#oak has risen from the dead

[frenchkisstheabyss]

ⱧɆ₳Ɽ₮ ₴Ⱨ₳₱ɆĐ ฿ØӾ

☽ Pairing ☾ warlock!christian yu x witch!chubby!fem!reader

☽ Genre ☾ supernatural au , fluff, smut

☽ Summary ☾ When his first attempt at a spell ends in him being chased out of town, Christian stumbles through the woods and stumbles upon your cottage. Unwelcoming to visitors, you attempt to chase him off but there's just something about this stranger that makes it impossible to turn him away.

☽ Word Count ☾ 2.7k-ish

☽ Warnings ☾ mentions of death/funerals (it's handled comedically so nothing gruesome), witchcraft obviously, unprotected sex, nibbling, a lil bit of rough sex, soft dom christian vibes, overstimulation, creampie, pet names (darling, love), & that's all babes.

☽ A/N ☾ I wrote this as a request for @magoapple who loves Christian Yu as much as I do. Thank you for trusting me to write up your idea and I hope that it came out the way you wanted. Love you 💜

It was supposed to be a simple sleep spell. A few sprigs of dried mugwort, ground lepidolite, the toe of a dead man, a splash of moon water, two creams, three sugars. Or was it three creams, two sugars? Racing through the trees, bare branches grasping at his limbs like the claws of the damned, Christian knows he made a mistake somewhere.

His grandmother’s spells, written on tea stained scraps of paper, provided clear instructions. Naturally a few words here and there had faded over time but how important could they have truly been?Important enough that they might've kept him from cooking up the nauseating potion that made him pass for a corpse.

The days of grieving that preceded his funeral service were hell for everyone but him. While dozens wept he snoozed peacefully. Arrangements were made. His pinstripe white suit was tailored. An oak wood casket was measured to suit his height. The only thing missing, the very thing that saved him, was that the mortician skipped the embalming process.

In a small middle of nowhere town like this, people are prone to superstition. When the mortician placed his scalpel to Christian’s throat, prepared to make his first incision, he could’ve sworn he heard a low humming noise. A death rattle is what they call it. Unremarkable when heard coming from the dying but when it’s coming from the dead? Cut into them and the sound will haunt you for the rest of your days.

And so he quietly left him intact. Something he’d come to regret when his wife rushed into the funeral home screaming in terror that the boy had risen from the dead at his own funeral. The townspeople were unhappy to say the least. Glancing over his shoulder, Christian can still see raging globes of orange looming between the trees. The flames of torches meant to burn him to ash.

There’s chatter amongst the small group of men tasked with capturing him. Their voices aren't distinctive in the slightest but their anger—their fear—seeps into their surroundings. One of the men managed to cut his arm before he escaped. His hand clings to the wound, gathering the fabric of his tattered suit to soak up the blood that drips from it.

He’s out of breath, lungs burning with every step he takes. He doesn’t know how much longer he can run or even where he’s running to. Only that he has to keep going or he’ll be burned at the stake. He knows he’s been running in a straight line but suddenly the trees seem to bend as if he’s made a right turn. The change is dizzying, causing him to stumble but he has to keep running. Straight? No, left. No, right. No.

Thud! His body collides with something unseen, knocking him to the ground. “What the hell!” you shout, bracing yourself for the fall. You land hard on your bottom, the basket of herbs on your arm spilling out into the grass. Scrambling to your feet, you spot the beast that slammed into you though he’s no beast at all. Despite his disheveled appearance, the dark haired man has a gentleness to him that makes you want to rush to his aid.

Watching him dust himself off, you see that he’s injured...and handsome. Incredibly handsome. But how did he get here? How? “Oh my goodness, I’m so happy I found you. You have to help me!” he pleads, grasping at your arm to pull himself up. You back away, sensing the impending presence of even more unwanted company. “You led them here? To my home! Who sent you?” Eyeing the cozy cottage behind you, Christian questions if he’s alive after all.

Everything from the chestnut shingles on the roof to the cobblestone path with flowers springing out from between the cracks reminds him of the story books he read as a child. Vines of wisteria climb the walls, bundles of lavender adorning the arches of the windows and doors. A place like this—it shouldn’t be here. 

“You shouldn’t be here! Whoever sent you—” you say, lowering your voice to a hush. “No one sent me. I’ve just, I’ve had a day, alright? If you don’t help me they’ll kill me so please, please help me.” You want to turn him away, send him right back in whatever direction he came from, but you can’t. The sincerity of his pleas tug at your heartstrings, playing them like a violin.

Behind him you spot the lights of the torches, bringing back dark memories of what lead to your life of solitude to begin with. Shaking away the ghosts of your past, you rush to pull his jacket off. “Take your clothes off!” “Hey!” he squeals, twisting free, “What are you doing?” “You stink of graveyard dirt. It’s interfering with my spell. Take your clothes off, anything the dirt touched, and dispose of them!”

Christian hesitates, unsure he wants to trust a strange woman’s demands to strip down, no matter how beautiful she is. “Just do it before you get us both killed!” “So feisty! Fine, I’ll do it!” Finally getting his jacket off, you toss it into the trees. Christian follows your lead, hurriedly stripping down to his underwear and disposing of the clothes in a small scattered area just beyond your grass. 

You’re ashamed of yourself. Staying focused has always been your strength and men, unfortunately, have always been your weakness. His muscled body is covered in inked markings, mesmerizing you to the point of total distraction. Christian catches you staring and winks, “Like something you see, darling?” “Ugh, you’re already unbearable!” you huff, marching towards your home. “Come inside, we need to handle that wound.” “What about them?”

Pushing your front door open, you turn around and begin counting backwards from 10. Gradually, the torches snuff out and the voices fade into the night. “We’re invisible to them now. They won’t find us. They won’t find anything. The trees will twist until they can’t even find each other.” You say this with a coldness that betrays your sweet exterior and fuels his curiosity.

“You’re magnificent” he muses, making you crack something too fleeting to register as a smile though it’s something resembling one. Lowering your head to hide your amusement, you step inside and he trails behind you, a lost puppy in search of a home. “Whoa” he gasps, marveling at the decor. It’s rustic and simple yet everything in it seems priceless. Even the picture frames appear ornate, the paintings within their boundaries thriving with life.

If he stands still long enough he could swear the paintings move. “Do you plan to bleed out on my carpet?” you tease, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with a blanket and a small basket holding your own special first aid supplies.

“When did you get those?”

“Get what?”

“The blanket and the…they just…”

“Appeared?” you laugh, handing him the blanket, “Things tend to do that around here. Come sit.” 

Wrapping himself in the blanket, Christian makes his way into the kitchen. “Might you have a name, stranger?” you ask, setting up your own makeshift medical station at the table. “Christian. And yours?” Unraveling a roll of gauze, you glance up to find him staring at you with a longing in his eyes that even he may not be aware of. It makes your heart skip a beat, your pulse racing as you catch yourself slipping under his spell once more.

The sound of a pot boiling over on the stove reels you back in. You clear your throat, hurrying to tend to the dinner you’d so quickly forgotten about. Jumping into action, Christian grabs an oven mitt and is right at your side helping to put out a small fire before it catches. “Goodness, look at me. I’m such a mess. Forgive me, I just—this is a lot and I—” you ramble, flustered by the culmination of events.

You stop to catch your breath, a hand clutched to your chest. This is far more excitement than you were prepared for. “Would you like something to eat, Christian?” Your question makes him suddenly aware of how long it’s been since he last had a bite to eat or even a sip of water. The aroma rising from the pots is mouthwatering, only making matters worse. If he had enough moisture in his body to drool he would.

“I would love that, thank you.” You take him by the hand, leading him back to his chair to properly examine his wound. “I’ll feed you and fix you up then off you go. Understood?” He nods obediently, praying that mind reading isn’t among your abilities. As annoyed as you may be at his arrival, there’s still something so inviting about you. You handle him with such warmth. The very warmth that was so cruelly stripped from his life without warning. What intention could he possibly have of letting you rush him off?

But he lies anyway, settling into the comfort of your touch. “Understood.” 

Chirp! Chirp! The baby bird cupped in Christian’s hands flutters its wings. A thorn peeks from between its feathers, preventing it from taking flight. “Poor thing” you pout, pinching the thron and plucking it free, “There you go. All better, aren’t we?” Christian looks to you with the same admiration that he has everyday since he stumbled upon your cottage, injured and alone like this sweet little bird.

Weeks have passed since then, both of you finding excuses for him to stay before ultimately doing away with the notion altogether. Before his arrival you’d never spent mornings like this sitting barefoot in the grass enjoying the utopia your magic had created. Now every morning begins this way with him, hours spent opening up to him in ways you never thought you would with anyone.

You shudder to think of how long you spent locked up in that house, hidden from everything bad in the world and consequently everything, at least one thing, good. Christian sets the bird down in the grass, watching it hop off into the distance and disappear beyond the invisible veil that surrounds your home. “Darling,” he says, a sweet nickname he’s come to call you, “Have you ever thought about leaving?” You laugh at the obscenity of such a question, “Leaving? Wh-why would I do that?”

Sensing the anxiousness in your voice, he intertwines his fingers with yours, brushing his thumb along the back of your trembling hand. “There’s a big, wide world out there, darling. You can’t hide here forever.” It’s a knife through your heart to hear him say that word. Hide. “I’m not hiding here. This place keeps me safe. It keeps us safe.” You move to snatch your hand away but he only holds it tighter, bringing you closer to him.

“But it keeps us still. Something as beautiful as you are shouldn’t be kept. Beautiful things should be free, shouldn’t they?” “And who’ll protect me?” Christian smiles, deep brown eyes refelcting the morning sun, “I will.” Instinctively you want to make a mad dash for the front door, slam it behind you and shut everything out. But with it would go your new companion, the light at the end of a tunnel of seemingly eternal loneliness.

His other hand finds your waist, bringing you onto his lap. “I owe you everything” he whispers against your lips, “Won’t you let me give it to you?” He wraps his arms around you, kissing you with all the passion his words can’t communicate. It steals your breath away, killing that urge to run away. Your fingertips trace his jawline as you tilt forward to deepen the kiss. His tongue ventures further into your mouth, his hands finding their way under your flowy black dress.

Your skin’s softer than the most expensive silk. He can’t get enough of touching you, caressing you. Light sparks of what feels like electricity give you goosebumps as he trails up your spine. “Come with me” he begs, kissing his way down your collarbone. His tongue teases your cleavage, rounding what lush flesh of you breasts overflows from your lowcut neckline.

Christian tugs the front of your dress down, groaning in pleasure as your breasts fall free of the material. Taking your nipple between his lips, he eagerly buries his face into your chest, suckling at the bud. You throw your head back, eyes falling closed, and profess to the skies that you’ll do it. “Yes” you moan, grinding down to feel him hard against your core, “I’ll do it.”

Christian hums happily, nibbling at your stiffened bud as he reaches between your legs to stroke your slit through your panties. Only there are none. They’ve disappeared. He looks up at you, perplexed. He knows you were wearing them. “Where—” “Did you forget?” you giggle, watching the awe on his face as he feels his cock spring from his pants, “I’m magic.” “Yes, you are.”

Magic in every sense of the word. Not only in the intoxicating kiss you pull him into. Not only in the way that you sink down onto him, swallowing every throbbing inch of him into you. You’re magic in the strands of hair that fall between his fingers and in the voice that cries out his name. “Christian!” you moan, tearing his shirt away to reveal the tattooed form you’ve lusted for from the start. He bounces you in his lap, bottoming out with each thrust of his hips. It sends shockwaves through you, your juices pooling at the base of his cock.

Your toes curl, back arching as the blood rushing up his shaft has his veins pulsing while you clench around him. “I’ve wanted you for so long” he confesses, gripping the plush of your ass. “Oh god, me too. So badly.” As if you needed to say it. You’re so wet that he can feel you juices splashing on his fingers each time your bodies meet. That says everything. But he loves to hear your voice. Hear you say that you’ve wanted him as much as he wants you. “Darling” he coos, his face in your neck, inhaling your scent, “You’re shaking.”

You are. It started when he first took your hand and it hasn’t stopped since. One especially rough thrust makes you cry out, your pussy beyond overstimulated by the return of sensations you haven’t felt in years. Your eyes sparkle with tears, a tightness gripping your chest, “Too much! Ah, can’t…” In one graceful motion he has you on your back, your trembling knees pressed back to spread you wider. “Ssh, you can. You can take it for me. My brave girl, hmm?”

You squirm beneath him, this new angle perfect for slamming into your sweet spot. “You...are...the...devil” you gasp, legs wrapping around his waist. “Not the first time I’ve heard that, love” he chuckles, taking that as a challenge. Pinning your hands above your head, he picks up speed, claiming every part of you in every way he can until you’re—

“Christian—I—I’m—oh my goddesses.” 

“That’s it my lovely. Wanna feel you—”

Your orgasm washes over you, the waves powerful enough to pull you under. You’re drowning and you bring him right along with you. You're overcome with every emotion all at once as you hold each other tight, flowing into each other, sticky and sweet.

The sky darkens. The air is still. For a moment you hear nothing and then your body relaxes. The sun returns, the sky somehow prettier than it was before. Christian collapses on top of you, his face disappearing beneath a mess of dark hair as he lays his head on your chest. He squints his eyes, noticing that, beyond his curtain of hair, he can spot parts of the forest he hadn’t seen before.

In the distance, the little wounded bird hops around with his friends. Not too far away he spots remnants of the clothing he tossed away when he found you. He can see everything now and that means everything can see him. It can see you. “So, where to first?” you beam, admiring the view with him.

“Anywhere you want, darling, as long as I’m with you.”

[sugolara]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

Feat. Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Izuku Midoriya x fem! reader

An ongoing series.

Synopsis: After a deadly virus leaks all over the world, every country is forced to close down its borders and airports to prevent anyone from coming in and out. Though, it's too late for some people. The dead have risen and are looking for revenge.

Cw: gore, quirkless! au, apocalypse! au, zombie! au, weapons, death, heavy angst, lots and lots of blood, cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, updates thursday/sunday, slow burn, wd: 1k - 5k, its a quirkless! au, so u.a is a  private high school with general education along with classes that have hands-on experience; like a trade school.

✓ HEAVILY EDITED: s1 - s5 has been heavily edited as of 7/15/24 - 9/16/24, s6 - s9 has finally been edited as of 9/16/24 - 11/22/23, so a few things may not make sense if you are re-reading or the comments do not make sense.

Inspired by, ''The Walking Dead''

Table of contents:

Season 1: The beginning of us. Episode 1: Begin Episode 2: Not alone Episode 3: Gone but not forgotten Episode 4: You belong in this world Episode 5: Because all life is precious Episode 6: Musutafu, we'll meet again Episode 7: Izuku: I'd always thought there be more time

Season 2: The setting I lived for. Episode 8: During these two weeks Episode 9: Diopside, like your eyes Episode 10: For the first time in a long time Episode 11: Determined to survive, stay alive Episode 12: Imperturbable Episode 13: Almost complete Episode 14: Katsuki: You are going to beat this world

Season 3: The completion of us. Episode 15: Away with you Episode 16: Three months ago Episode 17: Disappear Episode 18: Thin ice Episode 19: Nothing else to lose Episode 20: My savior Episode 21: Shoto: Everything you would be will be gone

Season 4: The torture realization. Episode 22: Trouble Episode 23: For however long that'll be Episode 24: The fallen city Episode 25: Stay who you are Episode 26: Here with you Episode 27: All together Episode 28: F/n: A soul yet to be mourn

Season 5: The dawn to you. Episode 29: Back on road Episode 30: Lost Episode 31: Safe in your arms Episode 32: And so it begins Episode 33: At stake Episode 34: To be forgiven Episode 35: Familiar face

Season 6: The journey to you. Episode 36: Solace Episode 37: A stab through my ticker Episode 38: Never to easy Episode 39: To good for death Episode 40: Dreams of my hateful memories Episode 41: A stroke of luck Episode 42: Be aware Episode 43: Bait Episode 44: A thump in my heart Episode 45: Belong to me Episode 46: One step closer (Towards you)

Season 7: The ache in my heart. Episode 47: Sorston Episode 48: Bitter tenderness Episode 49: Here to stay Episode 50: The start Episode 51: Powder Episode 52: Good morning and goodbye Episode 53: For they may be my last Episode 54: An end to sorrow, grief & regret Episode 55: Even when I'm sleeping Episode 56: Reporting to duty Episode 57: I dream of you like I'm afraid tomorrow will be the last I see you

Season 8: The beauty of choice. Episode 58: Not who you were Episode 59: Just you, me and the others Episode 60: The Plaza Episode 61: The other side Episode 62: To be ready Episode 63: You're here Episode 64: My dear Episode 65: Secrets you'll soon share Episode 66: Discard me Episode 67: To wish you well Episode 68: For as long as we live Episode 69: Like a flower I bloom and then later fade away

Season 9: The missing. Episode 70: I'll see you in a while Episode 71: So wait for me Episode 72: Hushed secrets Episode 73: I wanna get it through to you Episode 74: It won't be long Episode 75: My heart echoes Episode 76: Amend Episode 77: Consumed in dark

To be continued...

Playlist!

Space junk - Wang Chung Wolf - First Aid Kit Into The Black - Chromatics My Life In Rewind Run Boy Run - Woodkid Bad Before Good - Day One You're so Cool - Jonathon Bree So Bored - Gorgeous Bully Operations - Duster Civilian - Wye Oak Can't Stop - Red Hot Chili Peppers Sweet Child O' Mine - Guns N' Roses Skyfall - Adele Up the wolves - The Mountains Goats Be Gone Dull Cage - Kiev Into Dust - Mazzy Star Tomorrow Is a Long Time - Bob Dylan Poison Tree - Grouper Rhymes Of An Hour - Mazzy Star You Are The Wilderness - Voxhaul Broadcast Running - Delta Spirit People, Turn Around - Delta Spirit The Lion's Roar - First Aid Kit Pain - Boy Harsher Setup - Favored Nations This Old Death - Ben Nichols Revolution - Red Shahan Mr. Splitfoot - Paris Motel The Man Who Sold The World - Nirvana Beautiful Mess - Balian The Day The World Went Away - Nine Inch Nails Empty Words - Bowery Electric No Longer Making Time - Slowdive Hush - Trills Struggling Man - Emily Kinney The Last Pale Light In the West - Ben Nichols Blackbird Song - Lee Dewyze Step Away From the Cliff - Blue-Eyed Son Take Care (To Comb Your Hair) - Ty Segall Paradise - Silverberg No Peace At All - Aldous Harding Glad I Had a Friend - Galt MacDermot Machine Gun - Portishead Shadows of Planes - Duster Save Us from Ourselves - Digital Daggers Salt in the Wound - Delta Spirit I'm No Heroine - Emily Wells It's All Right - Sam Cooke To Build A Home - The Cinematic 6 Underground - Sneaker Pimps Edge Of The World- Dayshell Bye Bye Bye - School of Seven Bells You Are Not Alone - Mavis Staples Welcome - Harmonia & Eno '76 Hope We Can Again - Nine Inch Nails outside - Oneheart sleepless - Odyzon Arsonist's Lullabye - Hozier It's All Over - Johnny Cash The Stars Just Blink for Us - Say Hi Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division Knockin' On Heaven's Door - Guns N' Roses Runnin' Down A Dream - Tom Petty Fly Like An Eagle - Steve Miller Band Alesund - Sun Kil Moon Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd Wicked Game - Chris Isaak 1908 - Repulsive Rule of Rose OST - Playing Airship I Shall Cross This River - The Black Atlantic Easy Way Out - Low Roar Don Abandons Alice - John Murphy Wherever You Are - Ulrich Schnauss Waitin' Around to Die - Townes Van Zandt Hope Prevails - Jesper Kyd Take Me Home - Lazyroom A Song For You - Leon Russell

Book one: Welcome To The New World Book two: To The One You Left Behind

taglist: @mikeyswifie @k0z3me @sky-angel101 @stevenknightmarc @nahwajinswhore @mn-0p @a-helen113 @azrral @mary-jinx @chixkadee @flowers-4-you @im-the-groot

[y-rhywbeth2]

So what Jergal does, I'm pretty sure, is what happens with Sarevok in ToB. He's dead and, while there's a very brief window of time before the body dissolves and the soul goes to the Throne of Blood where you can resurrect them, the rule is that Bhaalspawn do not come back once they're gone. Eternal damnation suffering Father's wrath, no escape. An exception is made when Bhaal himself wills them to return by restoring their soul/divine essence to them - or another being wielding Bhaal's divine essence does so. Which means that a Bhaalspawn can surrender a portion of their own divine soul (made of Bhaal's essence) unto a sibling, enough to restore their physical form, although stripping them of most divine power (but still leaving them partially divine).

Which has side effects, as seen if Imoen is the donor:

Imoen: 'So... Sarevok. You've had an itty-bitty piece of my soul in there for quite a while now. What's it been like?' Sarevok: *sigh* 'Well, other than a slight obsession with my weight and the resurgence of a few pimples, it's been simply grand. Now leave me be, girl.' Imoen: 'No, I'm serious. Does the fact that you've got a piece of me inside you make any difference at all? Tell me... you owe me that much.' Sarevok: 'What do you wish to know, girl? What are you curious about? Perhaps you would be interested to know that I can feel the knives of Irenicus, slicing into my skin, torturing me. I can feel his hands and his breath, I *know* what he did to you, girl...' Imoen: 'All—all right, stop... I wasn't really serious...' Sarevok: 'How about the agony you felt as your soul was ripped from you? The despair at being left only with the cold voices of your tainted heart, discovering what was inside you all along? How about the hurt you keep deep down within, wondering if you weren't good enough for Gorion? Wondering why you're a Bhaalspawn? How about the loneliness... the unrequited longing you—' Imoen: 'Stop! Enough... I won't bother you, Sarevok, just—'

Bhaal's divine essence is basically Jergal's, so he's a donor match for this godly organ donation, I suppose. I imagine any god would do though. I'd love to know what impulses and memories you can get from the incredibly ancient original god of Tyranny, Strife, Death, and the Dead.

Of course, as I said a while back, there are consequences to the impossible resurrection, which is unlike the regular fare, rendering them something of an aberration (Came Back Wrong). Not alive, not undead - outside of life and death altogether.

Nalia: 'Keep your eyes off me, Sarevok. I don't know what you are, but I don't want you near me.' Sarevok: 'Ahh... So the sorceress can sense the difference in me, can she? Do I alarm you, girl?' Nalia: 'I know that you're not truly alive, and not undead. You're flesh, but not truly alive no matter what [Charname] did to you. So keep away.'

Jaheira: 'You *exist*; you do not *live*. You will miss the Great Mother's embrace in time. You are nothing.'

Cernd: 'I... I apologize, Sarevok. I know that there are reasons for your presence amongst us, but... you seem so unnatural to me that I cannot help but be repelled. ' Sarevok: 'You have encountered many things far more unnatural than me. How about the mortal spawn of an evil god... does that not strike you as unnatural in any way?' Cernd: 'At... at least it is still birth and life, Sarevok. It is part of the natural cycle. Even a Bhaalspawn dies in a natural manner. You are a dead thing that has risen again.' Sarevok: 'The same would be true for any undead creature.' Cernd: 'But you are not undead. You are as the tree stump, sprouted again into a full oak. A marvel, perhaps... but also living denial of the natural cycle. I just find it... disturbing, is all.'

And it does nothing to get rid of the homicidal impulses:

Sarevok: 'In the cold nether realm, while I waited to be reborn, I sorely missed the crimson spray and the hot tang of death on my tongue.'

Sarevok: 'Even after my resurrection, violent rage pollutes my tainted blood. As [Charname] can surely attest, it is a constant struggle to keep our bloodlust in check.'

You've still got Bhaal's divine essence as a fundamental piece of yourself, he just doesn't live in the back of your head the same way (probably?). In Durge's case you've now got the divine essence of two gods competing for your instincts (Jergal probably overrides Bhaal).

[higuy258]

Broken Toys 1: Prologue

Content warnings: manipulation, exile arc

Preview:

Tommy had just slapped himself in the face to wake up.

That, of course, could only mean one thing: Dream had decided to start early this morning. The exiled teen groans loudly as the realization dawns on him.

He slumps back over and falls onto the thin mattress, waiting for what he knows will soon happen. Dream had spent the past three days making a routine out of it, after all.

Three weeks ago

TommyInnit wakes suddenly, jolting up from a painful sting on his right cheek. His night so far has consisted of only several hours of sleep, something that’s been happening upsettingly often.

Immediately, he attempts to will himself upright in his plain white covers. Even in his groggy state, he instinctively knows to be ready for any surprise attack. It was a reflex which had been drilled into his skull ever since the first revolution for L’Manburg, and reinforced throughout his traumatic time in Pogtopia.

But he wasn’t in either of those places anymore. He was in Logsteadshire, under Tnret’s white canvas, and he was already sitting up. Once he notices a dull tingling sensation in the palm of his right hand, his slow brain, still clinging desperately to the sleep it was deprived of, finally puts the pieces together.

Tommy had just slapped himself in the face to wake up.

That, of course, could only mean one thing: Dream had decided to start early this morning. The exiled teen groans loudly as the realization dawns on him.

He slumps back over and falls onto the thin mattress, waiting for what he knows will soon happen. Dream had spent the past three days making a routine out of it, after all.

Sure enough, after a short ten seconds, Tommy rises back out of bed, tosses his legs over the edge, then mechanically stands up and steps out of the tent. As he walks along the simple path of pressed grass, Tommy takes in the surroundings through tired eyes.

It’s a perfectly fine day in the exile lands, dubbed by Ghostbur, and later himself, as Logsteadshire. The temperature was mild, the birds were chirping, and the slight wind was rustling through the grass and rhythmically pushing the shoreline back and forth along the sandy beaches. The sun had barely risen past the curved horizon, annoying Tommy greatly. Its low position meant that Dream’s rude awakening was hours before the bright light streaming into his tent would naturally wake him.

