#so he fucked off to tomes and scrolls alone)

[enbysiriusblack]

sirius finishing his exams in half an hour and proceeding to spend the rest of the time staring at the back of james' head until james finishes and turns around to give a quick grin to him before turning away again and doodling lily's initials

[pursuitseternal]

“Release Me:” ⛓️ Chains and feral smut ⛓️ for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader |E| 2K

“Chains” prompt for Ascended Astarion Week

Summary: After weeks of captivity and starvation, you finally rescue your love from his enemies. But the beast chained in the cell barely knows himself or you… until you’ve satisfied all his hungers.

CW: Blood kink (I just wanted a reason to have them fuck covered in blood), Feral/primal play, desperate sex, long nailed AA, prison sex, bondage/mild BDSM

Ao3 link | Astarion Fic Masterlist

⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥

Musty, dark, dead. The bowels of the Red Wizard’s tower are worse than a dungeon. Not a speck of light, no slight hint of breeze. It is a tomb. A coffin. And inside somewhere is your love.

You can feel him, his blood calling to you, even as his mind has unraveled these long weeks of capture. You get fleeting images of his senses: the wide-eyed fear in his chest to be imprisoned in the dark. Away from his beloved sun. The racing pant of his breath to be so enclosed, not unlike that year he never speaks of under Cazador’s torment. Locked away. You feel the stinging of silver chains gnawing at his flesh, burning just enough to sap his strength, but not so strong as to kill him.

This was meant for pain, constructed for punishment, to hold him until his enemies would kill him. Your beloved. Your lord and king and master, overthrown by his foolish need for more power. You told him not to go alone to seek the remnants of the Red Wizards of Thay… you warned him they would want their tome returned and would punish him for knowledge of it.

Even the decrepit remnants of a failed cult can win from time to time.

Your chest burns as you try to catch your breath, your skin and armor slick with the blood of your enemies. But your feet propel forward regardless, pulled by the tether of your bond to Astarion.

You heave a sigh of relief to finally find the cells, thick black doors almost indecipherable in the darkness. A little daylight spell, and your eyes adjust to find a dozen doors carved from the bedrock of this damnable tower. The rattling of metal links, the rough snarls of breath grows louder as you close your eyes and follow the ragged beat of his ascended heart.

Hand shaking, you pull out a Knock spell scroll, a sigh of relief that your own Wizard companion of old had prepared you to take on these foes. Even as your fingers stick to the parchment, hands soaked in blood, you recite the word, and the edge of the cell door glows bright white for a moment.

Resonant, it creaks open on its ancient hinges, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes and the crescendo of dry-throated breath. His body drags across the floor towards your daylight, and your heart bursts with ache to finally see him again. Tears sting your eyes.

Paperwhite and beyond deathly pale, his gaunt face leers at you from the darkness. Lines of red, of raw flesh cross his neck and bare arms and legs where he has been chained.

Chained naked.

Your bile rises in your stomach as you curse his captors souls, glad you have already put those Wizards to a bloody, eviscerating death. You���d do it all again, just to punish them for how they’ve tortured your love. Breathing his name, you enter his cell, the walls of black stone absorbing the light of your spell, it seems. But it gives off enough for you to see every line of his hollowed face, every crest of his bony frame.

Astarion twists against his chains, his mind a pulsing mess of feelings and words, too feral to even speak yet. But one word comes across clearly.

Blood.

His nostrils flare, his tongue dangling over his fangs as he scans your spattered armor. A predator with the scent of prey in his nose.

There’s blood in the air…

He’s too hungry, too starved for blood and for you to be safe. Not with they way his eyes are wild and his tongue laps at his jaw. “Astarion,” you speak, making his black-blown eyes focus on you. “I’m here my love,” you reach a hand out to caress his silver hair, but he just snaps his fangs at you once you're in reach. Those silver chains holding him just shy of disaster.

“Naughty,” you try to chide him, but the humor is lost on his hungry body and soul. Mind racing, your feet race faster, hands finding the closest fallen enemy to drag it back after you down the hall. Then you leave it, ignoring the muffled grunts and growls and slurps he makes as he drains the corpse completely.

When you glance back inside, he looks at you, steadier, calmer, and covered in blood. He still crouches on the ground, hands and feet and neck bound, but now he croaks your name. “Darling,” his voice pains you with recognition, “I knew you’d come.”

You hurry to his side, kicking that light, bloodless corpse to the side. The silver chains at his ankles sting you, but it’s nothing compared to the pain of separation you have endured for weeks. You pull the silver apart in your hands, freeing his legs so he can stretch them out at long last.

A deep grunt of relief sounds from his chest. Your hands work up and down one leg, then the other, trying to soothe the tension and numbness and blood flow.

As you reach the top of his thighs, you withdraw in surprise. His cock achingly hard, juts against his belly, twitching and pink and… happy to see you too.

“I have missed you,” his voice caresses your ear and rushes down your spine, the chains at his neck clinking their high-pitched music as he leans against you. Nose buried in your hair, he inhales your scent like a drowning man gasps for air. “I can’t wait another moment, my love.” His voice unearthly, barely more than a growl, his hands chained near his belly reach into your armor.

You notice his nails, literally clawing for you, seeking your flesh. Nails, so long unkempt, have taken on their wild form, the razor sharp talons of a vampire lord. “I was so worried…. I missed you, my love,” you sigh, an edge of fear in your belly as you long to kiss those bloodstained lips with your own. Ignoring the sting, you grab the silver chain, a little yank to tug at him, making a playful, aroused smirk turn his dripping, scarlet lips as his body draws closer.

“I am master of myself once more,” his brows cant rakishly, even in the dark. “I won’t bite unless you ask very… very… nicely,” he croons straining against your leash.

“Oh, I think you're asking for more than a nibble,” you tease to release some of the fear that still lingers in your veins. Never have you been separated from him since you turned, and never, not even during the Rite of Ascension and your fight against his old master have you feared his death more than these past weeks. Floodgates break, your need to touch him and taste him overpowering all logic and fear.

Your fingers work quickly, unlatching your breastplate and cuisses, eyes locked into his as he watches your every move, tongue licking the blood from the corner of his mouth absentmindedly. You let the metal clang to the floor. Those two restrained hands extend for you, making the chains around his arms hiss as the magic sears more into his flesh anew.

“Hold still,” you order, crouching to grab the chains and tug them free from his flesh, his wounds instantly closing up now that he is well-fed once more.

For all the pain that must be lancing through his body, he just holds your stare with his own, sultry and feral and commanding. “Now, where were we?” he purrs, hands trembling to finally touch your body. Even with sapped strength, he pulls you flush against him, bringing you close. Slotting you in your place against his body. Those blood-caked claws dig into the supple cover of your leathers, tearing through it at your hips and down the seams as though they are paper. You’ll worry about decency later, for now you’re of one mind, unable to think until you’ve joined again.

You sink your body onto his cock, and he sinks his fangs into your blood-spattered neck. Your groans bounce off the pitch black walls, a roar of bliss and relief and release. No more fear or danger, aside from the fear of coming too quickly and the danger of spending hours fucking once more, covered in the drying gore of your foes.

The thought tickles from your mind to his, and he laughs as he thrusts up into you. “Just like old times,” he rasps between swallows from your neck.

Like old times, like every time, your body follows its instincts, finally filled with what you have most craved. His cock stretches you, a nearly unfamiliar pressure once more, but you hardly notice, not with how dripping wet you’ve become just to feel his breath on your neck and savor his muscled frame thrusting into you.

Tears prick at your eyes but you won’t let them wash that blood from your cheeks. No, you just grip into his hair, pulling his mouth from the puncture wounds in your neck to your own waiting lips. The copper tang of your blood floods your mouth as his tongue sweeps inside, the familiar taste of your own blood mixing with the nasty pollution of your enemies’ he drained earlier.

It sours your stomach, the taste, but you’re too lost in the way his breath warms you, inside and out. Those long, feral nails score into your back, wandering quickly between your writhing bodies. With low, rumbling growls into your mouth, he grips your waist, moving you and holding you in place as he fucks harder. More erratic. More hellsbent on that release he needs.

His voice fills your ear, “My Consort, my love, my pet, my saviour,” he pours your beloved epithets over you, breath ragged and out of synch with his roughly snapping hips. One hand lies splayed on the stone behind him, that extra leverage driving him deeper with abandon. He’s thickening inside you, so hot and too quickly.

“Don’t get carried away,” you chide, yanking at the chain around his neck, making his crimson eyes stare at you with lust-blown pupils. “You haven’t even given me a reward yet for my daring bravery, my love.” You make him hiss, his slack mouth baring his fangs in pleasure-ridden pain. “And you haven’t even granted me an apology for running headlong into this… foolishness,” you cock your chin and tug his chain-leash again. “Promise me, no more ludicrous missions without me.”

He growls but nods, hands digging at your ass, not one hint of resistance.

“Then I’m satisfied, well…” you wriggle, clenching your walls on his throbbing cock inside you, “soon to be satisfied.” A laugh shared on both your panting lips, you ride his lap, bringing him back under a steady rhythm, drawing out his pleasure until you’ve had yours as well. He pulls against his last remaining chain, and you tut your tongue. One of your hands brings his fingers into the apex of your thighs, coaxing his finger to circle your clit with every buck. Your other hand releases that leash, freeing it from his flesh at last so you can grab his chin. Then you lick… long and cleansing, tasting the remnants of your blood, and your enemies’, and faint traces of his own.

That warm tip of his tongue laps at the corner of his lips, his breath heavy as he feels your walls fluttering around his cock. Spine arching, hips canting fervently, you scream for him, tears in your throat and down your face at last, as if you didn’t believe you’d ever be brought to orgasm by him again. Sharp nails score into the sensitive flesh of your folds, hips slamming into your last waves of pleasure as he spills inside you, spurt after spurt of his seed filling you and leaking to the prison floor beneath you both.

Crimson eyes glance up at you, wild and sated, hungry and happy all at once. “Get me home, my Consort,” he whispers. “You’ll be coming on my cock in our bed next.”

You smirk, breathless, pulling out a scroll to open a portal to your palace. As you stand, you kick the chains at your feet with your boot, thankful he’s released into your care once more.

⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️

💞 to @marimosalad and @nyx-knox

[maplegracefour]

Angstober - Countdown [2]

Summary: The party's in trouble and you have to work out a way to escape

Warnings: Ironically, not much angst

Word Count: ~650

Author's Note: I'm trying to catch up on Angstober. I'll get there eventually!

It’s well known that traversing across the realms to find an ancient tome that may or may not decide the fate of the universe will come with it’s own fair share of risks. But being held up in the home of a hag for 5 hours become someone’s (you’re not naming names… but it was definitely Charlie) charm spell worked too well.

“This is gettin’ ridiculous.” Schlatt mutters from the bedroll. “We gotta make a run for it.”

“Are you kidding? We make a run for it and she will murder us! Or turn us into frogs or something.” Ted shudders at the thought as he keeps his tone hushed.

You turn your head to glance at Charlie who is laughing animatedly, occasionally glancing over at the group of you with panicked eyes. No one knows how long this spell is going to last but the grotesque woman was clearly still infatuated with him for the time being.

“I’d say we have another hour before it wears off.” You mutter, turning to face Schlatt and Ted once more. “But Schlatt’s right we need to make a run for it.”

“Cool, so whilst she’s distracted, you grab our stuff,” Schlatt points at you. “You get any scrolls or potions you can get your hands on.” He points at Ted. “Then while she’s distracted we get the fuck outta here.”

You pause for a moment. There’s a glaring gap in the plan. He stares back at you, eyebrows furrowed in frustration as you clearly click onto the part he was hoping you wouldn’t think about.

“We’re not leaving Charlie.”

Schlatt huffs. “C’mon! He’s the reason we’re in this mess anyway!”

You glare at him, narrowing your eyes. “We are not leaving him here.”

Schlatt looks at Ted for support, but the guy has the backbone of a wet towel so he just shrugs. “Fine. You get Charlie, I’ll get our stuff. But if she snaps out of it early then I’m leaving you assholes in here.”

-

The stakes are high. You step closer to Charlie whilst her back is closed, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “On my count, we’re gonna run, okay?”

His head whips towards you with fear in his eyes. “Are you kidding?”

You shake your head. “We gotta get out of here, Charlie. You ready?”

He gives you a look of ‘you are fucking crazy���. You smile back at him and nod.

You make an apprehensive look at the hag, still distracted at her potions station. She had mentioned wanting to make a potion for the group of you. The clouds of colourful smoke and streaks of light didn’t bode too well for you though.

Charlie is watching you, waiting for the signal. You take a deep breath through your nose. “Okay… three…” You whisper, gripping onto the stone in your fingers. It’s cool, sharp and terrifying. When Ted had given it to you, he assured it was definitely a thunderstone, it would shatter and explode, causing a big enough distraction for you all to get out.

“Two…” Charlie is starting to sweat, you can see it in his eyes he’s panicked. This wasn’t exactly what you thought you would be doing when you signed up to help Ted in the first place. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit oh fuck. Here we go.

“One!” You yell and throw the stone aiming for the Hag’s head. Somehow, your aim is terribly off and the stone hits the table, exploding into tiny pieces and hitting almost every piece of glassware on it.

The woman turns slowly, her face contorting to an ugly grimace as she stares you down. “And what did you think you were doing there, little one?” She asks, head tilting to the side.

Unfortunately, in the midst of the explosion, everyone else had already made a run for it and with a flick of the hag’s hand, you are stuck in place.

Alone.

[voxel-loves-you]

💜 🩷🧸 for Frankie and Rolan? :o

How do they silently show love or affection towards the other? Francine plays with Rolan's hair all the time. Brushes it. Braids it. Runs her fingers through it. But especially when he looks stressed, she'll play with his hair. Rolan bakes for her. More on that below

What is the sweetest thing they've done for one another? Francine will sit with him for hours running inventory, translating scrolls and tomes, and any other studious activity just so he's not alone. It's nothing glamorous or bold. But they are things important to him, so they are important to her too. Also she's a very good study buddy, so he gets a lot of work done.

Rolan is researching how he might create a pocket dimension that would allow Francine to get away from her patron for a few moments of peace. He's also researching how to free her of her contract completely.

Include one of your favorite moments between them! Francine, desperate to satisfy a sweet tooth, showed up at Sorcerous Sundries asking if Rolan maybe had any sugar or fruit she could buy off him. He was a bit flustered at the question. Of course he didn't. But she looked really upset for some reason and he asked why. Francine explained she was told to leave her favorite bakery in Baldur's Gate after an altercation with a very rude customer. She may have set a small fire when the other customer made a gross pass at her.

She then asked, "How would you feel if someone said they'd like to grab you by the horns and fuck your face?!"

"I... I-I have a very large jar of honey. You can have it."

She was sent on her way. And that was the day that Rolan started learning to bake. Because Francine didn't need to find another bakery. She was just going to have to deal with him from now on, whether she liked it or not. Hint: She liked it.

[jaskwritesthings]

Writing Prompt!

Molly whose been off at sea comes to Rexxentrum at the end of Ickyzs trial to find Caleb's completely neglected himself.

Molly takes care of him.

tags: self destructive behaviours, depression

(ao3)

Molly enjoyed his time on the ocean, a chance to blend the three personas that he had sprouted over his life into something less destructive. So many sharp edges that took time to even out, settle into something that didn’t make his lip curl and his head hurt. Each part was important, as much as he wanted to forget Lucien, he was the past he never admitted to missing. Kingsley, though short-lived, was just as important, a reminder of the love surrounding him. If Lucien was his darkness, Kingsley was his light and Mollymauk…Mollymauk just felt right, the centre point on the balance beam that held them all together. 

Though, for his reign he chose Kingsley as his face, perfect new Kingsley that he could paint a persona on that suited being the King of Darktow. The pirate nature freeing after what they’d all been through, of course the Mighty Nein were still banned from his kingdom, kept things interesting when they attempted to visit and gave his subjects something to work on. Kept them from getting uppity.

Of course, there was no fun and games in the letter that Beau had sent via a stone faced little monk of the Soul.

She couldn’t come herself, the trail taking up much of her time. So much in fact that she’d barely been able to tend to her Empire brother. Even Yasha had found it difficult to pull Caleb from his darkness that had settled around him like an impenetrable hedge maze. The wizard was far too good at distracting and manipulating the women straight out the door before they realised what had happened. 

So the King had left his kingdom, expecting a little trouble upon his return, but that was fun for a future date. Perhaps he could convince his little firebug wizard to join him.

That’s if Caleb didn’t die in the mess that had become his home.

“Mister Caleb, how do you find anything in this?” Molly questioned, surveying the endless mess of tomes and papers. Chalk dust hung in the sunbeams, coating everything in a fine powder.

“I never forget Mister Mollymauk,” Caleb smirked, but there was something bitter and dark about the once playful comment.

