#some whiskers on his jaw have gone grey….

[rush-the-stars]

Tell us more about this wolfwood fic you have with a age gap between him and reader 👀👀👀

heheh okay anon if you insist 💗

i have this plot idea where you and nico are kids together at the orphanage and he is taken by the eye of michael and the experimentation makes him older. but you age normally.

and he kinda looks out for you when you’re still a kid? until you age out of the orphanage and you don’t see him for awhile

so, many years later, in your 20s, you encounter him again. and by now he’s aged some more too? i’m imagining he looks to be in his mid 30s (if we can assume the experimentation also slows aging?) if not, then 40s?

regardless he’s older and you’re still so young looking and he feels like he’s lived a dozen more lives than you. and he feels old next to you and and……

[ace-in-a-shopping-cart]

Hoodie

A songfic based on Hoodie by Hey Violet.

Word Count: 1,861

CW: food mention, cursing.

Nines’ keys jingled as he opened the door. “Darling, I’m home!”

The only answer he received was a cat coming over for pets. Nines smiled, shrugging off his jacket before scooping the grey-striped animal into his arms and letting her rub against his chin as he walked to the kitchen. Passing by the stereo system, he carefully twisted the knob so soft pop would start playing over the speakers. He set Stalker down and grabbed the food from the cabinet, the only other thing in there being a few bags of thirium neatly leaning against the wall.

He cracked the can open a bit more and heard a noise from down the hall. A few moments later, Levi was entering the room, tail high and expecting food. Nines chuckled, reaching down to pet the all black cat along his spine before putting the food in their bowls.

He scratched between Stalker’s ears before going to sit on the couch. Propping a foot up on the other knee, he picked up a tablet and reviewed a few more files for the day before moving to the novel he’d been reading.

The evening progressed quietly, the cats curling up with him when their meal was finished. Finally, Nines could delay it no longer. While in reality his systems would be fine without the sleep cycle he’d been maintaining for the past year, they needed it to function optimally in the same way humans needed actual sleep.

He stood from the couch and went into the bedroom, changing into sweatpants before gingerly picking up the hoodie that lay across the bed. It was old and faded, the zipper no longer working and cigarette burns littering the cloth. The words ‘Detroit Police Department’ were barely visible anymore. He pulled it close to his face and breathed in deeply. Doing so tricked his processors into slowing down and had his memory banks pulling up a specific file. He slipped the garment on as he let the memory play out, going through the rest of his nightly routine.

Gavin smiled, handing him the bundle of fabric. “I’ll be back before you know it. Hey, take care of this for me, will ya?”

Gavin shrugged off his hoodie before picking up his bag. Nines stood at the door and reached a hand to him when he passed, blocking the path. “Are you sure about this? You don’t have to do it.”

Nines nodded, leaning down to capture his lips in a brief kiss. He tried to put all his emotions into it, arm curling around Gavin’s back and gently holding him, but he never had been very good at that. Gavin kissed him back, a hand coming to rest on Nines’ chest as he leaned into it. He cupped Nines’ cheek when they pulled apart.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” He grinned that lopsided cocky grin that Nines couldn’t help but adore, and then he was gone. Whisked away by an unmarked police car to be undercover at a place he might not return from.

Nines pulled back the covers and slid into the bed, letting the sheet fall around him. He breathed in the smell of Gavin around him, the pillowcase that hadn’t been washed since that day but had never been used and the faded hoodie he wore. It made him feel that much closer to the detective. He curled onto his side, Levi coming up to lay next to him. Nines reached out and rubbed his ears, scratching under his chin before letting his sleep cycle activate. He had just enough time to register Stalker coming over to lay on his head before he fell asleep for the night.

He went through the morning in a similar way, making the bed and putting the hoodie and sweatpants back where they were. He took a shower and made sure his hair looked presentable before putting on a black turtleneck and jeans. He went into the living room and gathered up the things he’d need for the day, putting dry food and water in the bowls, before heading to the door, the cats winding around his ankles the whole way. He meticulously tied his shoes before pulling Gavin’s hooded leather jacket off the hook and slipping it on over his shoulders. He nudged the cats with his toe and they wandered off in opposite directions as he left.