Unfortunately, he isn’t able to stop and watch the landscape for much longer, as Tommy’s legs still walk themselves towards the log complex lying at the end of that short path, past the Nether portal. The tall walls had been built primarily by Ghostbur, the ghost of his dead brother Wilbur. All things considered, it was a rather cozy place to stay, containing its own tent the same color as his blue handouts, and a small kitchenette tucked against the barkless oak and birch logs. The campsite as a whole was nestled perfectly between a relatively small hill and equally small grove of oak trees.

In short, Tommy had very conflicted feelings about Logsteadshire as a whole. He appreciated that Ghostbur had taken the time to make him as comfortable as possible during his “vacation”, but he was keenly aware of how utterly trapped and powerless Tommy was, all thanks to Dream. Thoughts like those would often warp the scenery around him into a bleaker and more depressing variant, possibly a reflection of his own mental state.

As he turns the corner with stiff joints in his knees, through the simple entryway into the tall walls of lumber, the first thing he notices is Dream. The perfectly polished white mask is stood expectantly along the assorted pathway of cobblestone and gravel, and in his right hand he holds a pair of thin, softly glowing wooden sticks, leveled parallel with the ground.

The porcelain smile doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, good morning, Tommy! You’re up awfully early, what’s the occasion?” he remarks, lacing a certain faux affection into his words with a tilt of his head.

What an absolute prick, Tommy thinks. There is no special occasion, Dream is the sole reason he’s up as early as he is. Tommy knows it, and he knows for a fact that Dream does too.

So, to preserve what defiance he has left, Tommy refuses to acknowledge the man’s words. They’re nothing but lies either way.

Dream is all too happy to continue reminding Tommy of his current situation. “Say, why is your face red?” he asks kindly, gesturing to the right side of his own spotless facade.

“Fuck you.” Tommy utters in a low growl, unable to hold back the unbridled hatred he felt towards the man who had just forced him into the circular logged area. He can just hear the sadistic grin in his voice, hidden under that damned smile.

Still holding the wooden rods, Dream places both hands on his sides and berates the boy with a patient tone. “Now Tommy, is that any way to talk to your best friend?”

“Fuck. You.” he repeats, voice growing ever harsher. Dream always knew exactly how to rile him up, it’s like Tommy was forced to be mad at him.

Forced. How ironic.

Dream lets out an over-dramatic sigh. “It seems I’ll just have to correct that, then.” he says with a resigned tone. He promptly reaches into his inventory and puts away the sticks, then extracts a playful sock which resembles something a child would fashion with arts and crafts.

Tommy starts to gripe. “Come on Dream, not the sock again...” he groans, and quickly, aware that speaking won’t be an option in only a few seconds.

As expected, his mouth starts to move and the words spill from his lips. “I’m- so rye... sorry, Dream.” Tommy’s voice is painfully slow and without inflection, parsing out every syllable and doubling back on misspoken words. “It was... inconsiderate, of me, to reject your... genuine concern, form. For me.” At some point in the speech—which has been moving at a crawl—he’d crossed his arms in indignation and tried his best to level Dream with a hard glare. “I should not act, in such away... such a way, to my only... friend.”

With Tommy’s speech—which belonged to him only by voice alone—now finished, Dream places the sock back in his inventory.

“Thank you, Tommy. I accept your apology.”

Tommy tries to stay angry at his oppressor. He really does. But he simply doesn’t think he has the strength to hold on to such emotions anymore. It feels like his anger is literally leaking through his skin like body heat, or like spoken words that aren’t his own.

Tommy’s rebellious front crumbles to dust. His arms fall slack to his sides, his spine sags into a much smaller posture, and his partially dulled blue eyes relax and look away. A feeling of hopelessness overwhelms him.

He breathes a deep, tired sigh of defeat. “Yeah...” he finally responds.

The former vice president weakly plucks the lone wooden bowl from his inventory—the only item found within it—and lumbers over to Mushroom Henry. The animal gives off a low moo as Tommy fills the crudely crafted bowl with the signature stew, quickly slurps down its contents, and returns to Dream to begin the day.

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

Now

Across the sea, in the formally recognized independent country of New L'Manburg, the current president also starts his day.

Tubbo woke in his bedroom inside the white house a few hours after the majority of his nation did, and glancing at the gold clock mounted on the wall, it was only one or two hours before noon. The too-young head of state is fully aware that he should wake up at a much more reasonable hour, given how important his position is in the newly rebuilt city, but he just can’t find the will to do so.

Not without his best friend and brother by his side to give him a push and keep his spirits up. 

Just as he’s done first thing every day for almost an entire month, President Tubbo grabs the small compass-watch off his nightstand and affixes the hardy leather strap around his wrist by muscle memory. Finished, he stares at the leather binding for a few seconds and reads the familiar etching on the strap itself, wearing a sad, nostalgic smile filled with regret.

Your Tommy

Standing up from the edge of his bed, Tubbo turns his wrist back over and inspects the purple glowing face of the watch, tapping it a few times with his fingernail to ensure it still shows the proper direction. The needle inside the compass itself vigilantly points the way to Tommy, yet taunts at the seemingly impossible distance between the once inseparable teenagers.

The precious item allows Tubbo to feel like a piece of Tommy is still there, walking right along with him and following him everywhere. It’s for that reason alone that Tubbo feels the need to take it off before he showers each morning, including right now.

He puts his watch back on once he leaves the bathroom, clean and dressed in full presidential uniform. A navy blue suit and similar slacks, with a red tie tucked under it and dual golden epaulets with tassels to show his prestige. Even if Tubbo knows how large his shortcomings have been as the president, he can still wear the outfit of a successful one.

As for food, he prepares a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs. For some reason, Quackity has been butchering a number of pigs lately, so the cabinet has a sizable surplus of the raw meat. They find any way they can to put it to good use, such as frying thin strips of it for an early meal. The eggs were easy enough to get ahold of, and he ate the meal with a refreshing glass of orange juice, the latter being a luxury that only the wealthier populace of New L’Manburg could afford.

Tubbo’s ready to travel around the relatively small nation and greet people once he finishes his food. While the official population count was barely cresting three hundred, most people he knew personally could be found in the downtown area. That’s where the last legs of the Manburg-Pogtopia War took place, where Wilbur detonated his massive cache of explosives, and where the rebuilding efforts were concentrated as a direct result of it.

At around noon, Tubbo bursts through the heavy front double doors of the white house, filling his lungs with a deep breath. As the president, he has a duty to keep up with the issues and wellbeing of the country’s citizens, and if he can do that in person with his friends, that’s all the better.

He rubs his compass a bit with his thumb. No amount of interaction with his good friends could replace his best friend, but it had to do.

Tubbo’s first stop is Niki’s bakery. On occasion, he buys a bread roll to finish off breakfast, depending on how hungry he still was that day.

As he steps through the entrance close to the docks he helped build all those months ago, he sees Niki within, tending to the shop. There’s only several people eating there, none of which he recognizes.

She looks up from the cooking utensils she’d been cleaning and gives a warm smile. “Good... afternoon, Tubbo!” she says with a pause, closely checking the clock on the wall. “Will it be the usual again?”

“Yes, please.” Tubbo sits on a vacant stool close to Niki’s counter. “Is it really the afternoon already? I just left the white house.” he asks with a pang of disbelief.

The baker leans on the counter, meeting her president at eye level. “Tubbo... are you getting enough sleep? And be honest. We’re all aware of how late you’ve been waking up recently.”

“That’s not it, Niki.” he responds, carrying his forehead in one hand, sighing. “The problem isn’t sleeping, it’s... the waking up part is what gets me, y’know?”

Niki hums with understanding. “You don’t feel like you have a reason to get out of bed in the morning.” she assumes, and Tubbo nods in agreement. “Well, how do you think I felt, living in Manburg? Under him?”

Understandably, she spit out the name with hatred in her voice. Schlatt’s “very own right hand man” was there when the man decided to make Niki’s life hell, raising her taxes for no reason other than her hate for his guts. Niki and Tubbo didn’t have much opportunity to chat discreetly until they both defected to Pogtopia, and by then, they were facing the whole new problem of war on the horizon.

He must’ve been deep in thought, because Niki resumes talking like Tubbo had gone quiet for an awkwardly long time. “Think of it like a project, it gets easier once you start.” she says, granting the advice with a kind voice. “And, if you really need help, then just go see Puffy! I’m sure she’ll love to talk to you, she’s practically a therapist.”

Tubbo smiles warmly. “Thanks, Niki. Could I... get that roll now?” he asks.

“Right, of course.” she says simply, ducking under the counter. “I’m sure you’re very busy and all. Here you go, Mr. President.” She hands the baked good to Tubbo while using his official title with a friendly grin, proud of him for earning the rank.

He drops a few emeralds onto the counter as payment before exiting. If he’s being honest with himself, Tubbo doesn’t think he’ll be able to speak with Puffy any time soon. As the president of L’Manburg, and the Greater Dream SMP as her enemy, it wouldn’t exactly be good for publicity if he was seen on a regular basis with such a high rank of the royal guard. He’s the leader of an entire country, issues like that are the kind of thing he needs to be conscious of.

Without a military presence apart from several lookouts along the border, New L’Manburg is the objectively weaker power. Tubbo had miraculously managed to forge an era of peace between the two factions, but with Dream overseeing the relations, he knew precisely how fragile it was.

For Tubbo, the long sought-after promise of peace, allowing an age of prosperity to take shape, was the very textbook definition of bittersweet. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it had come at the steep price of Tommy’s friendship.

Next on the list is Philza, Tubbo’s father for nearly his whole life, ever since he was found in a box on the side of a cobbled road in his infancy. Phil’s house was also situated downtown, closer to the central plaza of the city. It was a far cry from the isolated farmstead where they grew up, many miles away from where they now reside.

Tubbo is greeted by none other than Ghostbur as his incorporeal brother phases right through the closed front door. It was a common sight, considering the late president kept his blue pet sheep within Phil’s home rather than the grungy sewer. Tubbo still had no clue why he’d ever want to live in a place like that.

“Hello, Tubbo! Would you like some blue?” he asks cheerily, wearing a simple, happy smile. The spirit doesn’t hesitate to offer his gifts of the colored dye with that wispy voice of his.

Now would be a great time to soak up some sadness. He wasn’t sure if the stuff actually did anything, or if it was simply Ghostbur’s ever-cheerful mood making him feel more at ease, but either way, Tubbo always felt marginally better after receiving some. “Hi, Ghostbur. Yes, I’d love some blue.” he holds out a hand to receive the color, letting it absorb some negativity before stowing it in his inventory. “Is Phil home?” he asks as he steps up to the door.

Ghostbur answers the question with his usual bubbly personality. “Oh, yes. He’s looking after Friend for me! I just popped in to check up on them both, we’ve been chatting.” It was so jarring the first few days, seeing Wilbur with such a different state of mind, but Tubbo and others eventually grew accustomed to the floating remains of his brother. It helped that he actively separated himself from Wilbur by politely correcting anyone who used the name.

Tubbo walks through the doorway as Ghostbur passes through the adjacent wall. He immediately sees Phil standing in the first room, wearing his signature bucket hat with green robes and sandals. “Hey, mate.” he greets, letting the drawl of his accent take over. Ghostbur excuses himself, tending to Friend for the time being.

They both gravitate towards each other and share a hug for a few moments. “Hi, Dad. How have you been?” He tries—and largely fails—to sound positive, his question leaving his mouth with a certain exhausted tone to it. The two of them find nearby chairs to sit in.

It seems his father feels a similar way. “Oh, I’ve been... better.” he hesitates. “One step at a time, yeah?”

Tubbo sighs deeply. “...yeah.”

He knows precisely what his father is referring to. After all, the very reason he traveled to the city in the first place was to mend their shattered family. It was a rather uphill battle for the single parent, considering that their family included the busy president and the hybridized piglin who took one of his own two remaining lives.

‘One step at a time’ was quite the understatement. Philza had an incredibly daunting task before him.

Tubbo thought it right to help him along his way. “So... how’s- ah, Techno doing?” he pushes out nervously.

Phil is visibly taken aback by the sudden question. That was a fair reaction, Tubbo doesn’t remember a single time where he asked about his father’s interactions with anyone but Ghostbur. Phil’s expression quickly shifts to a solemn happiness. “Well... he’s been living alone in a cabin, ever since... that day.” he vaguely explains. “It’s way out in the northern tundra. The isolation, it’s... it’s good for him.”

A long, awkward pause.

“He’s... sorry, you know?” says Phil. It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t expect an answer.

Tubbo cringes from the memories. “Dad, I... I don’t think I believe that. I’m n-not sure I know how to.”

The older man understands, nodding sadly. “I promise you Tubbo, he never truly wanted to do any of what he did. Not to you, not to anyone else. He just...”

His voice starts to drown out once Tubbo starts reliving that day, on the podium, surrounded by yellow, everyone shouting at him, screaming at him-

Tubbo can’t take it. He quickly stands from his seat. “Phil, I’m... this was a mistake. I’m sorry, I-I think I should leave now.”

Now it’s Philza’s turn to let out a sigh. “Right. No, it’s me who’s sorry. Let’s talk later, yeah?”

As he quickly leaves through the front door, Tubbo doesn’t look back, holding in tears behind eyes shut tight. “Yeah.”

Closing the door and leaning against the outside of it, he quickly dries his watery eyes. It could and would harm his administration if the citizens saw their president crying. For the good of the country—which should come before all else—he must display an air of professionalism whenever he may be spotted in public.

Sobbing on his father’s stoop is far from professional. 

—o—

The third and final stop for Tubbo had been dictated by which members of his cabinet were present in L’Manburg that day, which in this case, was none of them. Fundy and Ranboo were out running the ice cream shop for the day, and Quackity had given Tubbo advanced notice the day prior that he would be busy with whatever the hell El Rapids did. If he was being honest, Tubbo has half a mind to believe that Quackity’s nation never existed in the first place, he used it as an excuse that often. He hadn’t seen any evidence of it personally, and the only people who ever acknowledged it were Quackity and his friends.

Unfortunately, the parlor was found much closer to the Greater SMP, likely to attract a wider audience of customers. It was built past even the suburbs of New L’Manburg, where the large majority of citizens lived, so it would take just under an hour by foot. On the bright side, a railway system full of single-use train cars had been designed by Sam, running directly from downtown through the residential district and into Dream’s territory. If that wasn’t good enough, being the president granted him his own personal lane of track for his convenience. He’ll have to thank the creeper again for overseeing the project when they meet again.

The station of refurbished minecarts was past the historic L’Park, a large open space which Tubbo is currently wandering by. The exceptionally silly name was created by Quackity months ago during the Manburg era, and while Tubbo pushed to get it changed early in his administration, he failed. The name had already stuck.

It was a very significant plot of land as well, containing the well protected L’Mantree, recently rebuilt Camarvan, and sprawling fields of green everywhere in between. In its center was a quaint pond with a beautiful fountain of blackstone and yellow accents, proudly echoing the great walls which stood during the first revolutionary age, the birth of the country itself.

The public park has been used by virtually everyone who had the time to enjoy it, and indeed, Tubbo had spotted everyone he knew at least once. From Niki and Puffy sharing picnic sandwiches together on the grass, to... Connor. Yes, just Connor. Tubbo had only seen him once, eating all alone on a picnic table. Sure, he was rather eccentric, wearing that unusual getup depicting some sort of blue animal, but extraordinary as it might seem, Tubbo could’ve sworn he was actually talking to someone the whole time. Connor would gesture and turn his head constantly, like there was someone sitting right next to him, yet Tubbo simply saw nothing. He never really felt the need to bring it up to the hoodie-wearing man, who never mentioned it himself, and Connor was already strange enough as is.

Tubbo, unfortunately, doesn’t have time to stop and appreciate the scenic park. There’s one very specific place he wants to take time to stop and admire, and it’s near the other end of the railway. So, he climbs into the train car on the private rail, the one made to be used only by the president and anyone else he may allow. The vehicle itself is essentially a glorified metal box, with its own small engine and a set of rudimentary controls. Pulling the clutch back pushed the vehicle forward, and squeezing the end of the handle was it’s brake.

After only eight minutes or so through grassy hills and past sparse homes, Tubbo reaches his destination. He exits the station, placed at the very edge of the residential zone, but immediately turns away from it. He knows exactly where he wants to visit before he ends up at the ice cream shop.

The dividing line of the living district is drawn by the oak wooden path that snakes its way throughout nearly the entire SMP. On one side lay rows of houses with cobbled roads running along them, and on the other were fewer homes belonging to those who had been a citizen for much longer. Wilbur’s wooden ball could be seen hanging in the distance, long since abandoned. Karl’s bamboo-covered house overlooked a sheer drop, only a few steps from the main path. And finally...

Tommy’s dirt hut.

It was little more than several rooms dug out into the side of a mound, itself also on its own hill. Tubbo stands before it, the solemn president holding back the familiar feeling of heartache. He remembers vainly trying to hide his laughter upon hearing Tommy say that he wanted to revert the stone-lined build back to simple dirt. At the time, it seemed wholly absurd. Why would you ever willingly want to live under a roof that practically crumbles around you? Tubbo recalls wondering to himself through poorly stifled laughs.

But now? He understands completely. His brother wanted a return to far simpler days. Tommy wanted his home to remind him of the good times they all once had, mere days after himself, Tubbo, and Wilbur all arrived in the area. This had been his living space throughout everything, even when they all belonged to L’Manburg officially.

Even now, the indelible mark he made on the area shone through the unkempt grass roof. Walking up to the entrance—which he dare not step through—Tubbo glances up at the sign held above the open space. TommyInnit Enterprise, it read, passionately announcing “This is my home!” to the world. His voice still lies ingrained deep in the memory of anyone who’d listened.

Tommy’s land claims were almost as loud as he was.

It breaks his heart, but with the responsibility of a country hanging over his head, Tubbo knows he can’t spend hours reminiscing over a distant past that’s likely to never return. He doesn’t have the luxury to waste more than even ten minutes in the throes of nostalgia.

Before he leaves the plot of land, he sees it, over by the edge of the cliff to his right.

The bench. Their bench.

Tubbo just can’t help himself. He walks over to the oaken bench—Tommy’s favorite wood—and sits on the right end of the seat. The bench itself is rickety from months of disuse, and it’s covered in leaves that have fallen from the tree rising above it. The music box is incredibly worn and weathered, Tubbo guessing that even if it did still work, it would sound tired and scratchy. Nature has been trying to reclaim both items, and given enough years, it will eventually succeed.

As he sits on the old thing in silence, head hung low, Tubbo turns to face the left-hand side. Looking past the empty spot where Tommy always sat, for just a moment, Tubbo thinks he actually sees his best friend and brother sitting next to him, talking with him, laughing with him-

Tubbo quickly rips his gaze away, noticing it grow blurry, then stands up off the seat. He really can’t handle emotions like these right now, not when his day has barely started. He still has work to do, and if he kept thinking of the bench, Tubbo knows he wouldn’t ever want to leave.

Breathe in, breathe out. He composes himself before exiting the area, walking past the modestly tall blackstone tower. Down the hill and along the path lies his destination, Ranboo and Fundy’s ice cream parlor. After around fifteen more minutes of walking, past the shopping district with several large homes strewn around—where one particularly brave chain store from a far-off country even decided to expand to—Tubbo arrives at the double glass doors of the frozen treat shop.

Breathe in, breathe out. He hears the familiar jingle of the bell above the door, chiming whenever someone opens the front entrance. Fundy, working the front desk, looks past the line of customers and immediately greets his good friend. “Hey, Tubbo!” he calls with a wave of his stubby paw.

The suited teen president looks him in the eyes and waves back with a half-hearted smile. Scanning the establishment, he instantly notes that the place is actually rather busy today, with what must be over twenty people, sitting and enjoying their various assortments of ice cream. He only recognizes several faces, and none of them by name.

That’s when he sees them, the only four he definitely does recognize. In the far left corner of the room, sitting in a semi-circular booth around an equally circular table, are George, Sapnap, Karl, and Quackity. Tubbo lets out an exasperated sigh.

The so-called ‘important El Rapids business’ was apparently eating ice cream.

When the beanie-wearing young adult turns to glance at the door, his eyes bulge a bit, and he instantly whips back around, putting all his attention on George in an obvious attempt to hide from the kid who’s essentially his boss.

But Tubbo isn’t having any of it. The other three only notice when he steps over to the booth, leveling Quackity alone with a disapproving glare. The Vice President still has his back turned, pretending like he didn’t know Tubbo was there. He clears his throat, calling for attention. “Ah-hem.”

The remaining trio of patrons quickly realize what’s going on, and share a quick glance at each other, grinning impishly. Sapnap is the one who decides to speak for all three of them. He plays a note with his voice, its tone steadily rising. “Looks like somebody’s in trou-uble~” he teases, placing singsong emphasis on the last word and looking directly at Quackity.

The native Spanish speaker finally turns to face Tubbo, plastering a look of mock surprise onto his face. “Hey-y, Turbo!” he says, leaning into his accent. “Didn’t- I didn’t see ya there!”

Tubbo remains silent, raising just one eyebrow in response.

The caught Quackity scrambles to find his words, laughing nervously. “So... how is, er- L’Manburg doing?” he asks, his awkward smile begging Tubbo to accept his apology.

Instead, he rubs several fingers on his forehead in annoyance. “Quackity, is this ‘El Rapids’ place even real?”

Quackity tries to act insulted, fanning his fingers across his chest dramatically. “Wha- of course it’s real! Back me up here, guys, c’mon!” he claims with a look to his friends.

The three provide a chorus of “Oh, it’s so real.” “Realer than you’d ever believe.” “I heard Q actually gave birth to it.” from George, Sapnap, and Karl, respectively. The third claim causes them all to burst out in laughter, but Quackity just looks on, embarrassed.

Tubbo is not impressed.

The vice president excuses the four of them to leave. “O-kay guys, time’s up, let’s go.”

“Busted.” Sapnap remarks with a shrug as he stands to follow his friends out the door, ice creams and milkshakes in tow.

Tubbo releases a sigh of relief as the bell dings several times, signaling their exit. It was a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, and his expression relaxes.

Finally able to do what he truly came here for, he walks up to the counter and sits at it, leaning on the flimsy, metal-edged surface. Fundy moves to greet him, the line to order having thinned out considerably, a second cashier he doesn’t recognize attending to the remaining customers. He also catches a glimpse of Ranboo in the back room, working the milkshake dispenser.

“Hey, Tubbo. What can I get for you?” Fundy greets, ready to serve him like any other customer.

The gesture makes him feel like just another ordinary citizen, breaking the chains of this damned presidency, if only for a brief moment. “Nothing. I just stopped by to say hi, see how you two are doing, that’s all.” he answers tiredly.

“Well, we’re doing just fine, don’t worry.” Fundy tells the president, who smiles. “Business is booming today, this is the most people we’ve seen in weeks.” That much is surprising given the current colder season, Tubbo assumes it was simply because today was unreasonably warm.

Tubbo can admit how good for business that was. “Well, that does sound nice.”

Fundy nods. “Yeah, we even added three more flavors recently! Cherry, banana, and butter pecan, wanna try ’em?”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

Fundy pauses to inspect the president’s face. “Okay Tubbo, I think I know what’ll cheer you up.” he says, and leans in. “Dream came by the shop earlier this morning, couple hours ago.”

Dream? How’s that meant to cheer him up? The man stopped by numerous places all the time, New L’Manburg most of all. Tubbo throws a questioning look. “Uh... okay? What’s that got to do with me?” He lets out a nervous laugh. “He try one of those new flavors you mentioned?”

Fundy smiles. “That’s just it, he didn’t want anything from us. Just waltzed in and asked where you were.”

That’s enough to grab his attention. “Me?” Tubbo asks rhetorically, “Surely he could’ve spoken with you or Ranboo about L’Manburg?”

“Nope, none of that. Dream only wanted to talk to you,” Fundy points at his friend, “and you alone. He was very insistent about it, actually.”

Any other day, Tubbo wouldn’t have thought much of it. The masked man often kept tabs on the relations between country and kingdom, but this felt different. Why would he need to speak so specifically to Tubbo, and not about New L’Manburg? What would he know that needed to be kept hidden between the two? Could it be...

Could it be about Tommy?

The thought wakes him right up. He quickly launches himself off the stool. “Well- why didn’t you say so earlier!?” exclaims Tubbo, brimming with excitement over the possibility of hearing about his best friend.

Fundy grins again. “Wanted it to be like a surprise, you looked like you needed some good news today.” he says. “He told me he’ll meet you in the city center.”

“Well, thank you! He’s probably waiting for me right now, I-I’ve gotta go!” Tubbo excuses himself, anxious to get going back to L’Manburg as soon as possible.

“Certainly. You get on outta here, Mr. President!” says the hybrid, playfully using Tubbo’s official title.

With a small wave goodbye, he flies through the front entrance, heading back to the railcar station as quickly as possible. He even takes out and chucks a few ender pearls in the same direction to cut the travel time down considerably. Each teleport takes a fair bit of energy out of Tubbo, but if Dream wishes to discuss his closest friend, it’s well worth it.

This could turn out to be a very good day for him.

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Suptober 27 Oct.: Liar

"Sam, he's not waking up." Dean looked over and saw the terror dawning in Sam's face too.

deancas, established relationship au

"You want him, you can have him," Dean sneered. "Do it, fucking cowards. I'm certainly not going to stand in your way."

The demons glanced at each other uneasily. Good, Dean thought, you should be scared.

"That goddamn angel has betrayed me I don't know how many times now." Dean choked out a harsh laugh. "He's not worth much to me dead but even less to me alive." He felt the blade of the demon knife tucked in his waistband bite into the small of his back and let it bolster him. "You wanna kill him right now? He's injured – you know it as well as I do. This whole forest stinks of his blood. Let's go find him together."

His smile, he knew, was cold as a corpse and too wide, showing off his canine teeth too well – he was one of them, a predator to his marrow.

