#or would Bloom be too traumatized by the information and go into hiding

[rerarlo]

I just had a diabolical thought about Bloom. What if she is a changeling? But not an actual mythological changeling.

What if instead of Daphne just dropping Bloom somewhere (inside a burning building) she swapped Bloom with the ACTUAL Bloom Peters? Daphne knew the ancestral witches would be looking for a baby, and she couldn’t have been sure those three (well two) would be defeated. So, she made a tough decision. She took Mike and Vanessa’s actual daughter and put the Princess of Domino in her place. So Daphne tried running with that baby for as long as she could, but eventually she was caught and killed. The witches tried to take the dragon flame from Bloom Peters but it didn’t work. She wasn’t Domino’s Princess. So they disposed of her. After the defeat of the Ancestral Witches the royal family of Domino was declared dead.

And Mike and Vanessa were unknowingly raising somebody else. She was called Bloom Peters sure, but she was still The Princess of Domino and Guardian of the Dragon Flame.

And imagine Bloom finding this out. That she isn’t Bloom, that she took the place of an innocent kid and has been living as her. Maybe that's what she finds out in Cloud Tower. Not that she’s a weapon created by the ancestral witches, but a fake. She isn’t Bloom Peters, she is The ‘dead’ Princess of Domino.

Imagine her trying to tell this to her ‘parents’ that she isn’t their daughter, that their actual child was buried in the tomb meant for her.

[nikethestatue]

Hi!

I really love your writing. Not to sound like a creep but I've read and reread all your stories multiple times. I think honestly no one writes romantic moments like you and may I ask you to write a one off with Azriel braiding Elain's hair? My birthday is coming up and it would be a gift. You don't have to but if you can it would be amazing.

Happy upcoming birthday, darling Anon! Thank you for your compliments and here you go!

The Braid

It was an early morning when Azriel arrived at the River Estate.

Rhys wanted an early meeting, but it was barely after 5 o’clock in the morning and as he entered the empty, quiet mansion, Azriel remembered that not everyone was as early a riser as he was.

Elain was. The only one to rise like the sun, and glow each morning with her special light.

Before everything had gone to shit, he secretly craved a glimpse of that light every morning. When he was feeling bold, he’d actually join her for breakfast, for her first cup of tea, and his first cup of coffee. Just the two of them in the kitchen, no one to interfere or gawk. Their sacred, private moments together. She’d ask him about his previous day and his plans, and they’d talk about the news, and sometimes, she’d giggle and hand him the newest gossip magazine, and they’d discuss all the naughty happenings of the Velaris rich and famous. With Elain, it didn’t feel awkward and he didn’t need to put on his mask of indifference, for she would not mock him or make fun of him, if she knew that he enjoyed reading the tabloids. She did as well and it was their little secret—both were invested in the development of a potential affair of a prominent actress from the Night Court and a married Prince from Day Court.

Azriel loved supplying Elain with little tidbits of information that he learned throughout the day, known only to him, and then watch how she’d cover her mouth and how her beautiful eyes grew wide when he whispered the latest developments to her. It was so perfectly normal, so tender and pure that he even allowed himself the pointless fantasies of how one day, this may take place in their own home, not his brother’s. He imagined how he and Elain would wake up together, after a night of her sleeping draped over him, her breath soothing and peaceful on his chest, every curve of hers pressed into him. They’d make breakfast together and talk and laugh and the kitchen would smell of coffee and pastry. It would be the smell of their home. And sometimes, or rather often, he thought of making love to her as well—maybe in their kitchen, maybe in the garden, in their bed…He thought about it a lot. But he was just as happy thinking of how Elain would be his home—to greet him in the morning with her luminous smile and the wave of her honey-golden hair and to greet him in the evening, when he returned to her and wrapped his arms around her, his troubles forgotten.

Today, even the kitchen was silent. No Elain to greet him.

Yes, it’s been tense and awkward between them since the disaster that was the last Solstice. Gone were the mornings of quiet laughter, coffee and gossiping. Gone were the moments of her squeezing his fingers in reassurance, before he stood up to leave. Her little way of wishing him a good day. Her promise to think of him throughout the day, and then send him off with a soft smile. Nowadays, they never spent time together, alone. If there was breakfast, there was at least six people in the room, and chaos.

He walked down the hallway and then made his way up the stairs, to his room, which he hardly ever used.

His keen hearing picked up the sounds of whispering and quiet laughter first. Then, Elain’s scent flooded his senses and he paused in the hallway. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar and before he knew what he was doing, he was peering into the bedroom. His shadows floated around him, concealing him when he forgot to hide himself.

Elain was seated in front of her vanity, the first rays of morning sun gilding her in gold and bronze. Cerridwen was standing behind, holding the mass of Elain’s hair in one hand and a brush in another. They were laughing, carefree, and Azriel was happy for both of them—that they, and Nuala, found each other and became such good friends. He was forever grateful to the twins for their kindness and for allowing the bruised, aching and traumatized girl into their little world. The half-wraiths did not encourage closeness and only considered him as a friend, even if they technically served him and Rhysand. But they accepted Elain and the three became true friends and companions.

He held his breath, needing to watch. Wanting. Wanting so much of what he couldn’t have. Wanting to take Cerridwen’s place. Wanting to feel Elain’s smooth silken skin against his lips. Wanting her to lean into him, trusting and loving. Wanting. Wanting. Wanting.

“Azriel.”

His name on Elain’s lips started him. He actually flinched.

She never called him by his name. Ever. As if it was too intimate and would bring down even more barriers between the two of them. As if they both knew that his name would be the one she’d moan in her pleasure, writhing against him. His name would be the name she’d whisper when she spoke the words of love. Instead of his name, she always offered him a special smile that she reserved only for him.

“Azriel,” she said again.

He couldn’t read the tone of her voice.

It jolted him. That somehow, they’d grown so far apart that he couldn’t read her expression, and didn’t understand her mood.

Cerridwen stepped back and turned around, looking at him. That look was inscrutable as well, but something in it told him that it would be alright…that he could step inside and he’d be welcome.

So he did.

He entered Elain’s bedroom.

Her jasmine and honey scented bedroom.

Terrible idea.

Of all the bad ideas he’d ever had, this was by far the worst.

Standing in Elain’s bedroom, her bed not even made yet, her naked body barely concealed beneath a flimsy nightgown, her hair streaming about her like a river of molten bronze.

“I shall go see about breakfast,” Cerridwen announced quietly, and Azriel made a move to stop her, but she slipped through his fingers, the naughty wraith.

And then it was just the two of them. Elain was watching him in the mirror, making no moves, quiet.

He approached. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t right.

But before he knew what he was doing, he moved.

He just moved and his scarred fingers were in her hair, threading gently through the softness, trying not to snag any. He couldn’t help himself. It felt so good. She was next to him again, and for a moment, he could imagine that it was just the two of them. That she was his.

Silently, he picked up the brush and ran it through the hair, down, down, down, and watched Elain’s beautiful throat bob, her chest rising and falling softly, her plump, lovely breasts swelling against the material. He noticed it all. Every move and sigh and hitch. But he said nothing and just brushed her hair.

He didn’t know what compelled him, but he divided the locks into three equal parts and wondered if he would remember how to plait. He did. Elain still said nothing, and just watched him with a tormented hunger in her eyes, as her cheeks darkened and bloomed with a deep blush. Slowly, he crossed and tightened the strands of her hair in his hands, remembering to be gentle and not tug, but he didn’t think that Elain would mind if he tugged, if he wrapped the hair around his fist and pulled her head back, if he feasted on her long neck, if he bit and marked her.

But he just braided her hair.

Wordlessly, she handed him a blue ribbon, and surprising himself, he managed to weave it into the strands before securing the braid with a knot and even making a little bow. Yes, he the Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court, had tied a little blue bow at the end of Elain Archeron’s braid.

He let go of the braid that tumbled down her back.

“Until tomorrow then,” she said at last.

Until tomorrow then.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, Azriel smiled.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour. 

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff. 

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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[thetravelerwrites]

Dr. Mael Halvorg (Part 3) Lemon

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Male Part-Fae/Female Part-Fae Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Fae, Naga, Reader Insert, Genetics Content Warnings: Children, Pregnancy, Incubation, Oviposition, Egg Laying, Birth, Surgery, Male Infertility Words: 4029

Dr. Halvorg learns what could be causing his infertility and makes arrangements to try and correct it. He and the reader become closer, and the reader attempts to do something to help him feel less lonely and unfulfilled. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

Halvorg went in for the tests that same week, returning afterwards subdued and blushing slightly. You assumed he’d never given a… sample… before.

“How’d it go?” You asked him.

He rubbed his neck bashfully. “It was… thorough.”

You snickered. “At least it wasn’t a biopsy after an abnormal pap smear. Those are traumatic.”

He looked aghast. “I can only imagine.”

“Did they say when the results would be in?”

He shook his head. “No, they’re supposed to call me when they come back. Could be a week or so.”

You patted his arm softly. “How are you feeling?”

He sighed heavily. “Worried. This could change my life or confirm my worst fear. Either way, I’m… well, to be honest, I’m a little scared.”

“I understand,” You replied. “Well, no, I don’t. My family is disgustingly fertile. If I ever tried to get pregnant, I’m sure it wouldn’t take me long.” You looked up at him with sympathy. “But I do feel for you.”

“I appreciate that,” He said solemnly. He looked at you curiously. “If I might ask, how old are you?”

“I’ll be one hundred and seventy four years in August,” You said.

“And you’ve never considered having children in that time?” He asked.

“Not really. I figured I had enough nieces and nephews that I didn’t think it was necessary. I mean, I’m not against the idea of having children, I’ve just been career oriented for most of my life and never really settled down in any place for very long. I’ve never been married, never had any serious relationships, never dating with the intent on finding ‘the one.’ I figured if I wanted that, it would come in time and I would let it happen naturally and there was no need to rush it. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” He said. “That’s how I used to be for a good three centuries. It wasn’t until I did marry and tried to make a family and failed, again and again, that I sort of became… obsessed.”

“How many times have you been married?”

“Thirty times, I believe.”

“Were they all human?”

“Most of them were,” He said. “There were a couple of tieflings, a half-orc woman, a faun, a selkie, and a dryad. I stayed with them all until the end of their lives, except the last one who left me. I’m nothing if not devoted.” He cocked his head. “Well, I divorced the dryad. She wasn’t happy that I couldn’t conceive children and berated me for it.”

“Oh, jeez, what a bitch,” You said, frowning.

He snorted. “I may have used similar language at the time.”

“I can’t imagine you calling someone a bitch,” You said, side-eyeing him.

“I was a different man in my youth,” He said, smiling. “I’ve got some papers to file. I’ll see you later.”

You waved him off, watching him walk briskly and frowned. He’d lost so much, been disappointed so often, given up on the things he wanted for himself to help others. He was using what he had to give others what he wanted, and as noble a pursuit as that was, it was also rather sad. And what if he got the news he was dreading the most. He’d be devastated.

Was there anything you could do to make him feel better? Was there something you could give him that would make him feel less… incomplete? The only time he seemed genuinely happy was when he was with the children. What else could give him the same joy?

The boy. It came to you suddenly. What about the boy he thought was his son? The one he raised until his mother left with him? Could you find him? Was he alive?

At lunchtime, you sat down with Amai in the cafeteria.

“Can I ask a favor of you?” You asked.

“Sure, what is it?” She responded, sipping her coffee. She always craved coffee when she was incubating and downed gallons of it after laying.

“The boy Halvorg raised, what was his name?”

“Robert, I think?” She said. “I can ask Yenuno, he knows.”

“What year was he born?”

“Uhhh… 1901 or around there.”

“What was his mother’s name?”

“Martha--why are you asking about this?”

You sighed. “I want to find Halvorg’s son. He may be dead now, but I have to try. Halvorg is so unhappy, he’s just gotten really good at hiding it. I want to give him some kind of closure.”

Amai winced in sympathy. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Spending all these years around him, I can see how much he’s hurting, even if he tries to mask it.” She sighed. “I have some contacts at the census archives and I can make some inquiries. I’ll check the lineages websites and find as many records as I can.” Amai snorted. “Maybe he’ll be less uptight.”

“Amai!” You retorted.

“Sorry, sorry!” Amai held her hands up. “I’m sorry, it’s a reflex by now, sorry. This is serious. I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you,” You said with a warning tone. “This is serious.”

“I know,” Amai said, her face more solemn. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” You repeated. “I’m sorry to put more work on you, though.”

She tsked at you. “Please, I always take maternity leave during Yenuno’s time incubating. I generally have nothing to do but keep the big guy company while he’s stuck in one place. It’ll give me something to do.”

Halvorg got the call a few days later and informed you of the appointment time. You offered to drive him, and he gratefully accepted.

“Are you alright?” You asked him.

He took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “I don’t know. This is either a new beginning or the end of the road. I don’t know how to feel.”

“I’ll be with you, no matter what,” You told him.

He grimaced in a failed attempt to smile. “Thank you.”

The two of you sat in the waiting room for a moment before being called back into an exam room. He sat there in his chair and fidgeted nervously. You put your hand on his and held it. He looked up at you with fear in his eyes and didn’t shake you off.

The doctor knocked on the door and let himself in. Halvorg straightened up, releasing your hand.

“Alright, Dr. Halvorg,” He said, sitting at the table. “We Have your results back. Blood and urine came back normal, and there’s nothing abnormal on your x-rays.” He flipped on the computer screen on the desk in front of him and pulled up Halvorg’s file. “However, there was abnormalities in your sperm sample and the MRI.”

“What type of abnormalities?”

“Well, first of all, your semen sample didn’t have any sperm in it.”

Halvorg looked confused. “What?”

“It’s a condition known as Azoospermia. It’s basically when there’s a blockage somewhere that’s trapping the sperm, which is why there weren’t any little swimmers in your sample.” The doctor clicked on one of the tabs and opened an MRI of Halvorg’s pelvic area and pointed out the anomalies. “The MRI confirms it. There doesn’t appear to be a connection between your epididymus and your vas diferens, and without that connection, the sperm is completely blocked. There’s also a blockage from your testes to the urethra. You appear to have been born with all of these blockages.”

“How does that happen?”

“As to that,” The doctor said, looking at the paperwork he came in with. “Your genetics test came back, and it appears that you have a mutation of Cystic Fibrosis. Thankfully, with this mutation, there are no other typical symptoms of Cystic Fibrosis besides the infertility.”

“Can it be corrected?” Halvorg asked anxiously.

“Yes, microsurgery can correct it. Before we do that, we’ll need to take a sample directly from the testicle with a needle to see if you’re producing sperm at all and look at the count. If we determine that the general sperm production is not the problem, then we’ll proceed with surgery.”

Halvorg sat in a stunned silence, gripping his knees tightly.

“So… it’s possible that I could have children?” He asked.

“There is a possibility,” The doctor said. “We would have to wait until after the surgery and take another sample. I don’t want to get your hopes up too soon, the sperm count could be low, they could be abnormal. There are a bunch of things that could go wrong.”

“But there’s a chance?” Halvorg asked, his eyes as wide and vulnerable as a puppy.

“There’s a chance,” The doctor replied.

As the two of you left the clinic and headed to your car, before you could get to your door, Halvorg gently took your arm, swung you around, took your face in his hands, and kissed you full on the mouth. You made a sound of surprise, but you didn’t push him away.

He lingered for a moment or two before breaking away and saying, “I’m sorry, I know that was extremely unprofessional and probably unwanted, but I don’t know how to thank you. I owe you so much, I can’t begin to express how grateful I am.” He gulped and looked at you earnestly, breathing out a shaky breath. “Do you remember when you asked me to dinner?”

“Yeah?” You asked, confused but intrigued by the sudden softening of his prickly exterior.

“Does the offer still stand?”

You smiled at him slowly and took his hands. They were trembling. This was the first time in a century he’d asked a woman out, after all.

“Yeah,” You replied, stepping closer so that your body lightly brushed his. “Yeah, it does.”

He smiled wide and kissed you again.

Maël went in the next day to have a sample taken, and was thrilled to learn that he did have a decent amount of sperm production. He scheduled the surgery immediately. The recovery time would be at least six weeks, and it was advised that he didn’t try to have sexual relations for another two weeks after that. Plenty of time to feel out your new blooming relationship and get more comfortable with each other.

Thankfully, you had a week to actually go on a few dates before he went under the knife. He took you to Dunmountain on a weekend trip to the museum and the opera. It was the first time you’d done anything like this recreationally in a really long time, and you loved every second of it.

Even though you were sharing a hotel room and a bed, he didn’t attempt to be intimate with you, and you didn’t push him. It had been a century since he last took a woman to bed, and you imagined he felt a little nervous about it.

