the temple’s coin. There wasn’t a road out of this place that led anywhere good, and didn’t he know that. He hurt for the hopelessness of it all. No Master Dark here, no Rendan, but it wouldn’t be much better for them in the end.

And gods, it hurt.

He didn’t get up with the plan, crawling off his pallet with a crust in his eyes and a foul taste in his mouth that he tried to wash away with stale beer because it was what he had on hand. Something had landed in it overnight and drowned, a moth or some’at. He smacked his mouth and spat it out but kept drinking.

It was midday when he poked his head out on the street. It was as good an hour as any to head out. Most of the better corners were taken on the other side of the river but Stefen wasn’t choosy and he wasn’t worried about making much.

He was just tired.

He sang for a while, tried to sing it out, even though sad songs didn’t often pay as good as happy ones. Sometimes they did all right though; like lancing a wound, it was a service.

And then, well.

He couldn’t have gotten it at a real apothecary, they’d’ve asked questions, probably have figured he was up to no good, planning to off someone for fun or profit or a nice bit of both.

The boys who sold him his dreamerie didn’t care what other poisons he bought with it or what his plan for any of it was, long as he paid upfront and knew better than to name names.

He felt it should have weighed more, the little glass vial. That the liquid inside should have looked more…like…something. Coulda been water, clear and viscous. When he broke the seal and gave it a sniff it didn’t smell like water though. Didn’t smell like death either, even though it was supposed to be.

He went back to his shack early. It was a nice walk. The weather wasn’t bad this time of year. He closed himself away from all of it then and sat down on his pallet with his haul.

The dreamerie first, for courage. When smoke was the best he could get it wasn’t good for much of that though, but he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding the glass vial so tight he was afraid it’d shatter. If he broke it in his hand could it poison him through the wounds? He didn’t think that was how it worked, but what did he know?

Neither did he know how long he sat there, breathing in the smoke, clutching the vial of argonel, feeling the tug of something far away. What right did he have to still be here anyway? Damen shoulda been. He’d deserved to get out more than Stefen had. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

Gods, he didn’t deserve—

He’d been sitting in the dark but suddenly there was light. There shouldn’t have been light. He turned his head a little. No one was supposed to open his door uninvited, no one was supposed to see—he didn’t want to do that to any of the young ones, they should have known better than to just barge in—

He blinked against the light, trying to make sense of it, finally realizing his hair was a big part of his problem and clumsily raking it back from his face, peering at the door like he was peering down a long, dark, tunnel.

His breath caught; his heart stuttered. Master Dark?

He tried to stand but his legs had gone weak and he ended up back on his arse.

No. He wouldn’t go back to him, not for anything, no way.

“Fuck you,” he managed to sneer, though his mouth was dry and he was breathless with the panic. He reached to uncork the bottle just as Dark reached out towards him, something strange about the way he was moving, and the bottle tumbled from his hand.

He tried to catch it but his fingers were like sausages, thick and useless, and it hit the ground—and shattered.

No. No no no!

He reached for the shards of the bottle—maybe it would be enough to cut himself—but hands were on his, pulling them up, away from the mess.

He whimpered, shaking. No. He wouldn’t go back to his master, he wouldn’t do it.

It took him too long to understand what the other man was saying.

“Shhh—please. Please don’t. Shhh, it’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay. Please, please stop. Please—”

He jerked his head and caught the other man under the chin with the top of his head, but he hadn’t meant to and he wasn’t ready for the stars that burst across his own vision.

“Hu—Herald?”

A soggy laugh from above him. When he stopped trying to get to what was left of the broken vial the hands holding his slid around to grasp them properly. Gently. They squeezed, as if assuring him they were real.

“Yes. Will you stop—please? Let me clean up? Let me close the door?”

He glanced back at the open door, where the light was still coming in. It meant any of the kids, curious little things, could look in and see…

He tried to get to his feet again, to go close it, but the Herald still had his hands and kept him where he was. He felt so weak, it wouldn’t have taken much; he wasn’t sure he could have gotten to his feet this time either.