Molly frowned, he wished Beau had sent for him sooner. Clearly things were more dire than he’d anticipated.

“How goes the trail?” He prompted as he tried to brush papers away to make space on, what he presumed was a chair, not that he could find one under the scrolls.

“Witness testimonies have been taken,” Caleb intoned blankly, and Molly paused in search.

Fucking damn it, Beauregard.

“I thought we were all meant to be there when you gave your testimony,” Molly reminded him, but Caleb looked away guiltily.

“I didn’t wish it, not even Beau was allowed in the room.”

Mollymauk snapped upright, levelling a dangerous glare at his friend. “So you were alone with him!”

“There were other’s of the Colbolt Soul and -“ Caleb attempted to defend himself, but Molly was already striding through the towers of scribbled work, advancing on Caleb and grasping the wizard by his arms before he could retreat. 

“They don’t count, Caleb, they’re not your family. They’ve not bled beside you, or fought with you!”

“I didn’t…I didn’t want you all to hear it, there was no hiding anything,” Caleb admitted and Molly tucked a finger under Caleb’s chin, tilting Caleb’s face up to look him in the eye.

“We already know, you should have had support,” he said kindly.

“I am fine, schatz,” Caleb ducked his head again.

Molly waved his arms pointedly around the room, “Evidently not!”

It wasn’t just the room, Caleb’s beard was unkept, his cheekbones more defined, and his clothes hung a little looser than Molly recalled. Nothing as bad as when they first met all that time ago, but it was still worrying how far he’d fallen in such a short time.

“Mollymauk-“

“I thought you’d learned better habits from us?” Molly inquired.

Caleb sighed, slumping in defeat, “It has been more difficult than I expected.”

“Well…that’s progress at least,” Molly smiled softly as he bumped his forehead against Caleb’s, glad that at least Caleb was no longer fighting him on the subject. The wizard leant heavily against him, seeking out the comfort like a starving man.

“I am sorry,” Caleb said wetly.

“You needn’t be, you old fool, just reach out for us,” Molly sighed as he clutched Caleb close. The thinness he found under Caleb’s clothes made him tighten his grip on his hips.

“Mollymauk?”

“Hm?”

“Will you stay a while, I need you,” Caleb asked quietly.

Molly grinned, “Of course, but you’ll owe me.”

“And what is the payment you want?” Caleb chuckled, perhaps hoping for something more carnal than what Mollymauk intended. There’d be time for that later of course, but Molly was more concerned with getting Caleb away from everything for a time. Clear the cobwebs of his mind as it was.

“Might need your assistance reclaiming my throne. My second was a little too happy to see me go.”

Caleb laughed, loud and sharp but joyful, “I’ll be happy to help.”

[bittcrblue]

I’m moving to Paris next week and having a little bit of a crisis about it, and also seeing Batman in an hour, so:

Have a little Justice League Dark AU, wherin the Expositors are halfway between the All-Caste and their CR incarnation, Jester is the Princess of Hell, and Fearne doesn’t want to be here.

“You know I’m not magic, right?” Beau asks as she follows Jester down into the bellows of the Hall of Justice. It’s a little creepy, to be honest - there are basements, and then there are basements, and the Justice League Dark definitely operates out of a basement. She isn’t even counting the glyphs, runic circles, arcane equations and strange stains carved into support pillars, stairs, and elevator shafts as they descend deeper and deeper into the earth - that’s all par for the course when it comes to dealing with magic fucks, she just hates basements in general.

“Don’t worry, we super know,” Jester reassures her, skirts swishing as she bounces down ahead. “But you’re the best librarian in the League, oh mighty Expositor!”

After all this time, it isn’t strange to see her horns peeking out of her perfect pin-curls, her tail swaying behind her, her blue skin. It’s a little weird to know, academically, that one of Beau’s best friends (and maybe she had a crush for, oh, a year or two, or maybe she never stopped having a crush, listen, she’s dealing with it) is the daughter of the King of Hell, but visually at least, it’s starting to fade into the background.

What’s not fading into the background is the hubbub of chatter as they finally reach the bottom floor - and christ, Batman definitely had a hand in designing this place, what is it with caves, they’re almost worse than basements - and sound echoes off the stalactites, unmuffled by the ancient looking carpets and the large mahogany bookcases, overstuffed with grimoires and scrolls.

(Beau is itching to get at them, just a little bit.)

“I cannot believe you called an expositor, I hate the expositors, they’re the worst organisation in the world,” an extremely young woman is saying. “Literally, ugh, libraries. Like - there’s nothing more boring than just sitting in a dusty room and reading all day.”

“More to the point, if the answer was not held within the Marble Tomes Conservatory, I fail to see how a human organisation will be able to help,” drawls an aristocratic man in response.

“Sorry about them,” Jester says in a mock-whisper. “They get a little feisty when we have to call in contractors. Professional pride, you know. Okay, we’re here, if you want I can go first and introduce you-”

Beau pushes past Jester and kicks the sliding wooden partition aside. “Sup, losers,” she says. “I’m Beau.”

Jester picks the partition back up and sets it aside. “Yes, this is Beau! Hello, everyone! Beau, this is- everyone.”

Everyone turns out to be a literal eighteen year old wearing head to toe magenta, a haughty looking dark elf, an unshaven redhead wearing an oversized coat and a thousand-mile stare, and some kind of goat-woman with an amazing rack and Rapunzel-ass hair. They’re sitting in armchairs around a table piled high with books, manilla folders, and overflowing ashtrays. The teenager is filing her nails.

“Caleb Widogast, at your service,” rasps the hobo-looking guy in a thick German accent. “Although I’m sure you know that, Fraulein Expositor.” Fair enough - he’s the magic guy, when it comes to the League, second only to Jester. She’s never met him in person, though - Beau tends to be more on the punchy side of things, as opposed to… spells and potions.

“Essek Thelyss.” The elf seems bored by existence, let alone hers. “Formerly Shadowhand to the Kryn Dynasty.” Beau hisses through her teeth, and he finally gives her an appraising look. “I see you recognise my title. Perhaps there is some merit to you calling her in after all, Jester.”

“I’m Opal, no last name, and you guys are all super weird - literally who introduces themselves to a work colleague with their full name? You want to give her your social security numbers while you’re at it? Ugh. Anyways, I’m the Champion of the Spider Queen, or whatever.” 

Beau blinks at her, and clocks the wicked black coronet sitting on her brow with its sharp barbs. She almost steps into a defensive stance on reflex, but it's only years of being friends with Jester that keeps her from jumping to conclusions. (She learned that the hard way with Calianna, okay, can everyone get off her tits about the bowl thing.)

Everyone stops and turns to the goat-woman, who zones back in and turns her square pupils on Beauregard. “Hi,” she says simply.

“Introduce yourself, Fearne!” Opal urges. “We’re doing that, like, ‘everyone introduces themself in order’ thing? Have you never seen a movie?”

“No, I recognised what you were doing, I just didn’t want to participate,” she says serenely. “But I am Fearne, and I’m the President. That’s a lie. I’m from the Feywild.”

Beau sucks on her teeth. “Cool,” she says, to… all of that.

“And of course you know that I am the one, the only, Jester Lavorre, princess of hell and also your best friend and all of that stuff. And we are the Justice League Dark, please clap!”

Beau claps, half-heartedly. Opal, Fearne, and Caleb all clap as well, and Essek pointedly raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

“I’ll get you to clap one day,” Jester promises. Beau recognises it as a threat. “But let’s get down to business - you’re here because you’re the smartest person I know, and you’re super knowledgeable about stuff, and your theories are always right.”

Damn, Beau could get used to this. She slaps Fearne’s hand away from where it was creeping towards the symbol of Ioun on her belt.

“We have come across something that seems to exist in no tomes, no grimoires, no libraries or archives, be they scientific, magical, human, elf, or anything in-between,” Caleb says. “It behoves us to ask for your assistance.”

“What have you got?” Beau asks, dropping into a chair and crossing her ankles on the table. Opal immediately copies her pose and takes a selfie.

Essek turns to Beau with a solemn expression. “Expositor Lionett,” he says, face like the grave. “What do you know of the Somnovem?”

[snitches-at-dawn]

girl in red || h.g.

request- can you do a wlw for hermione?

a/n: i hope you guys enjoy this! it’s my first wlw and i’m a bit nervous tbh xx

word count- 1.3k

warnings- strong language

i saw hermione granger for the first time and my heart stopped. i remember it was in potions class on my second day at hogwarts- i had transferred in from ilvermorny when i was fourteen.

i almost fell into the dungeons after having lost my way about twelve times from dumbledore’s office where he had sorted me into slytherin- i figured that would be like horned serpent- the house i was in.

i stuttered an apology to the professor with greasy hair- snape his name was i learned later, and sat down next to blaise. our parents were friends and we always met whenever he and his mother visited massachusetts. 

“draco’s looking at you,” blaise muttered under his breathe to me as i pulled out my book, “the boy i told you about last summer when we met.”

“does he know i’m as gay as they come?” i asked laughingly.

“of course not,” blaise scoffed and handed me half his ingredients.

i looked at him with a smile, “you don’t plan on telling him do you?”

it took all of my effort to not laugh at his smirk which clearly said no.

“who’s that girl?” i asked, “in the red tie with those two boys?” i gasped, “is that harry potter?”

“that’s hermione granger,” blaise said with a sour look on his face, “with potter and weasley- they’re in gryffindor. slytherins and gryffindors are mortal enemies.”

“who cares? she’s gorgeous,” i breathed.

blaise looked at me sharply, “(y/n)- no. gryffindors are off limits for slytherins and vice versa. shag whoever the fuck you want, just not one of them. as far as gryffindors are concerned- consider yourself to be on an eternal no nut november.”

“but-”

“no ‘but’s, (y/n),” blaise cut me off, “you can’t.”

so i spent two long years rejecting boys who didn’t understand the concept of ‘not attracted to penis’ and pansy who got very handsy when drunk. i settled for wistful glances at her from afar. 

in my sixth year, i finally got a chance in potions. draco and i had become fast friends since i told him i was gay and we bonded over our love for girls. something was wrong with him today though- he wouldn’t tell me what so i left him huffing and took the only other unoccupied table. to my luck, hermione granger walked in- without her two flunkies for once

she was wearing that red tie again that suited her eyes so much.

“hi,” i heard her voice from behind me, “can i sit here? i don’t know anyone and i really don’t want to sit with the ravenclaws or malfoy.”

“of course you can,” i smiled and moved my bag so she could take the seat next to me.

blaise was glaring daggers across the room at me with warning eyes which i dutifully ignored.

“you haven’t lost your accent yet,” she said softly.

i laughed a bit, elated that she had noticed something about me, “i don’t really want to, to be honest. you guys talk so fast- i’d hate to lose the pace at which i speak for your accent and unfortunately they seem to come hand in hand.”

“i like the way you speak- and it’s quite brave of you to not feel like you have to change to fit in. very gryffindor of you.” she replied.

i blushed bright red and was saved from answering by slughorn and his belly which moved independent of him.

the next time hermione granger spoke to me was in charms class. she silently slid her ink pot towards me when she heard my quill scraping the bottom of my empty pot and she just smiled at me softly and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

i had all the breath knocked out of me- i couldn’t thank her even if i wanted to.

i returned the favour one day in the library about two months after that.

at some point we had sat at the same table in the library to study because all the others were full and this somehow became a regular occurrence. we’d take the table at the far end of the library and just study in silence with heart-racing brushes of hands and stomach-dropping eye catches.

one particularly crowded day, we were joined by some annoying gryffindor boy who clearly had the hots for her. he kept putting his hand on her thigh or playing with her hair. i had to dig my nails into my palms to stop from jabbing my wand up his ass.

why did men have such pathetic gaydars? couldn’t they clearly see she wasn’t straight?

 “mclaggen- i’m not interested. we went for slughorn’s party and it clearly meant more to you than it meant to me. i’m sorry i didn’t clarify that i wanted to go as friends. now please leave me alone,” she snapped when he tried to move his chair closer to her.

his face contorted unattractively, “fine. you aren’t that hot anyways. i’d rather go for ginny weasley anyways. you were a backup.”

hermione laughed, “ginny’s dating harry, so good luck trying to top the captain of the quidditch team when you couldn’t even make keeper.”

he stormed off making sure to bump into the back of her chair on his way out, making her ink pot fall over onto her shirt and tie, soaking her in blue ink. her red tie was royal blue now. i loved her in red.

i slid my ink pot over to her and softly under my breath scoffed, “men.”

she smiled at me thankingly, “tell me about it. they really can’t get a hint.”

i looked at her curiously to see a very knowing expression on her face and i smirked.

“i bet mclaggen wouldn’t even be able to take you on your ideal first date,” i said offhandedly.

“what do you think it would be?” she asked with her chin in her hand.

she was putting on a confident front. it was obvious that she was nervous and had no idea how i would respond. her voice was soft and manner was unsure- but there was a challenging edge to her tone. i looked back down to my work and continued writing while saying nonchalantly, “coffee and a bookstore. if i was taking you on a date, i’d take you to tomes and scrolls and watch you browse for as long as you want. i know you’d never let me pay for you so i’d make sure to note the names of the sequels of the books you’d buy so i can gift them to you later.”

i looked at her out of the corner of my eyes- her mouth was slightly agape as she heard me talk.

“once you were done there, we’d go to the three broomsticks- i’m not sure if you’d like the vibe at madam puddifoots- and we’d have coffee and hot chocolate until sunset. then i’d take you to the black lake and we’d just sit and talk till it was dark. your eyes...” i sighed, “they gleam in the sunset and they look like they’re on fire in the most gorgeous way. as if they were the only light in a dark room. finally, i’d drop you to gryffindor tower and kiss you goodnight and i’d have to tear myself away from you because i just know it’ll have been the best day of my life.”

i finally locked eyes with her and took a rattling breath. 

“how did you-” she stammered at me.

“i’ve crushed on you since i came to hogwarts, hermione. of course everyone told me to stay away from you because of our houses and well, you’re you. i want to take you out and love you and be perfect for you. let me-”

“okay.” she breathed, interrupting me.

“what?”

“okay.” she said again more confidently this time.

i grinned and blushed bright red.

we both turned to our work silently and studied together for i can’t even remember how long. finally when the library was almost empty, she got up, packed her stuff away and made to leave.

“hey hermione!” i called.

she looked back at me questioningly.

“wear red- it suits you.”

[gotmilk5101520]

Trollhunters: Tales of Arcadia Watch Episode 21 Party Monster (Part 1)

“Party Monster”? This sounds like Claire’s type of party. Then again, Jim’s not here so...

“Okay. We wait until he’s asleep”

“I use my Shadow Staff to get us in”

“And i ever so gently remove the ring from his finger” “Hold up there, Mr. Storyteller”

“Do changelings even sleep?”

“Good point, Tobes. New plan”

“We spike his coffee with extra strength cold medicine”

“I use the Shadow Staff”

“And i bring my Warhammer in case that doesn’t knock him out”

“And i ever so gently...” “Wait”

“What if he’s not alone? His office was guarded last time”

“Chaka!”

“Okay, fine”

“We spike the coffee”

“Shadow Staff”

“I use my Warhammer to take out his goons”

“Then, i ever so gently remove the ring”

“But what if it doesn’t come off?”

“Why would it not come off?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s glued on, or he added a few pounds”

“Why would it be glued on, you dingus?”

“You said be ready for every precaution”

“He’s waking up!”

“Oh, how is he waking up? This isn’t even really happening!”

“Cut off his hand!”

“What?” “Use your sword. Hurry! Do it!”

“No, i’m not gonna cut-”

“Do it! Do it! Before it’s too late!”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

“If you chop his hand off, you chop your mom’s hand off too, remember?” This whole beginning bit is 1 minute, and it uses 40 images. And for what? For this scene to reveal that there is one brain cell and it switches between these three, and also the reason why this is 2 parts? Yeah, it was worth it.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Sorry. Parents are on a weekend trip”

“So Mary and Darc are coming over for girls night”

“Just keeping up appearances”

“You know what i mean” Yeah, that’s what it’s like to have friends, who don’t know what’s going on. Something Jim and Toby don’t have.

“Ooh, girls?”

“I love a good pillow fight” We don’t do pillow fights. Then again i’ve never been to a sleep over, or a girls night out.

“I had it with you”

“Fudgeknuckle” What an odd way to say crap.

“I told you. Not me scruff!” NotEnrique’s scruff getting grabbed count: 2

“And don’t ever ask me to do the favor of letting you see your brother again!”

“Fine!”

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you”

*Cries in Troll*

Wait how do trolls have services? How do they have a phone?

“What about a magical super magnet?”

“Oh! Definitely got one of those!”

“Doesn’t work great. Just grabs snails” So it’s a Snail Magnet?

“So where do we find the right tool?”

“I know just the place!”