You didn’t go out of your way to tell people that you were together, but it wasn’t a big secret either. Yenuno and Amai were overjoyed for the two of you. Maël had told Yenuno and Amai about the surgery, but he claimed it was a hernia. You weren’t sure if he would tell them the whole truth. Not unless he got the results he wanted.

By the time he healed completely, it would be about time for the eggs to hatch. Yenuno was already restless and it had only been a month.

You drove Maël to the surgical clinic on the day of his surgery, sat with him in pre-op while he waited nervously and just talked him through his anxiety, holding his hand when they put the IV in. They gave him some medicine to help calm his nerves, and he began to grow sleepy. You stroked his head and watched his eyes fluttered closed. They wheeled him into surgery while he was still snoozing.

The procedure didn’t take very long, only about an hour, and you waited to be called back. A nurse came to retrieve you and took you to his room.

He lay there in bed, drifting in and out.

“Hey, sweetie,” You said, rubbing his arm. “How are we feeling?”

“Sore and thirsty,” He croaked.

You picked up the cup with water in it the nurse had provided and helped him take a sip.

“I’m not surprised you’re sore,” You remarked, setting the cup back down. “A whole bunch of people fondled your balls for an hour.”

He wheezed a laugh. You loved it when he laughed. It changed his whole face. “Did they say when they’d release me?”

“As soon as you can pee on your own, they’ll let you out of here. They said there would be swelling so it might be a while before you’re able to do it, though. I’ll wait.”

He held his hand out for yours and you took it.

“I feel like all I do these days is thank you,” He said. “I wish I could do as much for you as you’ve done for me.”

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” You said. “I’m a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man. But I’ll keep you around. You’re cute.”

He breathed another laugh through his nose. “I’m glad. I’ve become rather fond of you.”

You kissed his knuckles. “Likewise.”

He managed to relieve himself right after dinnertime, and was declared clear to go home. You drove him back to the facility and helped him to bed. He was asleep before you left his apartment.

Heading back into your own apartment for the night and sat heavily on your couch. God, you needed to do laundry. It had been a chaotic few weeks.

You started picking up clothes that were strewn haphazardly over furniture, and while picking up a pair of jeans, a small book fell out.

Oh. Right. Maël’s research notes. You’d meant to give it back. Well, Maël was going to be recovering in bed for a few days and likely sleeping most of that time. You could give it back when he was back on his feet. You placed it in the drawer of your nightstand, stared at it for a minute, and went on to start laundry.

And promptly forgot about it for a second time.

Maël slowly healed, though he walked a little stiffly for a few weeks and was careful when sitting. He was a little more irritable than normal, but you imagined he was trying to adjust and was also still worried about whether or not the surgery had worked. He wouldn’t know for another several weeks.

The children kept bringing him flowers they found in the forest to cheer him up, which always seemed to lift his spirits. You spent the evenings with him, talking and cuddling and kissing. You felt like a teenager again, and you hadn’t been a teenager in over one hundred and fifty years.

You were starting to regret the timing of the surgery, though. Sometimes the making out would get pretty hot and heavy, and you had to force yourselves to stop for fear of injuring him.

One night after you’d been dating for just under two months, he was kissing your neck and began to unbutton your shirt. You stopped him.

“You haven’t been cleared for intercourse, have you?” You asked him.

“No, not yet,” He said, breathing heavily and biting his lip. His white-blonde hair was out of it’s normal clean braid and falling around his face. “But I can do something for you.” His hand drifted down your abdomen and between your thighs.

“Oh,” You said, smiling a little. “Are you sure?”

He slipped his hand into your panties and stroked you, and your breath caught in your throat.

“I haven’t done it in a while,” He said, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. “But I think I still know how to do this.”

He got up from the couch and pulled you by your legs gently so that you were laying flat, pushing up your skirt and pulling off your panties. He knelt back down on the couch, yanking off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He slowly spread your legs and pushed your knees upward. He started kissing and sucking the inside of your thigh while circling your bud with his thumb. You moaned and lay back into the cushions, giving over to the sensations.

As he kissed his way toward the apex, he slipped his middle finger inside you and thrust it gently in and out. You whimpered and gripped the couch, your hips grinding against his hand.

“Maël, please,” You breathed.

He growled low in his throat, sending a shockwave through your spine.

“Since you said please,” He whispered teasingly, and pressed his tongue to your clit. Your toes curled at the contact and you grabbed a handful of his hair.

“Oh god,” You whispered. “Maël.”

He placed his whole mouth over you, licking and sucking, adding another finger inside you. He certainly did remember how to do this.

“Fuck!” You said through gritted teeth, followed up by a shuddering moan, raising your head to watch him. He looked up at you through his long lashes and doubled his efforts, sucking your labia into his mouth and pulling, adding a third finger. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

Still sucking, he grinned up at you and quirked an eyebrow. He withdrew his fingers and used his hands to push your knees into your chest to open you up wider. You grabbed his head with both hands and rocked your clit against his tongue.

You came as though hit by a bus, loud and violent. Your butt lifted off of the couch as you pulsed in ecstasy, screaming. You hoped the walls of his apartment were soundproof. You couldn’t believe that he’d made you come in under a minute.

“How? How did you do that?” You wheezed.

He chuckled darkly. “I was married thirty times, darling. If I don’t know what I’m doing by now, I shouldn’t be dating at all.”

You just sort of laid there like a starfish while you got your breath back and cooled down. Maël went to fetch you some water and a snack. Eventually, you found your underwear and put it back on. Once your heart rate had slowed, he pulled you into his lap and kissed you slowly until you fell asleep. The next morning, you woke up next to him in his bed. You were tucked up under his arm and he was sleeping peacefully, a small smile on his face.

Suddenly, both of your cellphones buzzed at once. Maël snorted awake and untangled himself from you, picking up his phone, looking at it, and jumping out of bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“The eggs are hatching!” He exclaimed hastily, pulling clothes out of drawers and putting them on hurriedly. You threw your clothes on and joined Maël’s mad dash for the door.

When you got to the receiving area, the kids were milling around inside, instructed to stay away from the cottage until the babies were born, but they were craning their necks to see what was happening.

Amai was in the shelter with Yenuno and several members of the hatching team, looking into the circle of his tail. She looked up and saw the two of you running up and shouted: “Hurry! They’re almost out!”

You and Maël darted up the ramp and looked down into the coil. All three of the eggs were cracked open and little arms and tails were poking out.

“Vitals?” Maël asked, donning a surgeon’s paper outfit and instructing you to do the same.

“Vitals are elevated but within acceptable range,” One of the nurses said.

“Good,” Maël said. “Alright, we just have to stand back. They’ll do most of the work.

Amai and Yenuno were watching the eggs hatch with awe on their faces. You supposed watching this never got old for them. You wondered if they would miss this now that they decided to stop laying.

Slowly, the little wiggling figures freed themselves from their shells and were crawling around on their hands, looking up at their parents. Maël used that distraction to examine them.

“No way…” He said in a hushed tone. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?” Amai asked a little shrilly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Maël said, grinning up at her. “They’re all girls.”

“What?!” Yenuno and Amai said in unison, looking at their new little ones.

From what Maël had told you, the ratio of male to female births of Blue Gill Nagas was disproportionately skewed in favor of males. One in twenty eggs contained a female. Having an entire clutch of females was extremely rare.

Yenuno and Amai cried with joy and excitement. They’d been hoping to have at least one more little girl. To get three in one go was overwhelming.

Maël supervised the clean up process, and when they were ready, Yenuno and Amai brought the three baby girls out and introduced them to their siblings. You watched on the ramp with Maël, smiling, and took his hand. He squeezed yours in return. Looking up at his face, you could see he was crying, too.

This is what Maël wanted. He wanted to be the first to say hello to his own child, to be the first to hold them, to be the first to tell them he loved them. He wanted to kiss their brow and dance with them when they were crying and sing them to sleep at night. To get on the floor and play with them and put bandaids on their knees when they scraped them. He was desperate to experience that again, like he had with his son.

After the hatching, Maël went to file the new birth paperwork and Amai and Yenuno and their children were spending the next few days together. That left you with nothing to do.

Back in your apartment, you lay in your bed, thinking about that morning over and over. The babies busting out of their shells, the look of joy on their parents’ faces, the mix of happiness and pain on Maël’s.

You sat up to get your lip balm from your night table, and again found the book. You really ought to give it back. You’d been absent-minded about this for too long.

You opened it, flipping through pages until you landed on the date you first arrived at the facility. Intrigued, you read it.

“Amai’s friend finally made it today. It was exciting to meet her; I’ve been following her career for so long. She’s done so much for the non-human community. Amai didn’t tell me how breathtakingly beautiful she was. My heart stopped when I saw her out of the window. I haven’t felt attraction like this in centuries.”

Oh. Oh god. This was his personal diary. You knew you should stop reading it, but couldn’t. You had no idea he’d felt this way.

“I think I’m flirting with her, but I’m not trying to. I can’t help it. She’s funny and intelligent and everything I love in a woman. She’s gorgeous. I don’t know what to do. I’m trying so hard to stay professional, but I can seem to stop smiling around her.”

The next entry was the day you asked him to dinner.

“She asked me out on a date tonight. It was so hard to say no, but there’s no point, is there? She won’t want me if she knows I can’t have children. She’ll either leave me or mock me. There’s no point. I’ll avoid her. That’s all I can do. It’s best if I don’t get closer to her. Even friendship is dangerous. I’m already half in love with her, and I don’t think I could take it if we started a relationship and she ended up pitying me or disgusted. I can’t do it again.”

There were no more mentions of you in the book after that. You didn’t realize you were crying until the tears hit the page.

It was then that you made a decision.

You took out your phone and dialed your gynecologist’s office. “Hi, Grace, I’d like to schedule a consultation with the doctor about canceling my next birth control injection.”

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[goldandlights]

Read your headcannon about Geralt not understanding consent due to his traumatic childhood and !!! Damn it this is so sad!?! And I really want to know how Jaskier figures it out, and how he deals with it?? -Please- tell me Jaskier teaches him that this is not okay, and that Geralt learns to say no, because I really need to know that the big soft witcher is being taken care of. T_T

;___; I feel you anon. So much.

Hmmm, I’d say it depends on how observant Jaskier is -how easily he’d recognize the pattern in Geralt’s behaviour and how wary he’d be of Geralt pulling the same “saying yes but meaning no” stunts on him

Maybe a year or two into their travels together, long enough for the intial shine to wear off and for Jaskier to see more and more behind the “untouchable, unemotional Witcher” facade, he’d start to see the signs;

The uncomfortable stiffness in Geralt’s posture contrasting his nod of acceptance when a lady comes to close and offers the infomation they need for a night with the Witcher. The blood dribbling from his nose Geralt tries to hide, growling “I’m fine” even though he’s clearly not, after he returned from “trading” with the apothecary.

Jaskier would ofc try to talk to Geralt. And when it becomes rapidly clear that Geralt sees no issue at all with risking his physical/emotional wellbeing, reacting with incredulity and predictable anger at Jaskiers insistence that he should just say no, that no herb or piece of information it worth letting himself be exploited by such utter assholes... Jaskier would take matters into his own hands.

He cannot stand by and watch Geralt be hurt.

Jaskier’d intercept negotiations (by pure desperate ridiculousness if he has to -imagine Jaskier just strumming his lute and singing at the tops of his lungs to make conversation impossible-) or flat-out take over them, shutting down any suspicious-sounding offers before Geralt can find the words to contradict him -it gets him the White Wolf’s ire more often than not, at least at first, but Jaskier bears Geralt’s glower stubbornly.

In other areas of their life, too, Jaskier would try to nurture Geralt’s ability to stand up for himself and set his own boundaries -with words, mind you! Not punches to the gut. “We’re a civilized country, dear, even though it doesn’t often feel that way.”

He’d become a specialist at reading the subtle shifts of Geralt’s expression and whenever something Jaskier did something that incited a Negative Twitch, he’d ask "Is it okay if I do that?” or “Do you want me to do that?” and not relent until the Witcher’s gunts and avoidant “I don’t care”‘s turned into a clear “Yes” or “No” -and if it was a “No”, Jaskier would stop immediately, slowly coaxing Geralt into getting more comfortable voicing his needs/wants.

Mmmh, when they part ways for a while, Geralt might fall back into old patterns of behaviour... and it would be horrible and frightening, he didn’t remember these things making him so unhappy, skin feeling dirty and crawling with unwanted touch, pain blooming in his body and heart in a way it hadn’ for six months

At first he’d ofc try to talk himself out of his feelings, try to tell himself that this was his reality, that the naive, overly idealistic young bard had simply managed to blind him to the truth for a blissful while... but Jaskier’s voice is there, like a fly buzzing around him, repeating over and over that he deserves to be safe, that he deserves to be treated with respect, that he has the right to walk away-

And it had worked that way, too, right? For six months he’d managed to complete contracts without selling himself as well as his services and maybe, maybe...

The next time a lord asks to “See the extend of a Witcher’s strength” and the sick twinkle in his eye had Geralt’s hackles raise instinctively, the refusal was out of his mouth before he could fully process it, heart stuttering at the relief he felt as his own actions and the lords disappointment.

Without Jaskier at his side, he failed to negotiate different terms and had to leave empty handed but that was... fine. Perhaps? Somehow. Or at least the little voice that sounded like Jaskier said it was a good choice (even when Witcher training said it wasn’t) and when Geralt laid in bed that night, warm and whole, he shamefully couldn’t regret it at all.

Mmmh, I think in this case they wouldn’t get anywhere close to having sex if Geralt can’t convince Jaskier that he wants it 100% so that’s a big plus :’)

------

>>> For more content with this particular flavour of angst, I’d recomment Heart Exchange by @jaskiersvalley !!!!

It’s a modern AU with sub!Geralt who engages in terrible BDSM practices a la “You can do whatever you want as long as you at least get me off somehow” and gentle-but-firm Dom!Jaskier who shows him a different, healthier way to play.

It’s still WIP but absolutely MAGNIFICENT and I 1000000000% encourage anyone to read it who thirsts for angst and heartbreakingly insecure, hurt-and-trying-not-to-show-it!Geralt with tender, loving Jaskier slowly coaxing him out of his shell (there’s praise kink!! So good!! Geralt doesn’t even know how to react at first and doesn’t believe a word Jaskier says, it hurts PEREFCTLY... pls go read it~)

ALSO now for the other variant, in which Jaskier does not pick up on Geralt’s issues with consent (which I don’t think tbh, Jaskier is an intensely social creature, very attuned to his companions moods):

If it came down to it and Jaskier asked Geralt to engage in some sexual practice the Witcher is not fully comfortable with... there’s no way Jaskier would miss the signs when they’re in bed together.

Jas is the kind of guy whos main kink is making his partner enjoy him-/her-/themselves!!! Geralt’s coping strategies (hiding his face, lying still and silent in a sort of forceful relaxation, hoping it will be over fast of he just lets Jaskier do whatever he wants) would tip the bard off within minutes if not literal seconds

Even if he could believe the words coming out of Geralt’s mouth (”I’m fine. Keep going.”), the tension in his body is a dead giveaway

Cue ofc a lot of talking and comfort :(

My fic tell me something roughly fits the ticket -or at least it leads to the same outcome so maybe check that out as well! :D

[emerald-amidst-gold]

A little exercise (Part 1/?)

(I’m trying out a new process to help me with my writing and to get me out of the block I’m currently in. I find that analyzing preexisting personalities and ones of my own devising help me better understand how characters will interact in my writing. So, I started small and outlined some of Fane’s major relationships. I’m eventually going to go down the whole list from family to Inquisition members, but right now, I just focused on family.)