He arrived at the precinct and went to his desk, opening the files and getting the routine paperwork done early. Much of his afternoon would be filled with checking in with Gavin, the one time a month he got to speak with him and it was as handler and operative, and doing the paperwork that came with that. He got his paperwork done and began prepping Gavin’s file.

He made a brief stop at the break room to grab a cup of thirium before making his way to the room that housed the secure line they’d use to check in. Nines might not be able to see his face but at least he was going to get to hear his voice and that was enough for him at the moment.

The debriefing went smoothly, Gavin being able to get the full report out and Nines having enough time to relay new instructions to him, finishing with, “You’ll be able to be home within the month if all goes well.”

Gavin chuckled before swearing quietly. “Yeah, babe, don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.” His voice turned sweet, the way it did when he was relaxed at home, but there was a slight edge to it that Nines picked up on. Someone else was in the room with Gavin. 

Nines chuckled back, not sure if they were able to hear him. “That’s good to hear. I’ve really missed you.” He tried to keep his voice light and even but a slight tremor invaded it.

Gavin chuckled low and deep. “Are you taking good care of my hoodie?”

Nines closed his eyes, leaning just a bit more forward as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah, but it’s mine now. If you want it back, you know where to find me.” He let a growl enter his voice. “Come and get it.”

There was a wide smile in Gavin’s voice when he spoke, voice playful. “You can bet I will.” Someone called him, voice muffled along the connection. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute, just let me finish this call!” His voice dropped from a shout to almost a purr. “I'll try not to keep you waiting.”

The line dropped dead and Nines opened his eyes, left with an empty room and a secure line. He sighed, stopping the recording of the call and straightening his files. He stood and exited the room, keeping his features schooled and not showing an ounce of emotion.

Connor was waiting at his desk and Nines almost wanted to avoid him. Instead, he sat down in the chair and slipped the files into their drawer. “Can I help you with something, Brother?”

Connor shrugged, leaning against the desk. “It’s more what I can help you with. How are you holding up, Nines?”

Nines shrugged, pulling Gavin’s jacket just a bit closer around himself. “What do you expect me to say? That I’m suffering? That I’m getting on just fine without him? I want him here, Eights. I want him by my side where I can make sure he’s eating right, where he’s not in immediate danger at all hours of the day. I want to curl around him and feel his chest vibrate when he talks. I want him back.” He paused, smoothing out his face and pulling his voice back from the louder edge of a normal conversational voice. “I’m doing fine but I’ll be better when he’s back.”

Connor patted his back before walking away, no comforting words to be said. Nines pulled the hood up, letting it cover his red LED, before connecting with his terminal and entering the conversation into records.

The next week went on as usual, Nines spending his time alone with only Connor, Tina, and the cats for company most times. There was a hole in his life, a hole that wouldn’t heal until Gavin was home. He went through life the best he could, ignoring the fact that the one person he felt most like himself around was out there in an unsafe environment that he couldn’t protect him from. He needed the control of knowing Gavin was safe, more than just the monthly phone call or arrest if they could get away with it.

Another evening of coming home to an empty apartment, of calling out, “Darling, I’m home!”  on reflex as he entered.

A voice chuckled from the kitchen. “I kinda like that one.”

Nines almost dropped his keys in surprise before kicking the door shut and launching himself toward the kitchen. “Gavin?!”

Gavin stood there, Stalker in his arms, and turned to face Nines. “There really isn’t anything in here to eat, is there?”

Nines froze in the doorway, taking in every aspect of Gavin. He looked tired, a scrape across his jaw, and his clothes were rumpled and dirty. Nines had never been so glad to see him. He stepped forward and took the cat from Gavin’s arms, putting her down before pulling Gavin against him. Gavin’s face turned up at him, a smirk on his lips even as his eyes drifted to Nines’. Nines smiled at him. “I’m so glad you’re home.” He bent to kiss him.

Gavin smiled into the kiss, melting against him. It’d been the first time they were in each other’s personal space in two months and the first time they’d kissed in six months. They both savored it, lingering for as long as they could.

Eventually, Gavin pulled back to breathe. He laid his head on Nines’ chest, arms wrapping around him to keep him close. “I missed you.”

Nines dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “I missed you too.”

They stood in their kitchen for a few more minutes before Gavin spoke again. “But seriously, there’s no food in this house and I’m starving.”

Nines chuckled. “Yeah, we can get you some food. What do you want?”