“Are you ready, young wards”

“To embark with me on the greatest adventure?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“Where? Where?”

“The adventure of reading!”

“Hours upon hours of research awaits you”

“Avante!” He got them in the first half not gonna lie.

“My brother spent centuries”

“curating our kind’s most exotic collection”

“of scrolls, tomes and texts”

”If the answer is anywhere, it’s here”

“I didn’t know you have a brother”

“Had a brother”

“Dictatious Maximus Galadrigal”

“These books are all that i have left of him”

“If he were here to see me now...” “Quit telling everyone i’m dead!” “Sometimes, i can still hear his voice”

“Uh... Gotta go”

“Just leaving”

“Hey, wingman. What’s-” “Fine”

”Bye”

This is how i am when i want to leave.

“Don’t touch me scruff!” Wait is that “Turned down for what?”

Hey, Claire. Remember that one time you thought Jim had a party at your house? Well, here it is.

“Don’t eat that!”

“Phone tasty” Claire is not making a phone count for herself.

Hey guys, look. Claire just came out of the closet! Yeah terrible i’m leaving now.

“3 meals a day”

“8 glasses of water”

“8 minutes of sleep” Remember kids, always have 8 minutes of sleep.

“Maddrux the Many triumphed in the battle of Doomscavern”

“defeating his greatest enemy”

“Himself” Yeah... little did we know about that.

“Spit that out, now!”

Just eat the lightbulb, like Draal did, no one will notice.

“Round and round it goes“

“Who ya smooch?”

“Nobody knows!”

“Now, that’s gross. Then again monster fucking is one of her kink” “You read my list did you?” “All 101 of your favorite kinks? Yep”

And, there goes the door again.

“Aaarrrgghh!”

“Finally someone sane”

“I’m glad you’re here”

“Uh, yes”

“Is that Glug?”

“Aaarrrgghh! Seriously?” Yeah, he won’t help. Now if Draal were here- No never mind. Okay if Vendel was- Nah he won’t help either.

“I’ve never seen him like this”

“Give the big lug a break”

“Even he needs to blow off some steam”

“Aaarrrgghh! Aaarrrgghh! Aaarrrgghh! Aaarrrgghh!”

*Burps in Troll*

“Oh, yeah!”

“A lotta steam apparently” Wait, this implies NotEnrique noticed the Creeper’s Sun. So how come Claire didn’t see?

“So, what do you do?”

“Oh. The strong silent type. I see”

“Say, what does a girl got to do to get that mask off?” What an odd way to say- Never mind.

Do You Wanna Build A Snowtroll?

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!” If you listen closely you can hear the steam coming out of her ears.

To be continued.

Part 2

[sparrowstrikewrites]

Saw some “Monster May” Prompts floating around and the plot bunnies went a bit bunnicula

Ghost + Whose the real monster? (featuring Shisui Uchiha)

Warning for character death, blood, and eye ball theft

Word count ~1500

The eye still glowed crimson in Danzou’s hand. Blood ran down his wrist and stained the light gray fabric of his sleeve. He paid it no mind. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the 3 tome still floating in a lazy circle around the pupil of the eye in his hand!

“You’ll regret that.”

Shisui said it like both a promise and a threat.

Danzou forced himself to look back up at the eye’s former owner. 

At 15 Shisui Uchiha was caught between childhood and adulthood, still lanky but his shoulders were broad and muscular, a brilliant shinobi but still hopelessly naive. 

Danzou’d known for a while that Shisui was perfect. He’d let the boy hone his skills, helped him even. He’d provided the ultimate motivation-- train hard enough, perfect your genjutsu, and there’s a chance you can save everyone.

Shisui’d taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

Danzou felt a flush of pride at the way hope faded from the teen’s remaining eye. How many people could say they’d fooled the highest forms of the sharingan?

From where Danzou stood, Shisui wasn’t in any position to be making threats. He was alone, far from the village, surrounded by Danzou’s anbu, and dying.

Shisui knew he was dying. Poison burned through his veins and the hands he pressed to the wound on his stomach did little to slow the bleeding. Shisui knew the man in front of him would go after the rest of the clan. If he had his way, there’d be no survivors. 

Blood ran down Shisui’s face. His empty eye socket ached, but Shisui swore he’d never seen so clearly. He was going to die and Danzou would turn his dead eyes on Itachi next. Itachi-- sweet, brave, kind, loyal Itachi. 

Shisui leveled his single eye at Danzo, licked his blood lips, and spat out his dying declaration. “You think the Uchiha are monsters? You haven’t seen a monster yet, but with that eye you will.” Shisui gritted his teeth against the pain. “EVERY. FUCKING. DAY. YOU. WILL. BE. HAUNTED. When you need it most, that eye and every other stolen jutsu you have, will fail you. You’ll die alone and hated, like a real monster should--”

Danzou’s fist crashed into Shisui’s cheek. The anger on his face was a bit manic. 

The teen staggered but somehow managed to stay on his feet. 

Shisui spat out a mouthful of blood. His heart was beating too fast and he couldn’t get enough air. Spots danced in his vision. “They’ll dance on your grave until they forget you entirely, like the pointless nightmare you are.” 

Then, Shisui vanished. His body flickered and he was gone.

Or at least gone from Danzou’s sight.

They said no one ever saw Shisui Uchiha again.

Blood was found on a cliff, where the Nakano River cut its way into a deep gorge. A suicide note was found amongst Shisui’s scrolls on his desk.

They were wrong.

Itachi Uchiha saw Shisui later that same night. Watched the boy he’d loved since before he was old enough to really understand what love was step off a cliff and fall to his death. He caught glimpses of him for years after that, mostly in the crimson eye of a large raven.

Danzou Shimaru saw Shisui the next morning. He had no eyes and his cheeks were stained with blood. So too were his teeth and the dark blue shirt he wore. 

Shisui sat on the edge of Danzou’s bed and hummed. 

When Danzou scrambled for a knife, Shisui smiled and then he laughed.

“I did say you’d see a monster.” Shisui’s teeth were too sharp and in the depths of his empty eye sockets a fire flickered. “I see you,” Shisui sang. “You’re afraid. You should be.”

---

Danzou was surprised to find Itachi wasn’t as naive as his older cousin. He couldn’t be tricked, but when it came down to it he could be forced.

Danzou never wondered at the way Itachi’s eyes drifted to a place just over Danzou’s left shoulder. He never questioned the black bird that leveled him with a calculating stare from its perch on Itachi’s shoulder.

“You’re going to regret that,” Shisui said as Itachi left with a mission scroll tight in his shaking fist.

Danzou ignored the figure. 

---

That night the streets of Konoha ran red.

In the aftermath, Itachi fled the village and Sasuke was left the lone survivor of his brother’s mission. 

Itachi ran for 3 days, until he collapsed in exhaustion just across the border into Rain country. Before his brain finished shutting down, Itachi swore he could feel someone pull his shaking body into an embrace. 

---

Danzou took every crimson eye he found. He embedded them in his arms.

Shisui’s ghost looked on in silence. The flames in his eye sockets flickered hot and angry, but that was the only thing his face gave away. Even as Danzou desecrated the corpses of almost everyone Shisui had ever loved, his face remained impassive. 

That night, Danzou undid the bandages on his arm. He wanted to admire the way the black and red patterns danced and he needed to check the transplants for any sign of infection.

Shisui sat on the bed beside the man.

Danzou did his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed. It was actually working, right up to the moment Shisui reached out and grabbed his wrist.

Shisui’s touch was cold, so cold it burned.

Shisui’s eye, in Danzou’s left eye socket, burned. 

Danzou doubled over in pain and clutched at his face. For a moment he was falling. The stars were bright overhead until he was swallowed by cold, dark water. He couldn’t breathe. HE COULDN’T BREATHE!

Shisui let go of Danzou’s wrist and laughed. “I told you you’d regret that.” He smiled, predatory. “You’re just enough Uchiha now.”

---

Every time Danzou closed his eyes, he died. There were all sorts of memories preserved in his stolen eyes, but they only ever showed him the last one. 

---

A year later, one of the other elders (one who knew the truth) asked why Danzou hadn’t gone after Sasuke.

Danzou just shook his head. He didn’t tell them that he’d tried, that he’d stood over the sleeping child with a knife and felt poison burn his veins or Itachi’s blade pierce his back. How could he explain that he was haunted by the monstrous amalgamation of the Uchiha clan’s blood?

Shisui laughed then too.

---

Years later, Itachi saw Shisui again. 

Shisui looked just like Itachi remembered-- whole and happy. He offered Itachi a hand, pulled him from his shattered body, and smiled. 

Sasuke, who they all knew hadn’t really wanted this fight, just stared at the 2 ghosts with a mix of guilt and fear.

They just smiled at him. 

---

Sasuke was as haunted as Danzou. His brother’s ghost followed him. “You need to eat,” it said. Sometimes, Sasuke thought he could feel a hand on his shoulder when he jerked awake from a nightmare.

It wasn’t until Madara told him the truth of the massacre that Sasuke understood. He was haunted. His brother, his whole clan really, had unfinished business.

Sasuke went looking for Danzou Shimaru.

---

In the end, Sasuke didn’t kill Danzou. You could say his own arrogance got to him or the Uchiha clan had their revenge or karama was a bitch.

The truth of it was that the sharingan takes an obscene amount of chakra to control if you were never meant to control it. The truth of it was that the sharingan in its highest and most perfect forms takes a terrible toll on the body. Danzou’s swollen heart gave out mid battle from a combination of exhaustion and exertion.

With his final breaths, Danzou tried to rewrite the ending with Igazni. 

It didn’t take. 

One by one the stolen eyes closed until only Shisui’s was left.

Danzou could see Sasuke standing over him, sword raised. He watched Itachi reach out and catch his younger brother’s wrist.

“This isn’t your burden to bear,” Itachi said.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore,” Sasuke all but sobbed.

“No, but will you let me one last time?” Itachi asked.

Sasuke lowered the sword, turned, and walked away.

Danzou died alone. His body was broken and shattered. His lungs were full of blood and he was drowning in it-- just like Itachi had.

Danzou’s heart stopped and the last thing he heard was Shisui’s laughter.

In a small clearing not far away, Sasuke stopped walking.

2 ghosts appeared in front of him, whole and complete, not monsters (because they never were). Behind them, dozens of others flickered into existence.

Sasuke didn’t know what to say.

Itachi’s fingers brushed Sasuke’s forehead. “Live a good life. We’ll meet again and I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

The ghosts faded in the sunlight and the last Uchiha felt whole and complete and not all like the monster he’d grown up thinking he was.

---

10 years later Sasuke took a dark haired little girl to a field of flowers just outside Konoha. 

At the edge of the field, a stone was carved with words of remembrance. It was an apology from a village that would never really be able to wash the blood from its streets.

The girl was too young to read the stone, too young to know her whole history.

They picked flowers until the girl was tired and Sasuke carried her home on his back.

The moon rose and the summer festival began. 

Red lanterns painted with swirling black tome floated through the night sky beside the symbols of the other clans. Nightmares fade, but old traditions are not so easily forgotten. 

Sasuke woke his daughter up for the fireworks, he let her eat all the sweets her little heart wanted, and when the music started he spun her in circles until she pulled him into a giggly hug. 

[vulturhythm]

1/2 I have an angsty idea (BTW, this is Tristan and Iseult anon - I'm so flattered you wanted to give me a nickname! If you still want to, Skyleen is good since that's what I've been using on AO3). Anyway, my idea isn't too unique from what you've already posted because what you do you do so well and I like it so much). It revolves around Jaskier being horribly sick/poisoned and Geralt desperately trying to find a cure - maybe it's something specific, like a near-extinct herb or the heart of

... heart of the beast that originally poisoned him, but in any case it's really hard to get and Geralt has to go on a lot of dangerous journeys in search of it. Meaning he has leave Jaskier behind (it's a conveniently prolonged illness). And he keeps failing. He keeps going out on any tips, even the most unlikely, brutalizing himself for a few days/weeks trying to kill monsters/please mages/bribe kings/capture demons or whatever he thinks he needs to do, but he always comes home empty handed...

... and Jaskier's always sicker, weaker, worse when he comes back. He'll spend a few days with him, caring for him, loving him, pleading with him to stay strong, before preparing to head out again. And eventually Jaskier realizes nothing is going to work. Even if Geralt did find something, the illness has progressed so far it wouldn't do any good. So he asks Geralt to stop. Stop hunting, stop risking his own life, stop leaving and just stay with him until the end. And Geralt can't.

Can't give up, can't face losing Jaskier, can't accept (what he sees as) Jaskier losing faith in him. So he goes out again, and again. Eventually, the disease and despair break at Jaskier until he clings, begs Geralt not to leave him, and Geralt does anyway, using his greater strength to remove Jaskier's hands from his arms, clothes, hair, Jaskier's cries echoing worse than any curses from Blaviken. On the last trip, he finds the cure. Having lost his horse to some calamity, he *runs* back...

... to Jaskier, full tilt, past even a witcher's stamina and returns to wherever they've been holed up incoherent with exhaustion and fear. Is he too late? What do you think? (Also, thank you for writing such lovely angst! I think it's the best way to get the love out).

thank you so, so much for sending me this beautifully tragic idea! i do hope this is up to your standards.

- - - - -

i won’t let you die

sorceresses are wretched things.

this is an opinion geralt has formed over a fucking century of enduring their treachery and their torment and their taunting, all the times he’s fallen into bed with one be damned. those times were fucking meaningless when compared to the love he found in jaskier.

meaningless, worthless, pointless - and now, looking back, he fucking hates himself for them.

he hates himself, for it was a sorceress whose rage when denied geralt’s aid in the coup of a crumbling kingdom was unmatched - whose rage led her to curse the bard at geralt’s side, merely fucking standing there, not even doing a damn thing.

he wasn’t doing a goddamn thing.

geralt is snarling, spitting, cursing, demanding an explanation, a cure -

the sorceress drops dead, an arrow through her skull, shot from the ramparts of the castle ahead, and, well.

geralt knows when he isn’t welcome.

he pulls jaskier away, runs from the city square, pulls his bard along through the seething, screaming, rioting crowd.

-

at first, geralt thinks the curse was maybe just as simple as the little rash that pops up on jaskier’s skin within they hour, as they walk away and leave the kingdom behind.

(it will be decimated by week’s end.)

he learns quickly he is wrong when jaskier doubles over and vomits on the trail.

there’s blood amongst the bile.

geralt’s heart seizes.

-

he pushes roach hard, hard, hard to the next town over, one where the healer and the mage are one and the same.

“it’s a disease,” the man tells them, and there’s sympathy in his eyes and something sort of like relief in jaskier’s, but - “and it’s one that can’t be cured.”

geralt knows he can never forget the fear that crossed jaskier’s face.

worse, later, is the resignation.

“geralt - “

“i know. i won’t let you die.”

-

he goes to yennefer next, even though to see her face is to grimace inside.

it’s been a week, and the rash has spread, and jaskier complains of stomach pains daily, even when he hasn’t eaten, even hours before he vomits blood.

yennefer takes one look at geralt before her gaze slides to the bard at his side, and she sighs, and motions them inside.

they learn nothing more.

“incurable,” she says, and if geralt didn’t know full well her loathing of jaskier, he would think she sounded... apologetic. “he’s got two years at best, likely less.”

“there has to be something -“

“geralt. i can’t do a thing.”

-

“geralt, surely someone will know... a - a different sorceress, a mage...”

“i won’t let you die.”

-

they go to another mage next, one tucked away in the depths of a town from which geralt has long since been banned.

it’s here that, finally, they get something - a name, a cause.

“it’s eating away at him,” says the old mage, “from the inside out. it’s an ancient thing - dark magic, as dark as i’ve seen. they say... well.”

“what?” geralt snarls, his grip on jaskier’s arm only tightening when his bard sways closer against his side.

“dragon heart, they say. little more than theory, but - “

and just like that, geralt is out the door, jaskier close behind.

-

“you can’t go after a dragon alone - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

jaskier is weaker.

the rash has become boils here and there, on the backs of his hands and arms and shoulders, and he can no longer play the lute without pain.

as much as it tears geralt apart to leave him behind, he does.

he leaves jaskier at home in corvo bianco, begs their nearest neighbors to drop in, keep him well...

swears to come back alive.

-

“promise me you’ll come back if it’s a false lead - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

he slays the dragon, a fierce red thing far up north, slices out its heart and carries it back to blaviken tied to roach’s haunches.

the old mage is waiting, ancient tomes and tablets and scrolls open on every surface, herbs and plants and monster pieces on top of and among it all.

“if this is right,” says the mage, “it’ll be violet at the end, but, well,” he amends, as he checks a scroll, “translating these have been next to impossible,” he admits, as he slices off a section of the heart, “and it might not - “

the broiling mixture in the cauldron turns a horrid, bloody red when the heart is dropped inside.

geralt feels nothing but dread.