Relationships:

“Friendships are like roses; you tend to their delicate petals, nurture their roots, and provide them with water, sunshine, and fertile soil to keep them satisfied, all so they may flourish with life and love. But what happens when the rose bush flowers from an innocent bud to a crimson bloom, bringing thorns in its wake? You bleed, you hurt, and you regret ever planting the seeds. So, do I desire a literal garden of people with thorns as sharp as glass? Not at all.”- Fane Lavellan regarding companionship

Clan Lavellan:

“Fane is brash, volatile, and temperamental at the best of times, Spymaster. You do not wish to see him at his worst. Many of our clan and the outlying forests have been met with his ire. Even so, he is not a bad child. None of his actions are vindictive or of ill intentions. Fane is simply misunderstood, like so many others. So, if you must demand more of him, then you must tread lightly. That is my advice to you and your Inquisition.” - an excerpt from a letter from Keeper Deshanna sent to Haven after the explosion at the Conclave regarding Fane’s demeanor

Fane is exceedingly slow to warm up to people, even with those of his own kind. Among Clan Lavellan, Fane was seen as an anomaly; his two toned eyes and stark white hair breeding fear and wariness in his clan members, as well as his unusual physique. What’s more, many of the clan avoided him for fear of triggering his volatile rage which, when at its peak, would render aravels or trees completely obliterated. So, as far as friends go, Fane never had many among his clan; only communicating with his sister, and at times, the Keeper. Fane’s disinterest in cultivating relationships also stems from his desire to keep the evidence of his father’s abuse away from prying eyes and ears. This did not stop him from attempting to bridge the gap between him and his people, however. At a young age, Fane proved to be an adept hunter; stealthy and graceful despite his hulking frame. Sadly, his effectiveness to provide did not win the hearts of his clan, since many of Fane’s methods were unorthodox to the Dalish. When such a simple attempt was ineffective, Fane took one last step to try and wedge himself into belonging; his vallaslin. Despite not believing in any of the elven gods (another pit that distanced him from the Dalish, as Fane is and was not shy to voice his opinions regarding them), Fane opted to have the vallaslin of Sylaise tattooed onto his face at the age of sixteen; only a year after his father’s magical experiments on his body began. Once again, this did not do what Fane had hoped for, since the ritual and implementation of the tattoos barely registered a flinch or grimace from the elf; his mind and body already so scarred and traumatized by the use of magic and physical tools that Fane merely viewed the sacred act as another experiment in which his father’s rules of “No crying, no screaming, no telling anyone” played on repeat within his head. Due to that stoicism, his clansmen simply began to view him as unfeeling and cold, some going so far as to call him a ‘snowy haired demon’. From that point on, Fane severed all association with his clan, and attempts to win favor were replaced with complete indifference. Interactions were kept to scouting missions and group hunts, and such things like gatherings or holidays, Fane spent either alone within the forest or with his sister. It may have been this rift of association that spurred the Keeper into choosing Fane for the mission to spy on the Conclave, or perhaps it was a way to help both Fane and the clan from anymore turmoil. However, when the explosion at the Conclave completely shifts his small world on its axis, Fane is more or less forced to traverse a battlefield in which he is outnumbered in both strength and personalities.

Mhairi Lavellan (Sister):

“First mother, then father..I can’t lose you, too, brother. I have no one else besides you for family.”

“Hmph, don’t be so dramatic, My. Even if something were to happen to me, the clan would still be here for you. The clan’s your family as much as I am.”

“The clan is your family, too, brother. Why do you think they don’t care for you like I do?”

“Because they don’t. I’m a monster, remember? They’re all probably breathing a sigh of relief that I’m leaving.”

“Would you stop that?! You’re one of the people just like any of the others! More than that, you’re my brother! So, don’t talk as if you’re nothing. You are everything to me, Fane. Everything and more.” - a conversation between Mhairi and Fane before he leaves for the Conclave.

Mhairi and Fane’s relationship is much like any siblings; occasional bickering, unconditional love, and patience with each other’s oddities. However, unlike most siblings, whose likeness of personalities tends to breed contempt, Fane and Mhairi are, by all means, anathema to each other. Oil and water. Fire and ice. The sun and moon. All these things describe the two’s odd relationship. Fane, while holding a deep well of his love for his sister, has difficulty showing such platonic feelings, opting for simply watching Mhairi with an attentive eye and merely giving stern guidance to the younger when necessary. Whereas Mhairi is more bubbly and easygoing, wishing to help her brother bridge the gap that he had created with the clan and constantly reasserting to him that he is loved and cherished. Such attempts at reconciliation have only thus far vexed Fane, but the message from his sister is not lost, even if he does not outwardly show it. However, like with the rest of the clan, Fane has kept the actions of their father a secret from Mhairi; the only secret he has ever kept from his sister (besides the information of him being a dragon. Fane himself is unaware of his heritage until after Adamant. Even after he understands this information, he does not tell her until at least around the time of the Exalted Council.). Fane has gone to great lengths to keep the brutal past of his abuse from his sister. Such actions include: hiding his acute sensitivity to magic, which is the hardest since Mhairi is a mage, his night terrors that leave him sweating and hyperventilating in the morning, avoiding any and all physical contact from his sister or others since his body still harbors phantasmal pains from the abuse, and dismissing any questions or concerns from his sister when she zeroes in on his pain. Despite these actions on his part, Fane still gives in to his sister if she is particularly persistent or if she is on the verge of tears. In these moments, Fane will endure the pain on his body for a light hug or give a vague response to a question of concern. In conjunction, Mhairi is always trying to find ways to bring back the person her brother was before the experiments began, much to Fane’s dismay. She will oftentimes gift him with sentimental items such as; flowers (primarily Gladiolus since it is a flower the two have an emotional attachment to), handmade pendants, a history book (knowing that he is secretly curious of outside society), and his favorite foods (mainly chocolates). All attempts are usually met with soft refusal or awkward shuffling on Fane’s part, but internally, the misunderstood elf screams with joy every time such a thing is bestowed upon him by his sister. 

Eloris Lavellan (Mother):

“Cerulean eyes like the deep lakes in the forest. Sunlight glistening off of golden strands like wheat. Shimmering, rippling across the surface with gentle strokes. Calm and patient even when I’d yell. Never scolding. Never hating. Her words hang upon my mind like her hand when she would guide my own across the page. ‘A summer breeze. A winter’s gale. All things are natural if you allow them to unveil.’ Her words. Her lesson. ..You were angry?”

“Yes, I was. I can’t even remember why now. But, she told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. She said all emotions were natural just like the wind and trees. I just had to..let them out.”

“Who was she?”

“..My mother, and that is all I’m saying about it.” - a discussion between Fane and Cole about Fane’s mother. 

Fane’s memory of the relationship with his mother, Eloris, is one of the few things he cherishes, and is one of many things he does not openly share, even with Mhairi. Before she died of a wasting disease when Fane was fifteen, Eloris guided Fane throughout his earlier years, teaching him how to write in both the common tongue and elven, as well as speak and read. Fane describes her as ‘the gentlest soul upon a fragile landscape’ since never once did she harshly scold him or yell in anger at his prickly demeanor, which Fane had even as a child. Instead, Eloris taught Fane the wrongness of his actions with poetry. After outbursts or moments of frustration, Eloris would sit with Fane under a tree or in a clearing, and simply read to him, recounting tales and lessons through elegant scripture. Such a technique had oddly proved effective, calming Fane and cementing delicate lessons of patience and open mindedness, that to this day, while slightly more difficult for him to keep, still connect him with his deceased mother. These tiny memories of his mother’s poetry were something that helped Fane through much of his father’s abuse. So much so, that Fane himself began writing and collecting different forms of poetry after his father’s disappearance, and throughout his time with the Inquisition. This odd fixation also reflects in Fane’s way of speaking, and sometimes his versed tongue has to be deciphered by someone more familiar with him or those who understand cryptic dialogue. At times, it even causes him frustration. Even so, Fane keeps the memory of his mother with him wherever he goes, and secretly endeavors to keep the promise that he made to her. The promise to protect their family, no matter the cost.

(I’m still working on Fane’s father, so he might be the last one I touch on in the list. Anyways, this is just a little exercise to finally cement Fane’s overall character. All of the dialogue is just stuff I thought up on the fly, so take it with a grain of salt in reference to canon.)

[dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade]

Run

Request: HERE  A/N: Writing some pure and reckless Jake is always so much fun, it’s a breath of fresh air from all the work I have going on at the moment. I am glad I got this request, thank you @lara-gvf, hope you like it!! Critiques and comments are welcome! Enjoy :) Word count: 2.1 K+ Warnings: drinking and well... mentions of nudity, nothing explicit though. I’d rate it a PG 15

To be added to the permanent taglist, DM me or leave an ask!

Fanfiction Masterlist

You stood in front of the door to the Kiszka’s residence, tapping your foot to the pavement as you felt the heaviness of your bags in your arms. You rang the doorbell again and knocked on the wooden door. “Open up, Jake or I’m gonna throw all the Jack on the pavement!”

You knew that that was the thing that would motivate Jake to move his ass to the door faster. You were not surprised when you heard the key turn and you heard the door open.

“Throwing the Jack away is straight up madness and waste of money,” said Sam. “Jake’s getting ready,” he added and winked at you. You rolled your eyes, already used to all of the Kiszkas always assuming that you and Jake were dating, a common misunderstanding due to your closeness.

Reality was that you have been crushing on him for a while now, but you tried to play it cool. You knew that Sam knew, because one evening, him and Josh got you drunk and you partly admit the truth, but you have been trying to deny it ever since.

“You know, he bought a new cologne, special for tonight,” Sam added as he closed the door.

“Happy for him, but what’s the occasion?” you played dumb.

“You know, getting drunk with the girl he likes, at his place, you know,” he smirked.

“You’re a dumbass, Sam,” you heard Jake’s raspy voice. You turned your head and a smile bloomed on your lips at his sight. “Hi, Y/N. I bet you got used to how Sam is,” he continued, accentuating the last part.

“How Sam is?” Jake’s younger brother repeated in a mocking voice. “How is he?” he asked and cocked an eyebrow. “From what I know about him, I can tell he’s hot, talented, gets the chicks…”

“You made your point,” Jake answered, totally giving up.

“How’s that new riff coming along?” you suddenly ask, your eyes locking with Jake’s. You actually just remembered that he told you a couple of days ago that he was working on something new and that he was going to play the new piece for you whenever you’d get around.

“Come on, you’re both so boring,” Sam laughed and took the two bottles of Jack Daniels that you brought along and put it on the kitchen table. “I’m gonna pour the first round, Jake, you take care of the music.”

You followed Jake to the record player in the corner of the room and sat on the floor as his fingers skillfully flicked through the boxes of records. His brows furrowed from time to time, then they’d rise, as if he was surprised by something. He’d stop for few moments and look at a certain record, then he’d resume his search.

“I’m almost done with it, I can play it for you later this evening if you want,” he finally answered your question as he finally chose a record and put it in the player.

You walked together into the kitchen, catching Sam already down the first glass. “You’re already one behind,” he laughed, throwing his head back.

You and Jake were quick to catch up. Out of the three of you, Jake had the highest tolerance to alcohol, while yours was almost zero. This being said, it didn’t take you long to start laughing from every little thing and start speaking out loud every single thought in your head.

“How about we play something?” Sam grinned and cracked his knuckles.

“Right, but first, we’ve got to stay hydrated,” Jake said and you stifled a giggle. He sounded just like a concerned mom in that moment. Jake rested his hand on your thigh for a brief moment before he sat up and got clean glasses for the water. Your whole body shuddered at Jake’s hand there. Even now, moments after he was gone, it was like you could still feel the trace of it.

Jake sat down the three glasses on the table and refilled the ones for the whiskey. He poured a little bit more in his and added two more ice cubes since the previous ones have melted.

“There’s nothing better than some Jack on the rocks,” he mumbles almost to himself as he takes a considerable sip of his freshly poured drink. Even though he wouldn’t admit it, he was getting pretty drunk, just like you and Sam. “Right, so, what you wanted to play?”

“Truth or dare,” Sammy answered and a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

It was like his words brought a little bit of soberness into you. For a moment, you felt in danger. Drunken truth or dare never ended well. You nervously sipped some of the cold ice water and you could feel yourself slightly returning to your senses.

“What d’you say?” Jake slurred and snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Alright. Truth or dare it is,” you gulp loudly. Sam didn’t even bother to hide the contentment on his face.

“Okay kids, these are the rules: you can deny only two dares in the whole game, but after you consumed your denials, you must choose one of the previously denied dares. Other rules is that there are none.” Sam informed and cleared his throat.

“I’ll go first. Dare,” Jake spoke.

“I dare you to… chug the rest of the bottle,” Sam answered and held up the Jack bottle with only a few sips left in it.

“That’s the best you got?” Jake laughed and unscrewed the cap and let his head fall back as he poured every last drop of whiskey. “Pathetic. Your turn.”

“Truth.”

“Chicken,” Jake mocked his brother and you laughed. “Is it true that you secretly have an altar for Justin Bieber in the back of your closet?”

“What the hell?” Sam laughed loudly and shook his head. “No!”

“My turn,” you chirped after the brothers were done taking the piss out of each other. “Dare. Because I am not a chicken, unlike Sam,” you accentuate your last words.

“I dare you to make out with Jake, right here, right now,” Sam grinned.

“Dude, you have to be more, you know, less obvious?” Jake pitched in, his cheeks gaining a rosy tint.

“I’m gonna deny it,” you swallow loudly.

“Careful there, you have only one more denial,” Sam grinned. “I dare you to set a chair on fire.”

“What?” you exclaim. He was absurd. Why would you do that? “I’m denying it.”

“I dare you to run around naked on the street,” he answered.

Your jaw basically dropped. Sam was an actual evil genius. He knew exactly how to get you to do something you didn’t want to do.

“And what happens if I deny this one, too?” you raise an eyebrow.

“You’ll have to choose between one of these three challenges,” Sam shrugged.

The burning chair sounded tempting but there was no way in hell you were going to risk a mass fire to the whole neighborhood. You weren’t a moron – you did study history and you knew how the Great Fire of London from 1666 started.

“Guess I’ll go running,” you sigh and stand up. “But first I got to use the washroom.”

You walk inside of the bathroom and turn on the tap and wash your face with the cold water. You looked at yourself in the mirror and shook your head. Drunken truth or dare was always a bad idea. No exceptions.

“Because Jake jumped in to save his little princess, he will suffer the same fate as you,” Sam announced as you walked out of the washroom.

“What if someone calls the cops on us?” Jake asks as you turned your head towards him. You saw that he already had his shirt off and the belt was laying on the couch, his jeans zipper already undone. You caught yourself blushing as another wave of soberness washed over you.

“That will be your problem, not mine. Guess who’s the dumbass now.”

“Can I at least keep my panties on?” you sigh and furrow your brows at the absurdity of your question.

Sam squeezed his eyes a little, as if he was thinking about it. “Nope. Then where would the fun be?”

You went back in the kitchen and completely downed the rest of your drink and tossed aside the grey joggers you had on and the t-shirt. Once you were completely undressed, you wrapped a fresh towel that you just received around your body and stepped outside of the house, basically wearing only sneakers.

You met Jake in the middle of the street who also had a towel around his waist. Your eyes met his and the only thing you could make out behind the half-drunk eyes was an apologetic look.

“Listen up dumbasses! One of you is going to run to the left and the other one to the right and you will make a lap around the neighborhood. It shouldn’t last longer than three minutes unless someone decides to call the cops. I promise I won’t look,” Sam giggled before whistling.

“I won’t look either,” Jake said as you were back-to-back, waiting to start running.

At Sam’s signal, you let your towel fall on the cement and you basically sprinted as fast as your feet allowed you to the corner of the street and then around it. You only saw Jake for a fraction of a second, as if he were a ghost in a dream.

“That’s fucking traumatic,” you mutter as you walk inside the house, wrapped in your towel once again.

“Tell me about it,” Jake rolled his eyes and guided you inside.

The inside of the house was enveloped in darkness.  While Jake went to his room to get back into his clothes, you went into the kitchen and gathered yours and put them on in a hurry. The alcohol has completely worn down thanks to the cold air outside and the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

“He’s asleep,” Jake whispered as you walked into the living room.

“Huh,” you stifle a laugh. “Then I guess I must go.”

“You can stay,” Jake said a little louder than before, catching you off-guard. “You can sleep in my room, I’ll get the couch.”

“If I stay, I’m getting the couch, and you the room,” you correct him and you could see in the darkness a smile on his face.

“How about we’re both getting the couch?”

Your brain didn’t quite catch it on time, so before you realized what was Jake trying to do, his lips were against yours. “Hope that’s alright?” Jake whispered and you could feel his eyes on your face.

You didn’t bother with words anymore, so you just pressed your lips against his in an open mouth kiss. Jake’s arms wrapped around your waist, slowly pushing you closer to the couch and eventually you both collapsed on it with a muffled thud.

“Y/N,” Jake whispered in-between desperate kisses. “I really, really like you.”

“I like you, too, and I have for a long time,” you admitted and felt as if a stone had been lifted off your chest.

Jake inched closer to you and your lips collided again, with a lot more softness, but increasingly becoming hungrier and more desperate. Jake softly bit your bottom lip and tugged at it, gaining control of the kiss, earning a couple shy whimpers from you.

Once his lips left yours, you felt them puffy and in need for more. Jake however, he pressed his lips against your neck, softly at first, but soon he also bit and sucked onto that one spot, until he was rewarded by a soft moan leaving your lips. You tangled your fingers in his long hair and softly brought his lips back to yours.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Jake whispered in-between kisses, running his hands down your sides.

“I would really like that,” you whisper back to him, catching your breath.

With one last soft kiss, you could feel him smile against your lips.

