#s&r dregs

[bugsieburners]

Character development via memes

[writing-havoc]

HEY! HOW ARE YOU? would you be willing to make a kaz brekker x reader? if possible a soulmate au? I'm obsessed with this trope! maybe name on the wrist or the one where with just a touch of skin you see the colors? I imagine one where r is not part of the dregs but is quite indifferent/receptive to the fact that kaz is the leader of a gang. r is a seamstress, using her skills to hide that she is a fabrikator, and she (can be gn if you want!) and kaz know they are soulmates, though they never talk about it. they can even be a 'thing' secretly, and it would be adorable if they were both childhood friends. maybe before the events of SoC kaz decided to make their relationship official (with a request for courtship alá brekker or even a marriage on paper) and after CK he is even more desperate for this, wanting to protect r at all costs. oh, it would be very interesting if r had a younger sister aged 8/9 who loves kaz and vice versa since she is very quiet and obedient and loves to listen to kaz's stories. even better if he secretly called her little crow. bonus if the girl's name is astra and she is also a hidden grisha, an inferni or another etherealki i would love to see this from your point of view and with her writing it would be amazing but feel free to decline if you don't want to. Did I already say that you write very well? well then know. YOU ARE INCREDIBLY TALENTED!!!!!!

Silent tears

♡ Summary: Before the events of the ice court, Kaz feels relatively content with his feelings and relationship with you. After? Not so much.

♡ Pairing: Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

♡ Fandom: Six of Crows, Grishaverse

♡ Warning(s): Mentions vomit a few times, Gun, Death, uses yn twice

♡ WC: 5.4k

Aaaa thank you sm for this request!! Loved all the little details I had to include. It was interesting writing for a reader that wasn't part of the dregs.

Thank you for your kind words <3

I made Astra a Squallor here. And it's up to your interpretation if the reader and Kaz are dating or otherwise before the ending.

As always, please excuse any grammar and spelling mistakes

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The sound of a sewing machine filled the small shop. It was loud, punching the table he knows it's rested on and creating a rumbling in the floor.

Gowns and suits and vests filled the racks around the store, some on display on fake bodices. They wore outfits, tantalizing window shoppers to enter and run their fingers along the fabrics.

The velveteen looked high quality, mixed with some sort of spandex fabric around the waist to hug its wearer. Pearls and lace flow across shoulders and down the side of gowns, some even including embroidery.

As he moved along, suits and gowns turns into vests and petticoats. The walls were decorated with hats of various function, most made for looks and flare rather than functionality. Behind the desk even existed a rack of long coats and various sweaters, more than likely just to fill up space than to be sold.

The sound ceased, and he rung the bell at the desk.

"Coming!" Called a voice. He stopped himself from smoothing out his own coat, in turn adjusting his gloves.

Heavy footsteps presented him with your kind figure, heels unconsciously stomping against the wood floor compared to the concrete of the backroom.

You smiled at him, picking off little strings of thread the fell into your lap and stuffing them into a pouch at your side.

"I've just finished your order." He felt just as much as he seen you change from business to something more lax, shoulders drooping and the lines between your brows disappearing. "Gimme one moment to put everything in the box- oh, would you turn the sign around, please?"

"A bit all over the place, are we?" He turned around, hearing you release a big sigh.

"Just about, it seems."

The people walking outside turned to look at the store, smiles on their faces. It was mildly amusing to watch them fall as he turned the sign, giving him a glare as he continued to stare them down. He didn't turn until they left, everyone else's eyes only flashing to the window for a moment before diverting elsewhere the second the closed sign came into view.

Window shopping is pointless when the building is closed.

"You wanted... two suits, one the shade of coal and the other a light purple, a wine red gown, a mask, and a pair of gloves?"

He turned his attention back to you, holding a rather large, yet flat, wooden crate. The inside was filled with the colors you just mentioned, a pair of leather gloves on top acting as paperweights for his order.

You set the crate down for him to look through. He removes the paper, taking the gloves into his hands and holding them out to examine.

And admire.

You aren't a leatherworker. You're a seamstress. And yet, you make the finest pair of leather gloves he has ever seen. Sometimes he'll even catch little designs marked into the gloves, the integrity of the material somehow unfazed.

"Make the slits bigger. Just two millimeters." He hands them to you.

You raise a brow, knowing that you made everything to his usual specifications.

But you take them back, entertaining him. You look at the locked door, and then raise your hand over the gloves.

Grisha power isnt super fascinating to him anymore. When he was little he would beg you to demonstrate your power, handing you pieces of worn fabric to do as you pleased with.

He would watch the thin threads thickened and the material became warped around the edges. Jordie would stand next to him, watching you solely because Kaz dragged him over every single time. You would hold out the newly mended piece of cloth, and he and his brother would clap ans rejoice.

But he still likes to watch you work. To see as your mouth opens and your tongue folds over your canines as you focused.

You give them back to him, and he inspects them once more.

"These will do." He ends up saying, appreciation left for the darker hours in the night.

You roll your eyes and rustle around with the paper held underneath your arm, fingers quickly calculating the math of the order.

Usually he doesn't do a batch of this size while he's still figuring out a job, but the way he sees it there's no way he can't have just about everybody present. Which these days is incredibly rare.

A pin is taken from the cushion on your wrist, planting itself into the red gown. But as you take out two pieces of paper, writing probably a total and your name, he can't help but stare at the ink peeking out from beneath it.

He knows what it says, just as well as he knows the name on his own.

He's seen it once as you pulled up your sleeve during the summer, the fine etching displaying his name, his old name, clear as day before you hurriedly slipped the pin cushion back onto it. He looked away that day, pretending he didn't see.

It feels so much harder to pretend now.

"This is your total. And I will need your signature on both of them, Mr. Brekker."

Your smile is playful, then. As he takes the pen from your outstretched hand.

"As I've told you before, yn, Kaz is fine."

"Oh, but how could I be so informal, Mr. Brekker?" You put your hand on your chest, face twisted into a poor impression of someone who has just been scandalized. "We are business partners, after all."

And just like in those books you always read, he feels his eyes soften, if only a bit as his brows and jaw relax. "Business partners doesn't cover the surface."

You take the confession and relax with it, rubbing the center of your chest. "You're right."

He thinks back to a time when you were both little, each staring at your blank wrist with solemn eyes. He would look at you as you rubbed the soft skin, fingertips and dirty nails gently tracing lines into it.

He would sit next to you, shoulders knocking together, and you would look up at him, expression changing as you grabbed his wrist and squeezed it.

At the time, he would never say it, the thought turning his ears pink and quickening his adolescent heart, but he would hope that your wrists would match, displaying the others name. He would hope that one day that sad and far off face would cease to exist, and instead would be full of complete and utter joy as you looked at him and exclaim that you knew it. Because you wanted him, too.

But now that he knows, he still wouldn't say anything. You never said anything, and he wasn't in any position or state of mind to say anything to you when he eventually saw his, ash sticky and cold flesh tainting the memory, your scream as you watched him swim to the harbor on Jordie's corpse, and his own as you went to grab him.

It stays locked away, with the rest of the things that feel too hard to touch.

He signs a fake name on both of them, taking one and handing the other to you for your personal records, and then takes out the kruge and hands it to you.

"Is Dirix out back to handle these or do you want a bag for them?"

He sighs. "Dirix is down at the Harbour. A bag will have to do."

"Can I pick the bag?" A new voice calls from the backroom.

He holds back a smile, but fails to stop the corner of his lips from turning up temporarily. He averts his eyes to the doorway where a little girl peeks around the corner, a wide smile on her face as she looks right at him.

"Of course, Astra." You say, and immediately she scurried up to the counter to take a look at the load she has to find a bag for.

Your younger sister, Astra, was moved up here a few years after you were, your parents having passed from the flu and grandparents too old to take on the task of raising a six year old. Much less a six year old who could summon the wind at any time she wants.

Thankfully, you had started your seamstress business a year before that, and had this store with your living space up above to take her in with.

Business was always booming here, your talent for fabrics and all things fashion put on display and loved by the masses. You spent pretty much your entire life studying the trends that wormed their way here, even getting ahead of the train numerous times and working into the darkest hours to make your profit.

Now you can afford the more pricey fabrics, and get the attention of the richer folk over in the Geldstraat.

He helps, of course, with his dirty work.

"I know the perfect one." Astra scurries away.

You chuckle, hearing a small "wow!" and a flurry of footsteps. "She's going to pick the most obnoxious bag, I hope you know."

He takes a breath then, and looks down at the gloves still in his hand. "I wouldn't expect anything less from her."

There's a moment of silence, watching you from his peripheral as you stare at the gloves too.

"I didnt like the last pair." You admit. "So I made the design more low-key. The last one was too flashy for your aesthetic."

He's wearing those gloves now, and they aren't even flashy. The design is just slightly more pronounced.

The way you measure how flashy something is has a much smaller threshold than most. Even by his standards, it's very small, and he's far from the most colorful being in Ketterdam.

Astra comes back with, of course, a large bright pink fabric bag, twine tied in the shape of a flower tied around the handles.