-

“geralt, you can’t possibly kill enough dryads in time -“

“i won’t let you die.”

-

the second time he leaves from corvo bianco, he leaves jaskier in pain.

the boils are becoming lesions, and the bloody bile is a daily occurrence, and his singing voice is all but gone.

geralt sets off for the forests, and, well...

he slays fifteen of the forest nymphs, and he feels guilt biting at the back of his throat each time he shaves bark from the dead dryads’ trees, but jaskier’s red and bleeding skin is at the forefront of his mind.

the potion goes gray this time, deep and dull and dreadful, and geralt wants to scream.

-

jaskier is coughing now.

geralt stays home for a week, mourns the loss of jaskier’s warmth in his arms, for his bard cannot bear the touch of another’s on his sore and blistering and bleeding skin.

it pains him to see, and yet...

he cannot rest.

he leaves at week’s end, the edges of the world on his mind.

-

“geralt, please, just stay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

twenty tongues of elven warriors.

geralt sees the hatred, the betrayal, the disgust in filavandrel’s eyes as he slaughters those that remain.

he sees it tenfold when he slays the elven king where he stands.

he sees it in the surface of the river when he crouches down to wash his skin free of blood, reflected in his own eyes when he does his best to clean his own wounds.

he sees it in the washed-out green the cauldron’s contents turn.

he sees it in jaskier’s eyes when he returns home, tells him of the fall of the elves... tells him of the new scars upon his back.

-

“please, my wolf, stay behind this time...”

“i won’t let you die.”

-

fang of demon.

five new claw marks across his jaw.

jaskier cannot stand without doubling over in the worst fit of blood-splattering coughing geralt has ever witnessed.

the potion is black.

-

“geralt, it’s okay - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

flesh of the one cursed before first breath.

a night in a crypt, a broken wrist, a gash on the flank.

jaskier’s eyes are bloodshot and his voice is frail. he cannot walk alone.

the potion is teal.

-

“geralt, please, if you love me - “

“i won’t let you die.”

-

eye of the beast upon the highest throne.

a king slain, a kingdom out for his blood, an arrowhead through the shoulder and a ribcage of splintered bone.

jaskier is bedridden.

the potion is gold.

-

“geralt, my love, *please,* i beg of you - “

“i won’t let you die.”

fang of the lycanthrope.

scar across the chest.

white.

-

“the cure doesn’t exist, geralt, stay home - “

“i won’t let you die.”

sting of the manticore.

wounded in the side.

bronze.

-

“it won’t ever work, my love, please let me die in your arms - “

“i won’t let you die.”

vessel of the djinn.

broken, battered, bruised.

charcoal.

-

at the end of the fifteenth month, geralt leaves his beloved behind for the last time.

he leaves jaskier coughing, choking, begging, grabbing for his arms, his hands, anything to keep him close -

grabbing for him despite the wounds geralt and the healers have done their best to keep bound -

begging for him despite the way his voice is all but gone -

sobbing for him despite the way he can barely even breathe -

but geralt draws away, shakes his head, whispers one last time, “i won’t let you die.”

he can hear his bard’s sobs well beyond the walls of their home.

-

twenty nine days.

wyvern, harpy, dwarf, virgin, cockatrice, gryphon, chimera, basilisk, leshen...

vampire, succubus, drowner, kikimora, barghest...

the monsters blur together after so long - after so much of his blood spilled.

geralt is growing weak, growing tired -

growing slow.

and then, one day -

one day, he stumbles as he walks back into the mage’s tower, stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the cauldron, and -

and his blood, the blood that’s fucking covering from melitele only knows how many fucking cuts and gashes and scrapes and gouges -

his blood drips from his palm, from his wrist, from his fingertips, and it falls into the cauldron -

and the concoction of herbs and roots and flowers and bones and brains and heartstrings and feathers and stones and blood, it -

it turns deep, vibrant violet, and -

and geralt goes still.

-

he’s never pushed roach as hard as he does that day, the next day, the next...

it’s the third day when a group of highwaymen cross his path, when they fire at him from the hillside, when a crossbow bolt strikes roach through the sockets of her eyes, and -

and geralt tears them all down without an instant of hesitation, and he pauses to mourn the loss of his cherished companion, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and geralt runs.

his legs ache and his lungs burn and his ribs feel as though they may shatter again from the strain, and he is bleeding, and he is dying, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he loses track of the days and of how many times he trips and falls and of how many times he drops to his knees and then to the ground -

and still he runs.

-

i can’t let him die.

-

geralt feels as though he may collapse by the time he stumbles against the doors of corvo bianco, but still he moves,

still he pushes on,

pushes the door open and almost falls inside, and -

and he cannot breathe, and his vision is hazy, and he knows that he’s gone too far, but -

but jaskier is waiting, and -

and he steps through the doors of the room they’ve shared for so many long and perfect years, and -

and he reaches into his pocket for the vial of antidote, and -

and he looks up, and he goes still.

the vial falls to the floor.

geralt lurches the few steps to the edge of the bed, drops to his knees, reaches out to touch the back of a cold, cold hand, closed tight about a scrap of parchment he can’t bring himself to acknowledge.

he lowers his edge to the mattress, and he breathes in, and he breathes out, and...

and at last, the witcher is still.

-

geralt,

my beloved, i have kept alive as long as i can. i have spent my life at your side, and there isn’t a day of it that i would have changed.

my only regret is that i did not die in your arms.

i love you.

live well.

[jamsiesir]

I think a combination between 4 and 13 will be amzinggg for jily

I hope you like it, anon! ♥

 A little jealousy in a relationship is healthy. It's nice to know that someone is afraid to lose you. + I think the worst thing about life would be having to go through it without you.

---

«... and I'll go to Hogsmeade with James Potter!»

Mary McDonald's voice seems to echo through the dorm room as Lily exits the bathroom after getting ready for the night. In the last weeks, there is something that knocks the air out of her lungs whenever James Potter's name is uttered in her presence, only that this time the feeling is awful: she doesn't feel as light as a feather, neither does her face heat up - Lily feels like her entire world is tilted upside-down, like those words have the power to make the Earth spin around its axis in the opposite way.

«What?» she asks before she can even think about it.

Mary (her lovely and adorable friend, Mary) beams at her and nods. «James asked me out at dinner and I said yes,» she says, then lets out a happy sigh.

Her happiness chills Lily's bones, sucking out her own joy - Lily doesn't know if she can pretend to actually be glad for her friend (who's harboured a crush for James for two weeks now - a thing that Lily has been secretly disliking).

«That's beautiful.»

… but she tries it, anyway.

«I've never thought it was possible: I mean, he's so handsome but he seemed to be interested only in you,» her friend goes on and Lily just nods, suddenly not really in the mood for talking.

«It's such a pity that his love is unrequited, isn't it?» Marlene asks and the question feels like a punch in her gut: Lily turns to look at the girl in the eyes, and finds amusement twinkling in them. She looks hastily away and goes to bed, feeling like she is being chased down by a vicious dragon. 

Sometimes we learn things about ourselves that we don't actually like to see: that night, as she listens behind her closed curtains Mary worrying about her outfit, Lily finds out that she is an awful friend.

 ---

«So - James and Mary.»

Lily is surprised to hear her own voice saying those words: she was only thinking about them, she doesn't want to speak about it. Remus raises his eyes from his Defence against the dark arts' essay to watch her: green meets green and Lily is almost too embarrassed to go on.

«Mary said that James asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him,» she explains, hoping not to sound too put out about the whole thing.

«Did she?» her friend asks, dipping his quill into the ink and beginning to write again.

Lily presses her lips together, ignoring her Potion's essay - she wants… Merlin, she doesn't even know what she wants out of this conversation.

«She was really happy,» she tells him after a long quiet moment.

Remus' mouth twitches and Lily can't help but notice he is suppressing a chuckle. «James was too,» he tells her. «He was very glad she said yes.»

He was very glad - Lily loses her breath again as acid goes up to her throat from her stomach. She swallows it down again. 

He was very glad - is he still very glad? Would he be happier if she… 

Lily shakes her head, suppressing that thought. «I didn’t think James was that type of friend - I mean, didn’t you have a crush on Mary in first year?»

Remus puts down the quill and raises an eyebrow, giving her a look that makes her feel chastised - her voice is perhaps too hateful as she says it. «Lily,» he starts, clasping his hands together. «as much as I’d like to believe that you’re trying to defend the honour of my eleven-year-old self, somehow I don’t think it would make you feel better if I said that James asked my permission to ask her out- something that he didn’t do, mind you, because Mary is her own person and because… really, a crush that lasts five days hardly counts,»  she opens her mouth to speak, but Remus stops her. «You know, James is trying to leave you alone just like you asked him to do since the Sorting - he knows the only thing you will offer him is this strange kind of friendship you two have right now,» her heart hurts as she listens to his words, trying to figure out why her own body is protesting against them. Remus seems to notice, because he says: «And if he is wrong about it, he will never know if you don't tell him.»

«He isn't,» Lily says, before she can stop herself. «I like being friends with him - he is everything you ever told me he was,» she confesses, remembering every time in the past Remus has defended James against her harsh words. «It’s just that - » what? His love may not be so unrequited now? Mary isn't the only one with a crush on stupid James Potter? «- Mary is my friend too.»

The way Remus observes her lets Lily know he may have guessed her inner debate. «It’s just a date,» he says with one of his Prefect's voices - the one he uses to reassure a scared first year. «They won't get married because they are going to go to Hogsmead together.»

It's not that, for Merlin's sakes, it's just that - «I know.» 

«- and James won't do anything that might hurt Mary. »

She doesn't even worry about it, she is just thinking about - «I know.»

Remus sighs and shakes his head at her, resuming his writing. Lily notices how his lips are pressed into a thin line, as if he is trying to decide whether or not saying something. «Lily,» and, again, their eyes meet. «Don't tell James I told you this,» he begins and Lily swears it, now more curious than ever. «You're still the only girl he talks about.»

Lily shouldn't feel this happy - she shouldn't - but her mouth is stretched in a sincere smile and her face is burning. 

---

Even if Remus' words calm her down a little, Lily avoids James in the days that precede the Hogsmeade’s trip. She doesn’t want to spend time with him, knowing that the very idea he could be interested in someone who isn’t here is making her miserable. Her mother always says  you don’t know you love someone until you lose them and this is the first time Lily actually understands those words. Still, she feels guilty whenever she needs to give him excuses as she attempts not to be in the same place with him, and she misses James terribly during the nightly patrols that Head Boy and Head Girl should do together.

The Hogsmeade weekend comes too quickly and, at the same time, way too slow and Lily feels like a right mess. Mary is already awake when Lily climbs down the bed and she is so pretty and excited that the muggleborn witch can’t help but smile at her chatter. Her stomach is churning as she brushes her hair and adjusts her uniform - the Head Girl pin seems to be slightly crooked everytime she watches herself in the mirror. 

«James» Mary calls out when Lily, Marlene, Dorcas and her enter the Gryffindor Common Room. «how are you?»

How is he? Lily asks herself watching him: James is unfairly handsome in his stupid uniform and the way he cards his hand in his own hair looking embarrassed is stupidly enticing. Lily has to actually shut her inner voice up about the state of his hair because - Merlin, James’ hazel eyes find her green ones for just a moment and Lily’s heartbeat is speeding up.

«Seeing something you like, Evans?» Sirius Black’s voice is like a bucket full of cold water right on her head. 

«Good morning to you too, Black.»

He waves his hand, like he is dismissing her greeting. «Our Jamsie looks particularly handsome today, doesn’t he?»

«Why? Are you fearing that someone could steal him away from you when you’re not watching?»

Sirius’ grey eyes study her face, then he smirks. «Nah,» he says. «I’m just making sure you know that someone is attempting to take him away from you while you are watching» then, he nods towards Mary, who is clinging to Potter’s arm as they speak.

Lily bites her bottom lip, her eyes pointed on the floor for a moment, then she fakes a smile and looks at Black. «I have a meeting with Professor McGonagall, tell Remus I’ll wait for him before going to Tomes and Scrolls» and with that, she is out of the room.

 ---

 James Potter is an arrogant toerag, a prick, a stupid git, an idiot and a complete asshole.

James Potter is handsome, funny, easygoing, unexpectedly kind and one of the most brilliant students in their year.

James Potter is hot and an amazing Quidditch player.

James Potter is sitting at one of Madam Puddifoot’s tables with Mary McDonald, smiling at her and making her laugh and Lily feels like crying.

She bites her lip and tries to calm down her laboured breath as she looks at the Shrieking Shack with stinging eyes - Lily shouldn’t be there alone, she should be in the village, offering help to younger students, looking out for them. However, the thought of witnessing James' and Mary's date makes her want to go back to the castle and lock herself up in her dorm room. 

«You know, you shouldn’t be this close to this place - people say it's haunted.» 

Lily's eyes widen and she wipes her cheeks as stupidly perfect James Potter appears at her side. Even his voice sounds attractive to her and - dear Morgana - Lily hates having a crush on James idiot Potter. 

She takes a deep breath, then turns to look at him - still unfairly handsome, fuck. «You're supposed to be on a date.»

«You are avoiding me» James says, instead. «I thought we were past this point - you've been talking to me for the last two months.»

«Where is Mary?»

«Things were great between us, weren't they? We talked, spent time together - do you know doing nightly patrols with you makes them bearable? I was stuck with Cain - Cain, Lily. He is more conceited than Sirius and I mixed together!»

Lily hides a laugh. «Pretty much conceited then» she replies, trying not to feel either guilty or flattered because of his words. «James, really, why aren't you with Mary?»

The wizard sighs. «Mary and I both agree we are better off as friends» he answers. «It’s okay because I asked her out without expecting anything.»

«Mary likes you.»

«She doesn't really like me - an entire day with me was enough to make her crush go away» James shrugs. «I don't know what it says about me, but I'm not complaining.»

«You asked her out.»

«Because I thought it would have been nice - I mean, even Remus thought she was pretty in those five days of first year.»

«Mary is pretty, and funny, and kind, and - »

«Lily, do you want me to date her?» James asks, a bit confused. 

«James, you asked her out.»

«Yes, I was there when I did.»

Lily sighs and, for a moment, she really doesn't want to look at him. «After three years of asking me out, you go and - and…» she lets out a frustrated sound. Merlin, she just wants to go to bed and hide from the world. 

James seems to be out of breath when Lily looks at him again and his hazel eyes twinkle with something that could possibly be realization. «Lily, why have you been avoiding me these past days?» he asks again, voice slightly hoarse. 

Because I like you, because being wrong about you feels like the best thing that has ever happened to me - and I found out I was a witch at eleven year old. 

Because I love spending time with you, talking with you, laughing with you. 

Because of the way you fight against prejudice - because I saw you comforting a muggleborn first year after a group of Slytherins threatened to hurt him even though he is just a child. 

Because you are brave and chivalrous, but also stupid and annoying. 

Because - 

«Lily, did you want me to ask you out?»

Yes, yes, yes. You stupid git, yes. 

«I feel stupid asking this, but Lily Evans - » because - «- were you jealous of Mary McDonald because you fancy me?»

Lily swallows down and looks at the Shrieking Shack, hugging herself to get some courage. «The last few days have been awful - I missed you too» she tells him, feeling her eyes burn again. «I missed you but I couldn't - you asked Mary, James. You asked my friend Mary out, I couldn't spend time with you knowing that you wanted to date her» her throat hurts. «I didn't want to -» Lily finally looks at him, biting her lip. «I avoided you and Mary, I was miserable, I spent so much time with Professor Slughorn and Madam Pince that I could as well be their bloody lovechild» James' mouth stretches into a smile. «So tell me, James Potter: did I want you to ask me out? Was I jealous because I fancy you?»

James is beaming at her - his smile is blinding and Lily actually asks how can he still see while doing so. Wouldn't it fog his glasses? 

«I dare say yes, Lily Evans, you fancy the pants out of me.»

Lily shakes her head, failing in suppressing a sob - James hesitates a bit before hugging her. «You're so annoying» she says, as she lets him comfort her. «Why do I have to fancy you?»

«I'm not that bad, you know?» James replies, holding her. «I still don't know how a fellyfont works, but - »

«Telephone» Lily corrects him, sniffing. 

«- and I fancy you too, if you didn't get the notice for the past four - five years.»

Lily snorts and hugs him too. «Seven years - you've been fancying me for the past seven years.»

«So you did notice.»

«You fought with the Giant Squid for my hand, Potter - you weren't exactly subtle about it.»

James laughs, a bit self-deprecatingly and puts his lips on her head, without kissing it. «What can I say? I like putting on a show.»

Lily smiles and looks up at him - they stare at each other, breathing quietly together while talking without words. «James» Lily says, and the wizard's hand caresses one of her cheeks. 

«Uh?»

«I fancy you - would you like to spend the rest of the day with me?»