“A burger. I’ve been living off Chinese for the past three months and I’m sick of it.”

Nines nodded against him. “I can get you a burger, that’s no big deal.”

Gavin pulled back enough to look at him, leaning in to kiss him again when one of the cats started yowling. Gavin laughed. “Leviathan Whiskers Reed, that’s not very cash money of you.”

Nines laughed, pulling Gavin in to kiss him again, ignoring the still screaming animal that was now climbing up his leg. Finally, they pulled back and Nines detached Levi from his leg. “Alright, alright. I’m getting you food, calm down you gremlin.”

He fed the cats before herding Gavin toward the door. “Let’s get you a burger.”

Gavin leaned his head against Nines’ shoulder. “That sounds nice. Burger and fries, maybe a shake, before I sleep for a week.”

D:BH Taglist (Check out my masterlist before sending an ask to be added!): Currently, no one is on the taglist.

[walker-journal]

Extreme Noodling (Dave+Adam)

Timing: Near Winter’s end, before Dave got bit

Summary: Dave and Adam wrassle some giant catfish (the google searches for this chatzy changed us as people I’m pretty sure. I know too much) 

Content Warning: lots of fish gore

The frost-flecked marsh water sloshed around Adam’s boots as he waded through the mire. Feathery moss hung in pale sheets from old maples and gnarled gum trees. Vertical clumps of reeds and cattails marked where the sparse islands of solid ground gave way to sluggish swamp water. This particularly frigid winter had touched the murk with thin sheets of ice, the fragile pristine white breaking under the slightest pressure for brackish mulch to pour through the cracks.

Adam was out in the frigid marshland today at the behest of David Herring, a sailor whom Nell has possibly summoned from hell as a birthday stunt. Adam was trying to take his return to Hunting gradually. His powers were slowly returning day by day, although resurgent strength and sharpening senses hadn’t brought any answers along with them.

Even more grueling training and keeping busy at work would have to suffice now, resolved  Adam as he held his rifle dry across his shoulders and waded towards where Herring was waiting.

Dave had braced himself against a nearby tree, his bag hooked over some higher up branches. Despite the frigid early spring weather, he stood in shorts and watershoes, already water and mud logged, but like this he could feel everyone and everything coming, no matter how big or small.

It was always a smart idea to have your back braced against something when you weren’t sure exactly where you stood with the person you’d called for back up. Dave wasn’t the type to calculate who owed who after surviving something together, and you never knew exactly what flavour of hunter you were getting until they had their knife against your throat. Most of the time, it had been alright, but considering the blood that stained Dave’s hands, he wasn’t surprised when things went the other direction fast. But the water in the marshes was even more still than the lakes, so he felt the ripples of Adam wading through the water long before he saw the young hunter approaching, so he was ready and waiting by the time Adam had slogged close by.

“Walker,” he greeted, raising a hand in greeting. “You gone up against a prodigium catfish before?”

Adam had to give mad props to the titanium viking balls this dude must have to go all beachwear in an ice swamp. However, as Adam might still want to have kids someday, these waders were staying on. Manly bayou bonding would have to wait.

“Read about them, never hunted them before,” the young Hunter admitted, the hot hills of California and the holy land having been more alghoul country then noodling holes.  

Dave nodded, watching Adam intently - mostly to be able to read his lips to make sense of what he could hear. At least the swamp was quiet, in the harsh way that winters often were. He didn’t have any kind of teeth guards on this time, his long canines exposed as he talked.

“This’ll be my fourth,” he replied, “but most of the others were juveniles. Feels about… fifteen feet, at a guess. Right now it’s about sixty feet that way.” He pointed deeper into the marsh land. “Fortunately, they ain’t agile creatures at that size, but they’ll crush you if they can. If you’ve read about them, I'm figuring you know about the barbs and arms.” He shifted, unstrapping a machete from the bag he’d hung from some tree branches. “If you think you can land the perfect shot, take it. Otherwise I’m thinking it’ll be better to get it in shallow water and incapacitate its arms for an easier kill.”

“Gothya, watch out for the barbs and baby Kermit arms, we gotta beach it in the the shallows unless there's an opening,” Adam reiterated, looking out at the hushed landscape of frost and brackish silt.

“But before we start I gotta ask,” the Hunter insisted as he knelt on the soggy crust the snowy embankment. He leaned the nonessential gear against the grey trunk of a willow.