"Good choice!" You praise, taking the clothes out of the crate and laying them neatly in the bag while she beams at him.

"Do you like the bag?"

And normally, he'd say something incredibly passive aggressive.

But he actually likes Astra, and knows how easy it is to stamp out a child's heart, that level of emotional regulation and individuality not yet found in them.

"Its wonderful, little crow."

"Alright, give this to him, like I showed you." You pushed her along, and she rounded the counter, holding the sides of the bag, leaving the handles free for him to grab.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't just a little moved by that.

Astra wasn't allowed to help you until a few months ago, when she basically got on her hands and knees and begged to be of some help. You claim that you didn't give in right away, but he knows you better than that.

You have told her that he doesn't like to be touched, and it was a little hard for such a touch reliant girl to wrap her mind around that. After a few close calls, she got the general idea down.

"Pleasure doing business with you." He tips his hat, and watches as her little cheeks become pink as she curtsies.

"Ill be making stew like my mom made if you want to stop by later." You suggest.

Astra grins from ear to ear. "But not too later, if you can help it. I want to hear another story."

"At this rate I won't have any stories left to tell you."

She thinks about that for a moment, lips pursing and looking around the room. "Oh!" She shouts, face lighting up. "Can you tell me that one story again? About you and my sister getting lost in the woods down south?"

He pretends to think about it, looking around the room as if in search for the memory. "I think I can do that. You and your sister might have to fill in on some of the details, though."

She grins, pride welling up in her chest that she puffs out, holding out her hand. "The deal is the deal."

He takes her hand into his, giving it a firm shake. "The deal is the deal."

Kaz takes a moment to look back up at you, and his heart nearly leaps out his chest when he sees the way you're looking at him, a small smile he doesn't think he's seen before and eyes filled with so /much/ that he's surprised your whole eye isn't black. Your head rests into your fingers, arm wrapped around your waist. It's an expression he's seen rarely, but it always seems to catch him off guard.

It looks a lot like yearning, he thinks.

But he puts it away for later.

When you catch that he's looking, you take a deep breath, schooling your expression and wiping off imaginary dust from your clothes.

"Alright Astra, Kaz has important business to attend to."

Astra pouts from beside him, but gives him her goodbyes and walks into the backroom again.

He straightens. It's oddly difficult to keep eye contact with you, but he does anyway, flicking between the both of them.

"If I have time, I'll stop by." He gives in.

You're happy with that. "Ill even add extra broth for you."

"Sweetening the offer I see."

You put your hands on your hips, shrugging. "A girl's got to do what she's got to do."

The implications of that are hefty, too hefty with a cane in one hand and a bright pink bag of clothes in the other.

So he ignores it, and nods, taking his leave out the front door and back to the Slat.

-----

He stares at the plan before him in his mind, going over each and every way this can and probably will go sideways.

Breaking into the most secure prison in probably the whole world with nothing more than the scrapings of a plan, one of the essential persons in a different prison, and your presense completely plaguing his mind.

The third one isn't exactly new, but he can't help but think about you when his survival rate went from low on the daily average to basically zero with one handshake.

But thirty million kruge...

Thirty million kruge could go a long way. That's four million for him, most of which he could put towards the crow club and expanding his empire, taking down Pekka, and securing his place as one of the top bosses in Ketterdam.

He could secure his place in the food chain, and maybe, maybe then he...

Maybe.

He entertains the thought of a marriage certificate. Having something that ties you and him together both eternally and in the eyes of everyone else. Being able to hold that slip of paper when he can't hold your hand and feeling like it matters.

It's hard to keep the thought away, now that he's alone with a glass of kvas and death staring him in the eyes.

He doesn't plan on dying soon. Not for a long time. He has vengeance to exact and many more dinners to join you for.

But it's a very real possibility, and he must debate with himself going to you and telling you all this before he leaves.

If it was any other job, Kaz would send Inej to tell you that he would be gone for a few days and to not expect him. If it was literally any other job, he wouldn't even consider getting up from his chair, marching down those stairs and up yours, and discussing the undiscussable to at least satisfy the gnawing in his stomach.

Because he knows that if you find out he died and he knew that he was basically guaranteed to do so and he didn't bother to tell you himself, you would never forgive him.

Granted, he would be dead, so in theory it doesn't matter.

He picks up his cane and gloves, shoving them over his hands and throwing on his long coat. He doesn't even have to look at the coat rack to find his hat, putting it on and making his way out of the Slat and to your address without a word to anyone else.

The theories mean nothing, in the face of reality.

You're making stew with extra broth, he might die in a few days, and he doesn't want you to think ill of him when he can't look you in the eye and try to convince you to feel otherwise.

As the cold bites his nose, he thinks back to that look you were giving him when he made that deal with your sister.

It's nearly enough to make him turn around, muscles tingling and a shiver rolling down his back that's unrelated to the cold. He feels sick. Warm and a feeling in his stomach he only feels late in the night in the comfort of his own bed.

He can't do this.

He picks the lock on your door.

He can't tell you.

He opens the door, locking it behind him.

He can't think of you like that.

He walks up the stairs, the smell of stew just barely reaching his senses as he enters the kitchen.

He can't.

You're sitting at the table, two empty bowls on the table and fabric thrown over your legs, threading them together. Your finger is bleeding, and he wants to wipe it away.

"You're late." You smile, eyelids heavy.

He takes off his hat, putting it on the hook you installed when he started coming over. "Or I'm just in time."

You laugh quietly, sticking the needle in the fabric and pulling it off your lap. "Just in time about sums it up."

He's a monster.

You turn your back to him and enter your room, draping the project on your desk.

The pot is still steaming, and his throat feels clogged.

"Ill be gone for a while."

You turn around, and he can't watch you anymore. He takes off his coat and drapes it over the chair.

"How long?" Your voice is soft, approaching him.

"Few weeks."

He's a coward.

You hum, setting down a bowl of stew with extra broth in front of him. "Thats a long time, even for you."

He clenched his jaw, heart pounding in his ears. The light catches the stew, making rainbows in the broth. Chunks of lamb, potatoes, pieces of ham, carrots, and greens he can't see dance in the soup as he stirs it.

"Bigger reward for the troubles." Is all he says.

The troubles, he thinks, that he can't get past the lump in his throat. The trouble that you of all people deserve to know.

He glances up at you, and he recognizes the look on your face all too well.

You're very aware of his gang affiliation.

He actually attempted to cut ties with you after he got associated with the Dregs. You threw a crate at him and called him mad for suggesting as such. He only risked to bring it up one other time, and you had yelled at him and about cried when he turned to leave, throwing a rock at his freshly poorly healed leg.

He swiveled around at glared at you, but you didn't flinch in the face of Dirtyhands. Just glared at him, told him you're not going anywhere, and then left /him/ before he could protest.

It took him a week to figure out that, despite you not wanting to cut ties with him, you didn't completely agree either. You didn't bother trying to convince him to leave, but you have on numerous occasions begged him to be careful, adorning this exhausted look.

You don't say a lot anymore, but the expression has stayed relatively the same, if a bit rounder on the edges.

"How bad?" You asked.

He abhors the way his heart squeezes, like it has a mind of its own while his brain yells at him to keep you out of it.

He wants to throw up.

How does he tell you there's a greater chance than not he'll die, now matter how much he wants to make it back to you?

How does he tell you you might never get to see him again? Or see Jesper or Inej?

He swallowed some broth, licking his lips.

"Pretty bad."

He's such a fucking coward.

"Ynnn." He hears a hoarse voice call. He looks up, seeing Astra stroll in and rest her chin on the kitchen table. "You didnt tell me Kaz finally came."

When he looks at you to see your response, its to his absolute horror that he catches you wiping your eyes, then pull your little sister to your side.

"You were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."

"M'you should've."

You glance up at him, and smile against Astra's hair.

"You're right. I should've."

-----

'Damn it all,' he thought in a panic. 'Damn everything. Go find them.'

It was a dangerous, recurring thought that he had when he went anywhere near the Zelver District, whenever he had to go through the canals that run along its edge and connect to nearly every other canal.

Even now as he puts everything in place to send Kuwei off on a fake bodyboat. It only half surprises him that the sight doesn't make him all that uncomfortable. He's exhausted, lovesick, and has had the experience of several lifetimes within just a few weeks.

He wanted to send word to you to stay put during the alarms. But Pekka's crew strolled through your storefront not a few days ago, asking about your wares and probing for information. Inej had seen as such when she finally had the opportunity to check on you.

There was no guarantee that this plan would work. Pekka would have been dealt with regardless but the auction with Kuwei could have gone differently. No matter the confidence with which he laid out facts or with Wylan's newfound acting skills, there were too many variables that relied heavily on the actions of people outside his control.

It worked out, though. But now he has to worry about being unable to find you. It makes him nauseous. He actually feels his mouth begin to fill with saliva, but he keeps it down. Right now, he just has to get rid of Kuwei, and send off Colm, Nina, and Matthias to the boats that will take them to their respective countries.

A small part of his conscious nags at him. Of course he feels grief for his fallen Crow, incomparable to the grief Nina will have to face for the rest of her life.