«Are you asking me out, Evans?»

«I dare say that I am, Potter.»

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Whumptober Day 27

Day 27: Ransom

17.  Ransom: Baz

Fiona

I’ve just settled down for the night. My tea. My bikkies. Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and A Funeral on the telly.

I’ll admit I’m a bit partial to Hugh, but I can’t for the life of me understand why they keep pairing him up with these bloody awful American women in his films. Fiona was a far better fit for him than that wretched Carrie. I suppose it’s all to appeal to American audiences.

Typical.

My mobile rings just as Henrietta spots Charles. Blast it. I like this bit.

It’s Malcolm. I pick up.

“Fiona, it’s Malcolm.”

“So I gathered. I do have caller ID, you know. That’s why I’m bothering to answer.”

“Have you spoken to Basilton today?”

Odd. I thought Basil was in Hampshire with them. I tell Malcolm just that.

“He is. . . he was.” It’s not like Malcolm to stumble over his words. “He went to the Club to play tennis with Dev this morning and he’s not back.”

“Did he run over to Dev’s then?”

“Dev hasn’t seen him. Not since midday.”

“Did you call his mobile?”

“I’ve called. Dev’s called. Basil isn’t picking up. It goes directly to voicemail.” Malcolm’s agitated. I can tell by the timbre of his voice. “I thought perhaps he’d come up to visit you for the night and forgot to tell us.”

Baz would never forget to tell Daphne. He’s conscientious about things like that.

“He hasn’t. I’ve not heard from him. Not since Tuesday.” I click the television off. “I’m sure he’s alright, Malcolm. Maybe he ran into some friends at the Club and they went out.” I can hear Malcolm’s fingers tapping through the line. Another tell of his. “Have you called the Club?”

“I have. Cecil said he saw him leave this afternoon. They’ve not seen him since.”

I check my watch. It’s half past ten.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. It’s not as if Baz is a child. He’s of age. He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

But he’s not prone to haring off without letting any of us know. He’s meticulous about that. He knows how Daphne frets.

He knows Malcolm worries.

“What can I do to help? I can try to call him, text him? Do a finding spell?”

“I’ve tried that.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“His mobile? Did you try tracking that?”

“He’s turned access off.”

I’m up off the sofa now. Where the hell are my keys?

“I’ll go to the Club. I’ll see if his car is still there.” I find my keys and pocket them, putting the phone on speaker as I pull on my boots.

Malcolm sighs. “Sorry. I thought I mentioned it. When I spoke to Cecil earlier I had him check the car park. His car was still there.”

“Well, I’ll go see for myself if it bloody well still is.” I grab my wallet and I’m out the door a moment later, mobile still clutched to my ear. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

The Jag is still in the lot when I pull into the Club parking area. It’s the only car there.

It’s locked, of course, because Basil is nothing if not a creature of habit. I spell it and open the door.

There’s nothing to see. It’s pristine as always, because Baz is a prat. No papers. No mobile. No tennis racquet, no bag. Nothing.

Where the fuck is he?

I drive to Hampshire. There’s no point in going back to my flat, not until we’ve got this figured out.

Malcolm

Fiona shows up at the door at half-past twelve. She looks as agitated as I feel. Daphne sweeps her into a hug and we all settle in the den. I pour her a whiskey. I pour one for myself as well.

A generous pour.

Daphne sips her Madeira.

“So now what?” Fiona asks, downing half her drink in one swallow.

“I think we need to report him as missing to the authorities,” Daphne says, eyes on me.

“The Normal authorities, you mean?” Fiona asks.

“Well, yes. There’s no magical authority to report him to.”

I’ve often thought it would behoove us to have our own experts for Magickal Law Enforcement. I’m sure there are those who feel that would be encroaching on the freedoms of Mages and some such rot. But in situations like this, the Normal way of doing things is often inadequate.

Fiona snorts. “No authority other than the Mage’s Merry Men.”

That is a sore subject. There is no formal constabulary in the World of Mages but Llewellyn has set up his own corps, under his authority and sole supervision—aptly called the Mage’s Men—who do his bidding and his alone. They’ve already been here twice this summer, looking for banned books and forbidden artifacts. Llewellyn himself showed up the last time. He sat in this very room, drinking tea with Daphne, while his men ransacked our library.

Not that they found anything. I’ve known about their ‘raids’ for months. I was prepared. They found nothing untoward and I could see by the curl of Llewellyn’s lip that he realized he’d been had.

No one crosses that line with a Pitch or a Grimm. I’ll be damned if he gets to paw through our legacy. If he gets to rake through the artefacts Natasha’s family has collected for generations.

I think the fuck not.

Merlin above, I sound like Basilton.

“I wouldn’t even consider informing them.” I lean forward and meet Fiona’s eyes. “This is family business and I see no reason to bring them into it.”

Daphne looks pained. She worries.

I think she worries more about Baz than about the other children. Which is understandable, with all that he’s gone through.

She’s got a soft heart that that the whole world can see.

Not me. I hide mine away, under layers of cool competence, an icy demeanor, a steadfast façade of detachment.

My heart’s gone up in open flames once. I don’t dare let that happen again.

“What do you suggest, Malcolm?” Fiona’s glass is empty. Her eyes are narrowed.

“We may have more luck if we work the spell together?” I dart a glance at Daphne. Her lips are a thin line. She knows what I’m going to suggest. “There are some books, as you know, in the library . . .”

Fiona’s on her feet. “Come on then. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Fiona

The books are old and fucking useless. Malcolm and I try obscure summoning spells, a few dodgy finding spells, and a banned tracking spell. I’ve incinerated one of Baz’s sweaty socks already and we’re no closer to finding him.

I can see the sky brightening when I look out the library windows. We’ve been at it all night, Daphne bringing us tea and biscuits just a short while ago.

“It’s not use. None of these are working.” I lean back in my chair. Bloody hell, I’m tired.

Malcolm frowns down at the scroll he’s perusing. “It doesn’t make sense. These should work.”

“Unless he’s crossed a body of water.”

He’s tapping his fingers again. “It’s not like him, Fiona.”

“I know.”

Malcolm

The call comes in mid-morning. From Basilton’s mobile.

“Basilton? Where are you?”

A gravelly voice answers me instead. “No questions.”

“Who are you?”

“I said no questions.” The voice rasps back at me, more of a rough growl now. “We’ve got him.”

My blood runs cold.  

“Tell me where he is.”

There’s a low grumble, almost like a laugh. “Not yet.”

And then they ring off.

Bloody hell.

I call his number and it goes directly to voicemail again.

I’m pounding on Fiona’s bedroom door a moment later. She opens up, hair in a tangle on her head, eyes narrowed at me.

“I got a call.”

That snaps her to attention.

“From Baz?”

I shake my head and wave my mobile at her. “It was his number but it wasn’t him. Someone has him.”

The color drains from her face. “What do you mean someone has him? Kidnapped? Is that what you’re saying, Malcolm?”

“They didn’t say much. Told me not to ask any questions and said ‘we’ve got him’ and then rang off.”

“Give me your mobile.”  She snatches if from me before I can hand it over.

“It won’t do any good. I tried to call back and it went straight to voicemail.”

“Really, Malcolm, there are times I despair for you. I don’t know what Natasha was thinking.” She pulls her wand out of her pocket and taps at my screen.

There is no point to having passwords around Fiona. She can open any lock, bypass any privacy PINs, crack any code. It’s just one of the unsavory skills she has.

I’m hoping they all come in useful now.

“Back to the source.” She’s tapping on the received call log, on the recent call from Baz’s mobile. My screen glows momentarily and then goes dim. “Bloody hell.” She taps it again with the same result.

She hands it back, the disgust clear on her face.

“What were you trying to do?”

“Trace the location of the call. To zoom in the location of the mobile itself.” She’s tapping her wand against the doorframe. “It usually works, unless there’s water involved or the network is buggered up.”

“Someone has him, Fiona. They have Baz.”

Our eyes meet. We’ve kept this secret—Daphne, Fiona and I. And . . . one more person but he’s no use to us right now. We’ve kept this between us for thirteen years. For Baz’s sake.

For Baz’s safety.

Anyone who has him in their custody will know. Likely not today. Perhaps not even tomorrow, depending on when he fed last.

But it’s inevitable. He can’t go more than a day or two.

I can see it in her eyes. She knows.

Whoever has him will kill him when they find out.

I close my eyes as a wave of nausea hits me. My knees feel weak. I clutch the doorframe to steady myself.

They have my son. Someone has my son.

Keep it together, Malcolm Grimm. I hear Natasha’s voice in my head but it’s Fiona who’s grabbing my sleeve and shaking me.

“Steady now, Malcolm.”

Fiona

I wish I was as confident as I sound.

Malcolm

The next call comes two days later.

Fiona, Daphne and I have had two sleepless nights, endless pots of tea, a myriad of useless spells.

The children are in bed. Fiona and I are poring over near-incomprehensible, dubious ancient tomes when the call comes in.

I pick up my mobile and put it on speakerphone.

“Malcolm Grimm,” is all I say.

“We’ve got him.” The voice is lower this time, gruffer. Not the same person then.

Fiona leans forward and I slash my hand in the air at her. My message is clear: let me handle this.

She slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, brow furrowed, her glare directed at the mobile resting on the table between us.

“Where is my son?”

“For us to know and you not to find out.”

“What do you want?”

The price they name is surprisingly high but not astronomically out of reach. I’ll have to speak with my brother and make a few calls to the bank but I can handle this.

I’ll pay more if needed.

I’ll sell whatever I have. No reservations.

“When and where?”

Fiona leaps across the table to pick up my mobile. She shakes it and then starts shouting. “Listen, you yammering gobshite, I’ll be damned if I pay one cent to get my nephew back. Do you know who you are dealing with? This is the House of Pitch. We never forgive and we never forget. I’ll flay you alive before I barter with you over my nephew. I’ll burn you at the stake if you touch a single hair on his head. You will regret this with your dying breath, which I hope to hell comes at my hand.”

I wrestle the mobile away from her. “Hello? Hello?”

They’ve rung off, of course.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Fiona? We could have had him back by sundown. What part of let me fucking handle this do you not understand?” I’m shouting.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually shouted at Fiona before.

She’s lucky I’m not strangling her.

“Pitches don’t negotiate, Malcolm. We don’t get blackmailed, we don’t bow to terms, we don’t pay fucking ransoms. We never have and we bloody well never will.”

“This is my son’s life you’re playing with. Natasha’s son.” I don’t think I’ve ever been this furious.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this terrified.

“I know that!” Fiona shouts back. “They know that. They’re after something, Malcolm, that’s clear. There’s no earthly reason anyone would want to kidnap Baz. They want something from you.” “Money,” I thunder. “They want money and I’ve got more than enough to spare.”

“It’s not about the money.” She’s pacing the room now. “This has the stink of the Mage all over it.” She glares at me. “You’ve thwarted him at every turn. You’ve defied him publicly. You’ve scuttled his raids. You’re fomenting rebellion among the Old Families.” “You’re the one inciting the insurrection, Fiona, not me. I’ve washed my hands of that.”

“Then maybe they want something from me.” “Money.” I say again.

“It’s not money. It’s power. Someone has a hold over you now, Malcolm. Over the both of us. Fucking hell. Those arseholes have Baz and they’ve got us over a barrel.”

“So we give them what they want. Baz is more important than any of this.” I walk across the room and grip her by the shoulders. “There’s only so much time, Fiona. Only so much time before they know. All they want is money or power or control right now.” My voice drops. “Once they know what he is, it’s over. We’ll never get him back.”

“They wouldn’t dare, Malcolm. They wouldn’t dare.”

Fiona

Malcolm stopped speaking to me. He has no idea how this sort of thing works. It’s not the first time a Pitch has been kidnapped, although it very well may be the last, seeing as Baz and I are the end of the line. Literally.

Pitches don’t negotiate. We don’t pay ransoms.

We get revenge.

We get the kidnapped person back too.

Except for great-uncle Percival, but no one really wanted him back anyway. The fairies actually sent him back but he had the misfortune to run into a pack of nuckelavees on his way home and that was the end of him.

One nuckelavee would have been enough. Those are right bastards to kill.

Malcolm argued with me for days. “He’s the only living heir to of the House of Pitch!”

“I’m aware!”

“He’s my son, Fiona. He’s the last vestige of Natasha we have left!”

“Natasha would never negotiate. She would never bend her will to another.” My voice was ice. “She scraped the bottom of the barrel when she married a Grimm. Farmers and shepherds, the lot of you. What would you know about pride and dignity?”

“He’s my son!” Malcolm had shouted.

“She would have ended him there and then, Malcolm. She would have ended him herself if she hadn’t been bitten. To keep him from becoming what he is. She would never compromise anything, for anyone. And you know it.”

It took us a week to start speaking to each other again.

One more call came in yesterday, with a sum more astronomical than the first, but the caller didn’t seem too focused on the amount. Tossed it off with a laugh almost.

Wouldn’t give Malcolm a time or a place.

The wanker asked, of course. He’d have paid them off the first time they called, if he’d had it his way.

Which he doesn’t, of course. Baz is a Pitch and this is Pitch business. Full stop.

But I don’t think they’re really in it for the money. There’s some other game afoot. Some other purpose to this.

And they know he’s a fucking vampire. Called him a ‘blood-eater’ the last time they called. Nonchalantly dropped it in the conversation.

I told Malcolm that proves it. They’re not going to hurt Baz. If they know he’s a vampire and they’ve not set him alight, they’re not going to do anything to him at all.

This is all bluster and show. It keeps us occupied when we should be planning the Mage’s demise.

I swear it’s something he’s cooked up, to mess with us when we need our focus most. Keeping us distracted while he masterminds another nefarious scheme to decimate our power, divide our forces, subjugate our will.

Honestly, fuck the Mage.

Malcolm

They called again. I kept them on the line longer this time, with Daphne recording the conversation with her mobile.

Fiona

Numpties. Fucking numpties. It came to me when we were listening to the recording for what must have been the hundredth time. Gravelly voice. Slow and hoarse. Raspy and low. Like rocks scraping against each other. Like the crunch of a gravel road.

“Numpties! How the fuck did Baz get himself kidnapped by fucking numpties?”

Malcolm’s eyes had gleamed. “At least we know who has him.”

“Why numpties?”

“I don’t care about the why, Fiona. All I care about is where.”

“London, then. That’s where to find them.”

Malcolm

Daphne tries to keep my spirits up but the despair has set in. The numpties haven’t called in weeks. Baz’s mobile doesn’t even go to voicemail anymore. Just rings and rings and rings.

The last time they called they didn’t even talk about money. They wanted wands.

Wands. Numpties wanting wands. It’s absurd. They’ve hardly any magic to them. What would they want with wands? It’s not like they could even use them. Or effectively burn them to keep warm.  

It makes me think Fiona’s right. That the numpties are just a front, a subterfuge. Something more sinister is behind this. It makes no sense. Why on earth would they kidnap Baz if they wanted wands? I may have magickal objects in my possession but I don’t have wands just lying about.

Fiona’s gone to London again, to consult with her ‘sources.’ I know who she means. I doubt he will be of any help to us. He’s a turncoat, a traitor. A curse to his family and our kind.

I would pay every single one of the Covent Garden vampires any sum they wish, for information. Even though their kind killed my wife. Even though their savagery has marred my son forever.

I don’t give a damn. I would pay the devil himself if he would give me Baz back.

Fiona

I’ve scoured every place that’s had a hint of numpty to it. Abandoned buildings. The closed off lines of the Underground. The seedy steam baths near the docks.

I don’t know where else to look. I do know who to ask.

It’s been years since I’ve seen Nicky.

I’m desperate.

We’ve not heard from the kidnappers for weeks. Every finding spell I’ve attempted has failed.  

He’s got to be near water or underground. That’s the only thing I can think of, that would confound the spells. Running water, a place deep beneath the ground, a hiding place encased in steel.

The last one makes me shudder.

Malcolm has resorted to some questionable practices. I’d not expected it of him. Grimms don’t usually dabble in the darker magic.

I certainly did not expect him to summon a demon. That was two days ago. I thought Daphne was going to drop dead from the shock when the bastard manifested but she stayed by Malcolm the whole time, chanting the incantation just as he told her to.

Not that it helped. The horned nightmare didn’t tell us much of anything.

I wonder if it’s that much harder to track the undead.

Not that I think Baz is undead. He’s just not as alive as one would prefer, for these kinds of rituals.

So all we have is what I’ve been saying. Near running water. Underground. Possibly a metal barrier.

I’ve berated Malcolm enough. He’s proved far more Pitch than Grimm through this whole fiasco, barring the ransom issue.

I’ve got a fair amount of respect for Malcolm, though I’ll die a thousand painful deaths before I ever tell him that. The way he handled the loss of Tasha, what happened to Baz—what he is, what he’s become. It’s not something for the weak of heart.