“Shhh,” the other man said again. “I’ll get it. Don’t worry about it. Just—be still, understand?”

The Herald couldn’t be there. He wouldn’t have come for Stefen, gods, he knew better than that. This was a dream. That, or he’d already taken the argonel and just forgotten. He nodded a little, and watched, wonderingly, as the Herald stood and carefully backed away, braced to dash back to him if Stefen moved wrong.

Didn’t look like he’d’ve been able to do much to stop it though; he looked awful.

He was skinny and pale, dark bruises under his eyes, and his black and silver beard didn’t look like it grew in much better than Stefen’s, for the years he had on him. And what the hells was with that stupid hat?

He looked wonderful.

Stefen swallowed. He didn’t like it when the door closed and left them in near darkness, just that knife’s edge of light bleeding in around the door. Not Dark, not Dark—

“It’s okay!” the Herald promised, holding out one hand, cupped, where a white light kindled, brighter than a torch, holding out the other hand as thought to stop him from panicking.

He watched the magic though, magelight, like his master called sometimes. The Herald was kind, the Herald was a hero—Stefen had watched him bring down a mountain and stop an army on his own. He couldn’t have gotten to his feet, but he scooted away a little, until he felt the wall at his back and there was no place left to scoot.

The Herald looked so sad as he let his empty hand drop. Stefen wanted to crawl to his feet and try to comfort him, the way he used to offer himself to—

Not Dark! Not Dark!

“Easy. Please, I’m not here to hurt you.” Never taking his eyes off Stefen the Herald sidled to the crate in the corner next to the little stove. With a slow, careful gesture—or maybe everything just felt slow to Stef right now, dreamerie did that—the Herald lit the candle that was melted onto the center of the crate.

His gaze lifted from Stefen long enough to flick around the one-room shack. It didn’t take long, there wasn’t much to see: the crate and candle, the little stove, the pallet and blanket. His gittern was in its case in one corner, the bowl and dreamerie were on the floor, next to the broken bottle of argonel.

He’d have bought some bread and something to drink and brought them back to the shack for tonight, but he’d already bought the argonel and hadn’t seen much point.

“Why’re you dressed like that?” he asked. Heralds wore white, everyone knew that. Except when they were wearing the castoffs of dead brigands and being chased through winter wastes.

The Herald let his other hand drop as well and the magelight flickered out, leaving them only in the light of that single candle. “I was afraid you’d run, if you thought I was looking for you.”

“Run from you? Nah, only bad people run from you, yeah?” And Stefen sure wasn’t one of those, no sir. He snorted and shifted himself, so he was leaning against the wall instead of trying to wedge himself out through it. “How far could I get from you, anyway? You know I can feel you, right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Fancy you feel even more, being what you are—how you found me here. Bring me s’more apologies?”

He was feeling more himself. The open door had let out enough of the smoke, and maybe the Herald had given it an extra push—like he’d done with the vial of argonel. Stefen looked down at what was left of it, pondering.

“Not if you don’t want them.”

He smiled a little, in spite of himself. That was hardly a ‘no.’

His gaze skimmed over the room but there wasn’t any more for him to see than there’d been for the Herald. He vaguely waved his hand. “I’d offer you some’at, but as you can see, you caught me unprepared.” His eyes fell on his bowl and his lips twisted. “Don’t think you’d care for what I have.” He looked up, expecting judgment.

The Herald had cocked his head. “I did have apples,” he said, as though that made any sense.

“…But?”

“But I gave the last one to the little girl who led me here.”

Stefen snorted. “Sold out for an apple, was I?”

The Herald’s expression changed and Stefen didn’t know what it meant. “No. Sold for a song.”

It took him a second, and that intense, curious gaze, before he understood, and he wanted to shrivel up where he sat. The damned song. He should have known. He looked away, pursed his lips. Gods.