But there's that much larger part of him that can't feel anything except the itching for your eyes on him.

Kaz makes a snarky comment about Kuwei's dead position, and leaves everyone to fill in the silence around him. There isn't much talking, aside from Jesper and his father, and then they're hugging and parting.

He hardly has it in him to stay while they leave, and eventually, before they even disappear from his eyesight, he's turning and marching up the Van Eck lawn towards the Zelver District.

He feels like he's going insane. Energy is surging through him like there's a heartrender pumping his system. When everything becomes familiar, that coffee shop you like with the Stroopwafel's coming into view, he can't help but break out into a run.

His leg feels like it may splinter.

But he's 4 million kruge richer, and he has something to ask you.

He's learned a lot, quite a bit of it against his will, since he left for Fjerda.

He will not let you become another life lesson.

Your door comes into view, and he nearly slams into it when his legs can't seem to stop and one of them is straining against his own body weight.

The lock picks nearly fell to the floor before he manages to unlock the store. He didn't even let the door close behind him before he rocketed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You were at the top, rifle in hand, pointing it at him with a fierceness in your eyes.

It all but crumbled when you seen who he was.

"Kaz?" You called, disbelief choking your words.

It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, most of his gasping done before he unlocked the door. But again, hes exhausted and lovesick, so air isnt really a luxury he seems to be able to afford. "The bruises don't make me that unrecognizable." He stands straighter, favoring his left leg.

You had half the mind to put the rifle on your kitchen table before you completely broke down in tears. Your arms hug your sides while your eyes boil over with tears and hot rage.

"You're such an asshole!" You yelled. "Getting put on the Stadwatch and the entire barrels shitlist? What the fuck kind of job did you take?"

He stepped forward, setting his cane next to your rifle and dropping into the chair next to you.

It still made his skin crawl. It still made his lungs burn with freezing cold water. It still made deadly blue hands grip at his legs and pull him under.

But he reached out, pulled you between his legs, and hugged your body to his, his cheek resting against your stomach.

You were warm. So very warm from working yourself up. And stiff. He could feel it under his arms as your thighs stuck together and the muscles surrounding your spine tightened into stone.

"Ka-Kaz?"

He ignored you in favor of ignoring his own body, tightening you into him as the waters punched his stomach and licked up his back.

You were warm, and as you relaxed, his face further sinking into your stomach, the water began to still. Still crushing against his organs, but not going any further.

Tears pushed on the back of his eyes. He squeezed them shut, taking in a shakey breath.

He was doing it. He was holding you, touching you, and it only made half his mind scream to be yanked away.

"I fought." He whispered. "I fought to come back." He swallows. "To you."

Tears thumped against the crown of his skull. He could hear your heart pounding despite its location.

"You left-" Your voice cut off in a squeak. Clearing your throat, he could feel, felt like a chore. "You left. And then you didn't come back. Your face was all over Ketterdam, and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't eat I couldn't sleep- I couldn't answer Astra's questions because I didn't know anything-"

"I was tricked." He gritted his teeth, loosening his grip on you just as you reached down and dragged your fingers over his shoulder, fixing a loose thread. "Deceived, and made a complete fool out of. I couldn't come back because they would have got you too."

Your fingers stopped. "Who did they get?"

A few tears leaked out the side of his eyes. The only tears, he decided, he was going to allow through. He was not a crier. And he had no intention of becoming one.

"Inej." You gasped, hand flying away from his head to cover your mouth, he would presume. "Which is why I couldn't get word to you. Why you had to remain in the dark."

He pulled back, looking up at your tear stained face. You wiped them away, sniffing up any snot that remained in your nose and cleared your throat.

For a while you didn't speak. You just stared at him. His hands had fallen to his knees, fingers barely touching your leg while your own held your elbows.

You were deep in thought. Occasionally a silent tear would work it's way down your cheek and tick against the floor. He remained still, watching as you worked your way through your thoughts.

Whatever you had to say, you were fighting for a better way to word it.

Eventually you reached out, swallowing as you searched for any indication he would retreat.

Instead he stared you head on, sweat building on brow. He was all touched out at the moment, but you wanted this. And he thinks it's the least you deserved after the complete emotional shipwreck he just put you through.

Your thumb brushed over his bruises, watching him wince when you accidentally pushed on them.

Scabs had begun to form over some of the wounds he refused to be healed. Two thin lines on his lips, one on his cheek, and one to his brow. You went over all of them, touching his lips last.

He thinks you meant to do that.

"If I had known this would be my fate when I saw my name on your wrist when we were children," you whispered, "I'd have slapped you stupid."

That makes his lips twitch. "And now?"

You swallow again, carefully brushing his hair away from his forehead so that your nails barely scratched the surface. "Now, I just want to look at you." You smiled, taking your hand back. "Somebody's already slapped you stupid for me."

"Believe me, there was no slapping."

The words make your smile disappear. He regrets saying them.

Somethings missing though, and he realizes it a lot later than he likes.

"Where's Astra?"

You smile, an airy breath escaping your nose. "She went down about half an hour before you stormed in here."

"You didn't send her off to your grandparents when the sirens went off?"

You scoffed. "And go where you couldn't find us?" You looked down, scuffing the floor with your sock covered feet. "You'd have lost your mind."

And that, you knowing him so intrinsically, is what he's going to use as an excuse for what he says next.

"Marry me."

It's so unlike him. He should have been less forward about it. Presented it to you like a business offer instead of demanding it of you.

Your head snaps up. Eyes wide as they stare at him.

"What?"

He scoots back, chair scraping across the floor as he stands.

"I do not present this to you lightly. After the events that have taken place, there will only be more people willing to tear me down. People who will want to use you to get to me."

The thought almost makes him want to back out. But if Kaz Brekker is anything, he is not someone who back tracks.

"It would be done in private. No one would know but the Dregs, or only the Crows, and your family. But if anybody does any digging and finds that certificate, you and Astra would be in danger."

You continue to stare, eyes still wide and mouth agape.

Sweat beads down his back, not helped by the long coat he neglected to take off. He also realizes that he's lost his hat somewhere on the way here, probably flown off in his rush to get here.

You close your mouth, clearing your throat. "I will marry you, Kaz, on one condition."

He shifts on his feet, leg still horribly sore. "That is?"

You cant help but smile. "I won't have to wear white."

And a giddy, childish sort of glee bubbles in his chest. There isn't anything, he thinks, that could have stopped the smile forming in his face, growing so wide as to show teeth. "You could wear the muckiest yellow the nation as to offer if you so wished."

Your nose scrunches, and one day he thinks he could kiss it.

"Astra will want to hear about your adventure." He could see your exhaustion from just thinking about that, your gaze averting once again to her door. "She'll be so excited to hear about your proposal too."

He follows your gaze, seeing the little drawing nailed to surface of her door.

One of them shows you and him with smiling faces, a little heart above your heads. You're holding hands, Kaz's gloves a distinct part of the portrait, with Astra above, clouds and a sun at the top of the page.

"Little crow will blow the entire building apart." He grimaces, thinking of a way to cover that up if the neighboring businesses hear it.

You sigh. "I have no idea what to do with her."

He turns back to you and leans forward, arms clasped behind his back as he presses his lips to your temple.

It didn't feel real, the way he could initiate touch despite his body screaming at him to stop. Your hair stuck to his lips as he pulled away, but it was worth it to see the way your face fell open, eyes boaring into his.

Silently, he tells you he'll get better. With time, a long time, he'll be able to hold your hand, kiss your lips, stand shoulder to shoulder and lay with you. He tells you that fleeting kisses and barriers will be a thing reserved for bad days only, and even on those bad days he'll still love you in other ways.

He thinks you understand.

∘₊✧──────────────────✧₊∘

Tags:

@b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r @a-candle-maker

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Silver Lining 8

Warnings: non/dubcon, speech impediment, bullying and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: silverfox!Bucky Barnes

Summary: You have an unpleasant encounter with an older man.

Part of the Silverfox AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You lose yourself in the trance of your work. Just like you used to in the office. You have a way of blocking out the entire world when it's just you and words. You have your fingers curled into your lower lip as you reread what you hope it the last version.

You have one leg crossed over the other, jittering as you scroll. A sudden squeeze on your shoulder makes you jump and you clap your hand over your mouth to catch your scream. You swivel in the chair to face the disturbance.

Bucky looks amused as he steps back, dragging his hand away, "sorry," his voice is low and gritty as he tries to upset the quiet, "I called your name."

"S-sorry," you nearly hiccup, "I was f-focused."

"Seems like it," he hugs an armful of books, "almost done?"

"Y-yeah, the doc-- sh-should be up-da-dated."

He dips his chin and his eyes narrow just a bit, "you alright?"

"Ye-yes, you d-don't ne-need to w-wor-r-ry," your voice cracks as you check that all the changes are saved and log out of your account.

"Just.... checking," he murmurs. "I just know..." he clears his throat and shifts the book in his arm, "when you're worked up, you tend to.... never mind."

"St-st-stutter," you click out of the session and the PC returns to the login page, "I kn-know."

"I wasn't meaning it as anything."