The two of you shuffled a bit on the narrow couch, but you eventually found the perfect position. You were laying on top, your feet entangled and Jake had an arm over your shoulder. You took in a deep breath and you could finally take in and analyze the scent of his body. Even though you have always been around him, this felt intimate. His t-shirt smelled of a mix of smoke, cologne and his whole body emanated a slight smell due to the alcohol.

It didn’t take you long to doze off into a peaceful sleep as Jake ran his fingers through your hair, absent-mindedly and pressing from time to time soft kisses to your scalp.

Tags: @myownparadise96​, @satans-helper, @jeordinevankiszka, @littlegeekwonder​, @songbirdkisses​, @pomegranatecurses, @angelstraightfr0mhell​, @freeeshavacadoo​, @karrotkate​, @mountainofthesunn​, @bigthighsandstupidguys​, @starshinekiszka​

[hyunllx]

                                                         Heathers & Gargoyles                A complete rewrite of Riverdale Season 3

A game, a cult, a murder. Sounds like a stereotypical october for the town of Riverdale. Yet when Betty, Jughead, Veronica, and newly freed-from-juvie Archie are recruited to join the increasingly dangerous game of Griffins and Gargoyles, they find themselves dodging assassinations and deadly traps designed to keep them on a pre-determined story path. Left without the help of their brainwashed allies, the core four must work in the shadows to stop the rising body count and unmask the King of Gargoyles before their story is finished.

                                                                   Prologue                                                                             Previous Chapter[none] | Read it on AO3

The summer leading up to junior year was like so many others in Riverdale; days spent by Sweetwater River were long and hot. Fireflies doubled the stars in the sky and the scent of wood smoke hung on the midnight air. Pink-grey dawns, filled with the song of birds and dewy treks through the forest while dusks of deep golds and purples painted the skies above countless barbeques and fireworks. The town, for once, seemed happy. Normal, if they could ever grasp the concept of ‘normal’ again. At least… most of the town.

Only in private spaces and shadowy corners was the dark cloud hanging over the community mentioned, as if the town itself wanted to forget, wanted to push away the very thought another tragedy could happen to a child everyone knew, grew up with, and loved. Though the town believed his innocence whole heartedly, they forgot about him the way one forgets a traumatic memory; slow, reluctant, and silent.

In the spaces where his cloud loomed darkest, Betty worked as an intern for Mary Andrews, putting her legal and investigative prowess to test in a more lawful setting than she was used to. She spent her days reading through old case files, police reports, and transcripts of similar court cases, analyzing and decoding the vast arrays of information into easily digestible chunks. Shorthand and stenotypy became her new language and, though she interacted daily with her friends, the codes of court ruled her consciousness until the August hearing. 

On the other side of town, Jughead put the Serpents to work collecting the not-so-legally obtained evidence and testimonies they were used to. Vigilantism was almost a comfort in the wake of Archie’s hanging shadow, a line of work Jughead threw himself into fully. There was a normalcy to it, a sense of nostalgia that ate away the trauma and suffering they had endured in the years since entering high school. 

Hyperfixation eating the peripherals of his awareness, it wasn’t until the final weeks that Serpent King Jughead Jones realized the absence of many of his members. He expected Toni and Cheryl; they spent more time together these days than the rest of the gang, though Jughead didn’t mind. He’d be hypocritical if he did given the time he and Betty and spent alone. However, as August grew from summer gold to deep early autumn red, the absence of Sweet Pea and Fangs caught his attention first.

Jughead would visit their homes in the afternoons and evenings and most of the time, there was no one home. They were often missing from the Serpent gatherings and communal activities, and their reports were brief when he asked favors or gave them a task. By the final weekend of summer vacation, Sweet Pea and Fangs had garnered a following of a dozen young Serpents, high schoolers or younger. All missing when Jughead needed them, all caught returning home or showing up to community meetings late and covered in dirt and various forest remnants. 

Though Jughead wouldn’t have known, it wasn’t just the Serpents undergoing this odd shift in youth attention-span. Veronica witnessed it too as her speakeasy, La Bonne Nuit, came to life under the floors of Pops’. Summer jobs, like most small all-American towns, were the pinnacle of high school vacation culture, and Veronica graciously contributed by hiring many of her classmates to help work on the place. This was, after all, a place for all of them to recover from the tragedies befallen the youth of the town.

Yet, as with the Serpents, many of them started skipping shifts, missing work hours, seemingly uncaring about their work or their pay as August bloomed to life. Though Veronica was not an aggressive person by nature, when she confronted their lack of vigor, she often left frustrated with no answers and a short staff. With her own attention torn between her project and her unjustly imprisoned boyfriend, the progress of La Bonne Nuit slowed to a crawl. 

Veronica was not the only person frustrated by this; her father had taken an interest in the speakeasy's construction and was growing worse at hiding his impatience as the month progressed toward the looming trial. His heed had not gone unchecked, but Veronica ignored it for the time being, not wanting to confront the man who probably put her boyfriend behind bars. It wasn’t difficult to avoid him these days; after school concluded the previous year, he’d also vanished for periods of time. 

“Business stuff,” he always said, a strange answer as he’d usually explain what the business was to her. The mystery and curtness was unusual, making his curiosity in her own projects even more grating. She finally stopped him the day before the trial, his judgement entering the speakeasy after 24 hours or longer missing from home.

“Daddy.” She greeted him with a mirror of his increasingly formal demeanor. 

“Good morning, Mija.” He forced informality as he approached the counter where she stood, rubbing dark stain into the wooden top. The smile on his didn’t reach his eyes, the wrinkles in his crow's feet and heavy brow ridge remaining flat and expressionless, “How is everything going today?”

She didn’t answer him, side-eying his suit as she focused more on the counter. Though he wore suits often, he was more dressed up than usual, and Veronica could already feel the judgement at seeing her helping with the work. Instead she asked, trying to keep the malice from her voice,

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I had to have an emergency meeting with a business partner.” He was lying, Veronica knew, though she couldn’t prove it. She just could tell from the way his back straightened and his hands clenched and the vein in his neck pulsed against skin as he swallowed. 

“The same business partner that’s been dragging you away all summer, I presume?”

Her father let out a tense sigh, his eyes leaving her face. His shoulders slumped slightly and for the first time that summer he looked as tired as she felt. A manipulation tactic, yet Veronica couldn’t help feel that twinge of pity deep in her chest for her dear old father. She put down the stain rag and wiped her hands on the apron around her waist, the deep mahogany brown leaving streaks on the off-white canvas.

“We’re having a bit of… a setback,” He met her gaze again, his eyes sharp as he thought about his partner with clear scorn, “Their facility is not being built properly and they’re refusing to send their employees elsewhere. It’s wasting a lot of time and money. I thought you might be able to relate.”

Veronica physically shrunk inward, the passive-aggressive swing pulling the pity straight from her torso and her self-esteem with it. She wrung the rag through her fingers again, looking down at the counter. Angry fire smoldered in the pit of her stomach in the sting of his words and she shook her head,

“No, I’m sorry. Things have been progressing just fine here.”

“Hmm…” Hiram looked skeptically at the unfinished furniture and the sparse employees laying wooden planks on the raised stage, the centerpiece for the room. His scrutiny turned back to her stained hands and the dark, unfinished splotches of the bar counter, “Well, for your sake I hope so.”

“Why are you really here? To judge how quickly we’re getting this set up and running?” Hiram looked taken aback by her sudden bite but those smolders of anger were bursting to life now.

“Two days ago the facility that is being built outside of Greendale was broken into. I figured you should know, since you’re in the same boat.”

Veronica rolled her eyes at the guilting; she had already heard about the break-in. That’s why she was working and not preparing for tomorrow’s trial like she should’ve been.

“Thank you for your concern, but I think we’ll be fine.”

Their conversation dragged on with as few words as possible, filled with vitriol and disdain. Even the boys laying the woodwork into the stage glanced over at the tension every so often felt it. Hiram finally decided his chiding was over and left with tense shoulders and a silent goodbye, and Veronica wouldn’t see him until the next day in the trial.

The entire town appeared to crowd around the courthouse that morning, as many bodies as possible squeezing into the seats and the hallway to hear the case of their beloved golden boy. Betty sat with Archie, anxiety overwhelming her relief to see him as they brought him into the room, his mother on his other side clutching his hand as tightly as possible. Jughead and Ronnie sat directly behind him, happy to see him but as anxious as Betty to his left. This could be worse, he thought.

All summer he was back and forth between holding cells, interrogation and visitation rooms, and court. Whatever the sentencing was, Archie was glad this would be over with. He knew he was innocent. His loved ones knew, and from the supportive looks around the room, everyone else did too.

For six grueling hours, Archie, Betty, Veronica, Jughead, and the rest of the town of Riverdale sat through recounts of their recent tragedies. The death of Jason Blossom, Archie’s vigilantism, the Black Hood murders, and their apparent involvement in major crimes over the past two years.

The word ‘guilty’ stung the hearts of everyone in the room when the jury announced the verdict late that afternoon. Though the weight of reality was still a shock, Veronica knew as soon as the jury entered the room after deliberation. They made up their minds long before that…. Or had someone make it up for them. 

At Archie’s request, the four had one more day together, then he left, hauled away to juvie the day before the start of their junior year. That looming cloud returned, and the halls of Riverdale High felt empty, heavy, and dark. 

In that darkness, something new and dangerous grew; a monster with stone horns and skull mask. A game where everyone was a player, whether or not they knew it. It started as groups of nerds huddled around an upright-standing folder at lunch tables. Here and there a faint, excited whisper of demons and puzzles.

Jughead and Veronica often found their missing bodies among these secretive spaces. They’d started skipping their Serpent jackets and sports-branded sweaters for odd, costume-like clothing and black hood.

“We’re playing Griffins and Gargoyles.” Sweet Pea told Jughead one day when he’d tried to pry his way into the group.

“What’s that… like Dungeons and Dragons?” Jughead frowned, regarding the map spread out between the ‘players’. They exchanged nervous glances as he asked.

“Um… kind of. But you have to be initiated to play.”

“How do I get initiated?” Not that he wanted to be… the question was more out of curiosity about his former family.

“You wait.” The unfamiliar girl behind the erected folder wall cut in before Sweet Pea could think to respond. Her blue eyes sliced through him under her shadowy black hood. “You wait for the Gargoyle King to call you.”

Veronica had a similarly chilling encounter when players brought the game to work. The Acolytes, so called for their worship of this mysterious Gargoyle King, multiplied like cockroaches over the first week of school. As a virus spreads, so did the game throughout Riverdale High, recruiting more and more players and attracting the “Deathknights” who watched the school grounds with stone masks and tattered black clothes. 

At the surface, it appeared to be just another fun roleplaying game. Underneath, though, lay a labyrinth of danger, destruction, and crime the town’s youth grew entangled in, unable to escape. It was not a game; it was anarchy.

The school became ground-zero for the cult-like following of the game, and Betty, Jughead, Veronica tried their best to navigate their first weeks of school together, away from the rest of their friends who quickly got sucked into the Gargoyle King’s clutches. Cheryl was among the loudest recruiters after being chosen for initiation early in the game. To their surprise, Ethel was as loud as the school’s resident HBIC.

Halls and classrooms became littered, eventually decorated, with iconography, various memorabilia, and art of the ‘game’. By the second Friday of September, kids were finding satchels and cards in hidden books and cracks in the walls.

That second Friday, a large cluster of kids gathered around the outside of Veronica’s home room, their whispers excited as they discussed their latest find. She tried not to pay too much attention to the conversation as she forced her small form through the throng, but anxious whispers of ‘kill’ and ‘plan’ and ‘escape’ assaulted her ears. She pushed it out of her mind. No, they’re talking about a game. This isn’t real.

Like usual, Veronica was early as she forced her way into the classroom, and there were few bodies in the room save for herself and the quiet outcast types that sat by themselves. She attempted a smile in their direction but, as expected, they didn’t return it. Instead, she took a seat at the front of the classroom, placing her books on the desk and sliding her bag under the chair. As she leaned over to do so, she caught sight of a small envelope on the floor, trapped partially under a front desk leg. The back where she expected to see a name or address was face up and blank, but she could tell there was something inside when she yanked it out from under the leg.

The envelope was small enough to fit in her hand, yet a smooth wax of a black seal still pressed into the back enclosure, already open by the rail of paper tear stuck to it. The embossing on the seal was a figure squatting on its hands and knees. Two thin, tined antlers rose from its head, and large, stretching bat wings protruded from its shoulders, the span larger than the size of its body.

Though she knew this was someone else’s, Veronica’s morbid curiosity seized her hands and pulled the flap up. There was only one object inside; cardstock nearly the size of the envelope give or take a few centimeters. Pulling it out carefully, she immediately recognized the pattern on the back of the card as being from the game. It was the same pattern as those people found for quests. This was definitely not for her. As she turned it over, her breath caught in her throat.

The word “QUEST” scrawled in medieval-reminiscent script at the top in bold black letters. Underneath stood a painting of a knight or a soldier; a very young man in shining silver-steel armour encrusted with rubies. She did not recognize the symbol emblazoned in red across his breastplate and intricately depressed into the shield he held at his side. His eyes were a warm brown, his hair an intimately familiar shade of red-orange, and an even familiar still innocent softness to his features. 

He looked just like Archie.

Yet, that was not what shocked Veronica most about the card. At the bottom of the image, a cream-grey box held tet that, mixed with the boy looking so much like her beloved, sent shivers up her spine.

Kill the Red Paladin. 

The trill of the class bell rang through the room and more bodies shuffled in through the door. Fingers trembling, Veronica stuffed the card back into the envelope and that into the back of the textbook on her desk. She’d have to show Betty and Jughead later. For now, she pushed it out of her mind along with the other stresses of her life and pretended to be a normal teen for the day.

September swelled into autumn and left as dangerously as it began, whispers of “Kill the Red Paladin” cards popping up all over school. Betty often inquired parties she caught talking about it, the Acolytes running the games, the Deathknights that now warded the woods and public areas about it, but she met with the same answer each time.

They could not participate until they were initiated. 

Instead of forcing her way in, Betty took the route she knew best and snuck her way through, learning the patterns of the Deathknights and following them long into the nights. They lead her through the forest more often than not, winding trails snaking through trees and long back yards, always ending in the same place, an abandoned recreation center on the outskirts of Riverdale, near the detention center. The grounds swarmed with Deathknights like cockroaches. Betty was certain the Gargoyle King resided inside the building, but she never got close enough to see inside.

While she was busy tracking her way around the cult, Jughead and Veronica focused on Archie. As September wound down, he abruptly became unavailable for phone privileges, and each time they’d travel to visit in person, he had a new scar or bruise somewhere on his once boyish face. He wasn’t the only one, however, as the Serpents stuck in juvie also started appearing with mysterious black eyes and broken noses, even ones released at the ends of their sentences throughout September. 

Jughead and a group of older Serpents visited the detention center on the first day of October, waiting for their most recent member to get released back into their care. When he exited the building with the guards, his face looked the worst out of anyone, including Archie. His nose had broken and started healing out of place and he walked with a significant limp, hunched over his belongings. His lips were twice their normal size with scarred over cuts and untreated swelling.

They drove him home in silence and set him up in a group house watched over by Tom Topaz. The boys that lived there set to work helping tend to their brother’s wounds, some of them recovering from their own horrors from that detention center.

“What happened in there?” Jughead asked when the boy, Slash, started to relax into the environment. He was quiet at first, his eyes trained on the floor and his head shaking as if he were refusing to tell him, just as the others had. Jughead waited a few minutes in silence, but broke just as he made to stand up and leave.

“Fighting pits.” Slash muttered, still looking down. “They put is in fighting pits.”

“Dude-” One boy who’d been in detention previously tried to reprimand him but Jughead snapped to shut him up. If Slash wanted to speak, Jughead needed to hear,

“Like an underground wrestling ring?”

“No. MMA. Bare-knuckle. Whatever you can do to take down the other guy.”

“Why? Just for fun?”

“Lotta rich people come to watch. Place bets. Give us special names. It’s a game or something to them.”

Veronica had given Jughead the Kill the Red Paladin card for safekeeping and it was burning a hole in his pocket listening to Slash, “You’re all forced to fight? What about the other inmates, non-Serpents?”

“You’re asking about Andrews.” It wasn’t a question; Slash’s face grew dark at the memory of Archie in the pits, “Yeah… he’s their main man. The Paladin.” He spat the title with a small stream of bloody spittle. He motioned toward his nose as he continued “I couldn’t take him down like they asked. He knocked me unconscious.”

Slash shook his head. “No, they take us somewhere else. Somewhere old with a big pool.”

Jughead stood up immediately and scrambled for his phone to call Betty and Veronica, recalling the abandoned building Betty found the Deathknights operating out of. He joined her on her near-nightly trek through the trees after that, studying the building, occasionally finding the parking lot filled with shiny and out-of-place cars. The rich folk that played with the lives of the inmates. On those nights, Veronica came to meet them as quickly as she could, using her name and money to barter her way into the games.