“Reached your place, did it?” That’s why he was here now.

“My nephew sang it for me. Apparently, it’s all over the castle. All over Haven.”

Stefen flinched. Well shite.

“Do you mind if I—?” Stefen risked a glance and the Herald made a brushing gesture towards the broken argonel vial.

He shrugged and looked away again, so he didn’t see what the Herald did to it, but he definitely noticed when the Herald was done and lowered himself to sit on the pallet at his side, back against the wall. His whole body went tense.

“I do that sometimes, make up songs,” he confessed in a rush. “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just how I…” he trailed off, breathless. Cleared his throat. “Did your nephew sing it…well? Does he have a good voice?”

Didn’t matter, it was a stupid question and a stupid song. Gods, Stefen, you fucking idiot.

The Herald coughed. “He’s got a good voice. He’s a journeyman Bard at the collegium. His name’s Medren.”

“Medren,” he repeated. He didn’t know why it felt like it should mean something to him that the Herald had told him his nephew’s name. A ‘journeyman Bard’ from the fancy school at the capitol, nephew of the greatest hero in the land, cherished son of a noble family. Stefen wanted to hate him, but his name on the Herald’s lips… and he’d sung Stefen’s song for his uncle.

“It’s beautiful. Your song. You’re far too kind to me in it—”

Stefen flinched again and looked at him, his features softened in the candlelight, hard angles blurred. It was only the dreamerie that had made him think it was Dark, he hardly put him in mind at all, so close.

“You’re a hero,” he said softly, meaning it, just as he’d meant every word of the stupid song. The sound the Herald made in response confused him, and he watched him let his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the bare ceiling. His mouth twisted and he turned a surprisingly human, wry look on Stefen—who inhaled sharply as his mouth went suddenly dry.

“No more than you are.”

Caught by those eyes, that little smile, that beautiful if somewhat gaunt face, it took Stefen a second to catch what he’d said.

It broke the spell and he looked away in annoyance when he did. Flattery. Fuck that. He could at least have picked a likelier lie.

The Herald nudged his shoulder with his own, like they were friends or something.

“You are. I wouldn’t have lived through that if it hadn’t been for you. I wouldn’t have been able to take Leareth down at all, without you.”

He snorted, absently rubbing his arms, feeling a bit of that cold just at thinking back on it. The Herald nudged him again and he turned a glare on him, then turned away, flustered still at having the other man so close.

“I won’t do it again, right? It was stupid. A moment of brave stupidity.” He forced a laugh. “M’too much of a coward, most of the time.”

“I don’t think—” the Herald began stiltedly, and Stefen could smell another lie coming. He wished he could trust his legs to carry him, and leave the Herald to his lies. Fucking do-gooder. He could feel him deciding to change his track, through that troubling mental link in his head. Even Master Dark hadn’t been so insidiously ever-present. “You think about that boy a lot.”

That was not a better track.

“He wouldn’t want you to—”

“Doesn’t matter what Damen’d want, he’s dead,” he said flatly. Like the Herald would have any idea anyway.

It was the Herald’s turn to flinch, Stefen could feel it where their shoulders were pressed together.

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” he warned. He glanced at him, intending to come off stern, but the Herald’s expression of helplessness put him off.

The man groaned, and wiped his hands over his face. “Gods, I’m trying not to,” he complained, and if Stefen had been a more generous sort he’d have pitied him. Until— “Tell me about him?”

He was pretty sure his expression said how stupid he thought that was, but the man didn’t look away this time, gaze earnest and caring.

He could only roll his eyes. “Pass.”

“I’ll tell you about someone who was close to me.”

An older woman, Stef felt vaguely, from that damned mind-link, but you didn’t put a knife in a street kid’s hand and offer your soft parts and expect not to get stuck. “Then tell me about him, the one before me. Your first…whatever we are.”