“So...are you like sensing the fish right now? Do aquaman powers come with the whole wereseal thing?”

“Selkie. Something like that,” Dave replied, with just one eyebrow raised at Adam, unsure if he was missing out on some youthful slang or that Adam was not as informed as some of the other hunters around. Wereseal. The damn nerve. Not that there was anything wrong with being a werewolf, but Dave didn’t lose control like he’d gotten rabies once a month. It was all this damn tv, now everyone thought that just because you could change forms you’d have to be some cheap knock off were-

Dave hmmphed. Tiny pulses of water against his skin warned him of the large, slow being stirring in its tunnel, its mouth resting nearby the surface, waiting for prey to come nearby. “Any other questions? Ain’t exactly your college classroom.”

Ok, wait...so like, could Dave sense fish? If he could, was that a Dave-Selkie thing or a Dave-Dave thing? A tinge of frigid heat flickered in the back of Adam’s skull as something grew near, farther and larger than the palpable “otherness” that radiated from Dave. The Hunter tensed, but wasn’t going to pass up his last chance here.

“One more question….did uh….a hot Turkish motorcycle chick call you from a Hell Dimension for her sister’s birthday?”

The frosty mire stirred with an upwelling of bubbles that brought the brackish scent of rotting things with them. The dirty ice cracked upwards as an enormous bulk  briefly surfaced fifty feet away.

“Its like..ok if its yes, just been bothering me.”

Dave just… stared at Adam.  Had he heard that right? The words were distinct on the lips, but the sentence made no sense, not even when Dave happened to know there was a Turkish spellcaster who summoned things from hell dimensions. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or complimented by the idea. “A hell dimension?” Dave repeated, just to make sure he’d heard right.

“The fuck are they teaching hunters these days? No, Walker, unless you consider Texas a hell dimension.” He cocked his head, considering. “Guess that wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”

The turbulence of water under the surface against his ankle had Dave looking around suspiciously, but the giant catfish was just reasserting itself in the water bed much, much to the starting of many smaller fish nearby, that darted away, including in their direction. Whether or not Texas was a hell dimension would have to be debated another day, preferably over a chilled beer.  “If we steer it a little to the left, the water there’s pretty shallow, and lots of land for you to use.” Not sure he was prepared for whatever other questions Adam might have, Dave began to wade deeper into the water, looking to get much closer before he caught the catfish’s attention.

“Not gonna lie,” Adam began with cheerful candor as he parkored his way between the more solid clumps of sodden shallows. “Texas sounds like a rough time for anybody who likes water.”

Dark hazel eyes glanced again towards the breach of a large slick mass against the ice, glimpsing what might’ve been a piscine whisker, before they focused back to Dave, crinkling with suppressed mirth around the edges.

“Waaaaaait,” came the dire moment of revelation. “If you have magic skin...in Texas, did you like accessorize it?”

“Dave, my dude...did you wear sealskin chaps?”

Adam was just in the start of pantomiming the Dave sauntering around Huston in this deviant form of cowpoke asswear when bulky shape burst from the icy murk.

“Hell yeah!”

Dave’s eyebrows raised right into his hairline as he looked over  at Adam, deeply unimpressed at his realisation. For a brief second, he almost knocked Adam into the water to quiet the kid, before remembering what they were here for. Maybe later.

“You’re lucky that thing works better dry,” Dave retorted, looking down pointedly at Adam’s rifle, but the tiny quirk at the corners of his lips belied his grumpy demeanor.

It was one thing feeling it stirring in the muck, and another for the large form  to crash through the crackly thin layer of ice. Dave grinned, his canine teeth bared as the form surged through the water, its wide mouth gaping for prey, not realising that it was no longer the predator. In the water, Dave was the more obvious target, so he started backing into the shallower waters, letting it think it was hunting him.

Considering how big the damn thing was, Dave hadn’t really expected it to be able to grab a nearby tree and use that to propell itself at Dave, barely diving out of the way before its jaw shut around him. When it’s body crashed through the water again, it sent waves of water and mud flying, but in missing it had given Dave an opening to drive the machete into its back, hoping to slice through the spine. The catfish flailed in protest, grabbing Dave with an arm like a tree trunk and dragging him under water.