She became a witness to the horrible treatment of the kids in the pit, scrawny, bruised, and still forced to fight until one went down in the blood-stained pool. She had yet to see Archie, though every night she went she heard whisperings about him, excitement to see him return. Three weeks from now… two weeks from now… next time... 

Finally, it came to Archie’s fight day. It surprised him to see his friends come together with such an urgency that morning, especially given it was a Friday and they should have been at school. He was even more surprised at their questions about how the guards brought him in to the pits, that he never told them about, and their plan to break him out. 

The rest of the day came in a haze, and as the sun went down, Archie felt detached when the guards retrieved him for the fight. The energy of the pit was different as they paraded Archie through the crowd, the stench of expensive booze and cigar smoke making his growling, empty stomach turn. His eyes scanned the people as they gathered to watch him descend into the pool, many of them hungering with a deadly greed he’d grown accustomed to over the past month.

As he looked over the spectators, he caught the familiar gaze of Veronica, worried yet warm with the mischievous twinkle that told him to trust whatever she was plotting. And he did, wholeheartedly. 

The guards removed the shackles around his wrists as he reached the edge of the abandoned pool. They shoved him between the shoulder blades and he stumbled over the drop, landing sloppily in a 3-point stance. The impact left his sore, bruised muscles straining, but he stood up and faced the opposite end of the makeshift arena.

As expected, the boy was just as young as him, wrapped in a near head-to-toe black cloak with a hood. He’d never faced The Rogue before, but he’d seen plenty of his victims laid up in the infirmary during his recovery time. They allowed him to jump into the pit instead of being pushed, though Archie could see the pain in his form as he landed, all the weight leaning on one leg. Had this been a real fight, he’d know to use that to his advantage.

Excited cheers burst from the crowd as they faced each other, but the sound droned to a dull hum as The Rogue drew his hood back, revealing the familiar face of Joaquin DeSantos. Scars and bruising crossed his face just like all the other boys Archie fought, but he wouldn’t forget the face of a Serpent.

The sound of a bell echoed through the empty pool, shaking Archie straight through the bone and out of his trance with the reverberation. Joaquin stepped onto his off-foot and feigned a jab at Archie’s chest, which he backpedaled away from with ease. It was more playful than serious, mirroring the smile on Joaquin’s lips.

“Hey, Andrews.”

“Follow me.” Archie whispered, side-stepping his opponent into a flanking position. Joaquin frowned at him, confused by his nervousness.

“What?”

Archie scanned the crowd again to make sure no one heard, but the patrons focused on the swing he launched toward his opponent, missing intentionally, “When you see the smoke, follow me.” He repeated, slower, more seriously to get his point across. With a heavy step, he launched forward onto the drain grate, causing the steel to clatter under his feet as it wobbled in its place. With the momentum, Archie slammed his chest into Joaquin’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist and throwing his opponent down next to their escape route.

There was an echoing pop, a clatter of tin against tile, and a wayward shout as smoke began to creep along the bottom of the pool, filling the pit with obscuring whites and greys from all corners. Joaquin scrambled to his feet at the sight, looking to Archie for instruction as the smoke enveloped them like thick autumn fog.

As soon as his visibility of the audience completely vanished, Archie hopped off the grate and dug his fingers into the drainage holes, pulling up with all his weakened might. The steel was heavy, but Joaquin quickly rushed over a pulled on the edge that Archie lifted out of the hole. Struggling for a moment, they pulled it over the side of the hole, nearly taking Archie’s fingers with it. The steel grate banged loudly against the tile, but it didn’t alert the crowd as they rushed toward the exits above them, ushered by Veronica. 

“Come on, this leads outside!” Archie called to Joaquin, beckoning him to jump down first. He wheezed, and a cough wracked his body as the smoke clogged his mouth and nose. Joaquin hesitated, though, so Archie impatiently grabbed his arm and threw him into the drain pipe below. He landed with a loud thud, and Archie took a deep, wheezing breath as left the smoke swirling above.

The pipe was wide enough for them to walk in single-file, but they had to duck and brace their arms against the walls to get out quickly. It felt like hours while they made their way over spalling concrete and lichen growing through cracks in the old pipe. When Archie’s shoulders and thighs began to shake with the effort of holding himself upright, the hot, damp air, thick with the fetor of moss and fungus, suddenly caught the breeze of the outside forest. Rustling of dried leaves and grasses echoed around the mouth of the pipe when they rounded the turn into the dark forest.

“Archie!” Betty called out as soon as she saw the flash of brilliant red hair emerge into the night. She and Jughead waited next to an old pickup on an old, dusty path, the Serpent logo emblazoned on the truck’s rusting black doors. No time for relieved greetings, they packed Archie and Joaquin into the cramped space and sped off along the back roads of the Southside. 

By sunrise, news of the escape spread throughout the town, along with the alleged suicides of the warden and several guards involved in the fights. Governor Dooley issued temporary pardons by noon at the request of Mayor Hermione Lodge. Though not wholly removed from the system, Archie was finally free. 

That was, until late that night, when most of Riverdale was asleep, each of the four awoke to tapping on their window. A mirror of each other, they all grabbed the closest weapon and slowly got out of bed. In unison, the tapping ceased. There, wedged under each of their window sills, sat identical parchment envelopes, the black gargoyle wax seal too thick to slip under all the way.

Upon opening the envelopes, each found a letter summoning them in two night’s time to the Southside junkyard, where the Gargoyle King awaited their arrival. Through their subterfuge and prison escape, he had noticed them, and it was finally time for initiation. 

[immcrals-blog]

( blake lively, 27, cisfemale, she/her ) — whoa, was that AMELIA DELUCA i just saw at THE DELUCA MANSION? i’ve seen them around town before, they’ve been here for THEIR ENTIRE LIFE. from what i’ve heard, they’re a member of the DELUCA family. for a SECOND IN COMMAND INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST, they’ve been known to be -TENACIOUS and -RESOURCEFUL, but can also be +SELF-DESTRUCTIVE and +JUDGMENTAL. i hope they don’t cause too much trouble!

[tw: abuse and self-mutilation]

Frigid, poised, confident - all laced together with elegance - Amelia DeLuca looks far from the kind of woman to play the part of investigative reporter. Do not be fooled by her appearance. She went to school for business, and for a long time thought she was going to be the one running Anthony DeLuca’s financing firm. For a while she was. Things have been different for the last five years and they’ve changed even more over the course of the last two weeks. At first glance, Amelia seems a bit like the the Michael Corleone of the DeLuca family: raised to be part of the family business, got out, and then got pulled back in. In truth, she’s probably more of a Fredo - the black sheep of the lot. Amelia was brought up to be part of her father’s criminal empire and her brother’s Second In Command. She ran the business side of things for the DeLucas, but severed herself from the family when Anthony Jr. got physically violent with her. That was five years ago. Fate led her to the O’Hara’s and Amelia found a new life with them. However, the recent murder of Matthew O’Hara has cast an incredible amount of suspicion on Amelia and she was promptly booted from the O’Haras by her new husband. Feeling lost? Join the club! That’s Amelia’s constant state of being at this point in life and she’s just trying to hold it together. Family is by far the most important thing to Amelia, though she’s been cut off from all of hers. Right now, she has been living out of a Motel 6 and trying to stay focused on her true passion - writing ( heads up: it’s not her true passion ). Most of all she has been keeping an arm’s distance from both the DeLuca and O’Hara empire. It won’t last long. 

backstory

Second oldest biological child of the DeLuca family. Grew up extremely close to her older brother Anthony (I’m going to just say it now - “extremely close” is the “gal pals” of this bio - do what you will with that information.) 

Was her father’s favorite, though she was often spared his wrath thanks to her older brother

Showed an interest in numbers at a young age, but was pushed away from learning about any of the family business by Anthony Sr. because she was a girl 

“Shut up Amelia” - the words she heard the most growing up. Characterized by her tendency to speak up when her brother wouldn’t. Was only able to get away with this because she didn’t have to suffer the consequences for it.

Hated the idea of being married off though her family was very much the sort to do so. Had enough of it and one Christmas she just snapped - cut off her own ring finger in an act of defiance. Dad took this as a sign that she was METAL AF and finally allowed her to start learning more about the DeLuca criminal empire.

She was poised to start working at his company and in line to become the Second in Command of the Delucas. (She would become both of these things - at least for a bit. Neither would last.) 

She was accepted into several Ivy League colleges. She was ultimately forced to choose Columbia so that she would stay in New York and stay close. She double majored in business and journalism.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, her youth was not a very happy time. 

The incident that separated her from her family occurred when she was 22. The Deluca’s were planning a hit on Matthew O’Hara and Amelia, Second in Command by then, had just realized that the the O’Hara’s had caught wind of it. In a snap decision, she called off the hit in order to save the lives of her colleagues. Her brother, Head of the DeLucas by then, was furious that she didn’t consult them. It got physical and she still has a scar because of it under her left eye. Amelia left that night, stepping away entirely from her family and her positions within her father’s company and the Delucas. 

That was big for her. 

A real Turning Point if you will. 

Fate brought her to the O’Haras. One ER meet-cute later, and Amelia was slightly more familiar with Oliver O’Hara. 

It bloomed and the two struck up a relationship, a marriage, and a family over the course of five years. During that time, it was like Amelia had blinders on. She wanted nothing to do with the criminal underworld and instead, began pursuing a career in journalism. 

This newfound peace was not meant to last. The recent killing of Matthew O’Hara has left the Oliver and his family extremely distrusting of Amelia. She was kicked out swiftly and in no ways kindly. 

And suddenly, Amelia was on her own again. 

For the first time in her life Amelia finds herself owing allegiance to no one but herself. She’s still learning how to handle it. Who knows how well that will sit with her. She misses her son, her husband, her brother and just... all of it. 

other

The spitting image of her mother, the Deluca matriarch, Donna. 

former Strategist of the family 

Knows the Deluca business inside and out - is just keeping a distance from it

Married to Oliver O’Hara. Technically still is because you can’t get divorced someone in two weeks flat. Mother of Matthew Jr (4 years old.)

Cares about her siblings so much - though they aren’t speaking to her she tries to keep as many tabs as she can on them. Family first.

Absolutely guilt-wracked by her past choices. Hides it well.

Terribly traumatized by her childhood. For a long time, it was just her and Anthony Jr against the world (read: their father.)

No-nonsense

Hair tied back or in a braid or in a bun. Always.

Crime never sleeps and neither does she

Likes crossword puzzles

Plays the piano and saxophone. Likes jazz music.

Can keep a cool head in a tough situation like no other motherfucker

give me all the connects. i’m open to just about everything!! Excited to meet y’all! I’m REY.

[randomwordsandstormydays]

The One Where Livy And Drummer Boy Kiss

Another exciting installment for Livy!

TW: alcohol consumption

The first month of Livy’s tour with the Railroad is a whirlwind of information. Between learning the eight different secret codes, memorizing dead drop schedules, discovering all the safehouses, and being taught how to handle a scared and traumatized synth, she’s at the end of her rope. Her only break is when Drummer pulls her out of her lessons in order to take her on a dead drop run, and she treasures these brief recesses.

Today’s run is a little different.

Just this morning Drummer had pulled her aside to inform her that the dead drop mission today was going to be her first solo one. His recommendation had gone up to Carrington and Desdemona, and they agreed that she was ready to run a small op by herself. She had argued, stating that she wasn’t even done with her training yet, but Drummer had shut her down, replying that she was miles ahead of their other trainees, some who had gotten there way before her.

Now, she’s just down the street from HQ, trying to steady her breathing as she heads towards her drop, coded message hidden in her backpack. The desire to not fuck this up is overpowering, and Livy is having a hard time fousing. What if she fails? What if her incompetence leads to her people getting hurt, synths getting lost, or - god forbid - the location of their headquarters getting discovered. It’s a lot of pressure, and she wishes that Drummer Boy was with her. He’s always been a comforting presence on runs, letting her take the lead but also allowing her to fall back on his experience if she needs it. It also probably doesn’t help that she’s developed a bit of a crush on him.

She knew that her first solo mission was coming soon, but somewhere in the back of her mind she had hoped that it never would. That maybe she could partner with DB. The issue with that is that runners don’t get partners, they run solo, both to minimize the likelihood of discovery and to allow them more people to run more messages. Plus fraternization between agents is a big no-no, so she’d have to hide her feelings. Eventually, no matter how hard she works, or the accomplishments she achieves, she’ll always be alone.

That train of thought does nothing to help calm her fraying nerves, so she shakes it from her mind and pushes forward, gun held tightly and the perfect image of calmness plastered on her face.

When she returns to HQ, she’s almost disappointed. The road she traveled was clear the entire time, no enemies or wild animals to contend with, and she spent most of her journey bored and, again, wishing that DB had been with her. However, as she steps off the elevator and into the backmost room of the Switchboard she’s surprised to see Bluebell and Drummer waiting for her.

“Welcome back, Crow! We got word from Mercer that the dead drop was received.” Bluebell wraps her in a hug and squeeze a little too tight, forcing her breath from her lungs.

“Jeez, Bell, she made it back alive don’t kill her now.” Drummer teases. That startles a weak squealing of air out of her, which turns into a real laugh when the death grip around her torso is released.

“Thank Drummer, who knows what kind of damage Bell could do with one of her hugs.” Livy rubs her ribs, half as a joke and half not.

The other girl smiles at her fondly before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and steering her deeper into the building. “As a ‘good job’ Desdemona has approved a night-off, how do you feel about 200 year old whiskey?”

Livy grins, already eager to take a break. “As long as it’s gonna get me drunk I don’t care how old it is.”

Drummer seconds her statement as he trails behind them. “Let the drinking begin.”

An hour and a half later Livy is beginning to realize that her fourth shot should have been her last, but the whiskey was spiced, and had hardly even tasted like alcohol on the way down. So, she had five, then six, and now seven shots in the room is a little spiny and she’s craving fancy lads.

Most everyone ignores her as she moves from the designated celebration room and unsteadily makes her way down the hall towards the kitchen, and the ones that do see her merely ask her to bring them snacks back. Half way down the hall their requests have been forgotten, she’s too busy making sure she doesn’t get lost maneuvering down the winding halls to remember who wanted what. She’ll just grab a bunch of shit. Lucky for her the door is unlocked, so she doesn’t have to try and find the key. Before long the center table is piled high with a mismatch of food and drink items, but she still hasn’t found any snack cakes.

She spots a chair and a poorly planned idea begins to form. With the alcohol guiding her she drags the chair over to the cabinets and begins to climb, one shaky foot at a time. Her hand is wrapping around the handle to the highest cabinet when the door swings open behind her. Without thinking, she turns quickly to see who has caught her. Her swinging motion causes her delicately balanced body to lose its equilibrium, and there’s nothing she can do to stop herself from tumbling to the ground.

She never actually hits the ground, instead she collapses into a body, one that catches her before she can kill herself on the harsh concrete. They’re a tangle of limbs until her savior manages to maneuver her onto her own feet, and she looks up to see a very concerned Drummer boy staring down at her. Heat blooms across her cheeks and she ducks her head, grateful for her long hair that covers the embarrassment.

“Are you okay?”

Livy nods, making herself dizzy, before she pushes out of his arms and steadies herself. “Just peachy, DB.” She turns away from him and begins to climb back up on the chair. A hand on her shoulder stops her advancement. It’s impossible for her to suppress the shiver that runs through her body from the contact.

“What are you doing, Crow? You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

She huffs, in the way that only a drunken person who’s being told no can, before relenting to him. “I need snack cakes.”

He glances at the table covered in food before looking back at her. “If you’re here for snack cakes then who is all that for?”

“I can’t remember,” she shrugs, “Bluebell wanted something, so did Deacon, and Professor, but I can’t recall who wanted what.”

“So your plan was to bring the whole pantry,” Livy nods, “okay, how about you sit in this chair, I’ll get you some fancy lad’s, and then we can take these snacks back together?”

That’s a satisfactory plan for her, so she takes her seat, spinning it around so she can watch him. He’s much less drunk than her, obvious by the way he moves, but still he has trouble getting to her treat. For a few seconds she zones out, merely watching as he moves, allowing herself a moment to stare. By the time he’s got the package down she’s tapping her foot on the ground and licking her lips. As soon as his feet are back on the floor, Livy hops up and grabs the food from him. Drummer laughs as she shoves an entire cake into her mouth.

“Good god, Crow, breath for me, would you?” Her mouth is still full when she replies. Instead of asking her to repeat Drummer Boy rolls his eyes and takes a seat in the chair, “I’m not nearly as drunk as you are, but that still made me kind of dizzy.”