The taller demon stepped nearer. A twig snapped beneath his foot, like a bone cracking. It was better than a whistle: Sam wound out from behind the giant oak, striking fast as a snake. The holy water sizzled in the first demon's eyes, then the second's; Dean sunk in the blade and ripped it clean away twice in fast succession, and the bodies twitched and sparkled like unleashed roman candles as they fell heavily to the earth.

"Gross," Sam said, wiping a spray of blood off his cheek.

Dean took a second to be grateful at how little interest Sam seemed to take in the blood otherwise. 

He patted down the wider demon's vest and came up empty, shaking his head in frustration. 

"Here," Sam said, reaching quickly into the other demon's pockets. "Yes, got it."

The vial of whatever the fuck antidote it was flew at Dean. He caught it and pushed off the ground, trusting Sam would catch up in no time, as he clambered down the tree rooted trail to the thatch of fallen maples. Cas was pale as the grave as Dean slid on his knees down beneath the maple with the most clearance, where Cas laid curled on his side, unconscious and unmoving in a pool of crimson, not all of which were leaves. 

Dean put a palm to the side of Cas's throat. "Cas, buddy, you gotta wake up now."

Sam crawled under the tree and knelt up by Cas's head. "Let's sit him up."

They maneuvered him mostly into a sitting position, and Sam braced Cas's jaw as Dean uncorked the vial and tipped in the potion. 

"C'mon, c'mon," Dean muttered, his whole body about to shake apart suddenly, as it dawned on him this might not work. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. "Sam, he's not waking up." Dean looked over and saw the terror dawning in Sam's face too.

The giant wheezing breath Cas sucked in at that exact moment saved Dean's life.

Dean bent over and felt his heart kick in his chest like he'd been hit with lightning. "Hey, hey, hi." He patted Cas's chest and stared into his face until his eyes opened. "How ya doin', man?"

Cas squinted back. "I've been better."

"We believe it," Sam said as he pushed Cas a little further upright.

Cas coughed a few times and gingerly touched the low spot on his abdomen where the gouge had been, where his white shirt remained wet and stained. "Please tell Eileen thank you," he said, turning to speak directly to Sam. "I owe her for this one."

"Nah, she was happy to help." Sam looked at Dean and cleared his throat. "I'm, um. Gonna go call her, though, and let her know everything's fine." He stood up and ducked out onto the trail again.

Dean was about to speak when Cas said, slowly, "I heard you, when you were talking to the demons."

"Oh yeah?" Dean swallowed against the bile that had immediately risen at the back of his throat.

Cas nodded, his eyes on Dean as warm as sunlight. "You were a very convincing liar."

Dean grabbed his face between his hands and kissed his mouth softly. Less softly the second time. In his peripheral vision he saw Sam approach and wheel away again, and it didn't stop Dean from kissing Cas until Cas made a small pleased sound.

"Please stop getting stabbed trying to save me."

"All right," Cas said. "I promise."

Dean let him fib. He'd figure out a way to hold him to it later.

[leebird-simmer]

Russian Fairy Tales Test Prep: Pagan Deities

The best known roster of pagan deities is that of the six whose statues Prince Vladimir erected upon assuming sole rule of Kiev. According to the Primary Chronicle for the year 980, he “placed idols on a hill, outside the palace yard, a wooden Perun with a silver head and a golden mustache, and Khors and Dazhbog and Stribog and Simargl and Mokosh.” Missing from this list is Volos/Veles, the god of cattle (skotnii bog) and commerce, whose veneration in ancient Rus’ is widely attested, and by whose name (along with that of Perun) ancient Russians ratified oaths.

A. Perun/Bog

1. equivalent to: Lithuanian Perkunas, Latvian Perkons, Albanian Perendi, Roman Jupiter, Greek Zeus, Hittite Teshub, Norse Thor/Donar, Celtic Taranis.  2. primary sources: Nestor’s Chronicle, mid-6th century Procopius, 10th-century Varangian treaties 3. primary story: a creation myth, in which he battles Veles, the Slavic god of the underworld, for the protection of his wife (Mokosh, goddess of summer) and the freedom of atmospheric water, as well as for the control of the universe. 4. dvoeverie: After Christianization in the 11th century CE, Perun's cult became associated with St. Elias (Elijah), also known as the Holy Prophet Ilie (or Ilija Muromets or Ilja Gromovik), who is said to have ridden madly with a chariot of fire across the sky, and punished his enemies with lightning bolts.

In Slavic mythology: Perun was the supreme god of the pre-Christian Slavic pantheon, although there is evidence that he supplanted Svarog (the god of the sun) as the leader at some point in history. Perun was a pagan warrior of heaven and patron protector of warriors. As the liberator of atmospheric water (through his creation tale battle with the dragon Veles), he was worshipped as a god of agriculture, and bulls and a few humans were sacrificed to him. In 988, the leader of the Kievan Rus' Vladimir I pulled down Perun's statue near Kyiv (Ukraine) and it was cast into the waters of the Dneiper River. As recently as 1950, people would cast gold coins in the Dneiper to honor Perun.

Appearance & Reputation: Perun is portrayed as a vigorous, red-bearded man with an imposing stature, with silver hair and a golden mustache. He carries a hammer, a war ax, and/or a bow with which he shoots bolts of lightning. He is associated with oxen and represented by a sacred tree—a mighty oak. He is sometimes illustrated as riding through the sky in a chariot drawn by a goat. In illustrations of his primary myth, he is sometimes pictured as an eagle sitting in the top branches of the tree, with his enemy and battle rival Veles the dragon curled around its roots.

Perun is associated with Thursday—the Slavic word for Thursday "Perendan" means "Perun's Day"—and his festival date was June 21.

Reports: The earliest reference to Perun is in the works of the Byzantine scholar Procopius (500–565 CE), who noted that the Slavs worshipped the "Maker of Lightning" as the lord over everything and the god to whom cattle and other victims were sacrificed.

Perun appears in several surviving Varangian (Rus) treaties beginning in 907 CE. In 945, a treaty between the Rus' leader Prince Igor (consort of Princess Olga) and the Byzantine emperor Constantine VII included a reference to Igor's men (the unbaptized ones) laying down their weapons, shields, and gold ornaments and taking an oath at a statue of Perun—the baptized ones worshipped at the nearby church of St. Elias. The Chronicle of Novgorod (compiled 1016–1471) reports that when the Perun shrine in that city was attacked, there was a serious uprising of the people, all suggesting that the myth had some long-term substance.

B. Kors/Xors/Chors

- most frequently mentioned Slavic god, after Perun - dvoeverie: appears in the apocryphal work Sermon and Apocalypse of the Holy Apostles, which mentions Perun and Khors as old men; Khors is said to live in Cyprus. Khors also appears in the apocryphal text Conversation of the Three Saints, a text which combines Slavic + Christian + Bogomil traditions. In it, he is referred to as “an angel of thunder” and it is said that he is Jewish. - his functions are uncertain and there are multiple interpretations of his name.

1. Sun God hypothesis: associated with Dazhbog; in The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, Prince Vseslav, who “came to Tmutarakani before the cocks" and "Khors ran his way", traveled from west to east and thus reached the castle before the cocks crowed, and in this way "overtook" the Sun; his name means “rays.”

2. Moon God hypothesis: Prince Vseslav was called “wolf” and his journey takes place at night when the sun is absent from the sky; his name does mean “rays” but they’re the moon’s rays and not the sun’s rays.

3. Fertility God/Vegetation hypothesis: link between Thracian & early Slavic cultures indicates Kors is more of a Dionysus-type figure, who dies and is risen; like Dionysus, Dazhbog (who Kors is often linked to) has a double nature (Eastern Slavs assign him solar qualities, while Southern Slavs assign him chthonic qualities).

C. Dazhbog

1. equivalent to: Khors (Russian/Iranian), Mithra (Persian), Helios (Greek), Lucifer (Christian) 2. primary sources: John Malalas, The Song of Igor’s Campaign 3. family: Son of Svarog, brother of fire god Svarozhich, husband of Mesyats (the moon), father of the Zoryi and Zvezdy 4. primary myth: He resided in the east, in a land of everlasting summer and plenty, in a palace made of gold. The morning and evening auroras, known collectively as Zorya, were his daughters. In the morning, Zorya opened the palace gates to allow Dazbog to leave the palace and begin his daily journey across the sky; in the evening, Zorya closed the gates after the sun returned in the evening. 5. dvoeverie: There was a belief that each winter he would enter people's homes and gift gold to those who had been good. That belief passed into Christianity, especially in Serbia, and this visitor was called Položajnik. During Christianisation, his cult was exchanged with the cult of Saint Sava, while Dažbog became lame Daba - the most powerful demon in Hell. Reasons why he was demonized are various, possibly because his cult was the strongest in Serbia or because he was considered also as the god of Nav, the Slavic underworld and world of the dead.

In Slavic mythology: Dazbog was the Slavic sun god, a role that is common to many Indo-European people, and there is ample evidence that there was a sun cult in the pre-Christian tribes of central Europe. His name means "day god" or "giving god," to different scholars—"Bog" is generally accepted to mean "god," but Daz means either "day" or "giving."

His totem animal was a wolf, therefore wolves were sacred animals and killing them was considered a great sin. Wolves were considered to be messengers of Dazhbog, while he himself could shift into a white wolf.

According to one myth, Svarog became tired of reigning over the universe and passed on his power to his sons, Dazhbog and Svarogich.

Appearance & Reputation: Dazbog is said to ride across the sky in a golden chariot drawn by fire-breathing horses who are white, gold, silver, or diamonds. In some tales, the horses are beautiful and white with golden wings, and sunlight comes from the solar fire shield Dazbog always carries with him. At night, Dazbog wanders the sky from east to west, crossing the great ocean with a boat pulled by geese, wild ducks, and swans.

In some tales, Dazbog starts out in the morning as a young, strong man but by the evening he is a red-faced, bloated elderly gentleman; he is reborn every morning. He represents fertility, male power, and in "The Song of Igor's Campaign" he is mentioned as the grandfather of the Slavs.

4. Stribog

Very little is known about him, although he was clearly very important to early Slavic peoples. In the epic ”Slovo o polku Igorove “ it is said that the winds, the grandsons of Stribog, blow from the sea. This leads to conclusion that Stribog is imagined as an old person, since he has grandsons. The grandsons were the winds from all directions.

Eagle was the animal consecrated to  Stribog. Plants consecrated to Stribog were hawthorn and oak. When pledges were made, Stribog was often warrantor. Festivities in Stribog’s honor were organized in the summer as well as in the winter. They were probably organized in the summer  in order to invocate winds and rain, while in the winter they were organized in order to appease him. In the period of Christianization Stribog’s characteristics were overtaken by St. Bartholomew and Stevan vetroviti (windy).

5. Simargl/Semargl

- may be equivalent to Simurgh in Persian mythology, who is portrayed similarly (winged lion and/or dog). He can also take human form. - God of physical fire (as opposed to celestial fire; that’s Svarog) - He is said to be the husband of Kupalnica (or Kupalnitsa), goddess of night, from whom he got two children: Kupalo and Kostroma.

Zorya, solar goddesses who are servants or daughters of the deity Dazhbog, keep Simargl chained to the star Polaris in the constellation Ursa Minor. Should he break free and destroy this constellation, it will cause the world to end.

Why would he be worshipped in Rus’, you ask? A couple of possible answers: a. Eastern Slavs borrowed Simargl from Sarmatian-Alanian people and worshiped him. b. Eastern Slavs never worshiped Simargl. Just at that time, a significant number of Kiev residents were of Khazar and Sarmatian-Alanian origin. Vladimir included their deity in the pantheon to get their support.

6. Volos/Veles (also Vlas, Weles Vlasii, St. Blaise, or Blasius)

1. equivalent to: Velinas (Baltic), Varuna (Vedic), Hermes (Greek), Odin (Norse) 2. primary sources: The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, old Russian chronicles 3. primary myth: a creation myth, in which Veles abducts Mokosh (the Goddess of Summer and consort of Perun, God of Thunder). Perun and his enemy battle for the universe under a huge oak, Perun's holy tree, similar to both Greek and Norse (Yggdrasil) mythologies. The battle is won by Perun, and afterward, the waters of the world are set free and flowing. 4. dvoeverie: Velia remains a feast of the dead in old Lithuanian, celebrating the border between the world of the living and the world of the dead, with Veles operating as a role of guiding souls to the underworld. The battle between Perun (Ilija Muromets or St. Elias) and Veles (Selevkiy) is found in many different forms, but in later stories, instead of gods, they are complementary figures separated from one another by a furrow plowed by Christ, who converts them. Veles is also likely represented by St. Vlasii, depicted in Russian iconography as surrounded by sheep, cows, and goats.

In Slavic mythology: A second creation myth associated with Veles is the formation of the boundary between the underworld and the human world, a result of a treaty forged between Veles and a shepherd/magician.

In the treaty, the unnamed shepherd pledges to sacrifice his best cow to Veles and keep many prohibitions. Then he divides the human world from the wild underworld led by Veles, which is either a furrow plowed by Veles himself or a groove across the road carved by the shepherd with a knife which the evil powers cannot cross.

Veles is associated with a wide variety of powers and protectors: he is associated with poetry and wisdom, the lord of the waters (oceans, seas, ships, and whirlpools). He is both the hunter and protector of cattle and the lord of the underworld, a reflection of the Indo-European concept of the netherworld as a pasture. He is also related to an ancient Slavic cult of the deceased soul; the ancient Lithuanian term "welis" means "dead" and "welci" means "dead souls."

Appearance & Reputation: Veles is generally portrayed as a bald human man, sometimes with bull horns on his head. In the epic creation battle between Velos and Perun, however, Veles is a serpent or dragon lying in a nest of black wool or on a black fleece beneath the World Tree; some scholars have suggested he was a shape-shifter. In addition to domestic horses, cows, goats, and sheep, Veles is associated with wolves, reptiles, and black birds (ravens and crows). 

Reports: The earliest reference to Veles is in the Rus-Byzantine Treaty of 971, in which the signers must swear by Veles' name. Violators of the treaty are warned of a menacing punishment: they will be killed by their own weapons and become "yellow as gold," which some scholars have interpreted as "cursed with a disease." If so, that would imply a connection to the Vedic god Varuna, also a cattle god who could send diseases to punish miscreants.

7. Mokosh

1. loosely comparable to: Gaia, Hera (Greek), Juno (Roman), Astarte (Semitic) 2. epithets: Goddess Who Spins Wool, Mother Moist Earth, Flax Woman 3. primary sources: Nestor Chronicle (a.k.a. Primary Chronicle), Christian-recorded Slavic tales 4. dvoeverie: With the coming of Christianity into the Slavic countries in the 11th century CE, Mokosh was converted to a saint, St. Paraskeva Pyanitsa (or possibly the Virgin Mary), who is sometimes defined as the personification of the day of Christ's crucifixion, and others a Christian martyr. Described as tall and thin with loose hair, St. Paraskeva Pyanitsa is known as "l'nianisa" (flax woman), connecting her to spinning. She is the patroness of merchants and traders and marriage, and she defends her followers from a range of diseases.

In Slavic mythology:  The origins of Mokosh as mother earth may date to pre-Indo-European times (Cuceteni or Tripolye culture, 6th–5th millennia BCE) when a near-global woman-centered religion is thought to have been in place. Some scholars suggest she may be a version of Finno-Ugric sun goddess Jumala. 

Mokosh, sometimes transliterated as Mokoš and meaning "Friday," is Moist Mother Earth and thus the most important (or sometimes only) goddess in the religion. As a creator, she is said to have been discovered sleeping in a cave by a flowering spring by the spring god Jarilo, with whom she created the fruits of the earth. She is also the protector of spinning, tending sheep, and wool, patron of merchants and fishermen, who protects cattle from plague and people from drought, disease, drowning, and unclean spirits.

Although the Great Goddess has a variety of consorts, both human and animal, in her role as a primary Slavic goddess, Mokosh is the moist earth goddess and is set against (and married to) Perun as the dry sky god. Some Slavic peasants felt it was wrong to spit on the earth or beat it. During the Spring, practitioners considered the earth pregnant: before March 25 ("Lady Day"), they would neither construct a building or a fence, drive a stake into the ground or sow seed. When peasant women gathered herbs they first lay prone and prayed to Mother Earth to bless any medicinal herbs.

Appearance & Reputation: Surviving images of Mokosh are rare—although there were stone monuments to her beginning at least as long ago as the 7th century. A wooden cult figure in a wooded area in the Czech Republic is said to be a figure of her. Historical references say she had a large head and long arms, a reference to her connection with spiders and spinning. Symbols associated with her include spindles and cloth, the rhombus (a nearly global reference to women's genitals for at least 20,000 years), and the Sacred Tree or Pillar.There are many goddesses in the various Indo-European pantheons who reference spiders and spinning. Historian Mary Kilbourne Matossian has pointed out that the Latin word for tissue "textere" means "to weave," and in several derivative languages such as Old French, "tissue" means "something woven." The act of spinning, suggests Matossian, is to create body tissue. The umbilical cord is the thread of life, transmitting moisture from the mother to the infant, twisted and coiled like the thread around a spindle. The final cloth of life is represented by the shroud or "winding sheet," wrapped around a corpse in a spiral, as thread loops around a spindle.

Our brief survey of agrarian holidays indicates that the peasant’s central concern is fertility and that special rites in the cemetery and/or rites involving a symbolic death & resurrection are a major component in these celebrations.

Belief in the absolute sanctity of “Mother Damp Earth” (Mat’syra zemlia) has been central to folk belief throughout the centuries. In remote areas, old people observed a ritual of asking the earth’s forgiveness prior to death into the 20th century. A number of scholars have maintained that peasants transferred attributes of earth worship to their particular veneration of Mary as “Mother of God.”

Fedotov: “At every step in studying Russian popular religion, one meets the constant longing for a great divine female power, be it embodied in the image of Mary or someone else. Is it too daring to hypothesize, on the basis of this religious propensity, the scattered elements of the cult of a Great Goddess who once...reigned upon the immense Russian plains?”

[moonlightwritesdisney]

DREAM COME TRUE. -- WYATT LYKENSEN.

Paring: Wyatt Lykensen X FEMALE! READER

Requested: Yes / No

Warnings: foul language. nudity. graphic descriptions of blood and cannibalism. sexual activity. 

Summary: Weeks after your old elementary friend had finally vanished from all existence everything seems to finally go back to normal. Standing in a coffee shop you met him. And all hell breaks loose.

SEQUEL TO ‘YOU’.

PREVIOUSLY . . .

You were fashioned in the bathroom taking a warm cloth and bringing it towards your face wiping off the dried blood. You sucked in a breathe the sound of your beating heart filling your ears. You didn’t feel at all ashamed for what you had done. That bastard human deserved it.

The overbearing of your anxiety flared, you were worried you might get in huge trouble, since unfortunately, the human is never to blame. You had gone to bed that night in hopes for a better day the next morning -- the only problem was, he saw everything. 

THE DIRT BELOW HIS BROWN BOOTS became sore while he had previously been peering into your small window for the past five minutes watching you. Your brown pale skin covered in the blood that wasn’t your own. Your face dry and lips cracked from the crying you had done, you felt numb. Your heat besting rapidly in anxiety.

The mirror reflected your bruised image. The bags under your eyes were a dark purple, your eyes a dark brown with widened pupils ( a side effect of a broken Z-band which usually wears off after twelve hours ). Your sink water turned a bright pink as the last of his blood washed down the drain. Disappearing into the drain pipes.

Your mascara smeared down your cheeks, your nose and cheeks red and your eyes puffy. ‘Your going to kill him’. A selfish voice spat in his head, his sharp claws dug into the untouched flesh of his tan palm. He was furious.

How could someone so shameful have the power of destroying someone who was so innocent? She was a ray of pure sunshine. His sunshine. The pondering question he already knew the answer to racked the Alpha wolf’s brain. He couldn’t understand it.

You were so innocent. Baby like. His baby. He felt guilt.

A page pant of sadness washed over him. He had wished it was him, who could comfort you from what had just happened. ‘Shh baby it’s okay I’m here now, your safe, completely safe, I won’t let anyone ever harm you again, ever, never again. I am so sorry.

So sorry. So sorry.’ He had imagined you sobbing desperately in his chest the ache of your body he felt against his own skin, he’d stroke your arm softly and whisper sweet nothing in your ear.

He’d reassure you constantly, be their for you when having to deal with the gained trauma even after the act. He’d give you anything you needed. Leave you loving encouraging notes in your belongings. Hold you every night as you slept. Lock every door and window in the house.

He’d lay bare with you in bed for hours just to make sure his babygirl was okay. Although he couldn’t help blame himself. He knew that he couldn’t just burst into your house and save you from your attacker, even after the matter.

‘oh uhm yeah, I’ve totally been watching you for months, that includes changing, and showering, and well... pleasing yourself too.

I’ve seen it all, and uhm I’m kinda in love with you too so I mean that’s a plus, uhm I know literally everything about you, how you are very persistent in organization and you hate cheesy romantic comedies.

How you’d just want to stay up until three a.m. reading a book about truce crime. How you can girl over the most underrated music artists and how you hate a guy that plays dumb in the most basic way. I know you absolutely hate roses anything I’m missing?’

He chuckled at the image of you stunned. He knew more about you than you knew yourself. How you’d jump into his arms, the feeling of your skin against his. Your soft lips brushing against his neck. He’d want it all.

That would immensely creep you out. His intention would to never make you uncomfortable. So the pain only grew worse. Not being able to call you by your name. Hold you. Take in the surreal beauty that was Y/N.

His white fangs pressed against his bottom teeth. His blood boiled to the brim. He wanted to make that disgusting human pay for what he did. His stomach twirled in mixed emotion.

He so badly wanted to hold you in his chest and comfort you, but some things have complicated consequences.

In the low midst of the night he kept a sharp eye on the human who groggily made his way down the deserted dirt road, stalking the weak being beneath the depths of the dark forest.

Small boots could be heard from miles stretched along the black canvas of the open air, the human male scanning his surroundings for some place to rest or.. a possible shortcut that could lead him home.

Wyatt licked his dry lips breathing out slowly watching the human stand in the clearing with curiosity. ‘Kill him’. ‘He deserves to suffer for what he did’. ‘Y/N’. ‘Think of Y/N’. ‘Gut him’.

The imploding thoughts trying to take control of him. His pupils shrunk and turned a bright yellow his fangs grew from the K-9’s in his mouth. He breathed heavily and beast like trying to regain his composure. Sure, he thought of you.

How you would’ve told him ‘this is dangerous and could get you caught by wolf patrol don’t’. But, the monster side of her would’ve agreed with him. Could’ve given into the impulses.

Could’ve joined in on the eccentric thrill of gutting a human to their bones watching as blood came spitting out of their body, falling limp to the ground and squirming like a dead rabbit, until their last breath leaves the closure of their lungs.

But he bit down on the inside of his cheek hard and shoved the impulsive thoughts aside. He caught attention of the human stepping through the clearing, Wyatt swiftly disappeared behind a tree. (Thank his wolf stealth.)

He watching closely behind the large oak as the midnight sky lit up with thousands of glowing stars the bright moon floating still. His feet crunched under the small wood chips and loose dirt, which made Wyatt’s right ear twitch occasionally. 

The human was lost, he had reached up to a large clearing in the middle of the forest ‘maybe this will be a quicker way home’. He thought to himself as he squeezed his way through the thick pine trees that scratched his face and dark leather. Little did he know he wouldn’t be going home.

An owl called in the distance alarming the human. Shrugging it off he walked a few more feet bonfire stopping in the middle of the clearing an eerie feeling began to set it and shake throughout his body. Wyatt quickly ran behind the large oak tree causing the bushes to rustle.

The human quickly threw his head around to the source of the sound, Wyatt felt his heart pace quickly , quicker as each second passed.

The moonstone laid on Wyatt’s chest grew a bright blue his sharp K-9s’ growing to a slick point and his eyes glowing a bright deeming yellow.

A low growl erupted from his stomach the animalistic nature taking grasp of his human side. The human caught sight of a dark shadow peeking out from behind the tree. He bolted the other direction.

His breathing paced as his nimble legs carried him the south west end of the dark dreary forest. Mud crushed under his boots his lungs burning and heaving out of exhaustion. Wyatt was faster. He dodged past trees and bushes running at almost fifty miles.

His leg got caught on a sharp tree ranch nearby he knew that whatever was out to kill him was going to make it quick. He was scared. He pulled with force which caused the branch to cut into the soft flesh of his leg, blood seeped through the blue denim and into Wyatt’s nostrils.

Jumping over large rocks and the bushes he caught up to the human quickly grabbing him by his jacket he pushed to human to the ground and used the force of his arms to hold him in a pin.

The human breathed heavily his eyes widened in fear “please .... don’t hurt me”. He spoke weak like it was an excuse to let him go. Wyatt’s eyes glowed his lips formed a deep snarl.

“Let you go? And what, you continue raping other innocent women”. He whispered a deeply distorted voice replacing Wyatt’s usual calm manner. The monster had completely taken over. The human whimpered and squirmed like a dead animal.

A scream left the human’s mouth and soared above the trees as Wyatt bite deeply into the salty flesh. The blood was warm a large chunk of his skin hung off of Wyatt’s mouth before he spit it out discarding it.

The human grunted and moaned in pain shooting out lines of foul words. Wyatt smirked as he straddled the humans hips in place allowing him to not move.

In panic the human began to wail his arms, the young wolf felt his heart erupt in his chest. The watched as the human wailed in half death, he felt evincible.

The blood squirted and poured out of the human’s uncared wound. The blood tasted sweet in his mouth, a true delicacy.

About fifteen minutes after he threw the discarded bones into a six feet deep ditch he had dug after killing the human.

His mouth, arms, and clothes all drenched in the human’s bodily fluids and chunks of his flesh on his chest.

He smelt foul. He knew he did. He wanted to make sure you were okay but couldn’t come to you smelling like this.