----

“Aw shit,” Adam laughed as he tried to get a hold on the slick flailing creature that was driving Dave down into the murk, “it's trying to send you back to Texas!”

The icey bog water stung Adam’s bare arms with a cold burn that was soon replaced with an oiliness that seeped between his fingers. Adam gritted his teeth and lips shut to try to to get any of the frigid brackishness in his mouth as the catfish bucked and flailed beneath him.

Adam plunged his combat knife into the creature’s side, grime mixing with pale blue blood and the sudden reek of raw damp chicken. Trying to keep hold, Adam yanked out the blade and brought it down again and again, attempting to get the catfish to favor its wounded side and hopefully roll Dave out of the water.

----

It was fortunate that Dave was both hard of hearing and currently being wrestled by an enormous catfish underwater, because if he had heard Adam’s comment, there might have been a sea creature versus hunter alliance. The heavy set slime on his skin kept the catfish’s hands sliding off him, but as he was knocked deeper and deeper into the dirt, the chance of dying from being crushed by catfish was increasingly looming.

Dave bared his teeth and bit into the scaled underside of the catfish with little success, unable to open his mouth enough to get any kind of hold, but the overhead action above the water seemed to have more of an effect. Dave kicked himself out from underneath the catfish as the catfish trashed and tried to reach for the human above it, more interested in a prey that it could actually drown.

It curled its other arm around Dave as it reached for Adam, distracted by the dagger slashing deeper and deeper into its side. It wasn’t watching as Dave opened his own maw and bit down on its arm, bone snapping under his canines.

When Dave emerged from the water, it was with one of the arms firmly between his teeth, torn off the body and dripping blood into the water, he grimaced, dropping it onto the roots of a nearby tree that had started to sink into the water as the soil beneath it had given way to watery mud.

----

“Holy shit,” Adam effused in admiration of such unmitigated badassery, a grin brightening the Hunter’s grime-covered face as he climbed up the side of the flailing catfish. He hoisted himself up with each deep stab of the knife into the catfish’s spongy flesh as if it were a rock-climber’s spike. “That was fucking ace….hey what’s it taste like? Bet you got like Marsh-Mono now or something…”

Adam’s preliminary diagnosis on what disease Dave had doubtless contracted was cut short as the Hunter accidentally stabbed too deeply and pierced an organ. Greenish black fluid hemorrhaged from the wound and Adam let out a stream of gagging curses as the slimy knife slipped from his fingers into the acrid effluvium.

That momentary loss of purchase was all the catfish needed. Adam plunged into the marshwater as the fish spun into a deathroll and opened its toothless maw wide.

Adam’s world became warm and damply dark.

----

“Ah, fucking hell,” Dave groaned, wading deeper into the water. He couldn’t see where Adam had gone, but he couldn’t feel anything human sized with flailing limbs moving around in the water. If he’d been knocked out, it was a matter of moments before the human risked drowning. You couldn’t heal an absence of oxygen in your lungs. Thick blue blood pumped out of the catfish’s side, murking up the water, but it was still kicking, moving towards him with its still remaining arm. This was going to be tough just by himself, and without Adam moving around in the water, Dave had no fucking idea how to find him.

The catfish swiped, and Dave dodged out of the way with a slash at its side, seeing where Adam had been hacking deep into it, where it was also bleeding and oozing viscous pus into the water, stinking up a storm. Still no sign of the wayward hunter. Shit, shit. Hoping that with its movement he might get a better feel of where Adam was. “WALKER!” He barked, watching the catfish and staying well away from its brutish arms.

Which was when he realised there was something else moving inside the catfish and he realised exactly where Walker was.

“Jesus Christ.” He drove his hand into the deep gash in the catfish’s side, causing it to spasm in pain, hoping he could distract the catfish long enough for one of them to think of a plan to get Adam out of the monsters without… risking killing him while fighting the catfish.

Adam’s silver knife appeared from the catfish’s belly, a brief protrusion of metal followed by an upwelling of dark blue ichor. The enormous fish thrashed as Dave’s hand in its wound exacerbated this new pain burrowing out from the inside. The catfish bucked in spine-twisting arcs on the frosty mire as it instinctively tried to get free of whatever invisible thing was tearing at it.