Livy would laugh if she could, and without replying she hops up onto the counter to rest. They both sit for a while, enjoying their food, before Drummer speaks. “So, it’s basically against all etiquette rules and protocol, but I was hoping you’d answer a question for me.”

“I don’t much care for half the rules we’re supposed to follow, go ahead.”

He hesitates one more time, swallows roughly, licks his lips, and then goes, “why did you join the Railroad?”

The question shocks her, because if she’s being honest, she’s tried very hard not to discuss her father or her circumstances with anyone since her initial questioning, and she figured he already knew. She voices this to him, and he goes on to explain that recruitment isn’t really his job. He just shows the new kids around HQ and gets them through orientation and job assignment. Plus, an agent’s recruitment reason is something private, that most people don’t share. It’s maybe the one topic agents don’t gossip about, too many deep cut wounds that never healed properly could be torn open from that line of questioning, and a general consensus not to discuss it became an unspoken rule. He never wanted to violate her privacy by trying to find out without her permission.

His response makes sense, and even though she knows it will hurt, she finds herself wanting to talk about her dad. Not just what he was and what had happened to him, but everything he did for her. So she does. Through tears and with a wobbly voice Livy tells him about her father, before and after he was replaced. It’s more difficult for her to discuss his capture, but she stumbles through it.

“I’m impressed, you took on a Courser and didn’t die. Not a lot of people can say that.”

She shrugs, not impressed with herself. “I would rather that I killed him, then I could say that I took on a Courser and that I saved my dad.”

“Then you might not have even joined us.” His statement is true, and not one she had every really considered before. She likes what she does, even if every mission she runs could be her last. Helping makes her feel like she’s making a difference, like the dead drops she helps deliver are letting agents rescue synths, like her dad, and get them away from the people who only wish to do them harm. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss him.

“Maybe,” her hand comes away wet when she wipes at her cheek, “anyways, enough about me, how did you join?”

He smiles and shrugs. “By accident, if you can believe it.” Livy listens as Drummer Boy begins to describe how he joined. It’s funny to her that his introduction to the Railroad was an accident, purely him being in the right place at the right time to assist on a rescue mission. “Watz, one of our heavies, let me help out, but didn’t tell me that the settler he was rescuing was actually an escaped synth.”

The sound of him opening a Nuka Cola opening startles her, and he smiles at her before taking a sip and then continuing. “Afterwards he asked me how I felt about helping people, and then he asked me if I thought synths were people. Obviously, you know my answers since I’m here.”

She considers his story for a moment before asking, “why do you care so much about helping if you have no personal connection to synths?”

“At first it was just something to do, it gave me a purpose beyond just drifting from place to place, looking for where I belonged,” he stares into his bottle, like it could comfort him, when he looks back at Livy he seems both happy and sad, “but now everyone here is family, I’d die for any one of the agents here, any one of the synths.”

“I know how you feel,” she admits, “at first I just wanted to avenge my father, but now, I can’t imagine not being here with everyone. You guys are my new family.” Suddenly a wave a guilt passes over her and she jumps off the counter, tears threatening to spill. She speaks in a rush. “Not that I don’t still miss my dad, or consider him family,” Drummer stands and steadies her with a hand on her arm, “it just… it hurts less seeing people that care, and are willing to help.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. I know you miss him, we’re not trying to replace the family you had.”

Livy leans into him and rest her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Drummer, for everything,” not being able to see his face makes her less nervous to say what she wants to say, “you’ve been the metaphorical wind beneath my wings this whole time and I’m not sure I could do this without you.”

His arms come up to hold her in place. “You’ve done most of everything on your own. You’re pretty amazing, Crow. It seems like everyday you impress me with something new.”

“You’re the impressive one, the work you put in everyday to keep this group alive.” Feeling a little flirtatious, possibly a mixture of the whiskey she had to drink and being so close to him, she leans back to look him in the face. “Plus I mean, c’mon, you’re pretty impressive to look at, too.”

Livy has to stifle a giggle as shock passes over his features, and finds herself amused. He stutters with his response for a few seconds, fumbling over his words. Eventually he settles on the less-than-eloquent, “you too.”

That has her pulling away just far enough to burst into laughter and before she knows it Drummer has dissolved into his own case of the giggles. She laughs until her sides hurt and by the time she’s done she feels lighter, less likely to crumble under the weight of her new responsibilities. Drummer Boy also manages to contain his laughter and she stills when he reaches up with one hand to brush her hair back.

Before he even starts to lean in Livy closes her eyes, letting him set the pace. When their lips finally meet there are no fireworks, no ringing bells. Instead an overwhelming sense of familiarity and comfort washes over her. She turns into him, letting him mold their half embrace into a full one, and finds that she’s happy, really happy, for the first time since the Courser came for her father.

It’s a quick kiss, more about the two of them finding a home in each other than lust, but still Livy finds herself wanting another. Instead of tugging him down by his jacket and kissing him like she wants to, she leans up to press her lips to his cheek, then his jaw, before pulling back.

He’s smiling at her when she looks at him, and she finds herself grinning back. She might have lost her father, but she’s finding that she’s gained a much larger family than she ever imagined, and although the loss still stings, Livy knows that this group of people will help her heal, one mission at a time.

---

Click here to go back to my OC writings master list.

[giantchasm]

1, 8, 9 and 10 for the salty thingy?

1. What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

This is the part where I’d say J.oshn.eku, but I’d get anon hate. True story.

Uhhhh I’m not too particularly big on Ed/Winry, Asano/Ren, Homura/Madoka (Bite me) or Kazuma/Bishamon, all of which I know are fairly popular. But I wouldn’t say I “don’t get” any of them. I’m just not super big on them for. Differing reasons.

8. Have you received anon hate? What about?

You want the beans about the J.oshne.ku thing? I’ll SPILL THE BEANS about the fucking J.oshn.eku thing.

I’m gonna put this below the cut (Haha. Below the cut. That’s part of the story) because it’s LONG

Back in the day in the TWEWY fandom, I was a part of the RP community. Mostly a great place! But I... Was 14. I’m not exactly going to call myself a saint, ‘cause I was a total passive aggressive brat, but I was just a kid.

Enter Not-Neku-Kin and Not-Joshua-Kin.

As you can imagine, Not-Neku-Kin and Not-Joshua-Kin roleplay Neku and Joshua. They are borderline kindating. Let’s be real here. 

For the most part, I get along with these two! I don’t like their ship, and make some admittedly VERY IMMATURE comments about not liking their ship, but remember: I was a literal middle schooler. They were over 17 at this point. They were well aware I was 14.

(*As a note here there were some other borderline ableist comments I made here, but they were never once directed at real people, but rather fictional headcanons. I don’t want to go into explicit detail because this involves extreme trauma for me, but it was about a mental illness I have, and never once left the realm of “Ahaha I’m not really comfortable with that headcanon”)

So they have every right to be annoyed by me, but maybe not to make claims of being “traumatized” by me?

Enter the porn.

This is back in the days of yore and Tumblr not being a functioning website. Tumblr did not have a “below the cut” feature! 

Not-Neku-Kin starts roleplaying porn. Fetish porn. (With a fifteen year old character, mind you, but that’s besides the point, uwu) Me and my best friend are deeply uncomfortable with this. Not-Neku-Kin does not put any of this below the cut because “Wah! I’m stuck on mobile!” Despite the fact that they KNEW they had a large amount of minors following them.

This is the part where if they were a mature ass person, they probably would have decided to move their porn to something private like Skype (Once again: This was before Discord. If that puts into perspective how long ago this was), or perhaps passed up roleplaying porn at all until they could properly hide and tag it. Nope! Explicit NSFW on our dashes!

My best friend sent a polite anon something along the lines of “Unfollowing because of the porn. Sorry! ^-^” I don’t remember if it was any more aggressive/passive aggressive than that, because it very well could have been genuinely sort of rude: But remember: Putting uncut porn on the dashboard of a bunch of middle schoolers.

Sometime or another I unfollowed them for a different reason and told them in the public TWEWY roleplay community skype server. They and Not-Joshua-Kin FLIPPED THEIR SHITS. Best friend admitted she sent the anon. They flipped their shits on the both of us and left the server.

We thought that was the last of it. 

No, lmao.

Two or three years later, I make a post ON MY MAINBLOG that’s like “Considering coming back to the TWEWY roleplay community. How active is it?”

Not-Joshua-Kin sends me an anon saying something along the lines of “The TWEWY community doesn’t want you”

OOOOKAY, then.

Around this time one of them (I don’t remember who) also got in contact with a friend of mine (Who can back this up, for the record,) and sent him a VERY passive aggressive anon along the lines of “I like your content, but I’m gonna have to unfollow :/ You reblog from an ableist abuser” (REMEMBER. ONE OF THE REASONS THEY FLIPPED OUT ON US US AN ANON ABOUT UNFOLLOWING)

Obviously when said friend asked they specify he was told it was me (And once again I’m deeply uncomfortable with their willingness to namedrop me like this, alongside seemingly stalking my blog). He got in contact with me and I told him the full story. He was like “Oh, okay.” And that was the end of it.

Two more years later. Now I’m a Senior. This drama went down when I was in 8th grade. These people are like 21 now. The TWEWY remix comes out. The fandom is blooming!

Not-Joshua-Kin makes a fandom discord.

Quite frankly I don’t even realize it’s them. I join. Insta-kicked without any information or contact given as to why. I get in contact with them, realize who they are, and we decide to maturely talk about it like adults.

I write an extremely long apology, both detailing how immature my behavior was at the time, and disclosing some of my very personal trauma behind my actions. I also express worries that they’re smearing my name in the fandom by barring me from spaces like that. 

They reply and say that A) They would never smear my name in the fandom, and would never spread gossip, even if they don’t like me. B) They’re still not sure if they and Not-Neku-Kin are comfortable inviting me in, but they’ll keep me updated.

Radio silence.

They don’t even have the balls to tell me directly “No, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.” They downright block me. Okay! That’s comfortable, considering all I just shared with you!

Annoying, but I’ll survive.

Few months later, I learn from ANOTHER friend they HAVE been gossiping about me. And not “some person.” “Sack.” They’re namedropping me in the TWEWY roleplay community, directly calling me annoying and ableist out of context. This is stuff they’re bringing up completely unprompted, too. So alongside being a liar and a gossip, they’re dragging my name across the mud and effectively exiling me from a fandom because I...

A) Didn’t like a ship

B) Didn’t like their one (1) autistic headcanon

C) Am closely associated with someone who told their S/O to stop putting creepy fetish porn on my dashboard in MIDDLE SCHOOL.

That’s EXTREMELY comfortable considering, once again, I really genuinely opened up to this person about my trauma and was 100% willing to try and make a new start with them. But now for all I know they’re STILL actively gossiping about me and sharing my trauma.

De-lightful!

And THAT’S the story of how I got my first anon hate.

9. Most disliked character(s)? Why?

Kazuma can eat my fucking boots.

Additionally I’m not fond of any of the bad guys in Assclass (In particular Yanagisawa, Takaoka, Gakuho, and Hiromi make me VERY uncomfortable), Homura PMMM (Eat shit bitch), or Lusamine Pokemon (Abusers Die Challenge)

10. Most disliked arc? Why?

I don’t think it’s bad persay but the entire mood of the current arc of Noragami makes me so deeply uncomfortable I’m literally having to take a break from reading it. It’s very well written, but seeing the characters take such steps backwards in their arcs makes me feel a little sick.

As for Assclass I... Don’t think the 2.0 arc is excellent. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Irina and Karasuma’s developments during it, but 2.0 is just suchhhh a bad villain. He’s too OP to the point of bending my suspension of disbelief. It ends up not being fun, and instead just downright FUNNY to read. “How did he do that? Oh my god! DID HE JUST DO SHADOW JUJITSU?” It totally takes you out of it.

[blyanten]

THE DUCK AVENGER PK2: #3 THE VOICE OF DARKNESS

Everett has decided to let his daughter out of the capsules! I’m guessing this means Ducklair Enterprises is up and running properly. As the wake-up process reaches its conclusion, Everett takes over, wanting to do the final step himself. He tells Juniper to open her eyes.

We don’t get to see the girl just yet, some things need to remain a surprise.

Meanwhile, the Avenger is having car trouble, rightfully wondering who’s going to protect the city from him. He has finally realized that he should have read the instruction manual before literally falling out of the sky, as the control systems switch off for a moment when the car switches to reserve fuel.

And nobody notices, because this is Duckburg.

He already knew that, it’s the fuel part that’s the problem. Also, the lack of a warning system, judging by the 100 feet fall. Once again, safety features: Not A Thing.

After flipping through the manual, the Avenger finds out that the car runs on monomethyl-hydrazine. He doesn’t know what that is, so it’s time to go home and find an encyclopedia. After the usual boring facts, it turns out that it’s rocket fuel.

I feel like that makes sense, but I can’t tell you why.

The Avenger has a brief fantasy spot about getting caught stealing fuel from a rocket, and Angus’s reaction, he decides to head to Ducklair Universe. Because goddamn, if Everett is going to cause this many problems, he can pay for having them fixed.

I strongly approve of this. It’s totally fair as far as I’m concerned, and a good solution, because monomethyl-hydrazine isn’t something you’ll find at the local gas station, but really, mostly because I think it’s a hilarious level of pettiness. From both sides, when we get that far.

Camouflaging the car as a fire hydrant (you can guess the joke), he sneaks up to the building, and finds a surprisingly high level of activity for the late hour. Guards with dogs, a bunch of workers and Birgit Q, looking less like an assistant and more like a ninja.

I do like the entire power-style she’s got going on.

Now, if Everett’s personal assistant is involved, this is probably important, but it’s nice of Birgit to confirm it.

The Avenger thinks to himself that he doesn’t like distrusting Everett-, wait.

Really? You don’t like distrusting him? I… I think he’s earned it. Like, he’s gone out of his way to earn distrust. I appreciate loyalty to friends, but damn. Let the distrust flow through you, Avenger.

-but there are still too many unanswered questions, so when Birgit sends several cars to Ducklair Manor, he abandons the fuel to follow.

Ducklair Manor turns out to be less that and more Ducklair’s Fancy Disney Princess Palace, complete with its own forest. 

In the surrounding forest they appear to be building a platform of some kind.

A space station?

Everett is waiting for them, informing Birgit that he’s satisfied with her work. Also, the entire project is called Operation Profunda, suggesting that Everett was really paying attention last issue.

The Avenger is the blocked from further investigation by the two walking away and the workers deciding to get started. He leaves, deciding to be back later.

Then it’s dayjob time! The security team appears to have lost Rupert, but Donald has some suspicions about where he is.

-and that’s when I called the cops.

He’s off creeping on Stella, staring at her while pressing his face up against the windows of her workplace. To the point where the owners have been complaining about Rupert scaring their customers.

Luckily for him, the team is well aware of his obsession and are gently, Fitzroy excepted, trying to get him to focus on his job. Less lucky, said owners appear and threatens to make a formal complaint if Rupert keeps bothering Stella. Which completely fair, except that Stella isn’t bothered by his behavior. She’s apparently into creepy staring.

But they have more complaints, among them that Rupert is messing up their elegant crystal windows. Why anyone would want to have crystal windows is a mystery when glass is available. Bloom reassures them that it won’t happen again, and takes Rupert for a walk.

Donald asks Tempest who those guys, the owners were, and Tempest explains. She also says that in time Donald will learn to ignore them. He agrees, but before that time comes, he grabs an ice cream from a kid and throws it at the elegant crystal window, before giving the kid money for another ice cream.

He and Tempest heads into the store for their rounds, and that’s when trouble appears in the form of Hobey with a gun. Hobey forces the sales clerk (not Stella) to lower the shutters, and tells everyone that it’s not a robbery. It’s just a hostage situation!

Listen, it had to happen sometime.

Hobey wants to speak with the Avenger, because of course he does. Why else would Donald be in this situation?

One hostage panics, but after only one shot, Tempest manages to calm him down.

And while this is going on, Hobey is trying to reassure himself that Profunda will be pleased with him, and not punish him.

In the sewers, the other homeless people are having similar concerns, but their goal is currently to not disturb her. Profunda however, is hearing voices. Well, a very specific voice, that calls for her.

Profunda decides it’s time for action.

Even on reread the constantly appearing questions are frustrating.

Outside Duckmall, the press has arrived, and inside the police is trying to figure out what to do. Armed an unpredictable is not a fun combination, even less so when they’re focused on something the police can’t give them.

We also learn that Bloom used to be a cop, but quit to avoid these situations. Probably would have worked too, except that then he went and hired a superhero.

Inside the store, Donald uses some black eyeliner to paint a mask on himself and uses some blue fabric to fake a cape. Tempest thinks he’s lost it too, while Donald is more focused on how ridiculous the situation is. He does however succeed in getting Hobey talking.