I criticize Malcolm for being weak.

He’s not. Not really.

If anything, it’s me that’s is. I know what you would have done, Tasha. I know what you would have told Malcolm to do.

And I think he would have defied you, even if you’d lived.

That helps me do it too. I’ve made different choices than you would, sister.

I think they’re the right ones.

Even the one I’m making now.

I’ll find Nicky. I always do.

And he’ll help.

He always does.

I’ll find the bastards who took your boy and I will bloody end them.

[dikdikrising]

“...and you’re sure this will help me?”

Vesper threw his last article of clothing to the ground with some apprehension. With that, per previous instruction, he took off his blindfold - which he was pretty sure now was an old rag snatched from the bar’s supply closet - and stared ahead at Malachi, the vibrant blue wildclaw, who seemed to take some quiet delight in making him wait for a response.

“Magic always works,” said Malachi, futzing with a withered tome he had just plopped onto a stone lectern, “as it intends to. Not as you intend it to, hatchling. And magic currently requires that you stand perfectly still.”

Vesper looked around now that his eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness. “Right. Perfectly still. Naked and alone in the middle of the Defiled Frontier.”

“Yeah.” Malachi reached into his sidebag and stuffed what was clearly a handful of leftover chili cheese fries into his mouth. He failed to wipe off his hand before turning another page.

“Okay.” Vesper put a claw to his temple in a moment of sober realization. “Look. I, um, hate to be rude, the act is cute and all-”

“My actions are merely guided by the forces around me,” Malachi said through a mouthful of congealed cheese.

“But I’m missing out on a whole evening of tips, which I very much need, because you - and you specifically used the word promised - to help me figure out my future.”

Truthfully, judging from his getup, it wasn’t hard to believe. Vesper was reluctant to buy into stereoypes, but Malachi was a Water dragon, and everything about Malachi’s appearance, from the emblem to the sash to the ominous cloak, screamed out that he was not trying to hide this fact in the least. If anyone in the middle of a smelly wasteland was going to be a clairvoyant, the smart money would be on him.

“And I am,” Malachi said with some practice in his voice. “The future is around us, and we, in all out fleeting existence, can only see that sliver of time immediately in front of us before it rapidly bleeds into our present and just as quickly scatters to cosmic dust-”

“I thought you meant in terms of, uh, career advice? I’m pretty sure you mentioned earlier you were an adviser of some sort.” Vesper’s patience didn’t typically wear this thin, but his bills had been weighing on him all week. Also, all that was between his fragile body and the pulsating ground was an old blanket with an X painted on to it. Actually, he was positive now that it was a beach towel, judging by its depiction of a cartoon Windsinger lounging in trunks and a pair of shades.

“As much as one can claim to be a confidante of the whims of the universal tides.” As he said this, he looked up to the sky in what Vesper was sure he thought was a pensive, meaningful gaze and not hamfisted scenery chewing for an audience of one.

“Then maybe you can kindly ask the tides, on my behalf, what the hell I can do around here with a history degree.”

“Then one so versed with past deeds surely is intimately familiar with the intricacies of how every action and reaction-” another mouthful of cold fries - “play off one another to allow a myriad of possibilities.”

“And one of those myriad of possibilities resulted in me giving you a scotch egg! On the house! That comes out of my pay!”

“And the tides thank you,” said Malachi, quietly stifling a burp. “Good karma is certain to be your reward. However distant that may be.”

“Yeah, no, fuck this, I’m going home.”

Vesper bent down to collect the clothes he had strewn all over the ground. And the rag, just in case his boss noticed one had gone missing. Malachi nearly lost his composure, but caught himself after a moment, raising a hand in polite suggestion.

“Ahhh b-b-b-okay. Okay. I see. I understand. You have your own life. You would like me to get to the point of all this.”

Vesper folded his arms. “If you could, yeah.” Malachi approached ever so slightly and launched into his next soliloquy.

“My point is, I look within you, Vesper, and I see potential. There is a rich vein within you that has gone untapped. And by the end of tonight, you will be just as aware of that potential as I am.”

“Uh huh. Did you discover this potential before or after you patted your pockets pretending not to find your wallet?”

For a few glorious seconds, Malachi had nothing to say. “Well-”

“Goodbye.”

“NOWAITITSALMOSTREADY”

As soon as Vesper ventured one step beyond the beach towel, he found himself at the center of what felt like a concussive magical blast coming out from beneath him. Interlacing  wisps of pink and purple shot well into the sky and completely filled his field of vision for the next ten seconds, and he could just barely hear a handful of dragons shouting the word “SURPRISE” before his limbs started to jolt into screaming pain, then numbness, then nothing.

________________________________________________________________

Vesper struggled to consciousness an indeterminate amount of hours later to the sound of heated arguing.

“...BREED CHANGE SCROLL? TELL ME- NO, LOOK AT THE INVITATION I SLIPPED UNDER YOUR DOOR AND TELL ME WHERE I ASKED FOR A FUCKING BREED CHANGE SCROLL! LET’S SEE, CUPS, PLATES, PUNCH, DIP, CHEESE, CRACKERS, CAKE-NOPE! CAN’T FIND THAT ON THE LIST! HMMmmMMMMmmmm”

Vesper tried to focus. He saw Malachi in the midst of dressing down a fae so sparkly and crystalline he could see their every reflection through his half-aware haze. The fae seemed to find the situation hilarious. Possibly. They had a very fixed expression of maniacal glee. He looked around. There was nobody he recognized, but all the dragons had the same general spooky, portentous vibe that Malachi was so keen on cultivating. Eventually, one of the other partygoers, a sheepish looking Imperial, finally noticed Vesper was coming around and elbowed Malachi in the ribs. He looked aghast.

“Ow, why d-heeeeeey! So, Vesper! Friend! Buddy! Pal! Good news, you made it! From-from your nap. Your nap that was every bit intentional. Just that part, though. Only that part.”

Another wildclaw in mysterious robes sighed at Malachi’s antics with a familiar frustration. “Mal, just tell the poor boy.”

“Yes! I will tell him that he has officially been inducted into the Cabal!”

“...Cabal?” Vesper’s voice was croaky. It seemed to have a somewhat different register.

“of Shadows! An ancient order of seers and keepers of clandestine knowledge! The ceremony has concluded, and the tides have revealed to us that you, Vesper of the Sunflower Fields, have proven yourself worthy of our ranks! Bravo!”

Malachi broadly motioned to the partygoers to clap. A few of them did. The fae was weirdly enthusiastic about it.

“And furthermore-” Malachi paused to think carefully for a second. “The tides have, uh, also taken, steps! To, ah, assist you in realizing your full potential, and have seen fit to... reward you.”

Vesper narrowed his eyes, mostly out of blurriness. “With?”

“A new form.”

Vesper put his hand on Malachi’s shoulder to steady himself. It had some new things coming out of it. Fur, for one.

“...Malachi?”

Desperation flashed across Malachi’s face. He shakily offered up a square of marble sheet cake on a paper plate. “Blessings be upon you?”

[whiskynottea]

An interruption in the 1st law of thermodynamics.

Previously, Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35

@theministerskat, thank you for being my awesome beta for this story!!

Chapter 36. Almond and Cherries

Spring break.

My last spring break as a teenager. The one in which my suspicion that adults can be just as ridiculous as teenagers was confirmed. And that they’re especially ridiculous when they think themselves funny.

Another silly bit of knowledge I also learned overt spring break was that adults - particularly my uncle - find young love adorable. And because of that, they think it’s quite funny to tease young lovers about it.

“Claire,” Lamb said from his spot in front of the bookshelf. He had been standing there for more than ten minutes, inspecting the books with a frown on his face, his index finger drumming against his chin. “Can you please get me the volumes on the Jacobite rebellion from my desk? Those ones, with the red leather cover,” he pointed towards his desk and my gaze followed his finger across the room, landing on the large hardcover tomes on his desk, their covers a deep burgundy, carved with black letters.

“That’s burgundy, not red,” I playfully snipped, then I rose from the couch, sighing. I walked to his desk, slipping my phone into my pocket just a second before I picked the books up in my hands.

“Well, look at that now,” Lamb said with a cocked eyebrow and a crooked smile. “I would swear that phone was glued to your hand!”

I shot him a glare before rolling my eyes. “Ha, ha, ha. What a funny uncle I have.”

Lamb chuckled at his own joke and extended a hand to take a volume from me. “Yer a lucky lass,” he said, his Scottish accent even worse than mine.

Remarks like that had become a staple in our interactions during spring break because, apparently, I was always texting, half my mind focused on Jamie. The fact that I took a new selfie every two minutes didn’t help with Lamb’s teasing much, but there was nothing I could do about it. Lamb just went on with his hilarious remarks and I thought my eyes would get stuck looking skywards from being rolled all the time.

My phone buzzed with hundreds of messages every day – and every night: the night texts being the reason I never let it out of my sight. Lamb’s teasing of me was bearable, but I couldn’t risk him accidentally reading Jamie’s texts about what he planned to do to me once he was back from Lallybroch. I, however, found myself scrolling up every night before sleeping, reading and rereading his texts, feeling an ache in my chest and a tightening low in my belly. It was like getting drunk on him. I usually fell asleep with a silly smile on my face and one of Jamie’s pictures on my phone’s screen.

Jamie’s pictures. In just a few days my phone was full of them, to an extent that proved detrimental to my phone’s free storage space.

Jamie in bed, with tousled hair and a sleepy smile.

Scot: Moooorning, Sassenach.

And then, after a long silence on my part because I was obviously still sleeping,

Scot: Wake up, babe! Don’t leave me alone!

The porridge Jamie had for breakfast – extremely similar to the one he had had the day before, but still worth sharing.

Scot: Breakfast! Have to eat fast, da waiting to leave for the distillery.

Jamie at the distillery, making a goofy face in front of the copper stills.

Scot: Hard working man, here. You like?

His distillery picture - every time at a different place of the distillery - came through at approximately the time I woke up.

Sassenach: Mmmm. Morning!

Another picture showing half the ceiling and half Jamie’s face, taken from a weird angle.

Sassenach: What’s this?

Scot: Da watching. Was the best I could do.

Jamie’s time at the distillery was the only part of the day when we didn’t text. Brian was serious about his son’s training concerning the family whisky, and Jamie soon realized that since he was going to be there, he better make it count. It would be a few hours later when another picture would arrive.

Jamie back home, grinning broadly to the camera next to Bran, his deerhound, patiently awaiting his favorite human to stop with the nonsense and play with him.

Scot: Back home!

Sassenach: Play-time?

Scot: Going to run up the hill, Sassenach. Train to keep up with the lack of swimming ☹️

Jamie with Bran again, the human feigning sleep, while the dog slept on his lap.

Scot: DEAD

Sassenach: Oh what a pity! You’re not coming back, then?

Scot: YOU WISH

Sassenach: In fact I’m not.

Scot: Can’t wait to kiss you again. To lick you, to touch you.

Sassenach: OMG CAN YOU STOP IT?

Scot: I’ve big plans for you when I get back. 😏

Sassenach: Have you now?

Scot: Wait and you’ll see. What are you doing?

Sassenach: Studying! Won’t YOU study??

Scot: Ffs

Jamie in his room, my notes and the book in front of him.

Scot: Not the same without you.

Sassenach: I know…

We’d study together then, usually until our eyes hurt and our yawns took the better of us. The last picture he always sent me was of him looking just as sleepy as the first picture of the day.

Jamie’s face covering the whole screen, sending me a goodnight kiss.

Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. He was everywhere, and yet I missed him insufferably much.

--

Apart from texting with Jamie - that took more time than one could imagine - my spring break was quiet, and I finally found time to catch up with Joe. It was unbelievable how the two of us were perfectly synchronized in finding love. And we both fell face first into that buzzing feeling that took hold of all our senses.

Two days before going back to school, Joe and I finally arranged to meet. We had so much to tell and texts seemed insufficient. I sent my morning selfie to Jamie, teasing him about staying at home to study while I went out. A series of angry emojis arrived seconds after my message was seen. After a bunch of hearts of all colours from me, he suggested we go to his favorite bakehouse, and I texted Joe with the address.

Sassenach: Are you sure you don’t want to be the one who’ll take me there for the first time?

Scot: Nah, Sassenach. It’s okay. If you like it we can go as many times as we want.

Scot: Try the cherry and almond tart!

I was getting dressed and didn’t reply. When I checked my phone again, I had two new messages.

Scot: Try the tart. Seriously.

Scot: It’s the beeeest. My fav.

Smiling, I texted back.

Sassenach: Okay! I’ll order your tart!

One hour later, I was sitting at a small cute table in the corner of the shop, a big piece of the cherry and almond tart in front of me, next to my cup of chai. I had three major subjects to discuss with Joe, and we jumped from one to the other several times every minute.

Jamie. Gail. Our exams.

I knew he was madly in love with Gail – actually the whole school knew, one glance at the two of them and everyone could see it – and my heart swelled when I heard him talking about her, his voice low and mellow, her name bringing a soft curve to his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. He got dreamy when he told me how they were spending their days, how they loved the same things, how her left cheek had this infinitesimally small dimple when she laughed. We talked about her family and her ideas, the way she saw the world – which had clearly affected Joe. Long gone was his cynical side, his absolute beliefs. He was softer somehow, his edges smoother.

“I certainly need to get to know her better! She sounds so awesome, Joe!”

“She is,” he said with a sheepish smile.

“We’re lucky, aren’t we?” I asked, beaming. “Who would imagine that Scotland would be this good. I got to meet the most amazing people - you included,” I smirked, and Joe smiled back.

“I know, LJ. Pretty awesome, ain’t it?” He then took on one of his teasing looks, and I knew I was in trouble. “Amazing people… Who would have guessed,” he said and I raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, I have a text here… somewhere...” he unlocked his phone, pretending to search for the text. “Saying ‘Jamie Fraser can go fuck himself’ or something along these lines?”

I scoffed and narrowed my eyes at him.

“And here we are now,” he continued, “With you unable to stop babbling about your dashing Highlander.”

“Well,” I shrugged. “He turned out to be a bit better than I thought.”

“A bit,” Joe smirked. “So did he fuck himself? Or did you help him with it?”

I burst out in laughter, feeling my cheeks burn crimson.

“Oh I see,” Joe said, winking at me.

The bastard.

After the enormous amount of time it took me to catch my breath, I decided the best I could do was to change the subject. “So,” I said. “Universities. Where will you apply? Do you still plan on going back to the US?”

“Hell yes! Scotland is great, lass,” he said winking at me – again –, “But we’re definitely going to the US, bae!”

“Where?” I asked smiling at the thought of studying in the US.

“New. York. City.” Joe said with a smug grin. “At least we hope so,” he added, sobering up a bit.

“That’s so cool! School of Medicine and…?” I trailed off, not knowing Gail’s goals.

“Silver School of Social Work, for Gail. She’ll be great, she’s made for it.” Joe took a big bite of his chocolate brownie. “And you?”

“Oxford University, both of us.” I said, proud of our choice. “I’ll miss you so much,” I added with a pout. “But it’s going to be so good, Joe!” Joe’s smile became broader, just a second before I heard an all too familiar voice, low and deep, coming from behind my ear.

“Oh yes. It’s going to be amazing, Joe.” I could hear the grin in his voice, but I couldn’t turn, my eyes wide looking at Joe. “Hello, babe,” Jamie said, and I felt his lips warm on the tender skin of my neck. He lingered a bit, breathing me in, and then moved away, making me long for more.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice high pitched with excitement.

“I told you I missed you,” Jamie answered, plopping himself down on the chair next to me.

I shook my head, taking his face in my hands. “You’re incredible.”

Jamie smiled and kissed me, and I lost myself in the sweet taste of his lips – or was that the dessert on my lips – and the heat that rose in my body - an effect Jamie always had on me when so close.

“Ahem.” Joe pretended to clear his throat before he laughed. We broke the kiss, smiling sheepishly.

“My cherry tart!” Jamie said, licking his lips as he reached for my fork. The last bite was still on my plate.

“So, what do you think you’re doing?” I asked, trying to hide the smile I felt springing up on my face.

“Eating my order?” He smiled smugly and I realized the reason he insisted on me ordering his favorite dessert. “At least ye left me a bite!”

“You fool,” I said, pinching his ribs.

Jamie swallowed and kissed me once more. His hand trailed up my thigh until it found mine on my lap and our fingers intertwined, finally in the right place. He told us that had taken the morning train from Inverness and came back – alone. His coach had called, asking him if he could at least be there for Sunday training and after the exemplary behavior he’d shown during the break, his dad allowed him to go. Ian and Jenny would return the next day. My mind ran so fast, thinking of the possibilities over and over.

Was Murtagh at home?

We left the bakehouse almost half an hour later, parting ways with Joe who was headed to meet Gail at the library.

“Finally,” Jamie breathed in my ear.