"It i-is what it i-is," you shrug and stand to pull on your coat then gather your purse and your zip up folder.

"I really hope you're not upset."

"D-do you?" You counter, "you d-don't have to p-pretend."

"I'm not," he frowns, "look, I know I was a bit of a prick before but I'm tryna make up for it."

"S-sure," you say dully, "i-it r-really is f-fine. Let's get th-this done."

He's silent as his nostrils flare. He looks around then looks at you, taking in your purse and your lilac leather folio.

"So... what happened to the computer?"

You look away, "y-yeah, it--it fell," you sniff, "I-I'll get s-something else."

"Explains a lot."

"Wh-what?"

"Why you're at the library. I get a very homebody type sense from you."

"Y-you d-do?"

"I'm the same way," he says, "I'm not a fan of the general public."

"F-figured," you agree.

He tilts his head, "I deserve that."

You don't reply. That's that. You're both socially inept.

"Ready to go? You wanna look around first?" He asks, sweeping back a grey swoop of hair as he it falls forward.

You shake your head. You're really not feeling well. You don't know if it's the lack of sleep or the dregs of your flashbacks, you just feel so off. Like something really bad is going to happen.

He gestures you ahead of him as he pivots on his heel. You take the lead and head for the front doors. He follows not far behind. He must've already checked out as the censors doing chime at his passing. Outside, you stop short, realising you don't know where you're headed next.

He collides with you from behind, grunting as his hand briefly clutches your side. He apologise and sidles away. The contact makes your face burn against the bitter chill.

"Parked over this way," He points ahead of himself.

You walk beside him and turn off into the lot. There aren't many cars and you wait for him to get in before you claim the passenger's side. He starts the motor and adjusts the heat, asking if you're cold but getting only a shrug in return. Your mind is far off and hard to rein in.

Before you know it, the car is moving. It isn't until the tires crunch of snow and he turns into a driveway that you fully process what's going on. You agreed to go to his place but why would you do that? Why didn't you ask yourself that earlier. Oh gosh, you need sleep. You need to get your head straight.

This is exactly why you're in therapy. It's why you're trying to change. You want to stop being that person who just lets things happen to them.

He turns off the engine and you just sit staring through the windshield. You want to go home but not really. Your family doesn't want you around to stain their perfect image. You're clearly better off with this man who can only tolerate you professionally.

“You okay?” He asks yet again.

“Yep, all g-good,” you shake it off. “Y-you said you h-had a re-re-recording set-up?”

“Sure, yeah, been working on it a while now but with the script coming together, I finally got my ass in gear and got the last few pieces,” he explains.

“Must h-have been ex-expensive.”

“Eh, I budgeted,” he pulls the handle on his door, “no use staying out in this cold.”

He gets out and you do the same. You trail him up the shoveled walk, glistening with a thin layer of sparse snow newly fallen. The house is pretty nice. It's not too dissimilar to your parents but there are no bright Christmas lights or ridiculous inflatable decorations on the lawn.

He unlocks the front door and holds it open, ushering you in first. You're mindful not to step off the mat as you bend to unlace your boots. He steps in close and slips out of his own bulky boots. He stands first as you balance your purse and folio in one arm.

“Want me to take all that?” He offers.

You shake your head and straight, “g-got it.”

“Right well, you want something to warm up first?” He unzips his jacket, “I have some tea or coffee.”

“No, th-thanks,” you unbutton your coat, shrugging off one sleeve at a time. He takes it from you and hangs it with his own.

“Okay, I suppose I should show you around,” he sighs, taking out his phone as a soft buzz vibrates the case. “Not this guy again.”

He ignores the call and slides his phone into his back pocket, “the studio is in the basement. Best place to soundproof–”

He stops as you hear a car outside. He brushes by you in the entryway and pulls back the curtain over the window set into the door. You huffs again.

“Can't take a hint.”

“I c-can g-go. C-come back later.”

“Nah, it's fine,” he dismisses you as he opens the door, “go home. I'm busy.”

“Ah, come on, Buck, you're gonna ditch me out in the cold,” the voice wafts back on the crisp air as treads mulch in the snow. The timbre makes your heart knot, you swear it's familiar.

“I can and I will,” Bucky avows as he starts to close the door.

“Wait, wait,” the footfalls pick up and a large hand catches the door, “I'm here on business–”

“I told you, Steve…”

The name plummets in your chest. No, no, it can't be. It can't be him. It's a coincidence. The peek of a rolex under his jacket sleeve is just a coincidence, the voice is not the same, just familiar.

“Just hear me out, okay? You're gonna love this project,” the man bulls his way through the door, getting a grunt from Bucky in return. “I'll even pay you this time–”

The man's voice halts as he senses your presence, your dumbfounded gaze, the whole word zeroing in as your ears ring. It is him. It can't be. This has to be a dream. He only comes in your nightmares.

He looks at you and you know. He's real.

[ficfinder-general]

Heyo I have a very broad ask that I, myself cannot properly find

Just Ahsoka being Obi-wans padawan with codywan on the side

Cody and Ahsoka being besties is also greatly appreciated

Hi,

I'm so so sorry about the late reply, I totally forgot about this ask, it was buried in my drafts. I can't recall many fics like this, but I've been trying to put together a tiny list.

Ahsoka as Obi-Wan's padawan

Handle with care by K_R_Closson - Qui-Gon survives & Stewjoni have wings in this AU, which makes for some interesting worldbuilding. BUT to be fair, this is more codywan with taking Ahsoka as a padawan on the side but it does happen this also happens later on, so minor spoiler alert Rated M (mostly for language, though, if I recall correctly), 75k, completed, fix-it

Bitter Dregs by Livsy - AU in which Anakin goes undercover during the Rako Hardeen arc. Ahsoka and Obi-Wan grieve and try to move on. Bonus small moment between Ahsoka and Cody, 5.6k long one shot

Alpha-17 Would Like A Fucking Break by BitterChocolateStars (@bitter-chocolate-stars) another AU in which Qui-Gon survived. It's told from Alpha-17's POV which makes it h i l a r i o u s but also both codywan and Ahsoka-as-Obi-Wan's-padawan are on the side. 15k long one shot, fix-it.

Careless to let it fall by Artemisdesari - This one is ongoing and pretty long already (140k atm!), and to be perfectly honest, I haven't read all of it yet, but I like it so far, and Ahsoka does become Obi-Wan's padawan :)

Cody & Ahsoka

At cuyir payt nor'be by onepageatatime715 - a ficlet, Ahsoka is looking for Obi-Wan but finds Cody, very sweet :)

[onlythegoodpretzels]

Blood Duty

Kotallo this time! With a fic and a WIP of art!

This is for Whumptober 2024's prompt surgery!

On AO3: Blood Duty (3447 words) by OnlytheGoodPretzels Chapters: 2/2 A marshal under a knife is always dangerous, no matter how much he understands. Dekka will take him through it.

(I could not finish this illustration for today, ohmygod Tenakth tattoos.)

Or, if you like, read it under the cut:

Dread climbed Dekka’s armor when she saw the mismash of paint colors shambling up the path. Lowland and Sky together, squadless, was never a good sign. Neither were any Tenakth moving so slow.

A runner split off, pelting to the Grove’s palisades. “Chaplain! Treason!”

His white-rimmed eyes were enough for her to vault down to him, catch his arm. He was young, Sky Clan. Curse Tekkoteh for sending dregs! “Steady, soldier. What ---?”

He lurched out of her grip, waving wildly backward. “Regalla, at the Embassy! M-Marshal Kotallo!”

Shit.

Dekka hadn’t registered the white between the two lowland warriors. Kotallo’s lines bent wrong and crooked. He couldn’t be walking. “Report inside.” She pushed the warrior up the stairs, already running. “Chief’s guard, with me!” Please, if they carried him this far, let him be alive.

Fury flew in Dekka’s hands. Regalla, always sure there hadn’t been enough blood!

Ten above, Kotallo was walking. Or he was hobbling, arm wrapped wrestle-tight around a warrior’s shoulders. The other Tenakth huddled close around him, but didn’t touch his left side. Dried blood smudges covered him from chin to leg, garish and dark in the lush lowland green.

Kotallo’s eyes were barely a clenched line in his face. Sweat canyons carved through his paint. Every muscle stood separate in his neck.

And he clutched his left arm tight to his side, and wrap sheds around it were blood-black.

Shit shit shit.

“He needs a medic!” the warrior holding Kotallo gasped as Dekka reached them. “We-we did what we could, Chaplain, but I’m not sure --”

“R-Regalla -- Aghhhh!” Kotallo fought his eyes open, his growl gutted and hoarse. Hate made his skin look like stone. “D-declared war. We --- the Carja -- dea -- aaagh…” Dull choked gasps cut him off and his legs trembled, forcing him to hold tighter. The third time he tried for breath a dull cracked cry shredded out instead.

But it was his arm that commanded Dekka’s attention. He dug it tighter to his ribs, crusted blood glistening against his marks. The angle of it…the rolling twitch it dragged along his jaw, mouth open in a silent retching quiver…his hand was gone.

And though he looked toward her, Kotallo’s eyes never focused.