He had walked the path he knew like the back of his hand spotting the small watering hole, he stood at the shore of the small lake the moon glowing brightly over him.

Taking off his fur coat he stripped himself of his purple hoodie before slowly bringing up his white tank top over his head revealing his broad v line, toned abs and chest stained with blood.

Unclasping his jeans he slide them down towards his knees kicking off his boots and white socks. Then came his boxers.

He engulfed himself in the lake slowly, it was freezing cold but was used to it. The water has risen up to the middle of his waist, he began to vigorously rub off the dried blood splashing cold water in his face and arms.

Dipping himself under the cold lake he rushed up and breathed out coughing. Moving his wet hair out of his face he caught sight of a dark shadowed figure that stood at the shore. He could’ve sworn it was you. Your pale skin glimmered beautifully under the moonlight.

He didn’t move a muscle, yet he waited to see what your next intention was. A robe you were wearing slowly feel to the ground as you now stood naked your gaze kept on his, you slowly entered the water.

Your figure made your way through the cold water, his eyes never leaving yours he was absolutely stunned. This had to be surreal.

Your hips moved in the water causing ripples to shift outwards, your brown eyes fluttered innocently. He stood in front of you awestricken, you were gorgeous.

He was scared that maybe if he had made one wrong move you’d leave, so there he stood motionless waiting for you to respond.

You were now in front of him, your naked glory he kept his eyes on you out of full curiosity. Your face inches away from his you guided his hands towards your side his warm arms wrapped securely around your waist.

The tension was lingering, his heart was pacing at an irregular pace questions swirling around in his mind but nonetheless, he wouldn’t change a thing.

The two of your lips met in pure bliss, moving in synchronization your fingernails traveling up the back of his neck and into his soft curls his hands gripping your hips lightly not wanting to hurt you without permission.

His lips trailed from your jaw and to your neck where he softly bite and sucked gaining small moans from you in response.

Heavy breathing and moans began to fall from your lips as he held you in his arms his nails digging into the sides of your hips causing you to squirm, the fingers of his right hand gently sliding over your folds.

Unfortunately for Wyatt, he awoke in a panic, his head was spinning and he was covered in blood. His brown eyes scanned his surroundings, the green trees a dim green and the woods ground wet and sloshy from the rain the night before.

It was a dream.

Fuck. It was a dream.

Shivers shot down his spine and throughout his body as he remembered the horny dream he had. God he wished it where real. He observed his clothing. He was drenched in blood. His whole body.

He pondered to himself in confusion then it clicked. After killing the human he had retreated back to the clearing and fell asleep after ... Waking up he knew aside from the perks of his wolf powers one downside was that wolves couldn’t remember events that happen after they detach from their human form.

He licked his chapped numb lips while his ears perked up, sirens could be heard from miles away, holy shit. The police had found his body. Quickly, he stood up and ran left towards large similar oaks trees, lucky for him he knew the woods so it was easy for him. 

Suddenly while his head was turned behind him making sure he wasn’t seen he quickly looked forward and collided with anther body a loud grunt slipped passed his lips as he fell on the hard soil, groaning. 

[delldarling]

forest vows | aspen iii

non-binary forest being x gender/body neutral reader 5100 words lemon | making out, multiple tongues, fingers, oral, size difference, sex pollen (but consent is Very Much still included) chapter one? or chapter two?

───── ❝ ❦ ❞ ─────

Winter makes one last desperate grab for spring, sinking lightning strikes like talons into rain heavy clouds. The days are still cold and gray, still better suited to thick jackets and staying off the roads, but green finally appears on bare tree limbs, sprouting and unfurling into bright shoots before you can blink. All you can think about is visiting Aspen now that the snow has stopped falling. The heavy scent of them has been lingering in the air, the faint sweetness of nectar and the crispness of greenery. You know from experience that it isn't the wisest decision though, running off into the heavily soaked trees all on your lonesome. Then again, you’re not sure you can make any claims to being wise when you’ve been dating a creature of the forest, brought into being by human feelings of love and affection. And lust.

You can’t forget about the lust.

The bloom that Aspen had dropped for you that first night fed on lust, just the same as them. Small and dainty, with a single stem, you’d brought it home and put it in water, charmed by the gesture. You hadn’t thought much of it for a few days. Hadn’t done more than give it a few glances, thoughts drifting to Aspen’s rumbling voice and slick tongues. It looked normal enough, but after a few days you’d noticed that it was still fresh, and after a week that it had grown.

Nervous, and wondering if you were going to have to tend to some kind of child-like Ent creature, you’d brought it back to Aspen a day later, but the sight of the thriving blossom had only made them laugh.

“This was meant to be a gift only. A reminder.” Aspen had bent, their branches creaking, threads of lichen getting caught on your shoulder as they prodded the petals. The bloom hadn’t moved, hadn’t grown or opened beady little eyes, but then Aspen had tilted their head to rest upon yours. A leaf sprouted along the stem when Aspen touched you, quickly followed by another bud. The motion had left you both enraptured, wide eyed and silent until it stopped growing. “As long as you desire me," Aspen had murmured, lowering their voice as their wooden mouth brushed your ear, "I believe it will remain fresh. Indeed, it may well grow larger.”

“Will it be sentient?”

“I know not,” they’d confessed, truthful. You hadn’t missed the teasing glint in the depths of their dark eyes though. “But I doubt it. Many of my blooms have dropped here through the years, but none have lingered for long.” Aspen had plucked the bloom out of your fingers and then had tucked it behind your ear. It had sprouted more leaves, had grown a small offshoot, but a day after you’d gone back home, it had… If not exactly withered, had returned to its original state. And then every time you’d been in the same room as the bloom, every time you’d even felt a hint of arousal, the flower had perked back up, had flourished like it had roots and the perfect soil. Until midwinter.

Aspen, for all intents and purposes, hibernated during the coldest months of the year. There had been little reason to try and stay awake when humans stopped coming to Makeout Point before you, but even with your presence and touch bolstering them, Aspen had begun to grow drowsy. Three days before midwinter, they’d barely been able to speak past cracking yawns, the moss and lichen on their shoulders and chest grown dry and brittle. The lack of them, of being able to look forward to seeing them, had put a damper on your spirits. And then the bloom going into stasis three days later had been a bit worse.

Winter felt like it lasted an age, but two days ago the little white flower had perked up again. You’d been walking past the small vase, lonely and lost in thought when the moving petals had caught your eye, reaching slowly towards the weak sunlight shining through the fogged windows. You’d assumed it had only been disturbed by a breeze until you’d reached for it, extending two fingers. The blossom had shot up, stem growing long until it bumped into your skin, Aspen’s heady scent filling up the room until you’d breathed deep and, overwhelmed, sneezed. You’d felt a bit silly asking the little plant if Aspen was awake, and even sillier when it hadn’t reacted in the slightest. There was little cause for doubting though, not after the flower had followed Aspen into its own rest, all you need to do now is wait.

But waiting is proving much harder than you want it to be. You miss Aspen, have been missing them and their rumbling laugh. You miss the way they can’t seem to stop stroking your cheek or your shoulder, eager to touch you, to have your attention. You’ve thought about them frequently through the winter, but that nectary taste is so heavy on the back of your tongue now, no matter what you drink, no matter how deeply you breathe in that it feels… Off. I should go, you tell yourself a few times a day, but as soon as you make it to your car, you find a handful of excuses to stop. To stay. The winter might have been long, but another week won’t hurt anything, will it?

Twice you drive halfway there, but the state of the roads always sends you back. Rain has been pouring from the sky, leaving the underbrush of all forested areas slogged with mud, and Makeout Point will be the worst of all. The normally well traveled paths are always dotted with leaf litter, and this time of year they’re likely to have puddles, floating with decaying leaves, unassumingly deep. All it would take is one misplaced step, your feet gliding through the slick mud, for chaos to reign. If Aspen is awake, they would most definitely attempt to help, but you can’t imagine a giant tree person carrying you back to your car without a few lingering consequences.

The rumors about Big Foot and wandering bears died down towards the end of November, but at best that would start them up again. At worst—well, you don’t really want to imagine the worst. Most of those thoughts have to do with mob mentality, and you can’t let yourself imagine that fallout without feeling sick.

You swallow, finding yourself back on the road to Makeout Point, heart beating a bit too fast. You don’t fight the urge to go this time. The flower had been much larger today, dotted with new buds and leaves, and all it had taken was a single inhale of the little thing to make you ache.

Even if all you do is spend a short time by Aspen’s side, you have to see them. Just to make sure they’re awake. Just to make sure they’re okay.

You’re clutching at the curved handle of your umbrella, rain splattering against the arch of water-proof material, as well as the sleeves of your zip-up hoodie, when you realize you may not have thought things through. Again. You look down at your feet, frowning at the amount of mud already caking your boots, and glance back up at the winding path disappearing through the trees. It would be smartest to head back, rather than risk a dangerous slip down a too-soft hill. Smarter to keep the visit short, rather than risk getting soaked through.

You think of the soft fan of Aspen’s fern-like eyelashes when they blink, and the way they shiver every time you press a kiss to the whorls on their cheek. They always turn to kiss you in the best way they know how, afterwards. A gentle tilt of their head, the slow, slick curl of one of their tongues around yours. You can taste the faint sweetness of them on your lips, can feel the pressure of their fingers on your back. You’ve already come this far out to see them. You can take a few minutes to give them a kiss, despite the chill and splatter of rain, can’t you?

The trail becomes worse as you go on, the rain having battered down the dirt in places where the branches overhead are thin. You have to hug the trunk of a twisted oak as you slip by one of the deeper puddles, fingers scrabbling at the craggy bark when a root proves too slippery. You don’t fall, but it’s a near thing, and your heart doesn’t thank you for the scare. Moving slower becomes necessary the longer you walk, searching out patches of thick moss to dry and wipe your boots on. Even on drier patches of dirt you’re still sliding with mud and leaves sticking to your boots. When you finally crest the small hill that leads to Makeout Point, you assume your impatience will wane, that this arduous ache will ease now that you know Aspen is close. Instead, it grows tenfold.

It’s cold outside, the rain is freezing, but as soon as you see the riot of fauna and moss crawling down the path, you feel terribly hot. It’s like you’ve been running a marathon in your winter clothes, like the umbrella is keeping the relief of the cold rain from your face.

You toss it aside, striding up the path, barely paying attention to the unsteadiness of your steps. You can still feel the mud sliding under your feet, you recognize the sensation of rocks and bits of dead branches catching in your boots, but none of that matters now that you’re here.

Makeout Point no longer looks like a mildly haunted hangout for people looking to bring a bit of a thrill back into their lives. The rough campground atmosphere has vanished in the wake of springtime. The sky overhead is still grey, still covered over with clouds, but they’re thinning, bathing the spot in the promise of sunshine soon to come. The fire pit, made of forest found stones or carefully cultivated bricks, is overgrown with ferns and green and purple leaved clover. Dainty white flowers are brilliant in the tide of greenery, drawing the eye like a meandering path of scattered stars. As gorgeous and awe-inspiring as Makeout Point currently looks, the calm feeling that you came here for, prior to Aspen finally deciding to speak to you, is utterly absent.

The humidity has risen, and sweat dots the back of your neck while you slowly creep closer, staring up at the ocean of thick leaves and blooms and buds swaying with the breeze. It’s always been shadowed, has always sported full branches, but this is almost overkill. The branches are so heavy with buds and new growth that they’re bowing, and the gentle weight of a single bird looks like it could make them snap. You breathe in deep, fumbling with your hoodie, eager to shrug out of it, when you finally turn and spot Aspen, standing straight and tall in their normal place.

They’re waking, the obsidian gleam of their eyes mildly unfocused as they blink. The horn-like branches on their head are draped so thoroughly with vines and thick leaves, and the blooms that match the one you have back home, that all you can bring yourself to do is stare. You’d thought that Aspen looked impossible the first time you’d seen them, a being so strange but artfully put together that surely they could be nothing but animatronic, something you would normally only ever see through a movie screen. A creature pulled straight out of someone's imagination.

“Lovely,” they say, and their name for you reaches right down into your depths. Your bones, you realize, have felt like kindling placed too close to the fire, and Aspen’s voice is the bright burst of heat that finally makes everything pop. They take a step away from their spot, caught midway between two towering redwoods, and half the branches overhead seem to come with them. They have to pull free of a net of vines, so thickly overgrown that when the vines and loose branches fall, and they do, scattering like a strong storm has passed through, you have to skip back a few steps to avoid being caught in the deluge. You suck in a breath, almost choking on the sweet taste of them as your eyes catch on their shoulders. The tiny mushrooms that had dotted them all through autumn have grown, tall and thick, and faintly yellow or white, and then there are shelves of them trailing down Aspen’s biceps, edges gone periwinkle blue.

They cross the little clearing in a handful of steps, swooping you up into their arms and cradling you against their chest. The thunder of their movement startles near-by birds into screeching and taking flight, branches snapping as they take off, and then Aspen turns in place. They’re a walking, talking tilt-a-whirl that leaves you breathless until you rap your knuckles against the least green covered spot you can find, closing your eyes to try and keep them from stinging.

“St-stop spinning!” You gasp and the world jolts to a halt, leaving you blinking and panting. Aspen is ripe with the scent of growing things, and it feels like you’ve been rolling through a field absolutely chock full of sweet smelling flowers and the tang of pine. If you thought Aspen made you weak kneed before, with their scent and taste and rumbling voice, it’s nothing as to now. You’re overheated and happy to see them, and blood is rushing to all the right places—but your wanting is so terribly strong that it still leaves you feeling off kilter.

“I have to ask,” you get out, doing your best to breathe through your mouth. It doesn’t help much, you can still taste everything on the back of your tongue, can see their wooden jaw lowering, writhing tongues just barely visible. “In Spring, your… You said once, that I made you feel like Spring when—”

“Ahh,” Aspen murmurs, and then very, very gently, lowers you back to your feet. They keep hold of your shoulder until you’re standing straight, and only then do they take a few careful steps away.

The space is a little maddening, even though you’d been hoping for it so you could get your head in order. You have to swallow to keep from following after them, to tamp down the urge to move your feet and instead make your mouth speak. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing where you come from,” you say with a wry laugh, clutching tightly at your sweater sleeves. “...Does, has your presence always been a kind of aphrodisiac in spring-time? Or is that just with me?”

Aspen flutters those little fern eyelashes, slowly crouching, elbows resting on their knees. Considering. “Perhaps it has been. I don’t intentionally give back what was given to me, but it’s hardly outside the realm of possibility.”

And it might well explain why, even after it became a little less cool to wander through the forest rather than head to the movies, couples still continued to flock here. You’d noticed that Aspen had fed from your pleasure, had bloomed every time you kissed or touched, so it isn’t entirely a surprise to know that they feed upon others. Granted, in a much less hands on kind of way.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Aspen asks, reaching for you, and then thinking better of it. Their long, branch-like fingers curl, hesitating before dropping back to their side. “While I am wonderfully glad to see your face, Lovely, if you want to leave—”

You wave away their words, closing your eyes to see if that will help with anything. The ache of yearning for them is still very much present, but you’ve yearned for their touch since the night you first had it. It’s stronger now, but you were still able to reason through it enough to ask. You were still able to stop yourself and think before stripping off your clothes. You forget to breathe through your mouth though, and that sweet scent makes you shudder, makes your mouth grow terribly dry and then fill with saliva to overcompensate. If you stay, or if you wait and come back when the height of spring has passed, what will change? You’ll still want Aspen. Still crave their company and the refuge that their home has become. You’ll still want their touch. You’re just… A little more horny than normal right now, and a little more willing to speak about it.

“Not leaving,” you finally say, blinking your eyes open when one of their fingers presses against your shoulder. You’re swaying forward, most of your weight balanced against their precarious hold. “I want- I want to stay, but I have to tell you: All I can think about is getting out of my clothes.” Whether the statement might have shamed you normally or not doesn’t seem to matter. The words are so overwhelmingly true that a weight vanishes from your shoulders, decision made. You do your best to slow your movements though, trying to straighten your stance as you lift both hands to grab hold of their arm. Your fingertips brush over the spongy edge of a mushroom on their forearm, and another mushroom promptly pops into existence right next to your hand.

“Oh, good,” Aspen says, reaching out for you with both hands now. You let them lead you close, let them lift your feet onto the bend of their knee, leaving you within range of their mouth. “I dreamed of you while I slept,” they confide in you, and the deep rumble of their words makes your knees want to buckle.

Even with the heavy humidity pressing in on you from all sides, making your back faintly damp with sweat and pushing your hands to quest for zippers and buttons, your brain is still working. A flicker of half recalled knowledge about dreams clamors for attention. If they were dreaming of you, if Aspen is more akin to humans that either of you think, their dreams were recent, had in the moments or days just before waking. Maybe that was why the bloom grew, why it started budding, why whenever you breathed in the faint scent of nectar, you started to ache for the lack of them. “And what did I do in these dreams?”

For a single second, Aspen looks abashed, ducking their head close enough for you to press a kiss upon. Their eyes fall closed when you brush your lips on their face. Your hoodie comes off, tossed over your shoulder to land somewhere upon the carpet of multicolored clovers. “Shall I tell you? Or would you rather I show you?”

There it is. Their mouth opens, a single fingertip finding your chin. It’s softer than normal and cool compared to the normally temperate feeling of their wooden body, and you have a split second to glance down and see that those blue edged mushrooms are growing along the length of their finger. Then Aspen is tilting your head back to kiss you. Like the first kiss you’d shared, they start out slow. A single, sticky-sweet tendril traces your lips until you part them and then slips into your mouth to curl around your tongue. You suck on it, hands pausing in their overeager quest to strip off your clothes. You want to brace yourself against Aspen’s face, to press your hands to their chin as you roll your tongue, arousal flooding you so fiercely that you can barely breathe. You forget about your clothes entirely when you tilt your head back a little more, gasping as another one of those thin green tongues flicks out to touch your lower lip. Aspen’s hand, gentle in the middle of your back until now, curls around your torso, fingertips pressing a little uncomfortably into your ribs. They groan, in that lovely, low tone of theirs, the noise filling you up with a gentle, steady vibration until you wonder if you could get off on that alone.

You pull back, just trying to get a hint of space to breathe, but Aspen chases after you, more green tendrils flicking against your lips and trying to slip into your mouth until you gasp out for them to slow. You tip your head to rest against theirs, breathing hard and smiling too wide, and then get back to the business of shedding your clothing. Aspen’s grip on you trembles, but they allow you the space to shuck what feels like yards of material, fingers tensing like they half want to help. They tried, just the once, in the very middle of November, thumb and forefinger pinching at the end of your sleeve. They’d been careful, truly, but Aspen had still moved a little too fast, a little too sure. They’d split the seams of one of your jackets at the arm and then nearly dropped you in fright. For both your sakes, it’s better that you handle most of your own clothing. Now they just stick to watching. You can catch the vague shape of yourself in the dark mirror of their eyes, and can feel the soft wind of their breath on your quickly bared skin.

“Is all of this you?” You ask, looking away when your face becomes a little too clear in their large eyes. Makeout Point is rife with plants now, and looks more like humans haven’t been in the area for decades as opposed to a single winter. A cool drop of water splashes onto your shoulder from the crown of greenery still circling their horn-like branches. You jump, and Aspen reaches out to swipe the scattered droplets away with their finger while you unlace your boots and push your clothes down your hips. “The new growth. The flowers.”

Aspen hums, turning their finger until the new blue tinged mushrooms drag over your skin, leaving behind a trail that tingles, even after they’ve stopped. “I suspect so. I’ve never been quite so ardent in my dreams of spring as I was this year. But then I’ve never gone to my dreaming knowing I may well wake to your Lovely face.” The end of their finger comes to a stop in the hollow of your throat, eyes dropping to watch you swallow, to watch your pulse speed faster. You shake one of your legs, letting your boot drop to the ground and clothes slide down your skin. You switch, uncaring about the muddy boot print you’re putting your foot back down on. The other boot and the rest of your clothes drop to the ground. The chill in the air is all but gone, or what senses you have that would notice it have been overwhelmed by lust alone. The press of your thighs, the warmth of your own skin, is enough to make you want to slide your hand down yourself. As impatient as you are though, you want Aspen’s touch more. You tilt back your head again, reaching out to rest your hands against their jaw—and pause.

“After this, the growing is going to get a little out of hand, isn’t it? Will I still be able to make it through when it comes time to leave?”

It takes a fair amount of effort for Aspen to drag their eyes away from you, but they make a quick glance around Makeout Point, noting the shiver in the still moving plants. “I won’t let the forest cage you,” Aspen promises and then huffs when you grab hold of one of the dangling vines twisted about the branches on their head. They let you tug, let you pull their attention back to you, and their eyelids lower as you tilt back your head for another kiss. When Aspen’s vine-like tongues curl around your tongue this time, there’s more than just the one. They angle their head to the side, pale green shoots tracing your lips before pushing into your mouth with the others. Aspen doesn’t choke you, leaves plenty of room to breathe, but it’s still a little overwhelming, have that many vines snaking into your mouth. They twist and writhe against your tongue, drag over the edges of your teeth like they enjoy the sensation, and desperate ache for them grows stronger, until it feels like you shouldn’t need to breathe. Aspen picks you up off their knee, a deep rumble echoing through their chest when you keep hold of them.

They’re slower even than they were the first time, without the cushion of your clothes to keep your skin from pressing too hard on some of their fingers. They cradle your back and neck and head with one hand, while the other curls around your hips and thighs as they stand up straight. The rush of movement is strange when you’re still holding onto their face, still sucking on their tongues, eyes closed, but you don’t care about it right now. You trust them, and nerves have been pushed far to the wayside when you want them so badly that every inch of you feels like it’s on fire.

There’s a gentle pressure as they urge you to open your legs, but you barely need the prompting. You part your thighs willingly, gasping when they finally pull their mouth away from yours, tongues flickering over the hollow of your throat and along your collarbone. You expect them to lift you higher, to angle you towards their mouth as their tongues are still sliding down your chest. Instead Aspen’s thumb, ridged with those blue edged mushrooms, drags over the top of your thigh. That tingling feeling spreads over your skin and then your legs start to shake as the mushrooms press between your legs, soft and growing warm from your own body heat. The tingling sensation turns sharp as they stroke their thumb gently over you, and you can’t help but whimper when they drag the gills of the mushroom down to your ass and then back up. You can’t see what it looks like with their head in the way, Aspen’s fern eyelashes closed as their tongues curl and pluck at one of your nipples, but it's starting to feel like the mushrooms must be secreting something slick. The next drag of their thumb, the tip of it pressing into you, makes you arch and moan. You reach back to grasp at the finger bracing your head, legs shaking as you get closer to orgasm and then Aspen pauses, one of their tongues fluttering over the edge of their wooden mouth.

“Did you dream of me, Lovely?” They ask, but not entirely like they expect you to answer. “Was that why you rushed to see me when spring dawned?”

“Yes,” you gasp, immediately. That was partially why you came, but every inch of you is hot, and you’re still right on the precipice of coming. It’s too hard to cobble together a coherent sentence.

Aspen’s thumb pushes and turns and then your eyes are rolling into the back of your head as you come, breath leaving your lungs in a harsh, almost painful gasp. Their mouth finds you as you do, slick, sticky vines pushing into you alongside their mushroom ridged thumb. They drink down your pleasure, moaning when your thighs tremble against their face. They don’t seem to notice when you dig your fingernails into the smooth wood of their skin, they just keep moving, the pressure of their tongues and thumb leaving you full and clenching as you finally whimper. “Fuck, fuck, fu- Aspen! Aspen, I’m-” You buck against their face, noise dying on your parted lips as that only presses them deeper. You kick out your leg, bare toes brushing over the moss on their shoulder, but that only makes Aspen adjust their hold.

Maybe it’s because it’s spring time, or because yearning for you has been building up in them as steadily as it had for you during the winter, but even after you stop shaking, even after your legs go limp, Aspen isn’t quite done. Their thumb pulling out of you makes your back bow again, and then they turn you over. You’re on your stomach in their giant hands, Aspen’s tongues filling you up over and over again before you breathlessly ask for them to cease. Your legs feel like jelly, and that strange, hot ache has finally ebbed.

When you blink, glancing around the circle of trees, it looks like the forest has erased all signs of humanity. Vines are thick and tangled over every inch of the area, laced between trees. Ferns peek out from the ground, and those pale, white blossoms are scattered around the area like wedding petals. Aspen’s next lick is gentle, cleaning rather than fucking, and you shudder in their hold.

“I don’t know if I want to leave,” you mumble, tired and sated. “I missed you something awful.”

There’s a creaking noise and then you clutch at their fingers as they sit, flowers and leaves puffing up into the air and raining back down. Aspen carefully turns you to sit on their thigh, arranging you against their midsection until you’re lounging and grinning for all their effort. “...shall I come with you?” They ask, and when you glance up at them their head is tilted to the side. “While I know you will return now, it’s always difficult to part.” Aspen hesitates and then places a fingertip to your lips, eyes filling with pleasure when you kiss it tiredly.

You’ve watched them turn back into nothing more than a tree in the presence of others, and… And a bigger yard would be nice. A backyard, you amend, thinking of neighbors catching sight of a moving tree, or simply noting the fact that a tree has switched places somehow overnight. “Not yet,” you say, trying and failing to hold back your grin. “I think the park rangers and the rest of the town might notice if you were following my car back to my house. But… But soon. I would like that.”

Aspen hums again, that deep rumbling noise making you warm a fraction. “Simply tell me when, Lovely, and I will always follow,” Aspen vows, and plucks your hoodie out of the nest of vines. They spread it over you like a blanket and a spiral of flowers blooms along their forearm.

...Maybe you should just find a house out in the middle of the forest.

───── ❝ ❦ ❞ ─────

[hs-devote]

láthi: the unwritten truth

Moodboard * Content * Masterlist

Disclaimer:

All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows.

the completed series here

*

the unwritten truth

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“You don't have to ask twice.”