I shot him a knowing glance but he spoke before I could say anything.

“Dinna get me wrong, Sassenach, Joe is a verra fine lad and all, but I haven't seen ye in twelve days and tis making me crazy.”

“Crazy?” I asked. “Crazy, how?”

I found myself pushed into a close, my back flush on the rough stone, my lip taken hostage by Jamie's teeth.

“Crazy,” he said and our tongues collided, thirsty for each other. “Like,” He bit me lightly and his hand snuck under my coat, then under my sweater, until it was resting on my bare skin. Goosebumps rose in his fingers’ wake, and I didn’t know if they were from his cold hand or the heat of being touched. “That,” he concluded, one hand cupping my breast and the other my butt. Searching for connection, as much connection as possible. It was a need, a reaction necessary for survival and we couldn't but surrender to it.

“Oh God, Jamie.” His mouth left mine and he licked a trail down my neck, making me shiver.

“I want you,” he sighed. “I need you. I need to get my hands on you, on all of you, and feel your skin burn under my fingers and feel your breath come faster in my mouth. Ye wear,” he said, squeezing my butt, “too many bloody clothes, Sassenach.”

I moaned and laughed, and I opened my eyes, realizing where we were. People were passing by the close. Just a slight turn of their heads and they would see us. Burning.

“Jamie,” I stopped him, regretting it the moment I did it. “People are passing by right next to us.”

He opened his eyes and looked around, as if taking the place in for the first time. He took his hands off me with great difficulty, leaning his forehead against mine. “Ye’ll be the death of me,” he whispered, a small lopsided smile on his face. He breathed twice; full, deep breaths. “Claire,” he said then, his thumb running on my cheek, and he moved a strong arm to envelope me in his warmth. My body responded immediately, my hand coming to rest over his heart, feeling it pounding. “My training is tomorrow and Murtagh is in Glasgow. He will be there for at least four more hours. Come home with me.”

I felt my body melting into his, flesh igniting, our hearts beating to a rhythm that was ours alone. I nodded and kissed his soft smile; a kiss that tasted like almond, cherries, and happiness. Jamie took my hand and led me back to the main street, and I wondered if I could walk all the way to his house, my breath already coming short and shallow. Burning with love.

Chapter 37

[godaime-obito]

my fill for Madatobi week: August 3rd: Supernatural/fantasy

@madatobiweek

available on ao3 or under the cut

Tobirama approaches the great castle reluctantly. He’d much rather not be here, but as the most renowned necromancer of the age he really cannot skip the most important convening of wizards. It only happens once a decade and people will notice if he skips, unlike ten years ago. When he was a 28-year-old upstart he left early to make out with Madara Uchiha in the woods by the castle and no one noticed. Of course, that entire scenario is a lifetime away, Madara himself is supposedly a premier illusionist now. He really can’t picture it. Tobirama hasn’t seen Madara in eight years, and at that point the man’s primary form of wizardry was accidently setting things on fire, which isn’t even part of the Illusionist school of magic.

He walks briskly through the entry towards the main meeting chamber. The ornate chandeliers overhead glimmer with enchanted flame, and the smell of magic clings everywhere. It’s an invigorating feeling, and the atmosphere of the event almost makes up for its content. Unfortunately, though, nothing can entirely make up for a full day of arguing between the top members of all eight schools of wizardry: Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Transmutation. Tobirama and his colleague Orochimaru’s main goal for this meeting is to adjust regulation and the education template to better promote Necromancy, which is to say try to improve PR, so it isn’t the ‘evil’ school. Personally, he thinks it would be easier to run a smear campaign against another school so it becomes the evil one, the school of Illusion perhaps. He’s not just saying that because of Madara, the school’s emphasis is ‘Deception and trickery.’ Using such negatively connotated words is asking for a smear campaign.

In the chamber, everything is almost precisely as he remembers it being ten years ago, for the short bit he did attend at least. However, there is a feeling in the air that he does not recall. A sour tinge to the ambient magic, that grows stronger the closer he draws to the alter at the head of the room.  Tobirama glances around to see if anyone else notices, but no one is acting as though anything is wrong. Perhaps he’s being paranoid, but his magic sensing has always been a cut above the rest.

Tobirama turns sharply and retreats out of the chamber. Until he figures out the cause he’s not exposing himself to the alter and whatever is wrong with it. Worried about the potential disaster something going wrong at a meeting like this could trigger, he hurries toward the castle library. Hopefully he has time for some research. Rounding a corner, he smacks into something, no, someone.

Madara. He appears to have been in just as much of a hurry as Tobirama, and just as surprised at running into him. His hair is disheveled with pieces falling out of its high ponytail, and his face is flushed. As soon as his shock wears off Madara sets right into his customary sputtering. One of them is going to have to move this encounter along.

“Madara, how… good to see you,” Tobirama says.

“Don’t say it like that!” Madara seethes. He really hasn’t changed a bit.

“Say it like what?” he asks.

“You know exactly what I mean!” he says, and flicks some of his loose hair out of his eyes with more frustration than Tobirama thought could be put into such a small gesture. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. What are you doing away from the meeting?” he continues.

On second thought Madara has changed. He must have gotten some anger management to just let it go like that. Tobirama is reluctantly impressed; perhaps this is a manifestation of the breakthrough that finally allowed him to move on from his long-lasting accidental fire phase.

“Something is wrong with the alter, and no one else seemed inclined to investigate. I won’t be attending till it’s fixed,” Tobirama explains.

“You felt it too!” he exclaims, then continues in a more subdued manner, “or at least something similar. I’ve been running around trying to figure out what was going on, since I sensed some strange illusion magics in the main chamber.”

“I sensed a sour tinge to the magic originating from the alter in the main chamber, and was headed to the library to look into it,” he clarifies, “but knowing it is likely illusion based does give me a point to start researching at.”

“I’m coming with you,” Madara asserts. Tobirama starts moving towards the library without answering. If he wants to come he’s completely free to follow. Tobirama hardly has monopoly of access to the library.

They’ve been looking through illusion magic tombs, as well as any books they believe might have information on the alter itself, for about two hours and have yet to make any headway. The meeting has probably hit full swing, and if two people of their caliber don’t show up soon, someone is likely to come looking for them. Maybe whoever it is can help them look through the shelves. Although, it has been nice to spend time alone with Madara again after all these years.

Technically they split amicably when they broke up eight years ago. They agreed they were simply at two different places, and with their careers to think of, didn’t have the time to make it work. However, in practice neither of them are the type to take a split from something they were that invested in well, so they ended up faintly bitter. Tobirama and Madara are both at the tops of their fields now, in more stable places both career wise and, as it seems from Madara’s improved temper, emotionally. Is this impromptu study session a sign to give it another try? Tobirama can’t help but think it might be.

He is deciding what to say to broach the topic tactfully, when a great rumble shakes the library. Tomes and scrolls fall from the towering shelves with great thuds, and a few of the shelves themselves look ready to collapse. He and Madara jump from their seats and race out the door simultaneously to find the whole castle is shaking. The strange magic is spreading out from the main chamber, and rapidly changing from an off-putting sour feeling to a corrupt black miasma. Running towards the source, Tobirama spots a prone figure laying on the hall floor.

“Orochimaru?” he calls. He crouches down to check on his fellow necromancer. He must have been coming to see why Tobirama never met up with him. He’s alive, but seems to be caught by the spreading corruption.

“Whatever this is it’s caught him in an illusion,” Madara announces from where he is peering over Tobirama’s shoulder at him.

“If he’s only in an illusion what’s causing the very physical shaking?” he wonders.

Madara opens his mouth to reply, but stops short when a tremor grows under their feet, and a large white substance bursts from the ground. Great white tendrils form from the viscous liquid and encase Orochimaru. Tobirama grabs Madara by the arm and takes off toward the nearest window as the tendrils reach towards them.

“Prepare for a sudden exit,” he shouts over the renewed sound of crumbling stone. Tobirama breaks through the stain glass window, with Madara right behind him. They both hit the ground from the second story window rolling, and transition cleanly into a run.

“Oh gods! She returns!”

“Who the fuck returns Madara? Is this some illusionist nonsense?” Tobirama yells. He does not have time for cryptic babble while running for his life.

“The evil goddess Kaguya. This must be her,” Madara says. They’ve gotten a good distance into the forest and slowed their pace. The corruption’s spread seems to have slowed significantly from its initial outburst. At least for now.

“Is the evil goddess Kaguya an illusion related evil goddess? Is that why you know about her supposed return?”

“… She wasn’t always evil,” Madara defends.

Tobirama knew the school of illusion was the real evil school of wizardry. Oh gods, he’s going to be stuck on some sort of goddess slaying quest, isn’t he? He takes back what he thought earlier, he doesn’t want to get back together with Madara at all.

This is basically the start of d&d style adventure, where Madara, Tobirama, Touka, Izuna, are sent on a quest by the sage of the six paths, along with his high priestess Princess Mito of Uzu, to retrieve his staff and journey back to the alter to use the staff to destroy it and stop Kaguya’s return. Along the way Madara and Tobirama get back together, and Mito and Touka elope. Izuna is a bard who has a fun time with various people along the way.

[sockablock]

Happy Thursday, here’s 5000+ words of good good Widomauk angst 

____________________

Chapter 3: Plan B (the “B” stands for “beer”)

The silence ate away at Molly.

 aleb had pulled out one of his leather-bound tomes and unfurled a scroll and was now furiously copying the strange symbols from the parchment into his book. He had quietly mumbled something about “not disturbing me, bitte,” and then had completely retreated into his work, leaving Molly with nothing to do.

Molly knew exactly what Jester was planning, but the blasted girl’s logic had been sound enough that he couldn’t have protested without raising the group’s suspicions, or offending Caleb.

It would have been better if the group had just left him alone. At least then he could be conflicted in peace. At least then he wouldn’t have to try and muffle his internal monologue. At least then he could suffer in solitude. So, with nothing better to do, Molly fished his tarot deck out of the pouch on his side and began shuffling it in his hands. The time-worn edges of the cards, and their smooth rise and fall, felt a bit like home.

Don’t fuck me, he thought, and slid the top three off and onto the table. Manipulating the deck without actually manipulating it was rather odd, but Molly felt like the random whims of the universe—or the Moonweaver, if she was listening—would be more reliable right now than his own attempt at carving out the next step.

He turned over the first card. Past. The image showed a cloaked figure in the night slipping into a dark doorway. It carried seven swords. Molly considered this. Evasiveness and a need to avoid direct confrontation did seem rather appropriate for the circumstances 

The next card, Present, showed a two-faced woman and a three-headed dog standing beneath the moon. Molly tried not to roll his eyes. He didn’t need psychic abilities to know he was muddled in uncertainty and confusion. This reading was supposed to be a yes, and?

He flipped over the Future, and sighed. A man with bulging muscles strangled a lion in a dark cave. And apparently, he was supposed to be confronting the truth of things. He didn’t want to. He’d been putting it off for a reason. And yet, according to the deck, soon he would have the strength to speak his mind. Tarot really was a load of horseshite when Molly wasn’t fabricating the outcomes.

Annoyed, he drummed his fingers over the cards, and glanced between them and Caleb. There was no way he could actually say something. He didn’t want to act at all without being sure, and things were nowhere near certain the way they were. In the last few hours, Molly had decided the wizard was just a mess of mixed signals, and until Caleb decided to say something he’d be content with friendly flirting from a distance. Yeah. That wouldn’t be too bad, and Caleb at least didn’t seem opposed to—

“Mollymauk. I am sorry, but I cannot concentrate when you are staring at me like that,” Caleb said suddenly.

Molly snapped back to reality. “Oh, sorry about that. I must have spaced out. I didn’t realize I was looking at you. I can leave you to your work if—"

Caleb shook his head and closed the book. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “I think we need to talk a bit, actually.”

Molly felt his heart rate begin to pick up. The Seven of Swords was feeling like a pretty good option at the moment. In his panic, he cranked up the charm. “Yes, dear?” he asked.

Caleb looked into Molly’s eyes. They were always quite hard to read, no clear pupils to help him discern the tiefling’s emotions. Molly had tarot cards spread before him on the table, and Caleb was starting to wish he had something to guide him at the moment as well. He settled for snapping Frumpkin—who had been sunbathing in the windowsill—into his lap and stroking the exasperated tabby’s fur.

“I…” he tried. “I…ah…”

Molly gave him a sympathetic look. “I wanted to say something as well. If you would like, I could go first?”

Caleb looked relieved.

Molly fidgeted with the corner of the Strength card. “I just wanted,” he said, “I just wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings.”

Caleb nodded, and looked rather satisfied. “I as well,” he said.

For a moment, Molly considered reaching out and taking Caleb’s hand. He settled for picking at the edges of his sleeves. “Caleb, you know you are very important to me, right?”

Caleb’s cheeks began to color. “Oh. Uh…you as well, of course.”

“And because you are important to me, I want you to know that I am willing to listen to anything you might have to say. I know you think I’m a lot of bluster and color and noise, and that’s largely true, but I can also calm down for you, if you would like. And I am here for you, in case there is something you would like to tell me, or in case I am ever doing something wrong, or if you just wanted to talk…”

Caleb started twiddling his thumbs. He was staring at his hands now, and Molly’s heart sank. Perhaps—

“Thank you, Mollymauk,” said Caleb. He looked up, and his eyes held a mix of relief and joy, but also…a strange sadness. “I appreciate that.”

“So…er…is there anything you want to say…?”

Caleb took a deep breath. “Actually, Mollymauk, there is.”

Molly leaned in. “Yes?”

Caleb took a deep breath. “You…you are a very charming individual, and that is not something up for debating. However, I have noticed recently that you have a tendency to make comments that frequently contain suggestive undertones. And while I am sure it can be great fun, I am sure Fjord and Jester enjoy it immensely, am not entirely comfortable with it. I know you are doing it for laughs and for jokings, but maybe you could direct them more towards the others? That sort of banter is not my cup of tea, as they say.”

Molly sat back against the bench, and his jewelry clinked gently. “You would rather I stop flirting with you so much?”

The energy seemed to have leaked out of the tiefling, and in his guilt, Caleb tried to explain. “I…call us old-fashioned, but in the Zemni Fields, romantic comments are usually reserved for those who feel the same about one another. And I know you enjoy being flirtatious, but others might read into our relationship strangely, or there might be confusing connotations that muddle our own thoughts. It is more straightforward when there is no room for misunderstanding, as you said before.”

Molly’s face was unknowable. Eventually, he said, “I see.”

Caleb breathed a small sigh of relief. “Danke, I’m glad you understand.”

Molly swept the cards back into the deck in a single, practiced motion. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It cleared up a few things for me, as well.” He looked up to Caleb with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m going out to run a few errands, now. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Oh, ah…of course. I will likely still be here. Thank you again for this talk, ja?”

Molly did not turn around. Over his shoulder he said, “Yeah. And in case there was any misunderstanding, think nothing of that kiss, alright? It was the best cover I could come up with, then.”

Caleb blinked. “Yes, yes, it was a good idea.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Molly, and walked out the door.

Caleb looked down at his cat. “I’m not sure how that went, Frumpkin.”

The tabby looked back at him and meowed mournfully.

“Yes, I think you might be right. But it was just…so much. Molly is always so much to handle, and I had to do something. Even if I feel bad for taking his fun away.”

Frumpkin gave a small purr and closed his eyes. Caleb sighed, and as he stroked the cat’s fur, went back to reading his scroll.

____________________________

“All things considered,” said Fjord, “I thought that went pretty well.”

“Do you think you-know-who minded that the bar caught fire?” Jester asked.

The group moved through the streets of Zadash, crammed full of pedestrians, cheerful merchants, and the occasional cartload of produce as the noon sun hung far above. Fjord still had soot smeared on his face. Beauregard’s eyebrows were slightly singed. Jester’s bodice was covered in ash. Nott, who had been too short to catch the blast, looked the same as always. Which meant she still looked mangy and suspicious as hell, but in an oddly endearing way.

“Nah,” said Fjord. “I think it was fine.”

“They got the fire out pretty quickly,” said Nott.

“And I think the Gentle—I mean, you-know-who—was actually pretty entertained,” added Beau.

“I was,” said Jester.

As the roof of the inn came into focus for all except Nott, Beau turned to the others. “How do you think it went?” she asked.

“Probably super really duper well,” said Jester.

“They probably didn’t even talk to one another,” shrugged Nott.

“Are we even sure they like each other?” Fjord asked. “Like, I know you’re sure, but are you really sure?”

“Yes!” Jester bounced up and down. “Of course they do, it is so obvious.”

Beau frowned. “It’s really obvious for Molly, but I’m still not entirely sure about Caleb,” she said.

“How are you so sure with Molly?” Nott asked. “He flirts with anything that moves.”

“Yeah,” said Beau, “but that’s empty flirting. He’s just doing that for fun. With Caleb it’s way more deliberate.”