Dekka blocked out the rest of the conversations. The chief guard commander could handle the rest, but not this. They might still lose a marshal yet. “Quiet, soldier.”

Kotallo squinted, weaving dangerously, trying to find her. She came to his side and reached in slow to press her thumb to his headdress. Just as she had years ago setting his first marshal mark. “Your chief will take his report when he’s ready.”

Even that little force tipped him.

But Kotallo winced, swallowing raggedly. “D-Dekka…”

“Yes.” Dekka grit her teeth, feeling his gasps rattle on her fingers. Were the others she’d marked gone? She couldn’t worry about them now. “You made it. Regalla didn’t strike here.”

Kotallo snarled, low and choked. The rawness of it twisted in Dekka’s feathers, anger clenching her arms until the fronds hissed. Regalla thought sending pain like this to their doorstep would frighten them. What it would do was sing vengeance, like the fury burning in Dekka’s hands now at the thought of Kotallo limping all this way.

“Ch-chief?” Kotallo twitched, grimace carving deeper. Trying to straighten up, the idiot. 

Dekka pressed knuckles to his breastplate. “Safe. Hold Still.” The force of his shaking ached in her wrist.

Orders still worked, thank the Ten. Kotallo stilled, eyes open but darting. “G-good…good.” He must know she was there, though, because he let the chief’s guard heave him onto the stretcher when it came. Kotallo howled but he didn’t attack anyone. That was the best they would get today.

Dekka waited just long enough to be sure he was down. She had to speak to Hekarro, now.

______________________________________________________________

The shadow of war hunched over the Grove as Dekka hurried to the sleep rooms. Teharra’s report was clear and curt. The broken remains of Kotallo’s arm had Bristleback hate leeched in. The hasty field job, cut and cauterized, saved his life this long. But blaze in the wound had done its work, too deep to pry out.

For him to survive, they had to cut the attack off at the source.

This, and then Regalla.

Hekarro’s grief held him impossibly still when she left him staring at the throne room flickers. “Call him back,” had been his orders. “We can’t lose him too.”

Dekka had no intention of losing anyone else. The tags laid at the base of the throne bit so sharp. She’d give Hekarro her full report later. He was with the survivors now, though it sounded like they’d been trapped at a distance while Kotallo fought in the thick of it. And Dekka had her own calls first. A marshal under a knife was always dangerous, no matter how much he understood.

She could hear the right hut twenty paces off. Rough, sharp groans clouded the air. Dekka ducked inside.

“The Chaplain will be here -- “ Teharra’s face lit up with relief. “It’s alright. She’s here.”

Dekka nodded, setting down her bow loudly and slowly. “Kotallo.”

Kotallo sagged against the dark. He curled, hand wrapped across his knees, holding himself up as if by the grip alone. Each time he gasped he twitched, bowed tighter around his wounded limb. Armor and ornaments scattered the rug around him, so he hadn’t stopped Teharra removing them. Or hadn’t managed to. But now he looked coiled, a burrower ready to strike.

He looked up, gaze drifting slow and dull.

Good. So he’d been aware enough to drink Teharra’s liquor. They wouldn’t be able to do this at all without something in him to blunt the pain or his strength.

Teharra nodded. “He’s had a flask, but he won’t take more.” He sighed. “Marshals.”

Dekka smiled despite the tight pang in her chest. “Always at the ready, as much as they can be.” Hopefully one was enough for Kotallo. He rarely drank more ale than brought his brash back out for spars, and Teharra’s brew was rust-bitingly strong. She was glad he’d been aware enough to accept that much.

Dekka stepped closer. “Marshal. Ready?”

“Read…Ready.” Kotallo scowled, fighting against the slurring words. He squinted at Dekka, fist clenched. “Ch…chief?”

She’d only heard bits and pieces from the survivors on her way out. An ambush. Machines tearing through the marshals, Regalla’s traitors on their backs. This close, Dekka could see the dark seep of bruises in Kotallo’s marks. Cuts glinted in the blue-black stain ringing his left arm and side. The same impact echo showed dark and edged in the gap of his sternum and all the way down at his knee between the white bands.

Something enormous crashed into him, or blows all swung from the same side.

It must have been terrible.

“Planning our retaliation.” Dekka made sure he met her eyes. She wondered if he didn’t remember or was so worried he had to ask again. “He’ll want to see you after this.”

Relief hazed across Kotallo’s face. He was young enough for Hekarro’s approval to fill a void Dekka could only just remember. Maybe it would help him through this. Still, Kotallo hissed, slumping. Violent quivers ran across his bruises. “H-he…nhh--it’s bad…”

Sky Clan and their understatements. Dekka nodded. “I know. We’ve had worse.” She hoped that was true, but truth wasn’t her goal here. She moved slow, watching for strikes, and touched Kotallo’s strained knuckles. “Teharra needs to work. Lie down.”

Kotallo’s brow and nose clenched pain-low before he fought them flat. He sighed raggedly, the sound catching each time his bruised side twitched. Were the ribs broken? A snarl-shape trembled into his lip as he glanced at his arm, then turned sharply back to her. “Watch…” Kotallo’s voice broke and he winced, the pain crumpling back into his face. “Watch for machines…she…”

He finally released his knee to catch Dekka’s thumb. He shivered, fighting not to fall without the brace, a fight he would clearly lose. “She had machines…c-controlled them…somehow.”

Chills ridged up Dekka’s back. She needed to know more about that, but not now. Now she needed to answer Kotallo’s fear. She returned the handclasp, keeping her voice firm and even. “I’ll keep watch. I promise.”

Kotallo searched her face. His expression changed sluggishly, from drawn to relieved to exhausted. He braced against her hand. And when he started to fall again, he stopped fighting it.

Dekka held on, pulling to slow his fall, but Kotallo still whimpered through grit teeth hitting down, left arm slipping. Teharra ducked into the gap, stabilizing it and guiding it down. That set Kotallo growling shrilly, glancing wildly in too many directions as he tried to find what was hurting him.

Dekka let him go. No sense making him feel more trapped. “The chief’s guard will take care of it. You just have to focus.”

Kotallo panted, blinking dazedly toward her. Then he arched, keening, clawing at the rug as Teharra peeled the wrap off his mangled arm. Dekka winced, bitter taste in the back of her mouth. How long had he been stifling that sound whenever someone jostled him?

Bared, the destruction was gut-twisting. The stitches at Kotallo’s bloody wrist couldn’t hold the wound closed fully, so bone glinted at the end. The skin was mottled purple and black, darker at the wrist. Ragged scabbed gouges bent the swollen flesh in awful spirals up his forearm. Like he’d been processed by a Scrounger. They rippled and wept as he flinched. The smell of bleed and tear hit like a punch.

Teharra caught her eye and nodded before he bent down. Dekka swallowed. She’d seen many machine wounds and every single one looked inhumanly awful. If the medic thought it was possible, her duty was simple and clear.

Kotallo hissed through setting the tourniquet. He searched the room sluggishly, breaths tight and ragged. The position on his back made it worse. That worked in their favor.

When Teharra brought down his knife, Kotallo howled, recoiling, but he was choked enough to fall back almost instantly, coughing. Each time Teharra shifted Kotallo gurgled, searching shakily for Dekka, a low unyielding sound deep in his chest.

He wouldn’t be able to do this without something to hold.

Dekka leaned over him. It was hardest when there was nothing to fight. Tenakth Kotallo’s age had rarely uexperienced that kind of pain. “Soldier, I need that report. What did this?”

Kotallo twitched, relief fighting into the sweat and bruises on his face. “R -- hhhghh --” His chest spasmed, stomach to neck. “Regah -- !“

Blood, bubbling fresh. Kotallo roared, teeth creaking they clenched so hard. Teharra pinned his shoulder, shushing softly as he dug his knife in again.

 “Regalla.” Dekka broke eye contact long enough to spit on the ground. “Yes. How were you hurt?”

“ B--bhhh. Khhh--aghhh!” Kotallo flattened into the rug, kicking frantically as the blade chewed into him. Dekka pinned him, hands flat to his chest, the shattering force of his spasms jarring up and through her to ground in the dirt. “Brist -- khh! Bristle-b-back…”

Kotallo suddenly snapped his head down, hand writhing against Dekka’s knee. “Javv--AAAH! I w-wouldn’t let…” The words rushed out like he couldn’t bear them in his mouth. “H-he didn’t --- N-no!”

By the Ten! The pain was setting him off, forcing him to see what he had in battle. Dekka realized with a start her hands were flat over the bruise on his chest, where something struck him so hard it painted him black. She cursed and pushed harder. “What happened to the Bristleback, Kotallo?”

“S-sp…!” Kotallo choked, fighting weakly against her, but not enough. Not enough to jostle Teharra, or knock the glow-blade off course as it came down again, sizzling. Kotallo’s scream felt like it split the arena walls.

Dekka focused on the jagged thrum of the sound from Kotallo’s bloodied ribs up her arms, deep into her bones, right into her heart. Let it lodge there. She’d take it. She’d listen to what Regalla did to their soldiers, swallow it down bitterness and all. And she’d send it straight back into that traitor’s chest when the time was right.