Sanity is not on display here.

It turns out that Profunda wants to team up with the Avenger to take down Everett. Because Everett is a droid out to take over the world.

Sounds a lot like the Evronians, actually.

While Donald is baffled at this information, Hobey, midway through telling him how to find Profunda, notices that his cape has a price tag.

The make-up wasn’t a clue?

Hobey proceeds to freak out and try to shoot Donald, who escapes into the underground storage via a back room service elevator.

Hobey responds by doing this.

Cheap elevator or surprisingly effective gun?

Tempest takes the opportunity to try and get people out, but Hobey and his magically reloading gun returns before they get the shutters open. He’s losing patience, and demands to talk with the real Avenger.

In the backroom, Donald turns out to have been hiding in a closet. Realizing he has to get out of there, he jumps down the elevator shaft, and falls through the destroyed roof of the evelvator. Still, he manages to sneak out the back and gather his equipment from inside a Duckmall mascot.

Rather than go and speak with Hobey, he calls Lyla and they meet at her apartment.

No, I think it’s a danceparty!

Lyla offers to lend him some Time Police equipment, since it’s not like she needs it at the moment, time travel being impossible and all. It should help keep Profunda out of his head.

At Ducklair Manor the whatever they’re building is almost done. Everett will take care of the last few details himself, because from now on, the area is off limits to everyone.

Profunda may not care all that much.

Stormdrains can actually be this big, I think.

The Avenger follows Hobey’s instructions to find Profunda, grumbling to himself about how you can’t deal with people who get inside your head.

Ignoring the fact that he’s done that before, of course, but that was magic, so… fine.

He finds the lair, but it’s empty. Following the trail, he finds two tunnels, one leading out of the city and the other to... somwhere in Duckburg. This makes the Avenger worry, while Profunda decides she is ready to answer the voice calling to her.

At Ducklair Tower, Birgit is transporting Juniper from the tower to Ducklair Manor. She barely gets out of the garage before Profunda attacks, her homeless army fireing at the car. Birgit tells the driver to keep going, and that’s when the Avenger arrives.

I swear, that name sounds familiar.

The situation escalates, with Profunda directing her army to ignore the Avenger and attack the car. Birgit, now behind the wheel goes pedal to the metal, but Profunda stops her.

Superpowers for everyone!

The car crashes, and the Avenger tries to talk to Profunda, but she declares their alliance over before it got started. She uses her powers on him, but the Avenger dodges, so her blast hits the ground instead. The Avenger traps her in a gravity bubble, letting her fall so her homless army has to catch her rather than attack the car.

The Avenger takes advantage of the distraction, going for the car since whatever it is Profunda is after is probably dangerous.

She looks like she’s halfway back into the crysleep/coma/whatever.

It’s hard to say who’s the most confused, but the Avenger grabs Juniper and gets her the hell out of there. Profunda is pissed, but as long as the voice keeps calling for her, she’ll find them. Birgit calls Everett, who tells her to return to the manor, before setting two psionic hound robots to the task of finding his daughter.

I’m sure that’s not traumatizing at all to someone who just woke up from a years long coma.

On a rooftop, somewhere, the Avenger is trying to communicate with Juniper, who is not responding.

At least not until the robots arrive. 

When I am the undisputed ruler of the universe, boob armor will be forbidden.

They tie up Juniper, because Everett has clearly given up on being father of the year, and blast a sign loose from the building, causing it to fall on the Avenger.

Add boob windows to the list of forbidden things.

Luckily for him, Lyla arrives, in a new armor that looks like it wouldn’t stand up to 1/3 of the abuse the old one could, and picks up the sign. She’s been following him, thanks to the borrowed belt. The Avenger asks her for help, and Lyla tells him to not make a habit of it.

Too late.

At Ducklair Manor, Lyla confirms that Juniper is there through a brick wall surrounding the property. Everett is also most definitely not a droid, which is… good? What is definitely not good is that Profunda and gang has arrived.

Everett is unsurprised when the two robots inform him that there’s attackers on two sides, telling Juniper that it worked. She’s come.

Child Services? Yeah, I’d like to make a report.

Profunda shows up then, telling him it wasn’t hard, Juniper was practically screaming for her to come save her.

The homeless army attacks, and the Avenger jumps in. Everett is not pleased, telling him to stay out of his life, while the Avenger points out that kidnapping is not cool.

Profunda ignores them both and goes to free Juniper, when Everett activates a containment field. Turns out the entire structure was made for that purpose, to trap them there.

Profunda calls him out, basically calling him a bastard for using Juniper as bait and claims that this will not be enough to stop Profunda.

Everett says he only wanted to help her. Her name isn’t Profunda, it’s Korinna. And he’s her father.

So Juniper takes after the mom then.

The Avenger is baffled, but still fighting the homeless army while Everett tries to convince Korinna to stop fighting and stay with him and Juniper. He just wants his daughters back.

Cool motive, still murder seriously bad parenting happening here. At least wait until Juniper is coherent before throwing her into this situation! You can look for Korinna in other ways. Or just sit back and wait, really.

Korinna, understandably enough at this point, says no. She’s taking Juniper and leaving.

Everett, also understandably, considering what Korinna has been doing lately, isn’t about to let that happen. Really, nobody in this family should be trusted with the care of anyone, but neither is going to back down. So they fight.

This angle on this is 50% cool looking and 50% “it looks like you could take two steps and put her on the ground Mr. Mystical Martial Arts”.

Korinna is powerful, but Everett has the experience and, with some help from the Avenger attacking Korinna at the same time as he does, lands a painful mental blow on Korinna.

Both of them kinda freak out at this, Korinna pissed that her father hurt her, and Everett immediately apologizing. He also drops his guard, and Korinna lashes out, screaming that she hates him, much like a small child would.

This must have been a really unforcused blast, considering that they’re both fine afterwards.

Korinna’s homeless army collapses as Korinna flees. Lyla reassures the Avenger they’re fine, just knocked out now that they’re free from Korinna. When the Avenger tries to check on Everett he’s told to get lost.

At this point it’s starting to sound more like a bad breakup than a serious fight. Birgit���s “not again” headache look doesn’t help.

Everett tells Birgit to move Juniper inside, and the Avenger has to run back to Duckmall, because there’s a hostage situation everyone’s forgotten about.

Luckily, Hobey also collapsed when Korinna lost control over him, so everything there is fine. Except for the missing Donald Duck, who nobody’s seen since Hobey shot at him.

The Avenger runs off to change and hide in the elevator shaft, just in time as the police is currently searching the back room.

Don’t know if that’s what they were going for, but that’s a great “please don’t ask questions” face.

Everyone is glad to see him, though Bloom considers his attempt at talking to Hobey a bit thoughtless. Which, yeah, but still less that it would have been if he wasn’t the Avenger. But he got lucky, and luck is part of being security, so Bloom leaves it at that.

As he’s leaving, Donald thinks that he’s going to need a lot of luck next time he’s dealing with Everett. As it is, he only has more questions and Korinna took many of the answers with her.

On a highway leading out of Duckburg, a man with two children picks up a young woman, heading to Goose Beach.

[planar-echoes]

Precious Gold (Ravnica) By Matt Cavotta (3/29/06)

 I remember being proud of myself for not screaming or thrashing like an animal when the Rakdos lowlives grabbed me and put the rope around my neck. There, at the end of the noose, my life would take a turn.

Of course it would, I was going to die. But I remembered my Orzhov and I knew that it was only my body that would die. My life took a turn, though it was not the one I had expected.

It may seem like a tired old thought - that one's life could pass before her eyes. It may, but it is what happened to me as the demon followers tied me up. It may also seem odd to you that a 14 year-old girl could be so lucid, so thoughtful in such a traumatic time. I was 14 years old, but I have been pondering that moment for the last 126 years.

The End

I remember first thinking about the importance of allegiance. I was Orzhov, and I would not act like a weeping Conclaver at my moment of change. I would not let the sloppy Rakdos with their hideous laughter and manic singing shake me as I entered the world of Ghosts. I was too good for that. An Orzhov is too good for that. “You cannot fight them, Emilya,” I thought to myself. “So instead you must show them the nobility of a superior guild.” Secretly though, in the back of my mind, I knew that there would be retribution. I was comforted by this thought. The Orzhov did not go lightly on those who break contracts, defile guild territory, or injure important guildmembers.

Of course, I was just one of the Orzhov masses, but they would surely avenge the death of an innocent little girl at the hands of the Demon guild. At the basilicas, the Orzhov Pontiff would rage, as they always do, and the Ostiary Thrull would shuffle about the congregation collecting funds for the vengeance campaign. Would it be the guildmages who put the Rakdos in their place? I knew it was just a dream to dream, but would the Angel of Despair swoop in, stonefaced and glassy-eyed? I always loved to see them standing guard at the high ceremonies - dark and distant, as if they were too terrible and too beautiful to even be there. That is how I wanted to be. And so I would be, there in the hands of the Rakdos. I was comforted also by the image of our Signet in my mind. I focused on it when the laughter and the pain began to break my stoicism. It was perfect, like the guild itself – dark and powerful, yet blinding like the sun. The symbol was inspired by the legendary Culling Sun, a force beautiful and terrible, like the angels, that in dire times comes to cleanse the world of the unworthy. Would this be the wrath brought against the Rakdos? Was I worthy of such great holy retribution? I recalled my favorite tithing mantra - the little prayer we spoke as we placed coins in the Ostiary Thrull plate:

“We are the precious gold. With us Orzhova was gilt. With us it gleams most bright.”

I was worthy of the Revenant Patriarch grace. I think they would do this for me, as the sermons say they would. I was “precious gold.”

This is what I thought as life fell to the earth beneath my dangling feet. I was strong. Ghost Council of Orzhova would be proud to welcome another Daughter of Orzhova, one who did not buckle under the threats of a lesser guild. Though I was sure my body was suffering, my pride was swelling and my disdain for the Rakdos blooming as I watched them do what other foul guilds do to the innocent.

I was at the end of a noose, and my life would take an unexpected turn. My family and I were devout to the Church. We paid our tithes, went to the Orzhov Basilica for Tax-Mass and for prayer, and contributed regularly to the Protector's Fund. We comported ourselves like true “precious gold.” Orzhova, the Church of Deals gleamed because of our devotion. The gargoyles watched over it because we contributed. The Demon was kept underground because the Orzhov Pontiff performed the Suppression Rituals. Why should I have feared - there at the end of the rope and my corporeal life?

I will tell you why.

Dying was an experience very different than I had expected. It was without sensation or ceremony or fanfare of any kind. It was like walking from the parlor to the kitchen - nothing much to speak of. I do remember, before the change, seeing myself from above. I could hear nothing but a steady wind, but my eyes took note of the Rakdos, parading around in their tasteless, shabby hats, paying little attention to me. Then, just before I left that world, I saw what I thought were thrulls. From above I could see them. Waiting? Hiding?

I paid little mind to the sight of the thrulls in my early afterlife. I was still too blinded by pride to bother with it. But a seed was planted. A little seed that would grow in my spirit and shape my afterlife.

The Change

The change was also not what I had expected. I was not in a rich and wonderful ghost palace, and there were no Orzhov spirits there to show me the way to my great-great grandparents. The world was a foggy, shifting vision of a city much like Ravnica. I remembered hearing street kids make jokes and threats about a place called Agyrem. A ghost city. It sounded too mundane to be true - and they never mentioned it at mass or at the trade conventions. My mind swirled and wrapped around itself. Was this Agyrem? If it was, why did the Orzhov not speak of it? Was I unworthy of the ghost palace of the Patriarchs? Did I not conduct myself well enough in life or in death? My world was upside down.

On the other hand, the afterlife felt surprisingly similar to regular life. I could feel emotion and sensation. After so much time had passed with no reunions with passed grandparents or meetings with the Patriarchs, my emotions were mostly pain and loss and loneliness. I was again just a 14 year-old girl, missing my mum and papa, scared of being alone. My armor of pride and zeal wore off. Why were things not as the Pontiffs had said? What was I supposed to do? Mostly I just cried. Occasionally I would encounter another spirit and I would ask questions. But not all spirits are Orzhov, and each one has its own sadness to attend to.

I was confused. I was lost. But I was not yet ready to open up and allow the seed in my soul to grow. There was still too much built up. Fourteen years of the words and weight of Orzhova still held fast, but the grip was loosening.

As time passed - can't be specific about days and years as they have no meaning in my new world… As it passed, I did manage to muster the courage to explore this new Ghost City. I found myself compelled to seek out information regarding those I knew in life and, more importantly, the circumstances of my death. I was very surprised to find out how willing the dead are to speak of their lives, and of who they knew. It was a way, I guessed, to hold on to the past. I was also surprised to find out that some of the spirits of the Ghost City could move between the world of the living and the world of ghosts. These spirits were not as eager to talk, though they bore the most relevant news. It was one of these spirits that told me a little tale that seemed unimportant to him, but weighed heavily on me.

He was a stonemason who died when a Helldozer toppled a building he was working near. He was under Orzhov contract to re-pave the plaza surrounding “the crying tree.” “It was to be a very big deal,” he told me. Something about this piqued my interest, so I asked about it often. I found out quite a bit more from a young Orzhov man. He was a ragged, worn out soul. He must have been in the ghost world for a long, long time.

He told me that, after the killing (mine, I was beginning to believe), a great uproar was stirred in the basilicas. He was not there, but some of the souls he served with were. He and some like him were gathered from the ghost world by the agents of the Council and formed into a Souls of the Faultless. They were to guard the little plaza surrounding the tree where the Rakdos had killed the girl. Anti-Rakdos sentiment was rampant. People were asked to make donations to the Vengeance Campaign at the “Martyred Rusalka.” Soon it was surrounded in gold, and the ragged boy had to hold back thieves and greedy thugs for weeks. He did not see anything else. He was crushed by a rampaging Gruul “Scab-Clan Mauler” who broke their line to get to the tree. He said that his readiness was replaced with pity, and in that moment he was crushed. I felt badly for the boy. I would see him often lingering near what could best be described as a fountain. It was not water that it spouted, but nothingness. Many gathered there to gaze in and forget. I would go there to find people, to seek knowledge. I did not look to forget.

Perhaps I should have. The vision of Exhumer Thrull lurking near my dying form began to creep back to my mind. I was just starting to feel the pride of the black sun once again when the visions started feeding the seed in my soul. A Vengeance Campaign was created for me. A plaza built. The site of my death named and made a monument. But the seed grew and so did the compulsion to know more. I did not question this compulsion… it felt so natural. I was sure that it had something to do with my future. Perhaps this was the test that I must pass to gain entrance to the palace of the Patriarchs.

But what I found as I kept searching, over a period of 125 years, was not the key to the Ghost Palace. It was proof of a life deceived.

The Truth

Eventually, I would meet my father again. Neither of us would ever find mum. Papa had much to say in between the rings of the Debtors' Knell. It might have been years between our meetings, but we did manage to piece together a story that was hard for either of us to accept.

The plaza surrounding the Tree of Weeping was never completed. The buildings nearby were destroyed and rebuilt as shop fronts and high priced plaza-view dwellings. Once the shops and dwellings were sold, the masonry work on the plaza was stopped. The gold that had been gathered during that whole time funded a Vengeance Campaign that was supposed to “ruin the Rakdos forever,” but produced only one trial of a couple of street urchins who many believe were not even there. After a while, the locals forgot the tree was the site of a great wrongdoing. Some continued to toss coins at its base like children at wishing wells. Once life returned to normal, the Vengeance Campaign was allowed to slip from Orzhov minds. The pontiffs did not rage about the Rakdos – they began a crusade against the “Unholy Golgari – death farmers, depriving souls of the wonders of the Ghost Palace.” Meanwhile, somewhere, some Orzhov functionary tried to count the masses of coins piled in a secret chamber.

Masses of coins. “We are the precious gold. With us Orzhova was gilt. With us it gleams most bright.” It never occurred to us that this was not meant to be symbolic. We are the precious gold, or at least the source of it! How brazen they are, how deceitful. Shame on us for believing in them. Shame on us for thinking that all that power, all that wealth, was used only for us, and not against us. Were we too blinded by routine to notice that just a few Teysa, Orzhov Scion had coffers that were spilling over, while all of ours were emptying out? Were we too blinded by pride to think that the creators of the contracts that bound so many Ravnicans to Orzhov service might have done the same to us? Unfortunately, one must die to find this out. By then, that soul is old news - like the Tree of Weeping. That soul can no longer place coins in the ostiary's plate. That soul is forgotten.