“How do you know?”

“He blushes when he says things, and he always watches Caleb’s eyes for a reaction. With everyone else it’s all bluster and grinning and winking and he could care less if they responded.”

“You’re very observant,” remarked Fjord.

“I’m a monk,” said Beau, “it’s in the job description. Plus, I like being nosy.”

“Caleb definitely probably isn’t even thinking about Molly,” Nott said.

“Definitely-probably?” Fjord asked.

“I mean…he did mention Molly last night, but it was only briefly. He never talks about his feelings.”

“So…we’re running the risk that this is a one-sided sort of affection, then?” Fjord asked.

Jester opened her mouth. Then she closed it.” Oh, shoot,” she said. “I was so sure that it was not, though.”

Fjord gave her a kind smile. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe they’re just bad at communication.”

They approached the inn, and Beau swore.

The group looked over. Molly had spread his coat onto the ground, symbols facing outwards, and was currently sitting cross-legged against the wall with his cards in front of him. There was, against all odds, a five-person line of workers on their lunch break waiting for a reading. Another currently sat across from Molly, looking down at a complicated tarot spread.

“Nine cards,” said Beau. “He must really not want to go back inside.

“Dangit,” said Jester. “Aw, motherfucker, something happened.”

Fjord sighed. “I’m going to go inside and let Caleb know the details.”

“I’m gonna go see if Caleb will tell me what happened,” said Nott.

“I’m going to go get a drink,” said Beau, and brushed past the rest. “Let me know what the next step is, Jester.”

“Damn,” muttered Jester, and approached Mollymauk.

As he saw her coming, Molly abruptly ended the fortune-telling session. “So sorry, folks,” he said to the group of workers, “but unfortunately, our time here today is up. If you’re ever in need of a peek into the future, or a path to walk on, come by the Song and Supper, and if I’m there, I’d be happy to help. Tell your friends! In the meantime, thank you for coming, and I appreciate your faith in my fortunes.”

They dispersed, looking mildly disgruntled. Molly turned to Jester and grinned. “How was the trip to the Nip?” he asked. Then he frowned. “Ew,” he added.

Jester shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. “There was some fire, but that part doesn’t matter. What happened when we left you alone with Caleb? Did it work?”

Something quickly flickered across Molly’s cheerful grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear.”

“You know, alone time! Did you talk about your feelings? Are you dating now?”

Molly sighed. “If we were dating now, would I have spent the last two hours busking under the sun?”

Jester’s tail drooped. “I’m sorry, Molly,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Jester, you had quite good intentions and I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Did he outright say that he wasn’t interested?” she asked.

Molly paused. “Well…sort of?”

Her tail instantly perked up. “Sort of? So not exactly?”

“He…he asked me to stop flirting with him. He said it made him uncomfortable because it’s not the kind of attention he wants from someone he doesn’t love.”

Jester’s eyes narrowed. “Is that exactly what he said?” she asked.

Molly sighed. “He said that in the Zemni Fields, only people who feel the same about one another make romantic comments, or something like that. And even though I was charming, he didn’t want me to continue.”

Jester looked down at the ground. “I was so sure…” she muttered.

Molly gave her a pat on the hand and stood up. “I think I need to get some air,” he said as cheerfully as he could.

“You are outside, Mollymauk,” said Jester.

He sighed. “Fresher air. A different kind of air. I’m going to go get pastries. Is there anything you would like?”

“Oh, um, yes, of course. Would you like me to come with you?

Molly shook his head. The jewelry on his horns jingled. “No thank,” he said softly. “I think I want to be alone for a bit.”

____________________________

“Alright, but why did the gnome have a potion of firebreathing to begin with?”  Caleb asked. “And why was he trying to hit the whiskey with it?”

Fjord shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “but then he missed, and the—”

Jester came flouncing through the door. “Hello!” she said cheerfully. “Are we talking about the incident that happened downstairs?”

“It doesn’t sound like it really happened,” said Caleb. “Anyways, what did the—I mean, you-know-who—what job did he give us?”

“He’s sending us to clear out some underground tunnels on the eastern side of the city,” said Fjord. “Apparently there’s some pretty weird things happening, his people disappearing, strange noises and stuff like that. He wants to know what’s causing it, if there’s any treasure, and if we can take it down.”

“Probably,” Beau shrugged.

“The thing is, the weird stuff only happens once a month, at the full moon.”

Beau rolled her eyes, “Which of course, is the most needlessly dramatic thing ever.”

“The phases of the moon, and the full moon in particular, can have intense impacts on magic and arcane rites,” said Caleb. “It might be a magic user taking advantage of that.”

“That makes sense,” Fjord nodded. “We’ll find out in a week, anyways, since that’s when you-know-who expects the next round of strange activity. It’s the end of this lunar cycle, so the moon will be nice and big and ready for weird stuff to happen.”

“And then we kill it,” said Nott solemnly.

“I’m not entirely sure about that,” Fjord said, “but sure. If we need to kill it, then sure.”

Caleb gestured to his books, still strewn across the table. “In the meantime, then, I could go to the Archive and hunt for more spells and do research on what this…thing might be, if there are any more details,” he said.

“I can help,” said Beau. “I took notes.”

“I’ll probably just work on my sword,” said Fjord, not noticing that Jester had started giggling.

Nott looked at her flask. “I’m gonna steal everything,” she said.

“Hopefully not too much spatz,” Caleb sighed. “We’ve just gotten back on the good side of the law.”

Beau sighed and stood up. “I’m bored,” she said, “and the food is starting to taste like nothing. Caleb, want to go to the Archive now?”

“Are books going to be less boring?” Nott asked with a raised eyebrow.

Beau considered this. “Yes,” she said, and without waiting, collected her staff and walked towards the door.

“Please don’t kill anyone or get arrested,” Caleb said to Nott.

“No promises!” she grinned back.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Fjord sighed.

“Danke,” said Caleb, and trailed after Beau.

The second they left, Jester slammed her hands onto the table. “We’ve got a major problem,” she said, and relayed what Molly had told her.

“Oh, great,” said Nott.

Fjord nodded. The half-orc seemed somewhat out of his depth, but supportive all the same. “I feel bad for Molly,” he said. “Maybe we should just let them be, for now.”

“Caleb took forever to talk to me about his past,” Nott said helpfully. “Maybe we just need to keep getting them to spend time with one another.”

“Maybe we should get ‘em piss-drunk,” Fjord joked. “Alcohol is great for getting things out.”

Jester instantly brightened up. “That sounds like a great idea!” she exclaimed.

Fjord held a hand up. “Now, Jester, I wasn’t being serious, maybe that’s just a little bit of an invasion of privacy,” he said. “What if Caleb says something he doesn’t want to, or what if you, Molly, get too drunk and do something stupid?”

“He always does stupid things,” Nott muttered.

It doesn’t have to be blackout drinking,” said Jester. “We can just keep them coming until they loosen up, and then we’ll see what happens. It’s not like we’re doing anything tomorrow. And besides, I think Molly could use the drink.”

“I could use some drinks too,” said Nott.

Fjord sighed, but was cut off by Jester pumping her fist into the air. “Plan B!” she said. “It will definitely work.”

____________________________ 

“It has only been a day, so far, so that might be why, but I am still quite unsure as to what we might be facing next week,” said Caleb at the table. He had a notebook open in front of him.

Their hard-won day of idleness had come and gone, without much new information uncovered. Caleb and Beau had spent hours pouring through the resources of the Archives, but without much detail to begin with—creepy lights, people disappearing, weird groaning, and then nothing—speculation could only take them so far. In the interim, Jester had loaded up on pastries and medicinal supplies; Fjord had worked up quite a good session in the Song and Supper’s courtyard; Molly had returned after a few hours looking a little less somber after having made quite a bit of change in fortune-telling money; and Nott had acquired three necklaces, two rings, nine shiny stones, an ivory cane, and a sack full of buttons. Jester had also filled Beauregard in on the details of their next plan of action.

“As far as we’ve got, the groaning could be coming from some kind of beast, or some sort of undead,” said Beau.

Molly perked up. “Undead sounds good,” he said. “I can deal with that.”

“Is that a Lucien thing?” Nott asked.

Molly opened his mouth to respond, but Caleb, still staring at his notes, gently shushed his companion and said, “Come on, now.”

Molly settled back down and gave the wizard a half-smile of surprised thanks.

“We figured that if it’s undead,” continued Beau, “we might either be dealing with some kind of curse that makes them come alive every full moon, or there’s someone or something down there using the cycle to reanimate them. Or something. Like we said, it’s a lot of guessing.”

Fjord nodded. “That’s pretty good already,” he said, “that means we can try and stock up on holy water, at least.”

“Assuming we are correct,” said Caleb.  

“It’s better than going in blind,” shrugged Molly. “Nice work.”

Four pairs of eyes flickered towards Caleb to see his reaction to Molly’s compliment. The wizard, dense as ever, continued to stare at his notebook as he took a sip from his flagon and said, “thank you.”

Across the table, Beau shrugged at Fjord. Fjord shrugged back and mouthed, Fine, go for it then.

Jester shot up. “The B stands for Beer!” she said happily and ran off towards the bar.

Caleb looked up. “I’m sorry?” he asked with mild puzzlement.

“Just Jester, being Jester!” Nott supplied helpfully and with slightly too much force.

“Right…sure,” said Caleb.

“Don’t worry,” said Beau reassuringly. “It’ll just be a few drinks. It’s been too long since we celebrated like this!”

____________________________ 

“Nott…Nott, how much have you had?” Caleb slurred. “I feel like I have been drinking twice what I ordered.”

I have no idea,” she said, taking another swig. “After Pumat enchanted this flask for me, I stopped being able to tell how much I’ve drank. It just keeps going.”

Fjord gingerly pried her hands away from whatever ungodly cocktail of leftover spirits festered inside. “I think maybe you’ve had enough, now.”

She was too drunk to argue.

Beau raised an eyebrow. “Caleb, how do you feel?” she asked.

“Fuzzy,” said Caleb, and poked himself on the side of the head. “Like…bla-blankets. And Frumpkin.”

Molly giggled. Jester peered into his eyes. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Eh…more or less fine. I’ve got a high tolerance for this sort of thing. Circus people are partiers.”

Fjord nodded. “That checks.”

Jester stood up. “I’m getting more alcohol!” she announced cheerfully. “The night is still young.”

____________________________

Caleb stumbled into his room without even knocking, which was a testament to how much Nott—completely plastered herself—had managed to slip into his flagon without him noticing.

“Mollymauk!” Caleb said cheerfully, and almost tripped through the doorframe.

Molly, who was only extremely tipsy, smiled pleasantly in return. “Hello, Caleb?” he said. “What brings you here tonight?”

Caleb gently shut the door behind him, but because he was completely trashed, ended up throwing it back with a faint thud and almost spun in a circle from the inertia. “I va…wa…wanted to talk to you!” he said, and moved towards the bed.

Molly slid over and made room. “Oh? About what?”

Caleb flopped down next to the tiefling, and for the first time Molly noticed how dynamically Caleb could waltz and swing and lean around when he wasn’t being so reserved with his movements. He put his hands behind him on the bed, leaning backwards, arching his spine and looking towards the ceiling.

“I app…appreciated what you said eute vor einigen Stunden,” he said. Then he cocked his head towards Molly and said, with a small grin, “That’s earlier today for you, Mollymauk, who does not speak Zemnian.”

Molly gave him a faint smile. “You’ve got me there.”

“Yes, I do,” he grinned. “And I wanted to tell you…to tell you…that I am glad to know you care about me. I care about you too. And it is…hmm… angenehm, pleasing, to know that you do. I was not sure, for some time.”

“Really?” Molly asked. “You weren’t sure?”

Caleb lifted a hand a waggled his pointed finger at Molly. “You are a hard one, Mollymauk! I did not understand your intentions for a very long time. You were…maybe you did not mean so…but you were rather rude to Nott and I at first, but that was fine, because we are all sketchy assholes. And you had so, so many things you did not tell us! So much mystery and uncert…uncert…unclear intentions. But then you told us, in truth, and opened yourself up to us, and that is very hard. And now, you tell me…you say that you care? Hearing that…it was beruhigend…it reassured me.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Caleb.”

He grinned like a fool and pushed his arms out, causing him to fall into Molly’s bed. A small part of Molly was rather pleased—he had wanted this for quite some time, though not exactly in this context—and an even smaller part of Molly was very pleased.

Caleb continued to stare at the ceiling. “Would you like to know a secret, Molly?” he asked.

Molly did not know how to answer. “Eh…you are quite drunk at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better for you not to.”

Caleb shook his head, which was just him smooshing his face against the sheets again and again. “Nein, nein, no, I have to say it now. When I am sober tomorrow I will be…I will be too afraid to.”

“If…if you would really like to.”

Caleb was silent for a moment. Then, “I remember everything,” he whispered.

Molly chuckled quietly. “I already knew that, Caleb,” he said.

Caleb ineffectively shook his head again. “Ah, you misunderstand me, Molly. I can remember everything.”

“Um…is there something in particular on your mind?” he asked carefully.

“Ja. I remember casting the spell,” Caleb said mournfully. “And I remember das Feuer, and the way it felt leaving my hands. I remember it moving through the night air, and I remember thinking that it was much too slow and much too quick, all at the same time. And then…and then…”

Molly put a hand on Caleb’s arm. “You can stop, if you want—”

“And then it caught him, right in the head,” Caleb said quietly. “It was like a halo around his face, but terrible and burning and too bright. I remember the way it consumed his flesh. I remember when he started screaming, and when the ash caught in his throat and he couldn’t scream anymore. I remember the heat. And I remember…I remember die Gestank. It was terrible. I can still smell it. I could shut my eyes and I could forget the screams, those I had heard before, but the smell. It was the first time I was so close to a person as it happened.”

Caleb’s voice was barely a breath. Molly desperately searched the man’s face for any sign of emotion, but he seemed strangely blank. His eyes were closed.

“Caleb?” Molly asked.

“Yes?” came the whisper.

“I…I am sorry.”

Caleb shifted on the bed slowly, until he was curled up against Molly’s legs. “I remember everything,” he said.

“I cannot imagine how that must be.”

This elicited a surprised chuckle from Caleb. “That is true, that is the truth, that is very true,” he slurred.

After a moment’s pause, Caleb spoke again. “It is okay, though. There are some good parts.”

“Oh?” asked Molly. He desperately wanted to pull Caleb into his lap and stroke the man’s hair.

“Yes. I can remember seeing Nott, for the first time, in that silly prison. I can remember that day in the tavern, when The Nein came together.”

“Yes, I remember that too,” grinned Molly.

“And I can remember meeting you,” said Caleb. “That is one of my favorite memories.”

Molly’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to ask the man what that meant, but the storm of thoughts and the slow pull of alcohol collided in his mind, and he found himself unable to. The words died in his throat.

Caleb pulled at Molly’s sleeves. “Now you,” he said. “Now, now, now…now you do one.”

“Sorry?”

“Your turn,” said Caleb. “Your turn to tell me a secret.”

Molly floundered for something to say. “I’m afraid I don’t have that many left,” he said. “I already told you lot my biggest secret.”

Caleb giggled, which was strange in its own right. “I bet that’s not true,” he said. “I bet you have a lot of secrets. If it helps, you can do it in Infernal. I said my secret in Zemnian, after all.”

Molly froze. That was not true. He wasn’t sure whether or not to tell Caleb this, but then the man pulled on Molly’s coat again, weak but impatient, and Molly had no choice but to oblige.

“You really would like to hear a secret?” he asked.

“Ja, bitte. Fair is fair.”

Molly took a deep breath, and looked down at the sleepy face of Caleb Widogast, eyes closed and drunk, expectant smile playing on his lips. Molly took a chance and brushed the ginger hair aside.

“I woke up in a hole in the earth,” he said tentatively, “two years ago, with no memories of my past or of who I was. I was taken in by the circus. But you already know this. What you don’t know, is that before I decided I would be Mollymauk Tealeaf, I wondered for quite some time why I was given this second chance. I thought maybe it was so I could spread a bit of joy to the world. Maybe so I could help guide people along the path. Maybe so I could tell stories and inspire others and have high adventures. But now, I think, maybe it was so I could meet a man that would accept me for me, without any need of missing memories or past lives or answers I did not have. An incredibly intelligent, entertaining, powerful, brave man. And though he can be a bit selfish, and quite dense, he is one of the most loyal and caring people I know. I don’t know if you’ve met him, but his name is Caleb Widogast, and I love him with every inch of my being.”

Molly could feel the slow rise and fall of Caleb’s chest against the mattress. “I love you, Caleb Widogast,” he said softly, “and I wish you could understand this. I wish you could love me too.”

He carefully slid off the bed, shrugged his coat off, draped it over Caleb, and crept out into the hallway.