Let everyone hear it. Let Hekarro hear it and be ready this time.

Lulls in bloody work like this were short and sharp. Teharra switched tools. Kotallo sagged, streaming sweat. “S-spear,” he gasped, slow and toneless. “Sp-spear. Ja--h-he speared. It pinned me.” His knuckles knocked against Dekka as if to push, but he was too uncoordinated. His wild searching of the hut intensified, tears caught in his paint. “C-can’t get loose. C-crush.”

Dekka hadn’t though she could feel more ache, but there it was. These bruises were from a Bristelback burying Kotallo? Like he was already dead as the sand drank his blood? The image chilled all the way to her spine. No wonder the warriors who saved him looked so haunted.

“It’s not here.” Dekka risked letting go one hand to brush Kotallo’s face, drawing his head down to the rug looking at her. “I have you.”

Had Regalla missed him then, down beneath the machine?

Kotallo winced, blinking hard, heaving. Shudders ran all the way down his ribs. His eyes focused violently as Teharra shifted. “D-Dekka…?” A broken bark of sound, clawed out hoarse and frayed.

Damn, so brave. “Yes. That’s right.” Dekka shuddered. The bone-biter flashed its jagged teeth in the corner of her eye, lighting Teharra’s rigidly focused face. She held it separate, looking only at Kotallo. “Yes. The Bristelaback. How did you evade Regalla, marshal?”

She didn’t really want to know if her old sparring partner found other downed marshals, or what she did to them. Regalla could be cruel and now she was beyond all honor. But Dekka hadn’t been in that bloody dirt, so she wasn’t going to fall short of those who were.

Bone grating sounded like nothing else.

Kotallo fought, joints snapping with the kind of desperation that made lizards bite after their hearts stopped beating. Dekka caught his hips with her knee, pinning his torso with an arm bar dug in at the collarbone. Kotallo wailed and roared, pulse sputtering against her fist at the crook of his ear. But even though he bared his teeth animal-sharp at the pain, he couldn’t move her.

Thank the Ten she could hold him. And she hated it so much. Kotallo was stronger than her. Dekka hated that he wasn’t right now.

Kotallo writhed beneath her even though he couldn’t break through. Dekka didn’t think he could see her, and she could only hope he wasn’t seeing the Bristleback. His white smudged on her knuckles, bleeding off in the sweat. Like Regalla tried to wipe the marshals’ stories down into the sand she thought belonged to her.

“Out -- “ Kotallo suddenly clutched at her sash. “F-fire hair, n-neverseen---” When she looked his eyes were glazed, forced almost closed by the deep gouges the pain tore in his face. But he was focused. Holding on to what he saw. Words bubbled out like the blood spatters Teharra burnt closed. “Neverseenoutland--aaah---f-foughtch-challenge--Gr--AAAH!”

An outlander?

Dekka tried to shift enough for him to feel her tug in return. “A Carja challenge Regalla? Brave.” She leaned down, holding him through the spasms.

She didn’t think Kotallo could feel anything through the sawing teeth. But she had to try.

After interminable time and screams, Teharra shifted at her shoulder. Roasting flesh smell roiled much closer to Dekka’s face than before. She looked, letting the glow-blade sear its echo-ache on her vision to watch it press to the curve where Kotallo’s elbow had been and now was carved away. The blood was so red it seemed like it would never allow another color, even though Dekka knew that wasn’t true.

Teharra nodded, gratitude tight in his face as he set the glowblade aside and took up his needles. He set to closing the flesh around the new end of Kotallo’s arm, stitching the muscles back home.

Before Dekka could respond, Kotallo slumped under her, breaths watery and ragged, full-body trembling. She lurched up so she wasn’t crushing his chest. “Kotallo?”

He muttered, still trying to answer her, but no words formed in the sounds. Dekka pressed her palm to his cheek and sagged with relief when skin-warmth met it. So no blood-chill, thank everything. She tapped his cheek. “Kotallo!”

Teharra’s wounds weren’t like battle hits. They could shock even the strongest warriors into strange states. Maybe losing the bone was more than Kotallo could hold like this.

Kotallo flinched, bumping Dekka’s hand. He slid one eye open. Pain-drunk now, loose and shaky as new-walking cadet, he nudged closer. It took a long time for any recognition to bleed over his face. Kotallo wheezed, fingers twitching. “G--Grudda…”

The desert champion. Certainty stabbed into Dekka. The braggart joined Regalla. “He isn’t here.”

Kotallo bared his teeth in something like a smile, though it couldn’t reach the grooved pain lines in his face. “H-he’s dead.” He clutched his hand to his ribs, panting so fast it shook him. “Ahh--at least---I saw…that…”

Dekka let her full scowl out. She had no patience for Kotallo’s brand of dramatic, regardless of whether he was conscious or not! She clasped his thumb, hard, pulling him away from the bruises. “You’re not dying today. And if you did, I would make you sharpen every weapon in the Grove.”

Kotallo flinched, fumbling in her grip. Confused. The tangle of needles and cut and fingers was probably more than he could parse right now. But he returned the grip. So faint it felt like a brush of wind. “Y…yes…Ch…”

His strength was almost gone. He’d spent so much just getting here, and then making the Ten proud under Teharra’s teeth. Dekka felt him losing cohesion, fingers slackening. She forced herself not to panic. Kotallo was breathing. He showed no sign of stopping. If the pain took him under, it would be a reprieve for all of them.

Still, she hated him fighting to see her. Dekka pressed her thumb to the deep pain lines in Kotallo’s forehead, joining her sweat with his. “The chief still needs your report after this. He’ll want to know what happened to Grudda.”

The pressure nudged Kotallo’s eyes closed, as she’d hoped. He shuddered, each breath he took climbing into her wrist. “S-she…killed…him.” A faint smile dragged at the corner of his mouth. “S-strength…o-of the…Te…”

He went still, head sagged into her hand. Finally, finally out. He still protested faintly to each dip of Teharra’s thread, but the sound was so soft it was barely a hum in Dekka’s fingertips. She let herself breathe, and stay. And wait.

The thick blood smell leveled, pierced with balm-sour and char.

She checked Kotallo’s pulse, even though she could see him breathing perfectly well. “Teharra?”

Teharra wrapped his tools. “He’s survived this far. He should be clear if he wakes up tomorrow.” He paused, reaching to run his hands over his face, but caught it before he smeared himself bloody. Instead, he blinked at Dekka. “He will…”

Dekka took a moment to turn to Teharra, fully meet his eyes. She didn’t want Regalla’s fear to reach any farther than it already had. “Yes. He knows we need him.”

Teharra nodded, teeth grit. Seeing a marshal carved this deep shook him, even after all he’d seen. Dekka had her work cut out for her once she finished here. Teharra stood, lifting the bloody wrapped bundle of Kotallo’s arm. “I’ll report to Chief and see to this. If…he’ll ask for you.”

Dekka shook her head. “He won’t. There are no marshals to keep the Watch. No clanmates he’d recognize.” She traced the mountain lines on Kotallo’s forehead, trying to smooth some of the pain there. “Tell Chief I’m ready to report. And send anyone in need of guidance here to me.”

Teharra saluted. “Walk with the Ten, Chaplain.”

“And Hekarro can wait for you to wash!” Dekka called after him. She settled, half an eye on Kotallo’s short, wincing breaths. They all needed her. Everyone in the Grove, even Hekarro. And she'd do it. She’d see to them all. That was her duty as Chaplain. Tonight this was the tip of her spear.

Dekka gathered Kotallo’s breastplate off the floor. Sitting by his head, so he’d see her if he woke, she picked the dried blood out of the tines. By morning, maybe this would be something she could give back to him, for all the things no one ever could.

[yoki-doki-then]

FFXIV Write 2024 - M O R S E L

Step, pivot, yield, twirl, step, stop, step, step, hold. Hold. Hold.

Theuchet stares down at his practice dance partner from behind his auburn locks, careful curls broken with sweat and labor. Etiquette classes were meant to break down one's bad habits, but there was nothing to be built back up here. His routinely paired partner, a significantly shorter lady with half the full Elezen blood of his, pulled him this way and that every session. The others stared, giving him sympathetic or chiding looks, dependent to their moods.

There's some comfort in thinking his partner was a challenge sent from Halone. The gods giving pain for sake of growth? An easy narrative to sell. But when are the results? When does a god come down and say 'well done'? It certainly doesn't in the form of Theuchet's parents, who've stopped paying attention to his efforts in dance. His instructors have none of the Twelve's love, their own attentions go to those who can grow from it. And his partner's father seems a voidsent in how singular his devotion to his daughter comes across, staring with the hate of the hungry dead if Theuchet's hands should slip an ilm out of place. She was radiant only because the light fed into her core could pierce through the thin nothing shielding all her wrong.

With each step, he dreads the next time her heel stomps his toes. With every turn, he sucks air tight and waits for her cutting elbows. Maybe these errors were accidents when they occurred, but it's hard not to think of someone as malicious when it happens again and again and again. Even the most loyal hounds learn to fear the downturned palm when they know it can bring pain, even if this time it means a stroke of love.