The knife blade surfaced again when the panicked  flailing no had briefly subsided, the incision growing into a long fleshly tear that spewed gummy stomach lining. Long strips of blue-tinged mucosa and yellowish subcutaneous tissue spurted from the wound each time the blade retreated, staining the marsh ice in a splots of organic dyes.

Adam’s gore-caked right arm snaked through the widened opening, trying to find some kind of grip outside as the fish’s frenzied motions turned his world into a dark barrel-roll hell of sloshing fluids and pythonic stomach muscles. It was a dicey business as the fish’s jostling and this cramped space made accidentally stabbing himself a real possibility. The Hunter had nearly opened up a vein when he’d had to fold into the fetal position to retrieve the spare silver knife.

It was times like these where being trained to abandon thought and focus only on each incremental steps of survival came in handy. The horrid smell, the acrid taste of bloody filth in his mouth, the vertigo of the fish’s thrashing, the burn on stomach acid in his skin and eyes, and the rip-popping compression of the catfish’s spasming stomach messes would’ve made it easy to just panic.

Luckily, Adam had spent enough time being taking  doses of ever-higher concentrations demonic Terevi venom as a teenager that being digested  was no longer an excuse to slack off. It’s really those salt of the earth family values that build character y’know?

Adam stuck out one leg through the widened opening and placed it again one fleshy end of the wound for leverage as he pressed the knife’s blade upward, sawing his way through sinews and fat as frigid marsh water poured in through the opening.

Something suddenly gave and the world spun. Adam hit the squishy sod with a groggy oof but convulsing to hack up catfish blood.

The first time the catfish tried to roll, Dave punched it in the eye. The second, he sliced off one of its barbs and it knocked him into the water with its remained arm. Dave’s head smacked into a tree branch and he briefly saw stars. He got out from under it, and saw a shape tearing through the scaled belly. A leg. Walker. He almost wanted to surge forward and grab him, but the bleeding hole wasn’t enough to fit a whole man through, and yanking Adam out of place might trap him and make him suffocate. Dave couldn’t let the catfish roll  again, or Adam’s leg would snap like a matchstick. Dave hacked at its back with the machete again, blood spewing his body with every swing, now he knew where the hunter was cutting his way out from, keeping the catfish from grabbing at Adam or rolling again. With a final hack and a burst of bloody flesh, its intestines spilled out into the water in large ropes and bobbing in the water like grotesque pool floats. Adam along with it. The catfish spasmed, and twitched, its gills trembling, before at last it became still.

“Jesus fuck,” Dave said, rushing over to Adam’s side. He paused, waiting for the worst of the convulsions to pass before bending down, picking up Adam’s arm and swinging it over his shoulder. If the kid passed out, Dave was worried he’d faceplant into the swamp and breathe water. “Easy does it. Easy does it now,” He muttered, lowering Adam to sit on some firmer ground. “Keep your eyes shut, I’m gonna get this crap off your off your face so you can breathe,” Dave said, not being precious as he wiped the acidic gunk from Adam’s face, pulling a flask of water out of his belt and using it to rinse Adam’s face. He held his hand so that the water wouldn’t go into Adam’s nose nor mouth. Wasn’t looking to waterboard the guy afterall, just make sure that the acid didn’t cause permanent injury to his eyes or anything.

Pressing the half-filled flask into Adam’s hand so that he could drink or wash himself as need be, Dave stepped back, giving Adam space to catch his breath and assess his own wounds. He leant against a worn out tree, feigning a casual demeanor so Adam didn’t feel as intensely scrutinised as he was being. The thick sludge of blood and grime covering Adam from head to toe was mixed with stomach acid, and the little skin that Dave could see was turning pink where it wasn’t battered blue. “Always thought hunters had a flair for the dramatic, but you really take the cake,” he joked with the hint of a smile on his features, but the worry was there. Adam’s injuries would heal faster, but Dave wasn’t the one who’d just been eaten. He just remembered the feeling. “When you’re ready, you’re gonna need to get back in the water to wash the rest of it off.”

He didn’t ask, are you alright. He didn’t ask whether it hurt. He didn’t need to. He knew how trauma was what each hunter collected by the armful, this just another harrowing near death experience out of dozens that Adam had walked away from. This one might not even leave a scar, just a story to tell over a beer. Tomorrow, Dave would feel like he’d been hit by a truck, and in a week his muscles would still give him hell. In a week, Walker would likely be right as rain. But healing hurt, both the mental and physical sort, so he waited for Adam’s cue before coming in to help him get on his feet again. His own legs began to protest under both their weights, his ribs creaking. For right now, the adrenaline rushing in his weathered veins made this just about bearable, but they needed to make a move before the tides turned against them.