“Fine then.” it sighs, “ Who are you going to sacrifice?”

“She was the Goddess of the Moon. Selene.”

. . . .

One year later..

“It's so sad the Goddess died after a year of torture. Plus, her husband sentenced her to prison.”

“Do you know what caused the Goddess to die at such a young age?”

“I heard rumours that she was cursed?"

“How could she die from being cursed? No one in the realm could hurt the royal family.”

“Ladies, it would be respectful if you didn't talk nonsense about your God and Goddess.”

The maids wince, terrified when Harry's advisor caught them gossiping in the kitchen. Feeling embarrassed, they quickly return to their work and praying he doesn't report them to the God.

“You're lucky that I won't report you to His Majesty,” he announces, “Go get to work.”

The all women nod as the advisor leaving them alone. While they get back to their work, Arion, the advisor, immediately goes to Harry who's in his study. When he arrives, he sees the door slightly ajar and knocks on it, walking in when the God allows him.

“Is there any good news, Your Majesty?" Arion asks after he bends down, looking at the distressed God behind his oak table.

“Is that creature still exist?” Harry hums, his eyes never leaving the old book in his hand.

“What creature, Your Majesty?”

Harry sighs, closes the book tiredly and put it on the table. "I saw an odd mark on Selene's neck, and it disappeared just before the cremation ceremony began. It was an ancient mark that belongs to mythical creatures, according to this book." he points at the book, "As far as I know, the mythical creatures vanished when Centauri attacked Sicily far centuries ago."

“So, you think Her Majesty's death has something to do with them?”

“I don't want to think like that, but that mark makes me uneasy." Harry scratches his temple, "They should be extinct, right?"

“I heard one rumour, Your Majesty." Arion starts, "When the chaos broke out, some of the survivors chose to negate their physical and returned to where they were born. And some of them had extraordinary power."

“If what you think is true, you have to find them. If there are humans who know its existence, they will know the truth about our realm.”  he adds, looking at Harry respectfully who's now listening to him carefully, “Whose mark is it?”

“Cerberus.”

“Belonged to the God of Dead,” Arion whispers, “Do you think it inherited its owner power?”

“I don't know, Arion.” Harry sighs, “But for sure, I have to find the truth.” . . . .

It never occurred to Ilitia that she would do such a thing like this the first time in her life, and she vowed to be last time too.

Right now, she was standing in the middle of a Parthenon, under the starry night of Corinth, eyes deadly looking at a figure that only she could see. A few meters in front of them, lay a woman on a stone table, looking beautiful and peaceful in her forever sleep. Looking at her dead granddaughter, she realised that she had travelled this far and didn't want her efforts to fail.

“It's my honour to able to see you again, Carmenta."

“It's been a long decade, is it?”

“I heard you were in Sicily,” its stepped closer, “What brought you here?”

“My granddaughter was killed by order of a Goddess–”

“How come?”

Ilitia bit her lips, not sure if she should tell the chronology. But if she refused, it wouldn't help her. Right then, she had to choose the right word.

“She was carrying the Goddess' husband child. Long story short, the Goddess found out and order her guards to killed my granddaughter.”

“She was impregnated by a God?” it raised its head, “You're not making it up, are you?”

“The Goddess couldn't conceive because of a curse, and her husband went down to Earth to find me. Instead, he met my darling Y/N and they fell in love. The God cheated behind his wife, yes, and.. they constantly having sexual intercourse until Y/N got pregnant." she starts, "We all do know that no God can impregnate a human. But, that was the fate."

“And when the Goddess find out about that, she was terrified that her husband would have an heir to the throne from someone else?” it continued Ilitia's story and was agreed by the woman.

“Is that the Centauri crown?”

“Yes.”

“How tragic.”

“Because of that, I came here to ask your help to bring my Y/N back because she doesn't deserve to die this way." Ilitia whispers, "I'll do anything for her, and help Centauri to have an heir to the throne. After all, the Goddess couldn't give an heir and my granddaughter has the right to find her happiness, even with a God."

“You know that the price isn't easy, do you? What do you prepare for this?”

“A life for a life.” Ilitia deadpanned, “It's a fair price to trade my granddaughter's life.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“You don't have to ask twice.”

“Fine then.” it sighs, “ Who are you going to sacrifice?”

“The Goddess of the Moon. Selene."

. . . .

This is the second time Harry has visited this mountain peak, a place where used to be the hideout of previous Gods and Goddesses, the place believed to be the hideout of the mythical creaturesor even a born place. The mountain is very beautiful when the sun shines on Earth, but quite scary when the eerie silent echoed after the night sky appears.

The God doesn't know where to start, and this mission reminds him of his arrival to Syracuse nearly two years ago, making him remember his darling Y/N. He misses her so much, and it hurts his soul. If he knew where Y/N's grave was, at least he could visit her and loving on her even if he only could touch her tombstone.

“Mount Olympus feels quite different." Arion says next to him, his eyes stare at the endless mountain slope.

For this chance, Harry decided to bring Arion with him because he knows this mission isn't easy. And surely as his advisor, Arion can help him and give him advise since the man has studied mythical creatures.

“Cerberus is a dog. There's no way it stays on the top of a mountain, right? Too risky if humans see it." Harry mumbles, "If it only visible."

“Let's get down to the ground then, Your Majesty.”

Harry nods, and in a split second, he's setting foot in the valley. Then, they begin to explore, hoping to find any sign of Cerberus. The two of them always checked every cave or spot that could potentially be a possible residence for that giant creature.

It had taken them nearly four hours and the night had almost turned to dawn, but they had found nothing. Harry is quite desperate, and thinking they have come to the wrong place.

“Any luck?” Harry asks after Arion appeared in front of him, only for Harry get another disappointment when Arion shakes his head no.

“Did we come to the wrong place?”

“I'm– ”

In all of sudden, the air around them feels stifled and the wind feels hot even though the sun hasn't yet risen. Harry also realises that the grass they were trampling on was shrivelled at once. Something feels strange.

“It's strange..” Arion looking around, “Something happened.”

“Something comes,” Harry corrects him, “Something comes closer, still hiding from us.”

“Show yourself!” Harry shouts, “We came in peace! Just looking for something!”

The hot wind getting stronger and stronger, until a bolt of red lightning swooped down in front of him. Now, Harry can see clearly what appears before him. A giant three headed-dogs, its body glows slightly reddish. It has a serpent tail, along with snakes protruding from it back. Its glowing red eyes look annoyed at being disturbed. The Cerberus looks intimidating than he thought.

“Why are you looking for me, Your Majesty?” it smirks, showing it canines coating with saliva, “Why are you bothering me at my stay?”

“I apologies if I disturb your sleep,” Harry answers, “I didn't know that you were survived and hiding here.”

“We don't want humans to see me, do we?” it argues, “Even though I'm invisible.”

“Why didn't you go back to Centauri?”

“My master was dead, I couldn't go back without an owner. Besides, it's more peaceful here if I go back to your realm." it scoffs, "What do you want? The sun is almost rising, and I can't let anyone see me."

“My wife has died, and I saw your mark on her neck.” Harry points out his serpent tail, “Do you have anything to do with her death?”

“Your wife died? How unfortunate.” Cerberus mocks, “If someone is destined to die, then she must die.”

“I just want to know why you killed her, Cerberus.” Harry seethes, “You have no right to the life of a God or Goddess.”

“Despite her death lightened your burden, Your Majesty?” Cerberus arches its eyebrow, “And set you free? You should thank me, anyway.”

“I know you inherited your master's power but you can't kill her like that. She has nothing wrong against you.”

“Yet she has done sins and be cunning." Cerberus nods, "And now if I may ask you, how do you feel after your manipulative wife gone forever? As far as I know, a God and Goddess cannot be divorced if it's not death."

“Your Majesty, he knows too much.” Arion mutters under his breath, “Do you– ”

“Advisor, I didn't ask you to speak.” Cerberus growls then averts its gaze to Harry, “You once planned to do annulment but it couldn't be done because the court said a ruler must still have a wife.”

“How did you know?” Harry challenges, “Why did you know everything?”

“A bird told me," it stares boldly at him, "And I started to think, her death is something I can be proud of because she's the rightest person.”

Harry frowns. Something feels out of place with what it said and bothering him. And those question being thrown at him, he could easily answer them. Yet, he couldn't. After all, he still loves Selene even though he also hates her. Selene is his wife who was always there for him. Of course he was sad to know that the woman died in prison after she had been sick for a year.

“What did you mean with the rightest?”

“A year ago, someone came and beg me to help bring someone's life back. They're family, tho. This old woman said that her granddaughter died innocently and wanted her granddaughter to come back to her life. It was not an easy task and there must be a price to pay. When she mentioned the sacrifice, I was quite baffled that she prepared another life. Well, I didn't kill the sacrifice right away, I tortured them first by sucked their life slowly before the death calling their name."

“Selene was being sacrificed? Who dared to do that? Did you not aware that you overstepping our rules?!" Harry's voice boomed, angry at what he had just heard. How could someone risk Selene's life just to bring back a dead person?

“You let a human order you to kill a Goddess? Really?" he hisses, "How sick of that!"

“She was right, you're quite stupid too apparently." Cerberus rolls its eyes.

“Cerberus, I order– "

“You're just an advisor, and you're just a guest in my stay. I do not belong to the Centauri so I don't take orders from anyone." Cerberus cuts Arion off, "You think I'm stupid enough to do that for humans? Have you forgotten that only your people can see me?”

While Arion stares at Cerberus confused, Harry begins to think and digest every single word that came out from the creature from the beginning.

No way...

“Carmenta came to me to help her with Y/N, and she traded her granddaughter's life over your wife's.” . . . .

His heart is pounding like crazy, almost like about to burst through his ribcage. He cannot believe it, his darling Y/N is back to life. His Y/N is safe and sound. His Y/N is free from Selene's torture. It feels so long from the last time he saw her, he really missed her and couldn't wait to see her. There are millions of questions running through his head for him to ask Y/N and Ilitia.

How could?

How is she?

Did she miss him?

Will Ilitia allow him to meet her?

When Cerberus revealed the truth, he couldn't think straight. All he had in mind was Y/N, Y/N, and Y/N only. He had to find her as soon as possible. Despite he had to beg on his knees to Cerebus which made Arion widened his eyes; asking where the last time it met Ilitia was, it was worth it.

And now, here he is, in Corinth. His long wait ends in one of the cities on the seafront of Greece. Of course, Ilitia couldn't possibly stay in Syracuse anymore, she started fresh in Corinth with Y/N. With Arion went back to Centauri, Harry feels freer to get Y/N.

Well, his search for his true love isn't an easy thing. It's been two days and he hasn't found her yet and plans to rent a house longer if it takes a long time because it's impossible to go back and forth to Centauri. Whatever it takes, Harry has to find her.

“Why is it so hard to find you, Y/N?" he mutters while looking endless of Corinth's sea, "I miss you so much, do you miss me too?"

She's here, Your Majesty

Your happy ending

Your long wait

Harry was enjoying the sea breeze so much that he didn't realise he'd been daydreaming on the shore for too long. He already spent hours tiredly finding Y/N and it seems that his efforts should be even harder tomorrow.

When he decided to leave the beach and return to his rented house, he swears that his eyes are playing a trick on him. About twenty meters away from him, he sees the woman he was looking for is staring at the open sea in front of her, both hands on her dress pockets with her bare feet in the water.

She looks even more beautiful.

She looks healthy.

She looks perfect.

And finally, he finds her.

Without a second thought, Harry runs to her – afraid that she will vanish like when he saw her in his castle. He doesn't want to be late, and he doesn't want to lose her again.

When his body crashes on her and his strong arms wrapped around her body, Harry feels home.

He's too happy because it feels real, he shed tears of happiness when he feels her warm and alive body. Then, he breaks the hug and cupping her face with both his palms, adoring the beautiful face in front of him. Admiring the woman who's staring at his teary green eyes.

“It' you. You're here.” he sobs, “You're here with me. You're back. You're alive. You're safe.”

“I miss you so much and it hurts my soul.” he gently strokes her cheek, “How are you, my darling?”

Yet, what Y/N said to him make his smile fade away, “Who are you?” . . . .

“You know, when someone's life is being exchanged, the life does return. But, as pure life. So, your granddaughter's will start a fresh life. She won't remember anything, but the basic abilities like speaking, writing, reading, and so on won't be erased. So, you will have extra effort to help her adjust."

“I understand,” Ilitia nods “She was pregnant before. Will the baby come back too?”

Cerberus shakes its head, "No. If you want her baby to come back, you have to prepare one more God or Goddess life to trade because he has a God's blood running on him."

“How do you know her child is going to be a boy?”

“Mythical creatures always know, Carmenta.”

. . . . “Why did you do that, Ilitia?” Harry asks.

After the shock he got when Y/N admitted she didn't know him, Harry couldn't believe it at all. Yet, he let out a relief huff when Ilitia approached them and didn't look surprised at all, and invited Harry to talk at their house. And along the way, he stole a glance at Y/N who walked next to Ilitia, looking so confused yet curious about his presence.

“Honestly? I refused my innocent granddaughter to be killed your wife, Harry. She had done nothing wrong, but you and your wife.”

“Me?” Harry frowns, his eyes looking around for caution if Y/N hear them since Ilitia asked her to wait in her bedroom, “I have nothing to– ”

“Your ignorance, your selfishness. If you're smart enough, you could prevent this all.” Ilitia scowls, “You couldn't choose between her and Selene, and you didn't want to lose one of them. Sadly, your behaviour made you lose both of them. Also, your future child.”

“I know you resent me so much, Ilitia. But, I truly sorry for all this mess. What I feel towards her is real." he gives her apologetic look, "I just want to fix everything."

“Of course, that's why you came here all the way from Centauri.” Ilitia shrugs, “Besides, this is my way to make her happy and help my old home to have a better future.”

“Centauri is always be your home, Ilitia." he reassures her, "After all, Y/N will needs if she comes home with me.”

“How confident of you.” Ilitia chuckles, “If so, you have to start over as if you just know each other since she doesn't remember you. And win her heart if you have chosen your destiny.”

Harry nods as Ilitia gets up from her couch, calling Y/N to meet them both in the living room. While waiting for her, Harry starts to get nervous and his hand begin to sweat, too overwhelmed by the happiness. When Y/N appears in front of him, Ilitia who's standing behind her granddaughter smiling to the old yet new couple, "Mia cara, this Harry. Maybe you didn't remember him but you were so close with him, he just come home from his overseas trip.” and strokes Y/N arms lovingly, “Just introduce yourself as the beginning, he would understand.”

“I haven't introduced myself yet.” Harry offers his hand for Y/N to take, smiling fondly. “My name's Harry”

The girl smiles and shakes his hand softly, “Hi, Harry. I'm Y/N.”

Just like the first time.

*

[away-from-anthills]

chapter three-

(prologue) (chapter one) (chapter two)

Although WindClan was the closest of all the Clans to it, the road to Fourtrees had never seemed longer.

The thick-barked trees seemed to stare down at Antstar as he led WindClan towards the hollow. On one side of him was Whitetooth, always looking ahead and always alert; on the other side was Russetfoot, who Antstar had decided to make his deputy almost as soon as he had returned from the Moonstone when he had received his nine lives.

A shiver scattered down his spine as he remembered the events that had happened after the last gathering. Rainleap gone, in an instant; a Clan suddenly left midair after being thrown off the cliff. And yet in all the turmoil, he had risen triumphant.

Or at least that was the impression he had gotten. He was supposed to feel triumphant, wasn’t he?

It had been a long ladder for Antstar to climb from Clanless kit to leader of all of WindClan, but he was beginning to realize at the top that he had a fear of heights.

Eventually, Fourtrees began to come into view, and Antstar could identify the four feline figures who sat at the Great Rock. All of them- even Currantstar, although he had only been leader for about twelve moons- seemed so used to it all, not even reacting to the leagues of chatter that surrounded them. It was as if their paws had melded with the granite below them.

“And I thought ShadowClan was bad with being late…” Pigeonstar’s coarse tone rang out above the crowd. The blue-gray tom was sporting a new scar that framed his left cheekbone.

“WindClan will be here soon enough,” said Tulipstar reassuringly. She had a tangy quality to her voice- not hostile, but not exactly warm either, like a mentor about to take their apprentice to a rigorous day of battle training. “I’ve heard rumors that something’s happened to them. Surely Shalestar will tell us.”

Shalestar. That was another thing. How was Antstar going to explain all that? Rainleap and Shalestar, both dead in the span of a month.

Part of him worried the others would think he killed him.

WindClan dispersed into the clearing, blending into the crowds. Spiderpaw was, very clearly, trying her best to not brag about her mentor now being the Clan leader. Toadpool and Webwhisker were striking a pleasant conversation with a dark red tabby tom from RiverClan with tufted ears. Adderthorn, a rather reclusive WindClan cat, kept to herself, although her gaze seemed to be fixed on a small dark brown tom from ShadowClan who had a marbled coat.

“Come, Antstar.” Whitetooth, with Marblepaw by their side, led Antstar through the gathering crowd, weaving in and out of the clouds of conversation. Eventually, they reached the medicine cats, who were having a friendly debate about whether yellow or orange marigold was more effective.

“I leave you here.” They pointed their tail at the top of the rock, where an empty spot sat between Tulipstar and Currantstar. “Best of luck. May StarClan look upon your first gathering with smiling faces.”

With a bit of effort, Antstar leapt onto the rock. He was surprised at how smooth the summit was- as if generations of pawsteps had carved it.

“Greetings, Antstep.” Tulipstar bowed her head.

Currantstar, however, looked a tad more confused. “Have Shalestar and Rainleap taken ill? I wouldn’t expect Shalestar to skip a Gathering. That old workhorse would go even in downpour…”

Antstar stammered. “I…”

He looked to Whitetooth for a second, who gave him an encouraging nod. He then looked to the other leaders. Their eyes felt like hot coals launching towards him.

But he would have to say it now.

“…Shalestar and Rainleap both passed away this prior moon.”

A sudden commotion hit the Gathering. Cats of the other Clans looked to their WindClan acquaintances in shock; WindClan simply nodded their heads and sighed.

“Both of them? How?” Pigeonstar’s eyes narrowed as his face twisted itself from comprehension into a scowl.

“On the way back from the last Gathering, there was an accident involving a monster. Shalestar appointed me as deputy in his stead-“ -he shot a quick glance into the crowd, seeking approval- “-and he passed away of illness not long after. We in WindClan mourn them both greatly, and have spent the past moon grieving for them.”

Pigeonstar, however, looked unconvinced. “How do we know you didn’t kill them?”

Antstar felt ill, unsheathing his claws to keep himself from falling off the Great Rock from dizziness. But the SkyClan leader continued, fashioning himself the great detective. “For all we know, you could have killed Rainleap, made it look like an accident, have Shalestar elect you as deputy, and then kill him, too!” He drew his lips in a snarl. “And it doesn’t help that cats of your kind don’t become WindClan leader so easy.”

But then, Currantstar stepped forward. “Many of us in ShadowClan are not Clan-born, like Antstar here. One of my medicine cats, Rosettepelt, is among them, and she is one of the most gifted healers we know.” He advanced forward towards Pigeonstar, his gaze steady and stern. “So if you want to remain on positive terms with us, I suggest you watch it.”

Pigeonstar seemed as if he were about to say something, but reason got the better of him.

“Furthermore, my friends,” started Whitetooth from the medicine cat crowd, “I can assure you that Antstar speaks truth. I prepared both bodies and aided Shalestar in his final hours. As he lay dying, he was content with his choice in Antstep.”

There was a low murmur throughout the Gathering discussing the death of the old leader. Even though Antstar tried not to, he bent his ears towards the crowd to get a better listen.

“Well,” said Pigeonstar, “we have no proof he didn’t kill Shalestar, now, do we?”

Currantstar and Tulipstar looked unconvinced as they looked over the Burmese tom in front of them. “You realize Antstar was Shalestar’s own apprentice, Pigeonstar,” added Tulipstar dryly. “And Shalestar took quite the liking to him.”

Tatteredstar of ThunderClan, however, was studying him, very very deeply, like she was inspecting the double barrel of a rifle she was about to stuff with gunpowder. Finally, she stepped back. The massive molly sat down, her expression unchanged as always.

“I don’t think the boy killed Shalestar.” She spoke in a thick ThunderClan drawl. “But we shouldn’t underestimate him.” She paused, as if she was taking the moment to rehearse her thoughts to herself. “He’s got killer between his eyes.”

Killer in his eyes. Antstar felt unsettled. Killer? What does she mean? And why-

But the other leaders simply seemed to nod, as if a silent agreement had been reached that they shouldn’t further push Antstar.

Perhaps they all had killers dancing in their eyes.

Pigeonstar seemed to back off, although he didn’t look pleased.

“Is there any other news in WindClan to report?” asked Tulipstar.

“…There is nothing else to report.”

Antstar stepped back, and Tatteredstar began to prepare herself to speak. Tatteredstar’s mere presence alone made Antstar feel weaker. Tatteredstar was an almighty oak; massive, muscular, battle-scarred and a pillar of her Clan, he was a mere dandelion, who bent over and crumpled in the slightest breeze, beside her. Having a good look at her didn’t help. He saw more scars on her now than he ever had before- across her face, across her flank, even down her legs. Her claws were off-white and long, jutting out from the tufts of fur betwixt her toes, and while her fur was generally well-groomed, a mat or two seemed just under the surface in the ruff of fur around her neck. She had two bottom fangs that stuck out; they had yellowed in their years of exposure and her bottom lip seemed to have shaped itself around them. Her tail was short, compared to her body, and it would not surprise Antstar if she had lost part of it in the throes of battle. Her big, yellow eyes, which were surrounded by oily discharge that discolored her fur, seemed to both stare into the horizon and at whatever was in front of her at once.

“ThunderClan has been doing well this past moon. We extend our condolences to WindClan for their loss of Shalestar,” she began. “He was leader alongside me for many years. We had our disagreements, but I held the tom in high regard, as I am sure all of us do.”

Shalestar and Tatteredstar had been the two oldest leaders, Antstar recalled. She had been leader for about twelve seasons by the time Shalestar ascended, and while the two didn’t interact much and had their differences, there was an air of respect between the two.

Antstar recalled how hollow-looking and feeble Shalestar had appeared in death. Tatteredstar, however, had no sign of slowing down. He wondered how she managed to do it.

“We have been lucky to have had two healthy litters of kits born into our Clan. Sleetwhisker has given birth to two mollies, Vinekit and Shrikekit; and Sootspots has given birth to four toms and a molly, Mothkit, Fogkit, Stumpkit, Cedarkit, and Clawkit. In addition, Foxbriar is set to give birth to her kits within the next quarter-moon. We will have our paws very full… and it will also mean we will have more mouths to feed.” She shot a pointed glance at Tulipstar.

“Also- in addition- there was an attempted uprising by a ThunderClan cat named Rosefire.” The Gathering crowds pricked their ears- Rosefire was a cat who had been known by many for his friendly nature and how he disliked Tatteredstar and her deputy, Eelwhisker. He was a very vocal cat, and would often joke about starting genuine rebellion against them in order to pursue a dream of all five clans being united. Many thought he was a tad extreme, of course, but he was generally well-liked.

But Tatteredstar never minced words. “The so-called uprising was over as soon as it began. I dealt with Rosefire. You will not be seeing him again.”

There was a stunned silence.

It was only then that it really struck Antstar what cat he was dealing with. The matter of Rosefire, to Tatteredstar, was not a personal matter, and there was not a look of cruelty, resentment, or even annoyance in the ThunderClan leader’s yellow eyes. Rosefire had intruded on ThunderClan’s safety, and Tatteredstar had dispatched him. It began and ended there.

And then, Tatteredstar stepped back. “ThunderClan has nothing more to report.”

After what seemed like forever, Currantstar stepped up to speak. “ShadowClan has spent the moon recuperating after the fire we reported at the last Gathering. We are, again, very lucky that it did not affect us too harshly. Besides that, we have no new news to report; we are deeply sorry for WindClan’s loss of Shalestar and Rainleap.”

As soon as he had begun, he had ended. Antstar admired his charisma, his charm, the way he looked like a sculpture; Currantstar was a perfect leader.

And he had become leader so young, too. He and Antstar were about the same age, after all.

If he can do it, and be a perfect leader, I can do it, too…

“We have been experiencing difficulties with rogues on SkyClan territory,” Pigeonstar announced. “I suspect this is the same group that has been bothering RiverClan territory. However, we have fought them off successfully,” he said. He was very pointed with his words. “In addition, two of our apprentices became warriors- Bumbleshade and Silverskip.”

There was a round of cheer for the two freshly-graduated warriors. Pigeonstar then backed away, and Tulipstar, the very small white molly with ginger splotches, at long last took the stage.

“We are continuing to deal with the rogues on our territory. We have started to drive them off, but it’s a tough process. Just this moon alone we have had to deal with the untimely deaths of Yellowstripe and Sleekwater, and our resources are running dry. However, there is hope. Oatwhisker became a warrior this month, and one of our mollies gave birth to two fine young kits, Magpiekit and Frondkit.”

The little white-and-orange molly kept a steady eye on Tatteredstar- giving a clear implication about how much she wanted Sunningrocks. Their agreement would run out by the next Gathering- and, by the looks of it, Tulipstar had every intention to keep the territory.

Slowly, the gathering would down like a spring-powered toy. SkyClan was the first to leave; then ThunderClan, and then ShadowClan, until only WindClan and RiverClan were left. Antstar would have left earlier, but he still felt dizzy and his head felt sore from sheer mental pressure.

“Are you alright?”

He turned and looked down to see Tulipstar. She looked… genuinely concerned, or at least as genuinely as Antstar could convince himself another leader could be.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, as reluctance tried to keep his lips locked together.

“…You sounded nervous. I get it. Don’t fear the other leaders; they’re really not as scary as they like to make themselves out to be.” She thought on her words for a moment. “Well, except for Tatteredstar.”