She commands his dance, as she always does. Going against the grain, pulling into other groups, breaking the rhythm of an overworked musician. He can feel the apology bubbling in his chest, said so many times before he can't let it out again. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. The muscles to form the 's' into 'o' broke ages ago. He feels his fingers twitching from the shame.

"I can't," he hears himself silently whine aloud, the spoken failure bringing fire to his ears. His face pulls so tight that they stiffen. The faces of his watchers bore into his mind. They're waiting for him to fail. The world would witness another needless third-born son falter, prove as meaningless as those without station. He'll hear their jeers from the Pillars on high as he sinks into obscurity, droning in the dregs, curling homeless at the statue of a goddess that surely must still be testing him. Perhaps dying would get him his answer.

If he is to die here, in a damnable etiquette class, then he will die as any true Ishgardian would. Clad in steel, brandishing spite.

His once-trembling hands find themselves so strong they can barely move, but he forces his will upon his own body. His partner feels digits dig, not like claws, but as authority. No. This time I lead. This time, this one time, I dance, and you are my accessory.

He's not sure if she yields to this, but that thought is far from his mind. He knows her strength perfectly. Parry, riposte, thrust, step in, feint, grab, hold, check, laugh. Laugh! This is the rhythm he knows in his heart, crackling heat blossoming from the ash once known dead. A war beats its drums to the tune of their heelfalls. He's heard this song a hundred times and never known its routine, why try now? Why try when the world is his? No. He holds he as he wants. Does a sword protest its soldier's swing? It works until it breaks.

Time loses its meaning, as the only measure of it becomes his hammering heartbeats, tune ill-matched to reality. The music in the room stills. It matters not. This is his. He will break her as she's broken him. He will-.

He pauses. Break her?

The stop comes mid dip. He looks in her eyes, less for her and more for his own reflection. Break someone? ... Was this how little it took for a monster to be born? Was this him?

He almost drops her in the thought, and his fumbling hands reach fast to scoop her. "... Sorry," he says. "I don't know what came over me."

His heartbeat comes back to its normal rest beat as he returns them both to what once was, but the sound is not the same. The drummer has found his instrument's center. With each hit, a thrum echoes through. And quietly, imperceptably, a more focused tune lurks. Snare drums lead the way.

[pygian-weapon]

got tagged by @natykii to give a song for every letter in my URL (you fool! You activated my special move, being pretentious about music!)

P - Panama by Ivano Fossati

E - El Toro by Les Dynamites

R - Revenge by Mariah The Scientist

A - Angola by Cesaria Evora

E - Eat the Acid by Kesha

Q - Queen Bitch by David Bowie

U - untitled 04 | 08.14.2014 by Kendrick Lamar (hope this isn't cheating)

O - Ole by Nive and the Deer Children (Terror fans required listening!)

R - Reverie by Polyphia

A - Aoi Koi Daidaiiro No Hi by MASS OF FERMENTING DREGS

L - Literal Legend by Ayesha Erotica (the one and only)

I - I'm Just Ken

K - Kill Or Be Kind by Samantha Fish

E - Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac

S - Sun to Sun by Kaia Kater

T - True Babe by Gwen Stefani

H - High Hopes by Pink Floyd

I - I don't like Mondays by The Boomtown Rats

N - Nothing Without You by Tanerélle

G - gold by offonoff

S - Summertime Blues by Eddie Cochran (I feel like this one encapsulates my experience of these months. Help)

And that's a wrap! Ooof! 'twas fun tho!

Tagging some mutuals (feel free to ignore) but also anyone that wants to do it too send me a message and I'll add you!

@milfbro @rbwannabe @annabelle--cane @vacueabissi @bite-my-grimy-fleshy-ass (we are companions of the long url curse) @raptorbricks @anhardchoice @the-mad-prince-of-denmark

bye everyone, have a good music trip!

[merlinxmagic]

My thoughts on the s2 soundtrack

SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE GRISHAVERSE BOOKS BELOW!!

1. On the run: definitely alina mal in some dramatic chase scene in ep 1

2. Market chase: Mal (and possibly alina) running in the village in the sneak peak we got in september

3. Tolya and Tamar: Alina and Mal meet Tolya and Tamar

4. Wylan: No explanation needed but AHHHHHH. says a lot that he’s the only character with the track as simply their name. superior king

5. Come Sail Away: Dramatic moment on Nikolai’s ship, where they first set sail or smth

6. Brother: Jordie flashback (SO SOON THO, assuming the soundtrack is in order). 

7. Arriving at the Island: Nikolai’s ship docks at an island where they look for the sea whip, I haven’t read S&S in a hot minute so don’t count me on this one

8. Crows ambushed: :( Probably involves Pekka

9. Return of the Useless Grunt: No idea who this is... definitely something to do with Ketterdam and the Dregs tho

10. I’m Here for the Killers: Kaz related I’m guessing, perhaps him talking to the crows and reminding what they’re here for, inducing a ruthless mindset

11. Matthias fights: Hellgate scene ay

12. The Night We Met: Christina Strain posted this on twitter with an explosion emoji so I think we’re safe to assume it’s for wesper!! so we ARE getting tannery scene?? I’m so confused haha

13. Become the Blade: It’s mal doofuses

14. Jesper’s Past: AHHHHHH

15. Hope is Dangerous: Inej, a darker moment for her character this season (perhaps the way she is ‘tested’ that Amita referred to in an interview a long time ago?). Or maybe this is the scene in the trailer where she is fighting the Shu warrior?

16. Shu Han: Party arrives in Shu Han I’m guessing, the crows are involved too I bet since they seem to be in Shu Han in the trailer

17. The Disciple: Something to do with s&b, possibly the apparat? I need to reread that series before s2

18. I Can’t Lose You: Malina (perhaps alludes to Darkling’s remark “Are you prepared to sacrifice that which is most precious to you?”)

19. Deserve Her: Kanej or Malina, could be Helnik but I have no idea where they’re going with Nina and Matthias and if they will even meet other than in Matthias’s dreams

20. Chased: Not sure, either crows or Mal and Alina again

21. Battle at the Moat: Was this where Wylan was with Kaz and he was throwing a bomb at Tamar? I was never sure if Tamar was actually part of that scene or if they were different ones. Either of those shots are definitely involved her though

22. Stronger Than An Emerald: I’m guessing this is related to Pekka (Emerald Palace), and definitely is true since Kaz ended up refurbishing the place and renaming it The Silver Six (adorable btw). But if so, does that mean the crows have now returned to Ketterdam? Or has Pekka Rollins joined them in Shu Han? Or did they never go to Shu Han in the first place?

23. We Can Do This: Perhaps the scene with Kaz, Jesper, Wylan, Tolya, Tamar, Nikolai, and Adrik where they are watching the nichevoya and about to attack?

24. Final Goodbye: Crows part with s&b crew, or maybe the darkling and alina. Or if they reach the end of r&r and mal is about to sacrifice himself for alina?

25. Let Me Be Your Monster: Darkling, move on

26. Loss ad Sacrifice: Never mind, THIS is probably where mal sacrifices himself?? Or maybe Genya and the nichevoya?

27. Hope for the Future: Ending theme, perhaps ties in with the Inej track

28. How Will You Have Me: this is going to be the best scene in the show. 

29: Rise And Fall: idk man probably s&b related

Notes:

- this season is going to be INSANE. i’m really excited and scared because I’ve been waited for this for two years and... wow. 

- no Nikolai track? Maybe ‘come sail away’ is for him?

- hyped for march 10 when i will be able to listen to them and analyze all of these further!

[eclipsecrowned]

discord conversations took a turn this morning based on a post that's been going around about nitty gritty details of villains. i thus bring you 'my dee see baddies + politics.'

warning: am*rican politics, obviously. amusingly, only one muse listed here can even vote/have traditional impact on the voting process.

oswald: should be r*publican, but the entire r*publican party of gotham either bullied him or his father before him, so he's backing the d*mocrats despite it going against his own best interests and beliefs, the weird doublethink of 'queer disabled man' and 'unscrupulous nepo baby millionaire.'

jon: a d*mocrat, but neither nice nor progressive. he's a trans gay man from the am*rican south and he knows who's actually backing his interests. like oswald, has a chip on his shoulder about the opposition. still has problematic beliefs like the poor just need to work harder instead of getting 'handouts.'

mina: dyed in the wool pr*gressive l*beral d*mocrat. was raised in the dregs of gotham and grew up and said 'never again.' never wants to be rich and does her best to prevent it by giving back to the community and infrastructure. runs a 0 charge clinic. walks the walk, talks the talk, shame about the serial murders.

bane: you are all like little babies. watch this. dismantles capitalism in his south american homeland and defies the west to stop him coming to collect s*nta pr*sca's expat war criminals other countries welcomed as asylum seekers. burn it all. he is the one man revolution once he's out of his rogue years.

weasel: why does ross, the largest friend, not simply eat the other five?