“I’ll tell you what, Walker. Once we’re both patched up, I’ll buy you dinner and a beer just to celebrate you not being dinner.”

[lazylazyhowl]

foment (of snakes and cherry blossom)

foment (verb) – to stir public opinion; to incite rebellion

["Only time will tell, so I think I'll stay a bit longer." Sasuke and Sakura get married, and the world makes their wedding its business.]

AO3 Link

Written for SasuSakuTwitFest Day 6.

Prompt: Marriage x "Idiot, we're married." x Sasuke catches Sakura.

All 3 used, loosely.

―

Twenty-five years old-

The ornaments in her hair tickle her cheek and wake her from thoughts as the car slows to a stop. Without a second wasted, the door opens and the roof simultaneously lifts and reveals her to the chilly outside.

Sakura squints beneath the wataboshi and takes in the imposing torii gate, vibrantly red, the white sunlight that lands upon it, glitters on even whiter snow.

Her breath frosts. She takes the black-gloved hand that is offered in assistance and steps out of the car.

The heavy shiromuku spills all around her, layers and layers of woven fabric and intricate embroideries that blend seamlessly into the ground. She feels, rather than sees, the presence of the surrounding crowd.

Sasuke stands just a few steps away, in some hushed conversation with Kakashi.

He reminds Sakura of a picturesque ink painting. Their eyes met as she approaches, and she flushes under the fine powder on her cheeks. The dark silk of his haori has nothing, she thinks, on the depthlessness of his eyes.

Under the steady weight of his stare, the jitters beneath her obi settle. She holds her head infinitesimally taller and returns his smile.

(She might just drown if she stares too long.)

.

Her own gait is unfamiliar with the clunky pair of high heels, and the trailing robes hinders, but she keeps pace with him without struggle.

His and her ceremony, every bit meant to be a private affair, made headlines a full week before the day of.

There isn’t much to the procession when neither of them has any blood family left to speak of.

But as they walk on the stone-paved path that ducks beneath a vault of wintry branches and leads deeper into the shrine, out of sight his bodyguards and the local authorities are keeping an eye out for uninvited guests.

There is no wonder that the media shakes with excitement as it makes a debate out of this wedding. The last living Uchiha and heir to an enormous fortune finally settles down, and his bride is a clanless, meritless girl from the shadier side of the city.

Sakura supposes from an outsider’s view it’s either serendipitous love or a gold-digging scheme. Either interpretation is halfway condescending in her opinion.

The priest asks the gods for their happiness after the cleansing ceremony. She bows and solemnly accepts the blessing. (A voice in the back of her head tells her to hide, twist further into this deceptive white shroud because she can scrub the very skin off her flesh and still not be rid of stains.)

The sake is well-aged and has a subtle touch of apple and steamed rice. Three cups and nine sips later, they made their vows

“Until death, Sakura.” The oath is careful and quiet, but also sure. His beautiful fingers graze her callused ones and squeeze the pink-painted tips.

It’s unapologetically Sasuke to be so few of words. But what he says, he means; and in that helplessly forward way it is heartfelt. She holds his unwavering gaze and smiles.

“‘til death, Sasuke-kun.”

They bow once more to the overseeing gods. From this moment forth, she is Uchiha Sakura.

.

She changes into a hikifurisode with blooming myrtles cascading down its tail, the uchiwa ripples at the end of long, sweeping sleeves.

“My best wishes to the groom and bride,” Tobirama, immaculately dressed in a suit and tie, tells them over a raised cup of sake, his eyes dark and glinting, and amicable crow feet.

Sakura stands a little closer to Sasuke. The Senju elder couldn’t have been any more displeased by this turn of events.

Those who support their marriage can probably be counted on one hand, but the reception is still a big splash with all the prominent faces congregating at the Uchiha compound. All headache-inducing politics, but there’s copious food and sake to make it up.

Sasuke has an easy smirk on his face as noisy cheers erupt around them. Up until yesterday, he was still scowling, his foot tapping something furious underneath the kitchen table, as Kakashi prepped him for the social side of the gathering.