The Twist

But fate has a sense of irony. When the manipulative minds put together the plan to raise some “martyr funds,” they made sure their contracts were all in order. The correct families would receive the correct amounts of the take. The proper businesses would be involved in demolitions, construction, and advertisement. Secretive channels would be used to deal with the Rakdos, and funds due would move through those same channels (which turned out to be “secret” enough to disappear after the attack). All possible contingencies were accounted for in mage-documents prepared by the officers of the ruling families - all possible contingencies but one.

The part of the contract that dealt with my soul was nullified at the moment when I saw the thrulls. The law-mage's own pride did not allow her to see beyond my complete devotion to the Orzhov guild. The contract called for a devout female follower between the ages of 12 and 15. It detailed which family's spirit kin would control my soul in the afterlife, and what the term of my service would be. But the contract on my afterlife was broken before it even started.

When I saw the thrulls waiting there, watching me die, something deep within me knew this was not right. Orzhov thrulls do not think – they follow orders. My subconscious knew that they were part of the plan, but my pride kept me from recognizing it. At that moment, I was no longer Orzhov (by strict definition of the contract for my soul). I had become something else entirely. A force more basic than the Guildpact settled in me. I was Rusalka – the spirit of a young innocent wrongly killed. It is the nature of a Scorched Rusalka to search for clues to the truth about her death. For me, this alone would have been irony enough, but fate is not so easily pleased.

The Beginning

There, at the end of a rope, my afterlife took a turn. After 125 years of existence in the shadow of lies, I finally had truth. And peace. But fate was not done smiling. Once again I was at the end of a rope, and things were about to change, but this time I kept my eyes open. I did not push away reality with dreams of angels and riches. What I saw was more strange than any dream. The sky was rippling above me. I heard screaming far below. My eyes followed the rope tied to my chest all the way up to its anchor point - a living mountain of rock. Above it hovered a great stone head. Eyeless. It was horrific, but I did not fear... I was already dead. Then I looked down and saw a sight that was even more strange than the great thing to which I was tied. Ravnica. The dead do not dream. They do not even sleep. How could this be?

It matters not.

The giant stone thing knelt. The rope broke free of it, and then of me. I was back home again. Alive.

Fate's dimple formed beside a wide grin. She knew that I would not fall back into the life I had before. She knew that I would come here to tell my tale, and to steal “precious gold” from the Church of Deals.

[alka-di-kijarr]

Hunters Journey - 013

Disclaimer. The following part of the hunters journey was connected to my #CallOfThePharah on deviantArt in april2020. English is still not my native language, but I wish you a lot of fun reading the next adventure of Nero, Vaas and all the other hunters.

Flowki species is a closed species. If you want to get your own, please contact me.

The winner of this design - and so the new owner is - Katja060902

Hunters Journey - 013

[...] It had been months since the attack of the black creatures and the chaos they brought into the headquarters of the BlackBestia-Hunting Guild, yet Nero still hadn't found back to his calm and relaxed mind. He had been searching for all kinds of information that could maybe, just maybe, give him an idea of what these creatures were made of, or where they came from.

He took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair of the library, that he was nearly inhabiting more than his own room. His wounds and scars still put him in front of challenges every day, but it became better with every week. And with each session Nero had taken at the hospital corridor, together with doctor Uruben. The doc was another souvenir that came together with Tahorn and the other knights of the guilds crown.

Seth had ordered assistance, but ever since they arrived, the entire HQ had fallen into a really grumpy mood. Everyone was on the edge, especially the higher ranked people. The closer you would come to Seth, leader of the BBHQ, the worse it got. Nero was neither old enough, nor long enough part of the guild, as that he would understand the chemistry between Seth and Tahorn. But whenever he tried to get into the office of Seth and Tahorn was already there, his assistance lady shoo'ed him away quickly. More of a worried look on her face than anything else.

The young man had accepted his fate and started to dig deeper into all kinds of books and talked to all kinds of people, trying to collect useable information. Nearly laying in the chair, rather than sitting, his view was fixated on the glassy roof of the library. The stars and the two moons shared a place on the gigantic dark tent, watching down on him. If they could, would they laugh at him? About his attempts to help out in his own way? He was not as experienced as the others and his wounds and scars made a lot of problems during the training times.

Vaas, who came back from the last hunt at the night of the invasion, was already back in shape and seemed even more amused about the current events than before. Amusement and sarcastic comments were a facade Nero knew all too well. It was his way to compensate the stress and somehow deal with the feelings inside him. But Nero was a different type of person. The only thing that could ease the tension in his mind and lift his heart, was pure and logical progress. He needed results.

Grumbling, Nero nearly jumped of the chair, took his notebook and stomped in the direction of the gardens. He needed to speak to Seth, right now. There was no option like 'hiding everything from everyone' and 'playing save for no matter of cost'. So many of his friends were scared, traumatized, most of the day anxious. It could not continue like this. Anger arose in his chest and Nero felt the spiking pain in his forehead. A well-known pain, since the day of the invasion. He couldn't tell if he had been hit too hard on the head, or what might be the true reason behind the needles that tortured him, but whenever he faced the accumulated anger and frustration in his mind, the pain followed swiftly.

Nero opened the glass door and took the path between a field of blooming flowers, heading into the direction of Seths building. The night was cold, but no wind was singing and no animal made a noise. The young men looked around, his gaze finding the habitat of Gemini. The poor hydra. Poor and brave hydra. Would Lauriel be there? Should he go and pay her a visit before he would stomp in Seths door, probably kicking it out of its angles, according to the feeling in his chest? He sighed. Probably he should do so.

Slowly changing his direction, Nero followed a path between white, yellow and purple flowers and blooming shrubs. The air was filled with their scent and somehow Nero felt an ease, while walking between them, making sure to not step onto those, which grew up on the stone plates. He reached the fence of Geminis Habitat and looked around.

A door swung open and a woman with blonde hair, tied to a wonderful herringbone-braid, stepped outside. She saw Nero, waved into his direction and said something like 'give me a minute'. As Nero could see, she pushed a wheelbarrow across the area. Probably the late-night dinner for Gemini. Nero remembered that she had said something about Hydras preferring to eat in the night, when everything was calm and less distracting. He just could try to imagine what sleeping schedule Lauriel would have now. But he wasn't any better, he had to admit. And so he waited patiently, until the Hydra was munching with relish, and the young woman walked over to his place.

"You can come in, you know that, right?" Despite the late hour Lauriel seemed awake and happy. The contrary picture of himself.

"Yes, yes, I know. I was on the way to Seth. Just wanted to come over and say hello before." The young lady leaned her head to the side, a knowing and teasing smile on her lips.

"You seem incredibly angry, Mister I-am-always-relaxed." Nero rose his eyebrows, the hands holding on the poles of the fences, his face leaned against them.

"Is it that obvious?" Lauriel snorted and laughed, while Nero couldn't hide his frustration about him being an open book to her.

"I would say, you are neither alone with your feelings, nor is it the case that I wouldn't understand you. Anything you found that might be useful?"

Now it was his time to snort and sigh.

"Nothing after all. No matter where I search or who I a-" Nero turned around, being convinced that something had touched his back, but when his view scanned the surrounding area, there was nothing.

"Everything alright?"

"Y-yes, I guess so."

The young huntress stepped aside and tried to see for herself what had caused his abrupt reaction, but the only thing she could see, was the field of flowers, trees, stone ways, the fountain and far behind the other buildings of the HQ.

"What did you want to say, Nero?" she asked, her view not letting go of the area behind him.

Nero opened the mouth to talk, but a piercing feeling stroke into his back, forcing him to turn around faster and with pulled sword.

"What the hell..." Nero could hear how Lauriel picked up something behind him, pressing her body against the fence.

"I assume you are not seeing anything, do you?"

"Nothing, no." He felt how her hand stroke his back, searching for something that might cause the sudden touch and pain.

"Look at us. We are so much on the edge, that we assume something might be here, and arm up, before we even check if it could be something in my jacket." He laughed, a bit too nervous. Nero could feel the vibration, as something from behind was coming closer.

Gemini, without a sound, stood up and approached the scenery. Lauriel greeted him silently, but the fact that Gemini came to see for himself what happened, was sign enough for Nero, that he was not turning insane - and there truly was something behind him!

Now that the giant hydra was close to them, Nero could feel the massive, powerful aura this majestic creature was surrounded by. It felt as if it was so dense, that it pushed away everything that couldn't stand him. Smaller animals always made space when Gemini walked around, and now he could feel why.

"What do you think, what shall we do? Shall we call out an emergenc-" Lauriels eyes were wide open when she placed her hand on his mouth, staring into the darkness, which was only enlightened by flame bowls and torches in the garden.

"By the gods..."Nero freed his face from her hand and watched to the point she was staring at. Gemini behind him growled deeply and threatening.

A creature, half the body made out of mass, half the body vanishing in darkness, stood as close as ten meters. It had a horn, glowing in a reddish-purple and its body was covered in flowers, white and shining like the moon. But the most intimidating thing was its skeleton, which they could see shimmering under its skin.

It tilted its fox-like face and Nero was not sure which emotion he should see or sense, coming from the creature. It came closer, but Gemini was waiting, positioning his body shortly behind Lauriel, while she took the chance to calm the smallest of the heads, which was still growing back. The small head was the result of the invasion-fight and ever since Lauriel had grieved over the loss of Ertije - the small pea, and cared even more for the new head arising on his place.

Gemini bends his heads over the fence, sniffing the air, while the unknown creature stepped closer. It seemed curious. His body was now fully visible, revealing a bunch of flower petals, forming something similar to a kitsune tail Nero knew from books. The two creatures investigated each other, without touching, but the closer the fox-thing came, the dizzier Nero felt. His heart started to jump irregular and he felt, as if his mind got wrapped in clouds.

"Nero?" He felt her hand touching his shoulder, but her voice seemed too far away. More than just the poles of the fence was dividing them now.

"NERO!" He heard her call, but his body didn't react. Everything was in slow motion, while the two golden eyes of the creature in front of him, stared right into his own.

Geminis main head started to growl louder and deeper, before the other heads joined in. Their roar arose and the flower-creature broke its gaze on Nero, relieving him from its chains. Nero gasped for air, the moment a door got kicked open and Vaas stormed into the garden.

"By the gods, what's happening here? What is-?!" His view found the intruder and another few men reached the place. Gemini released a mighty roar, nearly sounding like a "GO!" and the flower-thingy turned for good, vanishing completely in the midst of nothing.

What got left behind, was a young huntress, with a racing heart, a young hunter still gasping for air, while holding his chest in confusion and several other hunters - in their pyjamas, armed up with weapons and fighting boots.

~

[so-fae-ia]

The Ghosts of my Life || Self-Para

Just when I think I’m winning  when I’ve broken every door the ghosts of my life blow wilder than before just when I thought I could not be stopped  when my chance came to be king (queen) the ghosts of my life blew wilder than the wind 

Words: 1525 Triggers: Abuse, panic attack, slight suicidal thoughts

Sophia couldn’t explain the feeling she got, lately she had been feeling so light, so free, like there had been some major change in the world and she couldn’t figure out where the happiness was coming from. It was a new feeling, being free, being happy, it seemed like everything in her life had been leading up to this point, where she could say things were happening, things were free and it was so liberating. Now sitting here in her room she felt like she could be herself, she had made a visit earlier and picked up her little sister, even her little sister was a different person now for living with Tane and she was so glad that she could do something right by her little sister. She sat with her legs crossed on her bed and her little sister sat on her lap, Sophia was absentmindedly creating plaits in Anahera’s hair, curling her hair between her fingers and laughing together while they watched a Disney movie and shared a bowl of popcorn.

Her computer screen flashed beside her, a skype call from someone she had recently gotten into contact with, who she knew from home, and who understood more of why she had to leave, after all he had secrets he was hiding and he knew what she was. She answered the call, frowning slightly at his expression. “Dam? What’s up?” She asked, her hands still running through her sister’s hair. “So they haven’t told you.” Her hands stilled and she shook her head. He was quiet for a minute, shaking his head. “Soph, there was a hit and run.. Your mom.. She’s..” Soph took a deep breath, holding her hand up to cut him off. “She’s gone isn’t she?” He nodded, solemnly. “Give my apologies for not attending her funeral.” He opened his mouth to speak and she shook her head. “I won’t attend the funeral for a woman who never cared about what happened to me.” She said forcefully, harsher than she intended but it was good enough. On the other end Damien tried his best to convince her to go, but all of his words were met with a shake of her head or a dismissive comment, and finally he had to give up. “Okay, Soph. I- It’s okay… I might be coming over there soon.. Once Jesse and Dar make up their minds.” Soph let out a soft sigh and nodded. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you guys if you do come.”

Just like that the conversation was over, and she didn’t know how to process all the information, someone who was such a pain in her life was gone and she wanted to celebrate, but she didn’t quite know how, and Anahera needed to go home, their movies were done, and she was looking forward to going home, to seeing Tane, and she couldn’t blame her. Walking back through the woods after dropping her off, it was late, she wasn’t sure but she may have been lost, which was a crazy thought because she never got lost in the woods, not her. Her people were the best at knowing where they were in the forest at all times so why did she feel like she was walking in a circle the whole time? She was confused and when she saw the edge of the woods she seemed to turn around, of course she could go back to Tanes, stay the night until whatever was out there was turning her around but it was something stronger, anywhere she went that could have been safe she got turned around.

Panic was setting in now, this was so unlike her, she never panicked in the woods, someone must have been playing some kind of trick on her because there was no way anything like this would happen if it was just her walking alone in the woods. Panic, panic bloomed in her like an angry flower, and now she was getting angry. Who in their right mind would panic someone while they were walking in the bush? That was a stupid move, and Sophia could feel the eyes of the forest bearing down on her, she needed to get out, to be free, and to be far away from this place. There was nothing good about this place and she needed… Wanted.. Fuck where was she? Why would the forest do this to her? It was their forest and it seemed to be playing a trick, determining that she was not destined to go home, she would have to sleep here, in this part of the forest tonight.

Then like a break in the fog she thought she found a place where she could escape, but as soon as she got close someone stepped out from behind a tree, no not someone, someone shrouded in white, someone see through, a ghost. That terrified her even more, she almost wanted to run as hard as she could in the opposite direction but she couldn’t, she couldn’t bring herself to drag her way out of the trance, then her eyes settled on the ghosts face, and she was sure in that moment any colour that was in her body pooled up and retreated from her skin, pulled away and Sophia felt sick. Her mother was standing, or rather floating here in front of her. Panic, panic like she’d never experienced was flowing through her like she tried to will her feet to move, she needed to get away, but when she tried to step back her mother opened her mouth, a disgusting groan coming from her, freezing Sophia in place. Tears began to streak down her cheeks, she wanted to scream, she wanted to hide, she wanted to run, but she couldn’t. Her mother was forcing her to stay there.

Like a breath of air, children surrounded her, using their combined powers, blowing hot air toward her mother and sending her into a fit and making her disappear, the frozen feeling that Sophia felt, that had held her in place, it was gone, it had disappeared, and she fell to the forest floor, sobbing as she fell. The children piled around her, encompassing her in an all powerful hug, letting themselves find the right emotion and fill the area with happiness, calming happiness. Slowly, very slowly, she found her way to her knees, holding her arms open as her kids piled up and curled into her hug, they were the one thing in the world that would make her feel even better, and right now she needed as much of this as she could get. The children, though they never spoke, they would always be there for her, she did so much for them, and they were grateful, every single kid in that group of children had experienced something awful, and they were always going to be as supportive of anyone going through something traumatic no matter who they were or how they tried to push them away. The kids would be there.

When she finally felt back to almost normal she hugged them all individually and began on her way home again, She would have stopped for a drink, but the bars were closed, there was no one she could go and see to get a drink because they were all gone, and some parts of her was glad of that, she’d have a glass of wine before sleep tonight, that would be enough for her. Coming home and collapsing into bed she made her way through all of the emotions that had been eating her up inside, working her way through things that she hadn’t really thought off. Her room was cold, it was unusual considering she always had the aircon on warm. She poked her head out of her blankets and she was there again, her mother. Before she had time to think about it she threw her blankets up over her head. If she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. She heard the disgusting groan again, and she was faced with the images of her angry mother, tearing up presents. Then with a blast of air she was gone. She could feel the hot breath on her neck, but this was a different memory. Sam’s father, she could feel the first time, the first violation, the pain, the fear, everything hit her all at once, a thousand painful memories lacing her memory and she tried her hardest to push it all away, she didn’t want these thoughts but they were there. So prevalent. It took a lot for them to affect her so badly, but this, this was too much, it was like it was real.

She barely slept that night, every little thing made her jump, every noise that sounded like the start of that disgusting groan made her wake and look for the source of it, she had to get rid of this ghost, but she seemed to be so close, and every noise had her leaping out of her own skin. Maybe she would die of a heart attack and end up joining her mother.