For a second the Herald’s face went blank, absolutely blank. Stefen swallowed against a flash of shame, but why should he feel bad? He shouldn’t have started something he couldn’t finish, or asked more than he’d give. There was even a certain dark satisfaction in having pushed the man so far he’d got a real reaction, other than pity or apologies.

He looked down, tapping a melody out on his knee, wondering how long the Herald was planning on staying.

“All right.” He sounded distant, rote, a little like one of Master Dark’s mindless servants and Stefen turned back to him in surprise.

You don’t have to, a part of him wanted to say, but a bigger part of him felt he did.

The Herald wasn’t looking at him anymore. His hands clasped in his lap, he stared over at the door and Stefen might’ve thought he was thinking about how long he was going to stay too, except he didn’t think the Herald saw the door at all.

“His name was Tylendel,” he said softly.

Stefen tried the name, as he had the nephew’s, except just mouthing it now, to feel it out. There was music in it, he decided. “He was a noble, like you?” he asked, when the Herald didn’t continue.

“Yes.”

‘Course he was; stupid question. “Handsome, brave, kind, and clever?” he asked, only sneering a little.

The Herald smiled, a faraway, tender expression, even in profile.

“Yes.”

Stefen rolled his eyes but there was a stone in the bottom of his stomach and he felt a lot less self-righteous about ‘not starting what he couldn’t finish.’

“He—”

“You don’t have to,” he said, knowing in his cowardly heart that wasn’t what he meant.

The Herald kept staring off into space and Stefen wished more than ever he knew how to block the connection between them. He didn’t need the feelings that were rolling over from the other side.

He realized he’d been tapping out the measures to that song on his knee and switched to another.

“Damen wasn’t. None of those things. He was just a kid.”

He felt the Herald refocus. Fucking saint, he would.

He snorted, angry again. “Or more like a rabbit. Scared of everything, jumping out of his skin at shadows. Anytime any one came near him, even me, he’d either run or freeze up. He never learned how to fight back against anything.”

“How old was he?”

“Twelve.” He said it strong, hard, a simple fact, but his eyes burned and he was glad the light was so dim.

He felt the Herald shift, knew he was reaching for his hand—and tucked them both under his thighs against the pallet.

“Had you known him long?” he asked after a moment.

Another stupid question and a nice reminder they weren’t only his. “Too long. Longer than I should have.” The boy should never have been close enough see that life, let alone live it with him. And the time he’d had there alone, when Stefen had been with Dark—

He sighed heavily and raked the hair back from his face, adjusting his position, pulling away from how he’d been pressed to the Herald’s side. That had been subtle and cleverly done. He’d think the man had designs if he wasn’t who he was. “This is stupid. There’s no point talking about it, it doesn’t make him less dead.”

“No.”

“I already told you, I won’t try that again. It was stupid,” he repeated. “I just let myself get out of hand. I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

He could feel the doubt and it frustrated him. He wasn’t weak and he didn’t need a caretaker. He felt the Herald’s gaze on him, and he refused to meet it.

“Did you buy a candle for him?”

“Did I what?” But he knew what he meant: one of those skinny white candles from the temples, used to offer prayers for the dead on Sovvan and nights like it, when it was said they were close. It didn’t have to be festival time, the temples sold them year-round. “No. Why would I do that?”

“To wish him well. To say farewell.”

“How many have you burned for your Tylendel?”

The Herald answered without hesitating, “More than I can count.”

Well.

“I’m not into that.”

The Herald laughed. “It’s just a candle. C’mon,” he said, suddenly standing, offering his hand.

He must have still been addled from the dreamerie, because without thinking he took it, and the Herald helped him up so he was standing too, watching the other man put that ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat back on.

That feeling—that he was addled, high—didn’t go away. Walking with the Herald through his place, through his dirty world and dirty life, and the Herald dressed and moving like he belonged there, he couldn’t seem to get his head around it.

If it made the Herald feel better to make him burn a candle, and that’s what it took to give up on playing nursemaid and send him on his way, fine, he’d burn a fucking candle.

Continued in Chapter 3

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