“…What is it to you?” Antstar backed away slowly. Did she want something out of him? Then he doubled back in his mind- what if that sounded too rude, and now she was mad with him?

“Antstar, relax. I was especially close with your mentor and predecessor, Shalestar. We were very good friends, and under our allyship our two Clans were very close. I would like to continue that partnership with you.”

RiverClan had been friendly with WindClan for at least as long as Shalestar and Tulipstar had led them both. Slowly, Antstar let his guard down, correcting his posture so he didn’t look so hunched over.

“I would like to continue it, as well.”

“Great,” she said. She smiled, and Antstar could see how middle age had made her face look bony and her dimples more noticeable. “Besides- I was in a very similar scenario to where you are now, when I became leader.”

Antstar sat up in disbelief. Perhaps he wasn’t alone! Perhaps someone, somewhere out there… someone might just understand! “You… you became leader the same way?”

“Similarly. I mean- there weren’t as many accusations as you had to face from Pigeonstar, that joyless rat, because both my parents were RiverClan and the previous leader’s death wasn’t exactly a private occasion.” She leaned in, her jade eyes wide. “Did you hear about how I came to be leader, Antstar?”

Antstar shook his head.

“I feel you will find it very similar to your situation. The leader before me was a tom named Boarstar.”

Antstar remembered hearing of a Boarstar in nursery tales when he was a kit. Everyone knew him as a leader who had died in a battle he himself had started, but Antstar had not heard much of what he was like beyond that.

“Boarstar was very, very young when he rose to power, younger than you by a few seasons. He was a mean thing. Always picking fights with ThunderClan and WindClan, always on the attack. He was a serial womanizer and deeply narcissistic. Not many of us liked him much. He placed his brother, Oakbelly- who shared every ideal with him- as his deputy, and the two wreaked havoc on RiverClan. Boarstar lost his lives quite quickly because of all the battles he started…”

“So how did he choose you?”

“I honestly don’t think he did. We were in the midst of a battle with ThunderClan in their camp, and Oakbelly was fighting some ThunderClan cat while trying to get to the nursery. As he was taunting them, he made a miscalculation- and the ThunderClan cat shredded his belly open. And now, you know I and ThunderClan do not get along, but…” She smirked.

“And Boarstar?”

“Boarstar was filled with more rage than his namesake as he saw his brother bleed out… So he ran right to Tatteredstar herself and attacked her. She and him went one-on-one. It was a quick battle. I didn’t see much of it, but in the glimpse of his death that I got from the other side of their camp, she was clamping down on his head with her paws, crushing his skull.”

Antstar grimaced.

“The next thing I knew, the medicine cat rushed up to me and asked if I could take the mantle of leadership, telling me it was what Boarstar wanted in his last moments. In hindsight, it was probably the last thing he wanted, and the medicine cat was the one who made the decision. But it was my duty to my Clan, and so, I became leader. I cannot say the road of leadership has been an easy one, or a gentle one. But I want to be the cat for you who I wished was there for me.”

Antstar stepped towards her. “You mean, you’re going to help me?”

“I can’t lead for you, Antstar. Only you know your people. But I will be here as your mentor in leadership. Our Clans will be close. Feel free to ask me if you need help, and I will do my best to be there. It’s what Shalestar would have wanted.”

Antstar’s shoulders felt lighter. Someone out there was on his side!

“Trufflepelt, organize RiverClan so we can leave.” A tall, gaunt cinnamon tabby tom, twice the height of his leader, stood at the end of the hollow as the trademark plump bodies and shimmering pelts of RiverClan surrounded him. Pebblesky, RiverClan’s medicine cat, receded into the crowd, leaving Whitetooth and Marblepaw alone. They disappeared into the forests, southward; towards the faint smell of freshwater that beckoned from their territory.

Antstar stood alone on the rock for a moment. It was smooth, cold; almost calming now that the other Clans had left. He looked above and saw the leaves of the great oaks shiver above him; and a sky full of stars, who all blinked and winked as they stared upon him.

He heard pawsteps behind him, and turned to see the familiar face of Whitetooth, staring him in that inquisitive way they always did. “Are you alright, my leader?”

“…Yeah.” Antstar didn’t break eye contact as he stared at the stars above him.

“...You’ll get used to it,” Whitetooth added.

“I know.”

And then, after a further moment, Antstar left the Great Rock, where Russetfoot was already organizing WindClan to go home. Whitetooth followed, and then Marblepaw, and away they went, into the night.

 “He did terribly,” said Sparkthistle dismissively as soon as the Gathering group got back.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” said Houndnose, a tortoiseshell tabby-and-white permaqueen, who emerged from the nursery with two of Cherrycloud’s kits clamping themselves onto her fur like a pair of bread clips.

“Oh, he made the biggest ass of himself- which is saying something because Pigeonstar was there.” The ginger molly rolled her eyes. “You really hate to see it. I’m astonished Rainleap hasn’t unearthed himself with all the spinning he must be doing in that grave!”

“Don’t talk that way about my brother!” growled Stripedwing, who was just outside the nursery. The gray tabby molly, who was visibly pregnant, had been inspecting the nursery while the gathering group was gone.

But Sparkthistle simply groaned and sauntered off, as if she was annoyed at Stripedwing for not liking the joke.

Antstar passed by the nursery, and something bit his foot. He looked down to see Brindlekit, a little tortoiseshell, gnawing at his toes. “Got you now, ThunderClan rat!” she squeaked.

“Brindlekit, that’s our leader!” said a ginger tabby tom-kit, panicked- but with a slight edge of authority. But Brindlekit, pugnacious as ever, simply pounced onto her brother, and the two began to wrestle. Eventually, Cherrycloud- her ginger coat near identical to the one of the little tom-kit- pried them apart. “Brindlekit, be nice to Antstar. Rosekit, it’s my job to parent her, not you.”

“Antstar! Antstar!” cried another ginger kit, who pushed her way out of the nursery between Houndnose and Cherrycloud. “Didja see Tatteredstar?”

“Is she really the size of a dog? That’s’ what Amberkit told me!” added a tiny solid black tom next to her. “…She’s big. Definitely one of the biggest cats I’ve seen. But not that big.”

The black tom-kit looked smugly at Amberkit, who seemed flustered that her descriptions weren’t accurate. But they had more questions to ask.

“Do the RiverClan cats really smell like fish?” “I heard ShadowClan eats frogs!” “Can Tatteredstar really kill a rat just by looking at them?” “Is the RiverClan medicine cat really secretly from ThunderClan?”

Antstar felt bombarded, but he still tried to answer each question. “They kind of do… they do eat frogs, but they seem fine with it… I don’t know, but she is scary… She is, and it’s not much of a secret, both Clans agreed to it…”

Cherrycloud gave a motion to the two kits, and they silenced themselves. “I’m sorry if they’re being a bother to you, Antstar,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Antstar said. “They’re the next generation of warriors, after all.”

“Patchkit, would you like to say hi?” Cherrycloud asked to a little tortoiseshell, similar in shape and appearance to Brindlekit, who clung next to her. Patchkit gave Antstar a small glance and then buried herself further into her mother’s fur.

“She’s very shy and anxious,” Cherrycloud said. “We hope she’ll step out of her shell a little more soon.”

Antstar recalled he had been a similar way, as a kit. He recalled the permaqueen who had nursed him- a kind, pleasant molly who had passed away a few seasons ago from a wound infection- had a conversation with him about how he was then.

“You were a shy little thing. Very quiet, very meek. But when we were alone, you’d do these little tricks- kneading the ground, cuddling up to clumps of moss and cotton. It was cute, but… it was weird. It was like you were putting on a show for approval. And maybe it was coincidence- but sometimes it felt like you knew what you were trying to do.”

Antstar had thought about that a lot, since he had became leader.

“Oh,” Cherrycloud added, “and I’m sorry for how my sister, Sparkthistle, has been acting recently. We don’t talk much anymore. I will never understand why she has such a bug up her tail about everything... She should mellow down soon, I hope.”

She picked up Patchkit and went back into the nursery, with Houndnose alongside her and her other kits soon following. Antstar soon found himself alone again outside the nursery, the pale moon giving everything a glow. He saw Sparkthistle from across the clearing. The ginger tabby, her teeth in a permanent scowl, made brief eye contact with him before turning away into the warriors’ den.

Antstar worried. What if they began to believe her? What if she’s not an outlier- but an early critic? What if she turns the Clan on him? What if-

Something white caught his eye, and he turned to see Whitetooth, watching him from the edge of the medicine cat on the far side of camp.

He couldn’t fully read their face, but they had the glint in their eye of someone with an answer.

[rebelwrites]

Chapter One: The Aftermath

Summary // Chapter List/Masterlist

A/N: so here it is, the first chapter of can love save a life. I really hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. And I hope you fall in love with Brooke and Xavier. I would really appreciate your feedback on this as I know it’s not fanfiction.

Enjoy 💜

Join The TagList Here 💜

Laying in the middle of the double bed, Brooke rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. It was far too early in the morning to be awake yet here she was. Rudely awoken by her brother screaming her name from downstairs.

"God dammit" she groaned, fumbling around on the nightstand to find her glasses before shouting back at her older brother “gimme a minute bro”

"Hurry up we are waiting for you" he replied before letting out a loud sigh letting her know that he was pissed off.

Rolling out of bed her feet landed on the floor with a thud, wiggling her toes in the fluffy rug, she reached for the oversized hoodie that was hanging off the foot of her bed. Shrugging the garment over her shoulders she grabbed her phone checking the time.

7.06am.

“There better be a fire” she muttered to herself as she pushed herself off the bed trying to work out what had her family dragging her out of bed before the sun had even risen.

As Brooke got closer to the kitchen she could hear the hush voices of her parents, she couldn’t hear the full conversation but heard the words bike and confiscate , just from them two words she knew that somehow they had found out about the late night adventure from last night an judging by their tone she knew how this was going to go.

Pulling her blonde hair over her shoulder, she pushed the door open to the kitchen, instantly meeting the scowls off her parents. Unhappy wouldn’t even cover the atmosphere in the room. The tension made Brooke feel uncomfortable, as she poured herself a much needed mug of coffee before she faced the impending doom.

"Why do you do it to yourself B" her dad sighed, receiving a shrug off his daughter.

“Look just let me at least get a sip of coffee before you start screaming” Brooke huffed, bringing the mug to her lips. Letting the nectar from the gods touch her soul.

“Brooke” her mother scolded, making Brooke roll her eyes as she sat down at the kitchen table.

“Look I’m young, I want to go out and have fun and thought that hitting the track would be fun” she shrugged taking another sip of coffee “but obviously not, I mean how did you find out what I did last night anyway”

Silence was what she was met with as her father slammed down the newspaper for the day on the table in front of her.

“Delinquent trouble makers break into race track causing chaos”

“You know you get followed by the press with Marvin’s status in the business world” her said sighed “and you think it’s smart to break into the race track, I’m honestly surprised the owner doesn’t want to press charges”

And there it was, the one line she was waiting for. The line that got said every time she did something they didn’t approve of.

Brooke loved her brother and was proud of his achievements but there was a constant feeling of suffocation with the press always trailing her alongside people expecting so much from her.

“Sorry I’m a disappointment” Brooke shrugged, not making eye contact with the people that she called family. “I guess that’s what you get when you get a kid from the pound”

“Bee please don’t say that” Marvin said, placing his hand on her arm as she fumbled with the sleeves of her hoodie.

“We all know it’s true” Brooke snapped “we all know that I will never achieve greatness, I will forever be known as the troublemaker. I mean I’m not even a true Crawford let’s face it. Sometimes I don’t even know who I am anymore”

“Brooke,” her dad said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look I had fun last night, I was doing what I love and the only thing that makes me happy. Now if you don’t mind I will take this paper because I want to frame it” she smirked, taking the paper off the table, before pulling her cigarettes out of her pocket. In desperate need of some nicotine.

"Young lady this isn't funny I have the right mind to take your keys of you and sell that stupid bike" her mum shouted. “Ever since you brought that thing it has brought nothing but trouble”

It looks could kill, then the person Brooke called her mother would be dead. Holding eye contact she slid the chair back causing the metal legs to make an ear piercing noise as it scraped along the marble tiles.

“Do you know what, I don’t have to sit here and take this” Brooke snapped “I’m going to go for a smoke and you know work on my stupid bike seen as I have my first race coming up”

Walking into the garage, which was attached to the side of the house. Brooke rolled the door up before lighting her cigarette, a smile creeped onto her face as her gaze landed on her white Kawasaki Ninja sitting proud on the bike stand.

Checking the date on her phone, letting a sigh escape her lips. It was a month until her debut race, the thought sickened her from the nerves, it would be make or break for her. Glancing over to the whiteboard with the list of things she needed to do to the bike. She thought time was on her side but in reality she only had a few weeks to complete the tasks.

As she finished her smoke, her mind was racing. She knew that she would never achieve as much as her brother. She didn’t have the best upbringing, no recollection of her childhood before she was eight years old. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pushed the memories down she couldn’t relive the years of torture it, was bad enough she was still having nightmares but never told her parents because they would never believe her.

Pressing her phone against her ear, the dull dialling tone rang until the groan of her best friend Luna greeted her.

“Please tell me you can tell the time” Luna grumbled.

“Stop groaning” Brooke laughed “look I need yours and Nate’s help with the ninja”

“Girl stop lying, you just want to see my brother bent over your bike” she laughed.

“I’m not afraid to stab you,” Brooke smirked.

“I know” Luna sighed dramatically “be there in ten, good job I love you bitch”

Hours had passed, things were getting completed and the bonus was Nate was working topless. Brooke couldn’t help but smirk as they kept making eye contact, causing her to feel like a giddy teenager.

Hearing the sound of her mother shouting her name, Brooke sighed as you dropped the spanner back into the tool box.

“Ready for round two I guess, I will see you both tomorrow” Brooke huffed “well that’s if I don’t get killed tonight”

“Keep your chin up Princess” Nate said pulling Brooke into a hug, placing a kiss on the top of her head. She swore her heart had skipped a beat.

Trudging back into the house, Brooke went back into the kitchen to find her family still sat around the table.

“You wanted me?” She said grabbing a drink from the fridge.

"B we want you to go live with a friend of a friend for a bit" her father said with no emotion in his voice.

Anger ran through her veins as she kicked the chair across the room, watching it crash into the sliding glass door, causing the glass to shatter.

“You have got to be shitting me” she snapped “just because I don’t act like you want me to. You are shipping me off just like everyone else did”

"We have booked your tickets, you fly tomorrow" her mum said in a whisper.

“Fuck you all” Brooke spat before running through the frame of the glass door.

Everything she loved, she was being ripped away from. Without even a thought for her. She should have been used to the pain of abandonment by now but this one stung worse than the rest. These were the people who became her family, for the last seven years they were the ones she thought were in her corner and had her back. Turns out this wasn’t the case.

Slumping against the large oak tree, Brooke pulled at her hair before screaming into the air. Leaning her head against the rough bark as she sparked a cigarette letting her mind wander to what was the last night of freedom.

Leaning against her bike, Brooke watched as her best friend ran full speed towards her.

“Bitch look out" Luna screamed as she jumped over the wall coming within millimetres away from crashing into Brooke’s bike.

“Girl what have I told you about the bike" Brooke scolded Luna as a smirk played on her lips.

"You and this bloody bike B" Luna laughed as she snatched the helmet out of Brooke’s hand securing it on her head “Where to then?”

"Well my friend we are gonna take little ninja here to the track and see what she can do" Brooke smirked as she flicked the visor on her helmet down.

Looking ahead as Luna wrapped her arms around Brooke’s waist, under the helmet Brooke was grinning like a teenager as she saw Nate’s car, followed by the flash of the headlights.

“Hold on bitch” Brooke shouted back to Luna as she squeezed the throttle, speeding past Nate’s car.

Soon enough they pulled up at the gates of the track, her foot felt for the kickstand. Flicking the visor on her helmet up she pulled the paper clip out of her leather jacket. One of Brooke’s many skills was lock picking. However her breath got caught in her throat as she felt two strong arms wrap around her waist.

"Hey trouble ready to have some fun" Nate breathed down her ear.

“Stop distracting me” Brooke giggled as she continued to work the lock.

“But it’s fun” Nate whispered, his lips grazing Brooke’s ear as he spoke, his thumbs running over the waistband of her shorts.

"Let's do this" Brooke grinned as she finally cracked the lock.

[passivenovember]

@trashycatarcade asked: Harringrove 59 for the drabble writing? 💖☺ 

Tell me to leave and I will. Ask me to stay and I’ll never leave you again.

WARNINGS FOR: Attempted suicide.

Jesus Don’t Want Me for a Sunbeam.

You could say it ended with a bang. That’s not how it usually goes, the slide into madness comes first and then. The whimper. The silence at the end of a song that has been played out of tune. 

The chord is struck a couple of times before silence falls hot and heavy like a ladle of tomato soup over the skin of the earth. Steve feels each vibration down to the very atoms that fuse and mold together, feels the push toward the light at the end of the tunnel, but. 

It doesn’t get bad until the car hits the tree.

They said it looked like a pretzel, bent around the oak trunk. One of those that you save five bucks for at the end of your family trip to the mall or something. A treat. The kind that comes with warm cheese? Steve’s mind is fuzzy toward that last part. 

It began with a whimper. Six months before that. Yes. A slide into the back palette that tasted of cheap beer and remorse. it settled on Steve’s shoulders, silky and smooth like the wings of a bird. Almost weightless, unnoticeable as he worked his 9-5 and then. Guilt. 

They couldn’t save everyone, and. 

Yeah. 

Steve felt like the curtain was falling on the third act. The crowd was throwing tomatoes, every time he looked into El’s face, and. 

He learned later, after, that the paramedics had expected Steve’s head to be smashed open when they first got the call--yeah, looks like the Harrington kid tried to veer off into the quarry. What? No, hit a tree. Seems like. Probably dead, way it’s bent around the tree like some kinda-- from Matthew Park. They said he threw up once he got closer to the wreckage.

They had gotten carried away, Imagining Steve’s head as a melon on the Fourth of July, run over by a carnie truck on its way out of town. Hilariously Steve came away in one piece. That they hadn’t expected and Steve didn’t want it, because. Bob and Barbara and. Hopper.

Steve can’t seem to die.

--

Hospital beds are his least favorite place in the world to resurface. And that includes elevators to hell and secret Russian torture chambers. Especially when he didn’t expect to wake up ever again, so. Steve blinks his eyes open.

It’s painful, the peel of his lids separating from one another. He sees fluorescent lights, blue like waves. Like the ocean, like--

Someone shifts in the seat next to him. To the left, he thinks, somewhere near a roll out cot that still has the blankets stretched tight over its face. Billy’s asleep in a worn leather back chair. Neck bent like a pretzel around the curve of his shoulder, and. Figures. He doesn’t sleep in the bed if Steve isn’t there. Hasn’t since he packed his bags three weeks ago and left Steve calling after him into the rain. He looks like shit. 

“You look like shit,” Steve tries. His voice ends on a whimper, because. Steve hadn’t expected to see him again. 

And Billy sits up. Risen from the dead when called upon from on high. Looks around the room like he does when he was really conked out, and. Zero’s in on Steve. On the I.V in one arm and a sling around the other. Steve thinks he feels a neck brace, or like. A Cone, or something, nestled against the ridges of his collarbones. The kind dogs wear so they won’t lick their wounds. Steve isn’t a dog, though. 

Billy doesn’t stop looking at him. He’s not going to cry, Steve doesn’t think, but. “Why would you try to leave without saying goodbye.” A whimper.

Steve wishes he were dead. Or gone, or. Something. So he rips the I.V. from his arm and tries to stand, escape, before Billy can punch his lights out. The second his feet hit the floor Billy’s on him, rough hands shoving him back onto the soiled bed sheets. 

“You’re selfish, you know that? So fuckin’ selfish. Poor little rich boy can’t stomach his half of the shit sandwich. You're not the only one who hurts, asshole. You were just gonna fucking leave without saying goodbye? After all we’ve been through?” Billy’s fingers tighten possessively around Steve’s shoulders. Shake him, firm but gentle because Steve could crack and shatter, and. 

He might. Billy’s crying. And it settles like a stiff quit against open wounds, the sounds he’s making. The sharp in-out-in of his breathing when Billy’s fingers move to touch Steve’s eyebrows, his nose, his forehead. To memorize the hills and valleys, it seems. Panicked. 

Steve can’t meet the fluorescent blue of his eyes. He finches back when thick fingers brush against something jagged and tender, a fleshy strip on the back of his neck.

“Stop.” 

Billy drops his hands. Steps back until there are oceans between them, squares of hideous linoleum flooring the color of sand. “We had a deal.”

“Bills--”

“We stick it out. For the kids, we. Get help and shit.”

“‘S heavy.” Steve mumbles. Because it is, it’s. Heavy as a mac truck in his chest. 

Billy scoffs. Snorts like it’s funny. Or ridiculous or. Infuriating. “Let me help you.”

“You can’t.”

“Let me help you carry it, baby, please.” Billy squats, knees stooping until his fingers guide Steve’s eyes to his own. H’s still crying. It hurts. “I can carry it. All of it, I can--”

“You left.”

Billy groans because Steve’s being difficult or something. “You pushed me away.”

Steve struggles gently, shuffles around until Billy drops his hands again. All that bullshit Murray said that night when the bottom fell out. When Steve heard a knock at his door and Billy pulled him forward by his fucking teeth, into a kiss as warm as the sun. 

Shared trauma. Eats people alive. 

Steve shakes his head. That hurts too. “Didn’t mean it.”

There’s shuffling. Billy crossing his arms in the space between them. “That night when you threw the hairbrush at the mirror and told me to leave--”

“Billy--”

“Because you thought he was back, that night when you told me you didn’t love me anymore--”

Steve’s crying now. “I didn’t--”

“Mean it. Yeah.” Billy sighs. Exhales, through his nose and it blows around the room until everything is knocked off the walls. Until Steve has nothing to hide behind. When Billy speaks again his voice is soft. Summer rain against a slated roof. 

“Tell me to go and I will,” He says. Like it’s easy. Simple. 

Steve can’t look at him, can’t. Make the switch. Billy’s shuffling around again until Steve’s face is sandwiched between his palms, until blue meets brown like color bleeding from a canvas. Until everything is saturated in muddy brown.  

“Tell me to leave.” Billy says again.  “But if you ask me to stay I’ll never leave you again, Stevie. Never.”

His fingers pat away tears. Steve’s crying harder, now, shuddering with it. Bones cracking and breaking under the weight of things they carry. He doesn’t know what to say. The words come and go, slip in and out of frame, until Billy’s climbing onto the bed with him. 

Arranging Steve. Pulling the covers up around them. A nurse walks by and asks Billy to please get off the bed. She threatens to kick him out when Billy flips her the bird because. Billy isn’t afraid.

He’s never afraid, not of anything. Steve settles in against him and the weight feels a little less heavy.

[jewish-privilege]

Shortly after I moved to Atlanta almost two decades ago, I learned a valuable lesson in Southern Jewish etiquette.

You can discuss anything in polite company. Politics, sex, and money -- all good.

Except for one subject.

That would be Leo Frank -- the only American Jew to be lynched. (The essential book on the case -- And The Dead Shall Rise by Steve Oney).

In 1913, Leo Frank managed the National Pencil Company in Atlanta.

In August of that year, a thirteen year old worker, Mary Phagan from Marietta, Georgia, was found murdered in the factory. As a Northerner and a Jew, Frank was automatically, doubly, the Other, and automatically the suspect.

Frank was arrested for the crime and brought to trial. The mobs in the street screamed: “The Jew is the synagogue of Satan!" "Crack that Jew's neck!" “Hang that damned sheeny!'"

The jury needed less than four hours to convict Frank. They sentenced him to death.  A round of appeals lasted nearly two years. The case became a national cause celebre.

When Frank finally lost the appeal, Georgia Governor Frank Slaton commuted his death sentence to life imprisonment.

Leo Frank was transferred to the state prison farm at Milledgeville, southeast of Atlanta.  On the afternoon of August 16, 1915, a group of twenty-five men, who styled themselves the Knights of Mary Phagan, drove from Marietta to Milledgeville.

Breaking into the prison farm, they abducted Frank. Early the next morning, they hanged Leo Frank from a massive oak tree in Marietta. It took him nearly ten minutes to die. The murderers were community leaders from prominent families – among them, a judge. They dressed in fashionable three piece suits.

The murderers posed proudly for photographs, with the corpse still hanging from the tree. Those photographs became postcards which, along with pieces of the rope that hung Frank, were sold as souvenirs.

In the wake of the lynching, there was a wave of anti-Jewish violence in Atlanta and Marietta. Jewish merchants were expelled from Marietta. Many Jews fled Atlanta, never to return.

The Leo Frank case was the primal trauma of Southern Jewry.

...If I have calculated correctly, the total number of Jews killed for being Jewish on American soil is 23.

Not to mention the non-lethal but violent attacks on Orthodox Jews in New York City. Not to mention the synagogue desecrations. Not to mention the fact that the number of antisemitic incidents in the United States has risen sharply over the last few years -- in record numbers.

Now, let us go to the African American statistics.

According to the Tuskegee Institute, there were 3446 African Americans lynched between 1882 and 1968.

The number of African American victims of police violence, since 2015? 1252.

These numbers are only illustrations, and grim ones at that.

We cannot hope to truly measure the number of African American victims of racism.

American Jews experience the wave of violence against Jews as the continuation of the darkest moments of Jewish history.

As one long pogrom.

American blacks experience the wave of violence against them as the continuation of the darkest moments of American history.

As one long lynching.

Antisemitism is the yetzer ha-ra, the evil inclination, of Western civilization.

Racism is the yetzer ha-ra, the evil inclination, of American civilization.

Or, to put it another way: America didn't need Jews to be its Other. It already had its blacks.

What should we American Jews be saying now?