[steelycunt]

do ya think r likes kate bush?? if so, what're his favourites?? or are s and j more kate bushers (idk how you refer to her fans... hounds of lovers??)

i think he would! and j also but definitely r...especially the earlier stuff like the kick inside lionheart never for ever...the dreaming although thats 1982 and im not sure he's heading down to the record store to keep up with all the new releases by then. i do not think s would like her so much he is busy with punk and the dregs of punk pre-1981 i think but post-prison he could develop an appreciation...everyone should develop an appreciation its literally kate fucking bush...

[danikavasile]

N E C E S S A R Y  D E A T H

When: November 2, 2022 / 11:50 PM  Where: the lab in Gyeonggi For @ilnerium​

Danika switched on the harsh white light of the overhead lamps, tracing the body’s webwork of veins in brilliant blue. She looked down at the corpse on the medical table and felt within her a germ of aversion. It was not due to her being so near death or the nude body itself (both of which Danika was intimately acquainted), but the species of the body - vampire. She’d operated on numerous vampires in her 620 years but still subsisted a dark animus curling within her ego. 

The ego. Though science could not confirm this fact with any degree of confidence, Danika had long suspected that the ego was the last element of the organism to die. And this proved true in humans, vampires, werewolves, mermaids - the ego was the last to go. 

Likewise Danika’s own ego was throbbingly present whenever she autopsied her own species. It was a fate  - the finality of nothingness in death - she’d welcome the least. But it was rare that she be given such a pristine vampire specimen to study; such was the nature of the vampiric demise that they usually came to her in pieces or a pile of ash, if they came to her at all. This creature on her table had donated himself to research, and she would take an abhorrent delight in cutting him open, appreciating the exquisite object that his body was. Her version of gratitude. 

Later. For now, she was only admiring. She zipped up the body bag and shut off the overhead lights. Her heels clicked against the waxed black laminate as she crossed the lab floor, pushing through the double doors and hanging a left toward her office. Her office was a baroque fantasy of thick velvet curtains before a solitary window and molasses-dark hardwood flooring. It wasn’t especially large but big enough to house three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked with all manner of medical textbooks and anatomy almanacs. The shelves were pressed against the back wall behind her mahogany desk, which faced a voluminous black leather settee. 

Danika hung her lab coat on the rack and went about acquiring a bag of blood from a small fridge, pouring it into two delicate china teacups. The silver dial of the wall clock read ten to midnight. Soa had been expected at 11:30, but Danika had stopped anticipating her chosen sister to be on time. Danika lifted one of the tea cups to her ruby lips and drained its dregs. 

Danika’s hair was secured in a low chignon by one of her most treasured hairpins. It was silver and hollow, once serving as a container for lethal poisons. Danika had never used the pin for the purpose herself but loved its morbid history. She was attired in an ensemble that was rather understated for the ancient vampiress: black slacks and vest with chain detailing, banker stripe button-up, and tie. 

Soa arrived as Danika was pouring a second serving of blood into her teacup. She could feel her presence as she stood in the doorway of her office and needed not to look up. “I would’ve thought,” said Danika, sealing the blood bag and returning it to the fridge. “That your relation with Mr Okada would make you more punctual. Or is your punctuality reserved only for those you fuck?” She rendered a familiar fanged smile at her sister. 

[acrisius-ii]

From the world of Dregs

"Soldiers of the west front (mostly composed of regular infantry with no modifications and engineers of various skill) usually form thick mythologies within their barracks and larger detachments, adopted and standardized as soldiers are relocated and rotated. The Thirty-Second Expeditionary Platoon (EP32) are the progenitors of the belief that catfish are omens of death after an incident in which a dead body was seen to be swallowed whole by one. It is for this reason that some of the Artillery Squads are now pasting catfish decals on their cannons and howitzers. Little bugs called "trench shrimp", believed to be a descendant of dung beetles, have recently cropped up in the barracks, leading to a Fourth Patrol Element (PE04) belief that they are elements of hunger and starvation, to be destroyed at any cost. Some of the braver PE04 troops have found that trench shrimp serve as extra calories in our steadily decreasing amount of S Rations. An idea that seems to permeate the entire 24th Trench Defense Corps (TDC24) is that the R-Fluid liquid alcohol rations given to us by top brass are filled with human urine. Bafflingly, this has seen an increase in the demand for the rations... if only to hide them beneath pillows and under chairs as insufferable water balloons."

Monthly Report: Sebenmot 22, 24th Trench Defense Corps (Western Front), from Staff General Pinsick Manning.

[loplainlointhemorning]

I’ve known about big thief for years and I’ve tried to like them so many times but they r nothing. they are just another soupy modern alternative rock band that’s just boring 90’s rootsy dregs. when I tell you I have tried and tried and tried and tried and this big hit of theirs is literally the only song of theirs I can tolerate & I don’t even think it’s a well written song it’s just relatable. i cannot believe people my age can still be so incredibly embarrassing as to try and claim it’s “offensive” for people to dislike a proper release more than a demo as tho opinion isn’t totally subjective & as though as artists we don’t all open ourselves up to judgment when we release our work. like when you take on this career you take on criticism even if it hurts and people are allowed to not like this fucking song. u are so annoying. u are not superior for liking this boring ass band. Jesus Christ nice Alex G t shirt

[ao3feed-tolkien]

Live to Serve

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1IF93jm

by Niphredilien (Yellow_Faerie)

“See!” Findekáno sits up, letting the bottle roll away from him and drip the last dregs of the wine onto the ground. His eyes are bright and burning and his face is alight in a righteous fury. “See this is what I mean! You do all this stuff for them and you don’t have any time for yourself.”

  Maitimo smiles, a little indulgently. “Dearest, I don’t think you quite understand how my family works.”

Maitimo Nelyafinwë is the eldest child of twelve.

Words: 6395, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Twelve is a Lucky Number

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno, Original Characters, Nerdanel (Tolkien), Fëanor | Curufinwë, Maglor | Makalaurë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë, Amrod (Tolkien), Amras (Tolkien), Curufin's Wife, Maglor's Wife, Idril Celebrindal, Elenwë (Tolkien), Daughter of Fëanor - Character, House of Fëanor

Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Original Character(s), The House of Fëanor - Relationship

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Parent Figure Maedhros | Maitimo, Daughter of Fëanor AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Frostbite, failing marriage, no beta we die like fëanor

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/1IF93jm

[flieslikeamoron]

@r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e requested Schitt's Creek AU.

This is the one voted most likely to succeed in becoming a real fic because I have so much. Like not so much written, but so many IDEAS. Of course there's the main romance with Eddie. (I'm stealing the stuff from the show of Steve kissing him to try to make his ex jealous, and then having UST community service with him. But it's more the framework and I'll do my own stuff with it.) There's an arc for Robin and Steve (she's trying to sabotage and get rid of him, but surprise he's her platonic soulmate and the partner she needs to keep the video store going). There's even a subplot with the kids (they're recruiting Steve to star in the movie they're making for the town's 60 Second Film Festival where people put together short, homemade movies and everyone comes out to watch all the films.) There are other plotlines (one with Nancy and Robin being exes?) that I'm not sure will make the final cut, but it's all pretty silly and romcom-y and I'm very into it.

I need to get the ideas more organized into an actual structure. But here's a little bit from near the beginning that's kind of the tone of it so far.

And that's what Steve has left to his name. Nothing. Just a handful of clothes. And a truly ludicrously small amount cash. It's the kind of money he used to drop on a lunch, or drinks at the club. Nothing. The cars are gone, and the New York apartment, and the house in the Hollywood Hills, and the beach house, and the other beach house, and the European beach house, the jet, so much of his wardrobe it makes him want to cry... The only thing left, the only thing that wasn't in his fugitive parents' name, the only thing he actually owns is a Family Video store in Hawkins, Indiana.

Of all the pointless things. Why couldn't his parents have given him a nice little boat or a cute little ski cabin or something the day he was born? Why did it have to be a video store in the middle of absolute nowhere?

Granted, at the time they'd only owned about fifteen or twenty video stores. The start of a regional chain that grew into a national monster that grew into a media conglomerate. At the time it had been a way to welcome their new son into the family business. A new store. A new kid. Both born on the same day. It was symbolism, not a real gift. He's never seen the store. He doubts they had either. He completely forgot he even owned it, until the lawyers sat him down and laid out the complete devastation of his life for him.

So now. Instead of whatever extraditionless resort in the Maldives his parents fucked off to, instead of a cute little yacht or a Swiss chalet. He's on a bus. A Bus! On which he has been trapped for over twelve hours with the absolute dregs of humanity and the pervasive smell of literal shit wafting from the disgusting excuse for a toilet.

He emerges finally with four suitcases, the last precious remnants of everything he holds dear, into the worst place in the world.

WIP Title Game

@onirislanding tagged me. 👋

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

Some of these are just story notes, and not all of them are steddie.

Hive Mind

It'll Last Longer

Jury Duty AU

Schitt's Creek AU

Sleight of Hand

Top Gun

If you haven't already done this one, tagging @lemonistas, @pressdbtwnpages, @ohnutkin, @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e, @teddywesworl, @geddyqueer

[that--funny--feeling]

10 years of Grishaverse

(click for better quality)