Let us reach out to our black friends, neighbors, colleagues, and relatives.

Let us say this: "I cannot pretend to know how you feel. But, I can imagine how you feel, because I and my people have often felt the same way. I see you, I hear you, I feel you, and I will do whatever I can, howbeit something small, to heal this."

I think of the words of the late author, Julius Lester, who was an African American Jew.

"We Jews have taken our suffering, and offered it as a long-stemmed rose to humanity."

Julius Lester knew that the rose is a thing of uncommon beauty, and that the beauty concealed thorns.

Julius Lester was saying: Those who suffer have a moral obligation to make sure that they understand their suffering as a lesson to the world, and also to themselves. It is a lesson that forbids silence in the face of oppression.

Anything less is a mockery of that pain.

[tiesandtea]

THE LONDON SUEDE - interview with Simon Gilbert (1997)

Interview Featuring Drummer Simon Gilbert, Who Is Actually a Nice Guy Unspoiled by Success

By Daiv Whaley, MOO Mag. Archived here.

One of MOO's many mottos: "When you can't interview the main member of the band, grab the drummer. He's always starved for attention." Daiv Whaley talks with The London Suede’s beatmaster Simon Gilbert.

MOO: Alright, so Suede has returned to the airwaves after a two-year absence with Coming Up. What's different about this one? Simon: Well, it's a lot more direct and easier to listen to than, certainly, Dog Man Star; a lot more rhythm-based ... MOO: Which is great for a drummer! Simon: Oh yeah, it's great for me -- we spent about six weeks just doing the drum tracks; we took a lot more time than we normally do. Plus, it's got a lot of keyboards on it cuz we've got a new keyboard player, Neil, who's my cousin. MOO: Um ... was that a riddle? Or an interview question? I don't know who your cousin is -- I'm supposed to be asking the questions! Simon: No, Neil is my cousin.

Hugely entertaining, 20/10. Full interview under the cut.

When British upstarts-with-attitude Suede first burst onto the fertile London music scene in the early 90s, they were note only performing and recording a statement against the tranced and lethargic shoegazer scene (remember My Bloody Valentine, all you mod listeners?), but also fueling frontman Brett Anderson's love-affair with all things glam-rockish; i.e. Bowie, T-Rex, leather posturings, androgyny, ass-shaking audience flirtation, and potent pop rock. Melody Maker, the "Big Ben" of English music culture, even named them "best new band" of 1992. Then, they changed their name to the London Suede due to technicalities, got all arty on Dog Man Star, and performed a submarine dive from public view as Oasis and Brit-pop rose to the surface of the toilet ... er ... the pond of the microcosm which is the British rock scene, though several critics credit Suede as being the forerunners of Brit-pop, anyway. Now it's 1997, and the London Suede have risen again to deliver their third full release, Coming Up. Whether the "coming up" refers to Suede's bank account figures or a vomitous reaction from their fans at their new sound is a subject MOO's Daiv Whaley tries to discover, oh-so-politely, as he chats with drummer Simon Gilbert, all the way from the gray shores of England.

MOO: Alright, so Suede has returned to the airwaves after a two-year absence with Coming Up. What's different about this one?

Simon: Well, it's a lot more direct and easier to listen to than, certainly, Dog Man Star; a lot more rhythm-based ...

MOO: Which is great for a drummer!

Simon: Oh yeah, it's great for me -- we spent about six weeks just doing the drum tracks; we took a lot more time than we normally do. Plus, it's got a lot of keyboards on it cuz we've got a new keyboard player, Neil, who's my cousin.

MOO: Um ... was that a riddle? Or an interview question? I don't know who your cousin is -- I'm supposed to be asking the questions!

Simon: No, Neil is my cousin.

MOO: Oh, sorry.

Simon: So, we have some very good pop songs on it -- there's going to be five singles, and we could have done seven or eight, to be honest. It's just a much more accessible album, and it's opening people's ears who haven't been listening to Suede before, particularly in Europe and Britain. We're selling a lot more records than we ever have before.

MOO: That's riffing.

Simon: Yes, it is riffing.

MOO: So then, is Suede a pop band or a rock band?

Simon: We're a prock band!

MOO: My fave songs on your discs are always the audio-experimenia ones, like "Dandy's Speeding," "Introducing the Band" or "Moving" ...

Simon: That's one of the first tunes we ever recorded! We don't play it live anymore -- the drum bit's too fast for me nowadays.

MOO: Well, those types of songs really seem to distance you from the more plebeian, predictable, 90s-modrock types of bands. Are those kinds of songs written with that type of production in mind?

Simon: Well, "Introducing the Band" certainly was -- it was one of the last tracks we recorded for Dog Man Star, and after we heard it, we just thought, "What was that?" But it was intentional to make it a bit weird.

MOO: Did Brian Eno approach the band about doing an incredibly long version of the tune ...

Simon: That incredibly long, incredibly boring version? No, we approached him for some bizarre reason, I don't know why. I'm not criticizing the bloke -- he does amazing work, but at the end of the day, all we were left with was the reverb; he took everything else out but the echo ... I was expecting a little bit more of the original version -- I bet there's not one person in the fucking country who's played the whole thing all the way through. I know I haven't!

MOO: Yuk yuk. Your former guitarist and co-songwriter Bernard Butler ...

Simon: Bernard Buttocks!

MOO: ... exited Suede after recording Dog Man Star and has been replaced by the very young Richard Oakes. What, is he 19 now?

Simon: No, he's actually 20 now and getting up in the double digits!

MOO: This is the first disc he's done with Suede. Was he up to the task?

Simon: More so than we'd ever expected, to be honest. We did a few demos before the album and after three or four, it was just no problem with him at all. Easy peasey! For someone so young and so inexperienced, I don't know how he did it, but he did.

MOO: Did you just say "easy peasey"? Never mind, what about this new keyboardist? Some cynics say that when a guitar band takes on a keyboardist, the band's death knell has begun, and now your own cousin, Neil Codling, is an official Suedester. "Codling," what a great last name.

Simon: Yeah, Codling, like in "molly codling." Have you heard that expression?

MOO: Yes, I studied English literature, with a minor in advanced cybernetic design.

Simon: Hmmnn. But about those cynics, they're wrong, at least in Suede's case -- Neil has done nothing but improve upon what we can do and the limits we can reach on our albums. Also, live, our sound is so much fuller. And we can still fuckin' rock out as well. Now, if we got a brass section, that might kill a band.

MOO: I've heard that Bowie is a fan? Has the band had any dealings with him as of yet?

Simon: Yes, he is. Um, we played with him last summer, in Spain, in the Pyrenees Mountains. He requested we play and we opened for him and he watched the whole gig from the sidestage, which was a bit nerve-racking. But yes, he's a big fan and he's fifty years old now.

MOO: Rockstar, painter, actor and Suede fan ... What more can you ask?

Simon: Not very much!

MOO: Speaking of playing live, you guys toured America for Dog Man Star -- how would you say a US audience compares to a British crowd?

Simon: Well, it really depends. I couldn't really generalize that much, because in L.A. or someplace like San Francisco, they're probably wilder than a British audience, but then you look at some place in Texas ... they sort of spit on us, they don't really like us there. It's a bit different in America, but there are some parts of it where it feels like you could be in London.

MOO: So, I take it while you're almost worshipped in Britain, America really hasn't caught on yet?

Simon: Hasn't caught on yet ... we're not saying we're giving up on it at all, but we're just playing it by ear. I believe that's the expression for it. We're gonna come over and do 10 dates and see how the album is received, but there's no real point in banging your head against a brick wall. If America on the whole doesn't get it, then fair enough, but I really hope they do, cuz it's a great album, a lot more America-friendly as well.

MOO: I've read Brett describe the band as being "political." I know Suede had been involved in the animal rights movement, and gay rights, and freedom issues. Do you find American music to be more or less politically-motivated on the whole than British stuff?

Simon: Well, I'd say that quote was probably taken out of context ... We're a political band in a human sense, not in a government politics kind of way. Yeah, we'll stand up in the House of Parliament and say, "This is wrong and blah blah blah," and we'll protest like that, but in the songs, there's no political manifesto of any kind -- it's purely human "politics" in our music. As for American bands, I really can't say ... I'm very stuck in the 60s and 70s in terms of music, and I don't really ask myself if this or that band is American or British, but rather, are they good or bad bands?

MOO: There's been a bit of a buzz in the US over the Brit-pop scene -- particularly Oasis and Blur. Where does Suede seem to fit into that whole genre, anyway?

Simon: Blur? They're shitty. Oasis is actually pretty good. Suede doesn't really fit into that scene at all; it was lucky we were away when it sort of kicked-off, and luckily we weren't lumped into that whole thing, cuz now the scene is dead, there's no such thing as Brit-pop anymore in England, and when a scene dies off, all the bands die off with it. So America, don't bother with it. It's really just the media sticking another tag on some scene -- it's useless crap, really.

MOO: Okay, how about the whole androgyny/bisexuality slant of a lot of Suede's songs -- if it's not just image-mongering to get attention ...

Simon: No, it's not.

MOO: So, why is Suede so revelatory about their sexual preferences?

Simon: Because the people we hang around with ... we hang around with each other, we're all friends, and the other people who come from lots of different areas of society, and at the end of the day everyone's aware of sexuality and the different types of sexuality, and consequently Brett writes about the people we hang around with and the way we live. It's just about being open and honest, really.

MOO: Right -- skinstorms together and all that.

Simon: Exactly; singing about things that other people don't sing about -- we don't sing about birds and flowers and the sky and things like that.

MOO: Speaking about singing -- there's lots of stories and rumors about your Brett Anderson. He seems like a real character.

Simon: All the stories are probably true!

MOO: Considering he'll probably never see this interview, what do you have to say about Mr. Anderson?

Simon: About Mr. Anderson? He's become one of my best friends; he's perceived as being aloof and stuff like that, but at the end of the day, he's one of the most genuine people I know. He's a lovely bloke, that's my honest opinion, and make sure he doesn't see that or I'll become really embarrassed.

MOO: Last question. Before '92, critics and clubs seemed to hate you. Then, you end up on the cover of Melody Maker, your disc goes to number one and beats out Depeche Mode, and you're big-time rock stars. What happened?

Simon: Well, that Melody Maker cover did help, let's be honest.

MOO: The power of the press!

Simon: Yeah. But even before that ... I don't know what happened. We played at this place called the Falcon in Camden, which is a famous sort of indie hangout. We played there one weekend to, like, eight people. Then the next weekend we played there again and the place was packed. All these stars came down there, people like Morrissey, and things just started to happen. I really don't know what happened -- I think people really got bored with the scene at the time, there was a lot of techno and shoegazey stuff going on and the indie scene was boring. We kind of laid that stuff to rest when we got going. There were people who I think were bored with not seeing real entertainers up on stage, and we were a band that was entertaining, which might have been why people didn't like us at the time -- they were so used to seeing the shoegazing stuff going on.

MOO: Yeah, let's look at our sneakers for an hour and play guitars!

Simon: Right, how entertaining is that? Might as well just sit at home and listen to their records.

MOO: And the rest is history, as they say.

Simon: Yeah, something like that.

[schattenjagd]

Lost without you (1/2)

A/N : I got this idea long ago when I first listened to Freya Ridings’ beautiful song “Lost without you”. I don’t know if one can really call this a Songfic, ‘cause I didn’t use any phrases directly, like I did in Hold on. This is gonna be a 2-parter. I’ve already written and finished the second part, so I’m gonna upload it in the next few days. 

Word Count : 3.2K - I finally made it to write something that isn’t that long xD

Warnings : Angst (what else can you expect from me ? xD)

Pairing : Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

The day had been tough.

Mikael had risen from the dead, summoned by the young witch Davina Claire, who almost signed the Mikaelson's death sentence.

But for Elijah Mikaelson there were bigger problems at that moment. He paced the room uneasily.

Y/N could hear the nervous footsteps in the room above herself even with her human hearing and closed her eyes for a moment.

She knew that following the two Mikaelson brothers had been a mistake, but she hadn't expected to be used as a weapon against her loved one and kidnapped by Mikael. Only Niklaus’ quick action was due to her that she still had all her limbs.

With a sigh, she let down the blood-red towel with which she had washed the rest of her blood from her body. Elijah's blood had healed all the serious wounds, but she still looked like she had come out of a meat grinder and the spot in her stomach where Mikael had rammed the stake - which was actually meant for Elijah - still hurt a little with every movement.

She was just coming out of the bathroom when she winced at a rumble above her.

,,He is fine."

Hayley, who was sitting on her bed, was just trying to calm her down, Y/N knew that, yet she couldn't really believe her friend. She raised an eyebrow.

"You are a bad liar."

The brunette sighed and rubbed her hair as she watched Y/N disappear behind the screen and slip into something more comfortable.

"Well, the hell is loose up there right now."

Y/N frowned and swallowed. And all because of her.

"Okay, I think I prefer it if you lie," Y/N came out from behind the screen and freed her hair from the fabric. "What's going on up there?"

***

Elijah sat tense behind his desk, glaring at the papers in front of him, while Klaus stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. The blonde winced when his brother swept the pile of files from his desk out of nowhere and when it fell to the floor with a loud rumble.

"She’s fine," Klaus finally interrupted the uncomfortable silence. "There is no need to worry - at least when it comes to your loved one."

Elijah's head snapped up. “No need to worry, Niklaus ? Our father, he was here and he is alive. And he almost killed her."

"Then isn’t it great that I was there and intervened ?"

Elijah scowled at his brother and Klaus eyed him suspiciously. A dark veil had laid over Elijah's features, which the blonde didn't like.

“You won't always be there. And neither do I, neither of us. She is in danger."

Klaus narrowed his eyes. "I don't like what you're up to do, brother, so I would recommend you leave it alone."

Elijah looked up. "What, Niklaus ?"

"That woman down there risked her life for you and saved it."

“That's the problem. She was ready to give her life for us. I can not be responsible for this”, Elijah swallowed hard at the lump that had formed in his throat at the memory. “She almost died, Niklaus. Because of me."

The dark-haired man wistfully remembered how Y/N had suddenly stood in front of him and the white oak stake that had been meant for him had instead pierced her body. If she had died, he could never have forgiven himself.

Elijah got up, went restlessly to the window, and looked out into the gloomy night and the still busy streets. He swallowed hard and devotedly closed his eyes. He couldn't put Y/N in that danger again. He couldn't live with that.

"It will break you," went Klaus on and looked at his brother. He couldn't deny that Y/N was close to his heart. She had often been the one who had curbed Elijah's anger at him and was able to call to reason. It was she who had seen something different in Klaus than the monster everyone seemed to see. And it was she who had cast a spell over his brother. Elijah would be lost without her love, Klaus knew that. He would no longer be the same, no longer his brother, if he was up to do what was already floating through his head a few times.

"I let her in, Niklaus," Elijah said and Klaus narrowed his eyes and looked up. In the reflection of the window, he saw the nervous tremor of Elijah's hands and his desperate eyes. "I don't let people in. You know this. I need her and it will break me, but not as much as if she would die through my hand. "

***

When Elijah ran down the gallery to his bedroom an hour later, exhausted, Hayley met him, who quickly disappeared around the next corner. When he closed the door to his bedroom behind him, he knew why.

Y/N was still up, which surprised him. But he swallowed hard at the look on her face as he pulled the tie off his neck and hung it over the back of a chair together with his jacket.

Y/N had been sitting on the edge of the bed, now got up after hearing him approaching and had her hands on her hips.

For a moment, he could only look at her and his heart contracted painfully.

“I know what you're up to, Elijah. And I won't let that happen."

He sighed. "Hayley told you."

"It has its advantages to have a hybrid as a very good friend, yes," she replied a little irritably. “Taking my memories ? I mean, are you completely crazy ?!"

If Y/N hadn't lived in a house with original vampires, she would have looted all vervain stocks long ago, but they didn’t exist.

"You almost died," he replied instead. ,,Because of me."

"Yes, and I wouldn’t regret it," Y/N immediately replied. And I would do it over and over again without hesitation.”

Yes, that's exactly the problem, Elijah thought and closed his eyes for a moment. A moment in which Y/N carefully approached him, took his hands in hers and looked up at him. "Promise me you won't, we'll find another way, but not this one."

He swallowed hard, avoiding her gaze, which he couldn't keep up with. Devotedly, he closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. "I'll find a way to protect you."

"I can take care of myself," Y/N immediately replied, looking up at him.

Elijah put his arms around her. Her head fit perfectly under his chin and when she wrapped her arms around him, she closed her eyes. He nodded slightly, gave her a kiss on the top of the head. "I know," he said softly. ,,I know."

***

He laid awake that night. He had wrapped an arm around Y/N's petite figure, who had laid her head on his chest and snuggled up to him, as if she wanted to steal the last bit of his body heat and never let go of him.

For some time now he had been  thoughtfully watching her calm and steady breathing and had had to smile slightly when she sighed softly in her sleep at the kiss he had breathed on her hairline.

He couldn't live without this woman, he knew that. But he had no choice if he wanted the woman in his arms to stay alive. He couldn't imagine a night without feeling her body heat next to him or her arms around him. A night she wouldn’t snuggl  up to him as if she wanted to crawl into him. And no night where she wouldn't use his chest as her personal pillow - and woe, he would move.

He remembered the first time he'd met her when he'd just arrived in New Orleans looking for Niklaus. He was in a hurry, trying to intercept Marcel’s henchmen at Sophie Deveroux’s back then, and yet something had made him stop when he crossed the Jackson Square.

He still remembered the red, airy summer dress she had worn that evening and which had contrasted sharply with the white piano she had been sitting in front of. He didn't know if it was because of her tender voice, the dress, or her entire appearance.

Back then he had just been able to stand there and look at her. He had watched people stop by and listen to her over and over, and applaud when she ended. And then she had looked at him. Nobody else, straight him. And he was frozen when she just smiled. Nothing more, she just smiled.

And the next time she looked up, he was gone. Only a suddenly appearing $ 50 bill reminded her that she hadn't imagined it.

Back then it was pure coincidence, or rather pure luck, that they ran into each other again. As a bartender at Rousseau’s, it had been clear that the two would meet again sometime and that had happened when he had followed his brother into the bar one night.

Y/N had been shifting with Cami and he had been amazed that it was she who had suddenly put his bourbon in front of him.

Elijah closed her eyes and listened to Y/N's steady heartbeat. It was so peaceful, so powerful. He couldn't stand not hearing it one day.

He gently ran his hand over her bare back, letting his fingertips dance across her vertebrae as if they were piano keys. Even in her sleep, she seemed to feel his touch, for she murmured something unintelligible and pressed closer to him.

He gave her a kiss on the forehead, long and intimate, and closed his eyes. No, he had to protect this woman, no matter what. He would not allow her to die because of him, that her life would run like sand through his fingers. Y/N was not Tatia, neither Katherine nor Celeste. She would not end like they did. He wouldn't let that happen.

***

The sun had just risen when Y/N woke up the next morning, amazed to find the bedside next to her empty and cold. After only feeling yawning emptiness, she raised her eyebrows, blinked a few times, and sat up. Her forehead wrinkled even more when she heard clatter from the bathroom and saw her suitcase and Elijah's travel bag at the foot of their bed.

Elijah was just coming out of the bathroom, smiling at her, when he found that she was awake. He was already dressed, wearing black suit pants with a white shirt and black vest over it.

Y/N looked at him, questioningly.,,What is all of this ?"

"I made a deal with Niklaus," Elijah said, approaching Y/N and leaning briefly down to give her a kiss on the lips. “We both leave here. Until then, he and Hayley will clarify matters. We'll be back when it's safe. I can't protect you here."

Y/N couldn't really believe it, but a huge stone fell from her heart when she found out that he would go with her. Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Good," she finally said. "Since you probably won't tell me where we're going anyway, how much time do we have left ?"

"Our train leaves at 10 am."

Y/N smiled at him, sincerely and honestly, and she leaned over and kissed him again. This time more intimately and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he put his around her waist and hugged her tightly.

Y/N had to smile at the tender feeling of his lips on hers and reluctantly broke the kiss. "I'm just changing quickly."

He also forced himself to smile and nodded slightly, gave her a last kiss on the lips and let go of her.

Y/N didn't see the single tear running down his cheek when she disappeared into the bathroom.

***

The train station was loud and crowded. Although Y/N had never feared large crowds, she was a little uncomfortable now. Even Elijah's arm, which he had wrapped around her waist and which pressed her tightly against him so that he would not lose her in the hustle and bustle, did not change the fact.

Since the drive, she has been suffering from a gnawing feeling that she couldn’t shake off. Her head told her that everything was fine, that there was no need to worry, but her mind wanted to make her believe otherwise.

"It's over there."

Y/N was taken out of her thoughts when Elijah pointed to a certain platform that she couldn’t see from where she was.

The crowds were slowly diminishing and the platform on which they now stood was only occupied by a few people who waved to their loved ones who were already on the waiting train.

“That one ?"

Y/N pointed to the train ahead. Elijah nodded slightly, but he stopped when she took a few steps to the train and wanted to get in.

No.

Y/N swallowed hard. The gnawing feeling grew stronger.

"Elijah?" She hesitantly asked when he attached his travel bag securely to the handle of her case so that one person could carry it safely. Her eyes narrowed as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a train ticket. He handed it to her.

Y/N looked at it for a moment, but swallowed hard. The ticket was for one person.

One person.

Ignoring her faster heartbeat and looking up, his hands were empty.

"Where's your ticket?" She asked, uncertainly.

She already knew the answer when he avoided her eyes. There was none. She was holding the only ticket."No ..." she stammered and her eyes widened.

"Otherwise I could not have brought you here at your will."

Y/N's lips minimally opened. He was right, if she had known what he was going to do, she would never have agreed to it. He couldn't do that, he couldn't. That wasn’t fair.

"You can't leave me alone, Elijah," she tried again and she could feel the tears that were slowly pouring into her eyes and threatened to find a way out. "I am lost without you."

"So am I."

"Then why this suicide mission ?" She immediately asked. Y/N abruptly took a few steps towards him and gripped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.

“I can't protect you here. Not the way it is needed. "

“We find a way. Somehow,”she pleaded further, looking directly into his eyes, straight into his soul and now he too could feel the tears. ,,We always found a way. But please, please don't send me away. Do not do this."

She looked him in the eye and she knew that he also wished there was another way - that didn't exist. A first tear escaped from the corner of her eye and she pressed her lips together in a thin line before finally pulling him down and kissing him.

The tears ran down her cheeks in torrents, and sometimes she didn't know if it was his that she could feel. She put as much love in this kiss as she could. All the love she felt for this man in front of her and she tried to remember every single moment; the tender and tingly feeling of his lips on hers, the way he wrapped his powerful arms around her waist and hugged her tightly, and his breath on her skin.

When they loosened and gasped, Y/N kept her eyes closed and instead pressed her forehead against his. She was afraid that if she opened her eyes, time would go on and events would take their terrible course. But now, at that moment, there was only Elijah and her and it should stay that way for as long as possible.

"All I did yesterday was to protect you," she said softly so that only he could hear it. "I couldn't go on living if you were dead. I'd rather die knowing that I saved you."

She carefully stroked the tears from his cheeks and then looked at him sincerely. “I love you, Elijah. And I will do that always and forever. That's why I did it."

"And that is why I have to do this now."

She held her breath. Her body reacted faster than her brain was able to process his words and just when her eyes widened and she wanted to open her mouth to say something, his gaze had already caught her. It was no longer possible for her to look away from his dilated pupils, from which tears still flowed. She could feel his hand on her cheek, and she couldn't at the same time. Part of her screamed, her soul screamed, but no one could hear it. It was silenced by the part of her that was just caught in his eyes. And there was no pain, no pain that she knew that was as big as this. It hit her at full speed and she felt like she couldn’t breath.

She motionless watched as he pressed his lips together in a thin line, presumably to avoid sobbing.

"Your promise to love me, I want you to forget it. Forget it all. My family, you, so desperately trying to protect me, forget it. All the pain, the anger, the grief ... The love. None of this has existed. The name Mikaelson is as common to you as anyone else. You won't know who I am, nor Niklaus. Vampires, werewolves, hybrids, none of this exists. I want you to forget everything you know about this world. You never met me ”, Elijah swallowed hard, he wanted to look away, he wanted it so much, but he couldn't. "You don't remember meeting me. And not that you love me either. You forget everything."

Y/N blinked in confusion several times as a short breeze right in front of her pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked around questioningly, but couldn't find anyone, just a couple of strangers rushing past, just trying to get home. Her cheeks were incredibly cool, and when she touched her skin with her fingertips, she noticed that they glistened damp. Did she cry ? Confused, she raised her eyebrows at the train ticket she was holding.

Chigaco was written on it in large block letters and she rolled her eyes. For a brief, tiny moment, she seemed to have forgotten why she was here at all. She could have slapped herself.

She moaned and reached for her suitcase and travel bag. Just before she got on the train, she turned again and took a last look at the platform. She would now leave New Orleans behind - finally. Her job here had been miserable and when she got the job offer from Chigaco, she didn't have to think long. She had no one here anyway, so what should stop her ?

With a smile of anticipation, she climbed the stairs and the train doors closed behind her.

She didn't notice the dark-haired man dressed in a suit watching her from a safe distance. A single tear flowed down his cheek before he turned and finally disappeared.

[diddlesanddoodles]

Dumpling ch 27

When they made it back to the library, the sun had already set and though she knew Farris was going to be angry that she had not returned before his curfew, it was the farthest thing on her mind.

“For the time being,” Maevis said to Jae and Nenani. “I think it best we keep what has happened here to ourselves.”

“Shouldn’t we tell Warren?” Jae asked dubiously. “I mean, he has a right to know.”

Maevis nodded. “I will broach it with his majesty and when Keral returns, I will share our new information with him as well. But for you two...act as though nothing has happened.”

“Well...I did kind of tell Farris that were looking for dead people in the tunnels.” Jae admitted sheepishly.  

“Then you will tell him you found the lost tunnel, but no catacombs,” Maevis instructed. “And that because of your unfamiliarity, you got lost. Perhaps that will gain you a little sympathy for the hour.”

Jae leveled a flat and unimpressed look at the magician. “…I don’t know if you’ve actually ever met Farris, but that’s not really something he does.”

“Nenani,” Maevis said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Today must have been very hard for you. I am sorry to have drug you through all of it.”

“How are we going to find the fallen flame?” she asked.

Maevis looked at her, taken aback, but seemed very pleased that she had not been reduced to a further sobbing incoherent mess by the day’s events. “First we must ascertain what, or who, this fallen flame is. Barnaby has likely retired already for the night and I will not rouse him. The poor man needs his rest, but tomorrow we will begin our research. But for now, I believe both of you need some supper and a good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be getting much sleep after seeing the glowing green skeleton garble cryptic nonsense at us,” Jae said, rubbing the back of his head. “...Donal’s gonna hate me tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t suppose any of us should expect a peaceful night tonight,” Maevis agreed. “But we should make the effort regardless.”

“Come on, Nenani,” Jae said in tired resignation. “I’ll take you back to Farris. Maybe if you give him your best kicked puppy look he won’t be that angry.”

……………………………………………

The cooking fires had been extinguished when they made it into the camp proper and everyone had retired to the hut for the night. As Nenani and Jae approached, they could hear voices from inside and what seemed to be an argument. Farris’s irate voice chief among them.

“...better have one damn good excuse!”

“It’s the brat yer talking about,” said someone. Nenani was sure that it was Bart as it was too deep for anyone else. “He won’t have anythin’ but a mouth full of excuses.”

“You should go find that old cocotte, boss.” Someone laughed and she heard Yale reply, “It’s in the back of the tent on top of the larger oak chest. Y’know. Just in case.”

“Not a bad suggestion, lads.”

Beside her, Nenani heard Jae grumble unhappily. “This day just keeps getting better and better...”

“You don’t need to stay,” she told him. “I’m fine.”

Jae glanced at her with furrowed brows. “Are you sure? Because you’re awfully...quiet. I mean, seeing the thing and hearing all that junk...it freaked me out. Aren’t you scared?”

She thought about it. “The smoke mage scares me more. A lot more. But the skeleton doesn’t. Not really. I mean he does, it was a talking skeleton! He was a skeleton and we was talking! But...he didn’t seem to want to hurt me and he did tell us some things, so that has to be good, right? He wanted to help.”

“I guess...still freaky.”

“Very freaky,” she agreed. “And it does help to talk about it, I mean. When it was just in my head all the time it just felt like it got bigger and bigger until I couldn’t stand it anymore and sometimes it was all I could think about. But...saying it all out loud helped a lot. And you were right about Maevis. He’s really good about making you feel better when your scared.”

Jae smiled fondly. “Yeah. He is. For a man, he’s very motherly.”

She laughed. “He’s very kind.”

“So I guess I’ll leave you to your fate then,” Jae said and was about to say his goodbyes when the moonlight above them was abruptly cut off. They both looked up and any hope that Nenani could somehow muster a pitiful look great enough to surmount Farris’s anger was quickly dashed when they saw the spice master’s face.

“Ah shit...” Jae said just as Farris reached down and grabbed him up by the back of his tunic. “AH! Fuck, Farris! Put me down!” Nenani was also quickly swept up into his other hand and without a word, the giant marched back to the hut with his prizes. Farris used his shoulder to push his way into room with his captives and all eyes turned to them.

“Ah! Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Kol laughed.

“Hold ‘em, Yale.” Farris said gruffly as he dumped both Jae and Nenani into Yale’s lap and turned back out into the night. He caught Nenani awkwardly and Jae mostly fell onto the cot, but Yale was quick to grab onto the young man’s leg as he tried to scurry away.

“Oh no ya don’t, boyo!” Yale laughed.

Jae twisted and kicked at Yale’s hand and managed to wiggle his foot out as Yale tried to adjust his grip on Nenani. But as Jae tried to make a break for the door, Bart’s foot was there to block his path and then rough and hard hands gripped him around the middle and lifted him up. Bart sat the flailing boy on his thigh and held him, ruffling his hair and making the unhappy human even more so.

“Nice try, lad,” Bart chuckled. “But ye should’a known better than cross Farris.”

“It was an accident!” Jae protested, experimentally wiggling in Bart’s grip, but Bart had a solid hold of him. “It’s not like there are windows in those tunnels, y’know!”

“Aye, but this ain’t yer first offense neither, is it boy?”

Jae sighed, exasperated as he tried to fix his hair. “Great...what else did I do?”

“Brought the lil’un back without ‘er marker,” the butcher replied.

Jae paused and considered that. “Oh...yeah.”

“And then before that,” Yale added, fixing his grip on Nenani so she sat in the loop of his arm. “Ya

brought her back all drunk off a’ Maevis’s loopy juice.”

“Yeah, but that one wasn’t my fault,” Jae protested. “That shouldn’t count!”

“And yet it does,” Saen added, his wide grin just making Jae all the more irate. But his bluster and bravado dropped like a rock when Farris walked back into the hut caring a cocotte. The kitchen staff burst out into raucous laughter at the sight and Jae just stared incredulously.

“You got to be joking,” Jae said, real worry starting to sink in and he started to struggle, but Bart just held him firmly.

Farris took the lid off the cocotte and jerked his head. “Put ‘im in, Bart.”

Bart was laughing loudly as the others as he complied with Farris’s order and forced Jae into the open bowl of the pot. “Duck yer head, boy,” Bart chuckled he pressed the human’s head down and Farris’ slipped the lid on top.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU FUCKERS! THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” Nenani could hear the muffled sounds of Jae’s kicks against the metal pot’s sides. She sank into Yale, trying to maker herself as small as possible.

“You may not think so!” Kol said to Jae with a loud and boisterous laugh. “Oh...oh, Gods. I can’t breathe.”

Everyone was beside themselves with mirth and Nenani ducked down further behind Yale’s arm as Farris sat the cocotte down on the floor and use one foot to secure the lid. He flicked his sharp and angry green eyes to meet her own.

“Told ya one thing, didn’t I?” Farris asked, his voice deceptively low. She could almost see the vein at his temple throb with ire. His face was almost purple. She nodded, gulping nervously.

“And what did I fuckin’ say?”

“...to be back before sundown,” she replied meekly.

“Aye. Ya see the sun anywhere, lil’un?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet ye two come strollin’ in two hours passed curfew!” Farris’s voice rose and it sounded very loud in the small hut.

“We didn’t mean to!” she protested.

Farris pinned her with a very unamused look and jerked his head down the cocotte under his foot. “Ye wanna join ‘em in there, Dumplin’?”

She shook her head vigorously.

“Then don’t be feedin’ me any ‘a that,” He warned. “Your punishment comes tomorrow, lass. When I tell ya to do somethin’ or when’ta do it, it ain’t no request. I expect it to be done the way I told ya. Understand me?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. ‘Cause next time somethin’ like this happens, I’m stuffin’ ya both in there.”

“THERE’S NO ROOM!” Jae’s muffled reply came from down near the floor.

“I’ll get a bigger one.” Farris replied flatly.

“Ugh, fucking piece of...how long are you gonna make me stay in here?”

Farris scratched the side of his face as he considered. “Ye got ‘bout eight hours before the sun rises and nine before Donal will be expectin’ ya.”

“YOUR GONNA MAKE ME SIT IN HERE ALL NIGHT?!”

“Aye. Use it as a’ opportunity to figure out how to tell time in th’ dark so this won’t be happenin’ again.”

“FARRIS FOR REAL. THIS WAS FUNNY WHEN I WAS TEN, BUT THERE IS A LOT LESS SPACE IN HERE NOW!”

“Settle in, brat. Ye ain’t gettin’ out till I say.”

“Wha –? Seriously?”

“Aye.”

“DAMMIT, FARRIS –!”

………………………………………………

Farris had not been bluffing when he told Jae he would be spending the night inside of the cocotte and as everyone began to get into their cot’s for the night, Farris weighed the lid down with a large rock before settling into his cot and closing his eyes. But in the early morning hours before the sun had risen, Nenani woke from a fretful and not very refreshing sleep to see Farris at the edge of his cot, wiping away the sleep from his eyes before looking down at the cocotte. He bent down to remove the rock and slipped the lid off. Jae was curled up inside, fast asleep. His chest rose and sank slowly as he breathed.

Farris touched the young man’s back and nudged him. “Come on, boy. Wake up.”

Jae groaned and twisted in response to the prodding, but before he was fully awake, Faris slipped his hand under the young man and pulled him out. The bleary eyed human was set on his feet, but Farris held him steady as he found his footing and once Jae was awake enough to stand for himself, Farris nudged him towards the hut’s door. “Off with ye now. Ye got a few hours yet before Donal will be lookin’ fer ya. Go get a bit a’ rest in a real bed. And don’t think I won’t put ye back in there if ye don’t start mindin’ me, eh?”

Jae just mumbled something noncommittally, still half asleep, rubbing at his eyes. Farris snorted, but the edges of his mouth curled into a light smile. He pressed his knuckles into Jae’s back to encourage him forward.

“I’m going, I’m going...” Jae replied sleepily. “Geez...first that fucking skeleton ghost and then fucking cocottes...never gonan get a full night’s sleep again at this rate. Just gonna tell Donal I’m sick or somethin’.”

Farris narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

Jae turned back to stare blurry eyed at the spice master. “Huh? What was what?”

“...skeleton ghost?”

Jae was suddenly very much awake and his mouth floundered as he tried to explain himself. “Oh...uh. Not...uh. Nothing. Just nothing.”

“Yer were always a terrible liar, boy,” Farris said with a warning peppering his voice.

“Just a bad dream is all,” Jae replied, but even Nenani could tell that his nervous body language gave away the lie.

Farris pinned Jae with a look. “Jae?”

The young human opened his mouth as though he were going to answer, but paused and then turned on his heals and ran out of the hut before the giant could make a grab for him. Farris just glared after him and sighed. “Gods piss on it...”

Nenani watched silently from her spot tucked up against Yale’s side as Farris spent a few quiet moments for himself in the quiet, just looking out passed the open door to the sun as it slowly started to peak over the edge of the horizon. When the first hint of sunlight crept into the hut, Farris stood up with a grunt. “Alright, boys. Get yer lazy arses up and let’s get to it!”

Yale had become very good at sensing where Nenani was in the mornings and well before she felt Yale stir, his hand slipped under her and he pulled her up with him as he sat up, yawning. Yale was still rubbing the sleep from his face when Farris stepped up to his cot and held his hand out.

“Huh?” Yale asked, looking up at him.

Farris gestured with his fingers. “Hand me the Dumplin’, Yale. She’s with me today. I’ll leave the mornin’ prep to ye to look over.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Yale replied, holding Nenani out to Farris. She settled easily into his warm hands, regretting her poor sleep and as Farris gave out the orders and quickly ran through the day’s work assignments, she laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. There was no chance the smoke mage could get near her. Not with Farris around. Even with him angry at her, she still felt perfectly safe. The warm ball she had curled herself into, however, was abruptly undone when Farris sat her down on the cold wooden table inside the tent. The morning chill lingered even as the braziers and cook fires were lit.

“Now then,” Farris said as he placed several empty jars onto the table and filled them with vinegar. “By the end of breakfast, I’m expectin’ these all finished. Hear me, lass?”

She looked at the jars and counted. There were seven. It had taken her almost an entire day to do nine and now Farris wanted seven within a few hours. Her face must have betrayed her inner turmoil, because Farris laughed.

“Oh, aye. I’m serious. Seven by end of breakfast, girl. Best be gettin’ a move on then,” he said. “I’ll check on ya in a bit an’ don’t let me catch ya slackin’ none. Remember; that cocotte’s empty now and I’m sure yer plenty small enough t’be fittin’ just fine.”

Her strategy starting off was to pre-ground all of each ingredient first and then divvy them between each jar. She started with the licorice root as it was the easiest one and then started in on the ginger next. Farris peaked in on her after the first hour as she was just starting in on the ginger, but seemed satisfied enough to leave her at it.  As she ground up the yellow roots, her mind began to drift and all she could focus on was the spirit’s words of warning.  

“Find...the fallen flame...little one. They are...the one...who survived...the slaughter...of the ancient...blood...who has...no name...to pass...to her children.”

She wondered if Maevis or Barnaby were up yet and if they had began to look for clues. It just felt like they were sinking deeper into the mud and no where closer to knowing anything more about the smoke mage. It frustrated her to no end and it was only when she realized she had all but mashed the ginger into soup that she snapped out of it. She stared into the yellow goop clinging to the bowl and pestle. Her dress and hands were splattered with it. The smell clung to her.  

“He is...the smoldering...wreck...of a man...once promised...great things.”

A wreck of a man promised great things. Was he out for revenge? What had he been promised? Had the fallen flame...wronged him? But why was he coming after her if this fallen flame was who he was really after? What had her Uncle done to deserve the death he got, stuck down by this mad man…

Her breath hitched in her throat as a sudden thought came to her. In her dream, her Uncle had spoken to the smoke mage and had said...said that he would be denied again.

“You will be denied. This time and every other. You have haunted my family all these years, took everything we ever had, and yet still you are here, demanding more!”

“I will have what is mine. I will see the dead walls rise...”

“You bathe in the blood of thousands. And crown yourself emperor of a mountain of bones. But you are not my King. No King at all...and she will never be yours, no matter how you twist and pull these threads. In this life or the next! She chose Hayron.”

She chose...Hayron. Her father.

“Mama?” Nenani asked aloud to the winds. “Mama...chose Papa...over him...”

Her mother...was the fallen flame. Oira. The woman who rocked her to sleep and sang her lullabies. Who made her clothes and teased her when she grew too big for them. Her gentle, warm smile. Her laugh. The smell of her hair and feeling of being wrapped in her arms. Safe and loved and…

The smoke mage had taken her mother from her. Had murdered her father and her uncle. And now he came for her. A nauseating pull from inside her stomach had her doubled over and it was only when she struggled to take in a breath of air that she realized she was crying. Yelling. Screaming. The flap to the tent flew open and many bodies rushed inside. She heard their voices, but could not understand their words. Hands, warm and soft, touched her lightly and she shrank back. There was a horrible urge to bite and scratch and hurt something. Someone. It was difficult to resist the urge.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she yelled, her voice cracking and making her throat ache. Her head hurt so badly now. Sound made everything hurt and all she wanted was to curl up and disappear into nothing. No sound. No touch. None of it…

“NENANI!” She opened her eyes to find bright green irises looming over her, hands cradling her in large open palms. Yale was looking down over Farris’s shoulders in worried bewilderment. She saw Saen and Harit. Farris’s face was suddenly all she could see and she realized belatedly that he was speaking to her. “What is it, lil’un? What’s wrong? Talk to me, lass!”

Her chest heaved in great gasping sobs and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t meet his eyes and she pressed her knees to her chest, curling into herself and shaking. It was too much. Everything hurt and throbbed and she was so tired. No more. Please no more. Help me. Please. Someone...

She could feel Farris’s hand rub down her back, trying to soother her. To calm her. His voice washed over her in a worried, soft brush of air. “Come on, lil’un. Breathe now. Yer alright...”

“He...he’s coming to kill me...” she told him, choking on her own tears.

“What?” Farris’s voice did not sound like his normal self. He sounded concerned. Very concerned. “What are ye talkin’ about? Who wants t’be killin’ ya?”

“...the smoke mage...”

“What? What the fuck is a smoke mage? Ain’t no one after ya, Nenani. Ye had a bad dream is all.”

“No,” she said, shaking he head and the looked up to meet his gaze with wet and wild eyes, full of fear and desperation. “No, Farris...please. I...I’m in trouble...really bad trouble.”

And she told him. Everything.

……………………………………………………………………….

His heart was pounding loudly in her ear, but she did not care. She pressed her forehead into the fabric of his shirt as he carried her through the halls, his hands pressing her to his chest protectively. Everything passed by in a blur and her head ached and her tummy hurt...

There was a crash as a door was violently flung open and she could smell parchment and ink.

“MAEVIS!” Farris roared, the sound of it echoing around the large expanse of the King’s Library. “GET OUT HERE YA FUCKER!”

“F-Farris! What on earth is the matter?” she heard Barnaby speak. He sounded alarmed. She didn’t blame him, though. Farris sounded murderous.

“Holy hell Farris!” Jae. What was he doing in the library? Didn’t he have work?

“Gods above, Farris, what ever is the...ah,” Maevis’s voice came from the other end of the room. “Oh my. I think I know why you’re here...”

“OH, I BET YE DO! WHEN THE FUCK WERE YA GONNA TELL ME SOME LUNATIC’S BEEN TRYIN’ TO KILL MY FUCKIN’ WARD?!”

“Farris, please. I understand you’re angry...”

“ANRGY? YA THINK I’M ANGRY? MAEVIS, I COULD GLADLY HURL YER USELESS ARSE OUT THAT FUCKIN’ WINDOW RIGHT NOW!”

“Please. This is not helping. I can tell you everything if you just...”

“JUST WHAT? SIT DOWN AND HAVE SOME DAMN FUCKIN’ TEA? LOOK AT HER, YA FUCKIN’ NUTCASE! SHE’S SHAKIN’ TO PIECES!”

“We can explain what’s going on, but...”

“AND YOU, BOY! YOU KNEW AND DIDN’T SAY A DAMN WORD EITHER! YA TOOK HER INTO THOSE TUNNELS AND FUCKING….WHAT? WOKE SOME DEAD FUCKER UP? AND YA THOUGHT IT’D BE A GRAND IDEA FER HER TO SEE THAT?”

“We needed her there to be able hear them if they spoke.”

“SHE’S A FUCKIN’ BABE, MAEVIS! A CHILD! SHE SHOULDN’T BE ANYWHERE NEAR THIS MESS!”

“BUT SHE IS!” Maevis’s voice matched Farris’s. “She’s firmly in the thick of whatever it is this Smoke Mage is after. We’re trying to find out what he wants. To protect her!”

“IT AIN’T YER FUCKIN’ JOB TO BE PROTECTIN’ HER! IT’S MINE!”

“Farris, please, listen to us,” Jae begged. “This guy is really bad news. That dead guy gave us some clues to how to stop him and that’s what we’re trying really hard to figure out. We have to find this fallen flame person and...”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A FALLEN GODDAMN FLAME?!”

“We think it’s a person. Maybe someone who...”

“Mama...” Nenani said quietly, uncurling herself from Farris’s shirt. Her head hurt so much…

“What?” Maevis asked. “Nenani, what did you say?”

“Mama is...was the fallen flame.”

“You’re...mother?”

“Nenani,” Barnaby said to her, his voice urgent and pleading. “Nenani, dear, I need you to tell me. Was your mother’s name Aine?”

“No...her name was Oira...”

“Yes, my dear, but was her full name Aine Elaine Oira?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Nenani, please, this is very important. I have reason to believe you are right, that the person the spirit spoke of is your mother. This fallen flame, but I need to know...”

“But she’s dead...she can’t help us. He killed her. And Papa...” Nenani said. There was another painful throb inside her head and she felt ill. “My head hurts...”

“Farris, put her here,” Maevis said gently, gesturing to the table.

“What are –?”

“I have some tonic to help with the pain. She’s hurting.”

She felt his hands curl around her for a moment before he lowered her onto the table. Barnaby was next to her suddenly and held up a tea cup, a small amount of bluish liquid at the bottom. “Drink, my dear. It will help.”

She tipped the cup back and the liquid hit her throat and she began to cough. It tastes vile and burned a little. Barnaby rubbed her back as she coughed. “There’s a good dear.”

“Oh my child,” Maevis said, standing near one end of the table with his hands pressed to the surface. “I am so sorry...”

Farris growled. “Ye should be fuckin’ apologizin’ to me dammit, Maevis. Does the King know? Why hadn’t ye said anythin’ before?”

“Yes. You’re right,” the magician said, bowing his head. “And I will explain what we know now and…wait.” Maevis’s head tilted to the side as though he had heard a sudden noise. “What…?”

“Huh?” Jae asked, taking a few steps towards him. “What’s wrong?”

“I just –Oh!” Maevis’s looked worried now. “Oh no…”

“What’s ‘oh no’? Maevis?” Jae asked, his own voice beginning to sound worried.

“One of my barriers was just destroyed...”

“What? Now? Where?”

“The one I cast near the north tower and...” Maevis’s eyes opened wide. “Another! Some...someone is dismantling my barriers!”

The magician ran to the window and thrust it open. The cold morning air rushed in, scattering a few papers. Nenani’s head gave another powerful, painful throb and she dropped the tea cup and it shattered at her feet. Farris loomed above her protectively, reaching an arm around her.  

“Jae, my boy,” Barnaby said as he hurriedly thrust something wrapped in a hemp blanket into the young man’s arms. “Take this.”

“What is…?” Jae unwrapped the top part of the bundle and from the folds of it was the hilt of a sword. Jae starred at it in disbelief and apprehension. “What –?!”

“Just in case,” Barnaby said, his face strained. “Just in case.”

“Wha...where the hell did you get a sword?” Jae demanded. “And why do I need it?”

Nenani’s head was swimming and the tonic did not seem to be helping at all. In fact, it seemed to make it that much worse. She heard the voices around her argue and speak, but she did not hear or understand them. She was too engrossed with trying to fight the painful aching between her temples. And then she smelled it. The scent of ash and smolder. She opened her eyes and looked around the room, searching with fervent paranoia. Her eyes were drawn to the velvet curtain that marked Maevis’s private study and there she saw it. Thin tendrils of smoke leaking up from behind the curtain and she followed it up and up to the ceiling. The face of a stag skull starred back at her, its two red eyes glowing from high up. He seemed to be suspended in air, but she realized he was crouched on the topmost shelf a hundred or so feet up, staring down at them.

“UP!” Nenani screamed, raising her hand towards the black cloaked intruder. They all craned their heads up and finally he was revealed to them. He was no longer a possible figment of Nenani’s imagination. He was there. He was real. And they all saw him.

“Stay down, lass.” Farris told her, nudging her down into the safety of his looped arm.

“By the seventh seal...” Baranby breathed as he too laid eyes on the smoke mage. The stag skull mask turned to the archivist and tilted curiously. “It’s true...”

“Well I am surprised,” the black figure said, high amusement in his tone. “Is that truly you, archivist? I did not think you were still alive, but there you are. Still intact and everything! It appears you’ve managed to escape their soup pot all these years. Too bony for you, giants? I can rough him up a bit for you. Make him a little more tender.”

“How...” Barnaby seemed lost for words and in great distress.

“Shut your filthy mouth, Mage,” Maevis growled up at the figure, reaching out to wrap his hands around Barnaby and pulling him closer to his person. “If you should even think about harming him, I will rip your legs off.”   

The smoke mage just laughed. “And you magician. Your annoying spells and incantations have been quite bothersome. Forgive me if I wasn’t very delicate in dismantling them. They were in my way.”

“What do you want here?” Maevis demanded.  

“You have something of mine. I am simply here to collect. As well as pay you back handsomely for destroying my favorite pet. He still had plenty of use let in him before his body would have given out.”

“There is nothing for you here. I suggest you leave.”

“No,” the mage said and pointed his finger down towards Farris. “No, I don’t believe I will. I have need of that one. That thorn guard’s bastard...”

Farris growled a deep, guttural, feral sound, and his arm pulled Nenani closer to him. “Over my fuckin’ rottin’ corpse ye will, ye hazey lil’ fuck.”

“Such eloquent talk, giant,” the Smoke Mage replied dryly. “But if that is all I need to do, then it will be my pleasure.”

The Mage raised his hands and a black mist burst from his palms. Farris barely had time to take a breath before the force of it hit him straight in the chest and sent him flying back several dozen feet to crash against a bookcase. He fell to the floor and did not get up.

“FARRIS!” Nenani screamed. Jae’s arm wrapped around her shoulder when she made to run to her guardian.

“ENOUGH!” Maevis sent two blue orbs back at the Mage who leaped away from the wall just as the blue light struck where he had once been. Parchment and the shredded remains of several books rained down upon them. The Mage clung to wall like a bat and raised his palm towards Maevis to release another powerful burst of black mist. It struck the magician in the shoulder and sent him flying to the floor. He was dazed, but not knocked out, groaning against the pain and struggling to get back to his feet.

“NO!” Nenani yelled and then looked around to see where the Mage had gone, but his movements had been so fast…

“NENANI!” Jae yelled and pushed her away from him just as the Smoke Mage’s sword came down between them. Nenani fell hard on her hip and look up just in time to see the black figure standing above her, his hand reaching out for her. Then movement as Jae was there behind him, his own sword raised above his head to strike at the Mage and Nenani recognized the sword immediately.

...it was her father’s sword.

The skull tilted and Jae brought the blade down, but in a flash the Mage was turned towards Jae, his own black blade parrying the boy’s downward thrust. Jae looked startled at the figure’s incredible speed and that was all the time the Mage needed. He kicked Jae in the chest and the boy fell back hard. Jae laid there dazed for a few moments, but he got back onto his feet, wobbling and breathing hard.

“You’re annoying,” the Mage growled and turned his hand towards Jae as though to send a shot of black mist at him as well.

“NENANI, DUCK!” Maevis shouted and she had just enough time to pull her head down before another blue orb shot towards the Mage and this time it hit true and the Mage was sent hurling across the room. Jae went to Nenani and helped her up.  

“RUN!” Maevis told them, pointing to the open window. “GO! GET TO THE KING’S KEEP!”

“Com on,” Jae said, pulling her along with him and in his other hand he still held the sword. “We need to move!”

“But Farris!” she protested, sending back an anxious glance to where the spice master lay prone on the ground. His head was bleeding, but she could see his chest falling and rising.

“We have to go!” Jae told her and even as she allowed herself to be pulled and ushered to the window, she did not take her eyes off of the prone form of her guardian.