It doesn’t take very long for him to be pulled away from Sakura’s side for conversations beyond the scope of the occasion, and she’s left to entertain the other guests.

“Sakura-san, you and the Uchiha brat. Who would’ve thought?” Mei says with a grin and a half that Sakura can’t help reciprocate.

“Give or take, at least half of Konoha people, Mizukage-sama.”

“Don’t be a stranger now, hmm?” Mei gives her an inquisitive head tilt, and Sakura falters. (She’s never sure where she stands with others anymore, after everything, and now bearing the Uchiha name.) Thankfully, she never has to come up with a response when the Mizukage simply goes on.

“You know how gossip media is all over the place.” Mei wrinkles her nose and twists her brightly painted lips. “I could do without. It’s hard enough dating at my age. I say, the random person on the street can be more critical than my own parents now. Just because I also happen to lead them, haa...”

Sakura laughs a little more genuinely. “Sounds like peace, Mei-san.”

Mei’s chuckles fade into a forlorn sigh as she cradles her cheek. “Oh, I hear that, I do. What a time to be alive. Or Kage. Poor old Tobirama, really.” She shrugs and trails off for a moment before looking back to Sakura.

“Regardless of what happens from now on, I’m glad you two found each other, Sakura-san.” Mei holds up her sake. “To your union.”

Their cups tap with a small clink.

.

 Perhaps with you at his side, something will change.

 .

All things considered, Sakura hasn’t expected to receive much honest well-wishing, and she didn’t. That one such wish came from a figure holding as much stake as the Mizukage took her by surprise. Then again, Mei has always been a romantic at heart, Sakura just forgot that, like she has forgotten other things.

Maybe one day she’ll even forget how to heal.

“Be happy, Sakura-chan.” Here’s another honest wish, even though Naruto’s eyes look so sad as he says it. He’s arrived late from work, still in the sooty grey jacket of his Anbu uniform but distinctly more groomed and polished than he is often known for.

“Promise me.” He insists.

Guilt hasn’t been something she associates with Naruto for a while now. They’ve been at this for long enough to know what he wants and what she wants don’t align. He hasn’t met his match, is all; she is no loss to cry over. But tonight, the gnawing returns as she tells him.

“I promise.”

The way he grins without reserve, the whisker-like marks on his cheeks, it overlaps with a million other times in the past that he’s smiled at her.

She’s promised the same before the gods too, but this promise rings differently. It’s personal—raw. Real, rather than surreal.

When Sasuke reappears beside her, Naruto wastes no time to raise his voice.

“How could you go and leave Sakura-chan all alone like this, huh? Bastard! Tch, not even half a day’s gone by and already disrespecting the sacred vow.” Naruto shakes his head in dramatic disapproval.

“She and I married, captain. It’s not as if we became conjoined.” At Sasuke’s dry tone, Naruto throws his head back and cackles uncontrollably, much to her husband’s puzzlement. Sakura smiles into her sip of sake.

(Her husband. Husband. She keeps testing the words in her head and they’re more agreeable than the last time.)

“Whatever, don’t you ever break her heart, you hear me?”

Sasuke gives her a sidelong, searching look, and she can see the words being weighted behind his eyes.

“I don’t believe I can,” he says, light smile on his lips, before wincing in annoyance at Naruto’s hearty shoulder slaps.

.

In the ebbing hours of the wedding, she quietly leads Sasuke away from the celebration. His people—hers too now, she supposes—can take care of the rest.

Even when he maintains his stilly decorum, she can tell he’s already drunk near out of his mind, that he keeps his eyes on the ground just to walk straight, his hand clinging onto hers rather painfully. He didn’t even have much to drink, only the conversational shots exchanged between dialogues.

They end up in the lamplit garden, where the sound of running water and crisp snap of the shishi-odoshi fill the silence between them.

Snow crunches beneath their feet. The night air smells silvery compared to a stuffy, crowded dining hall.

“Oi...”

Sasuke tugs on her hand that he still hasn’t let go of, to turn her to him; he’s closer than she expected. The shadows flicker across the straight bridge of his nose and smooth, flawless skin. She can see the fine little white hair on his cheekbone as his face draws even nearer, his eyes dark, darker than this moonless night.

Their noses brush lightly, tentatively that it’s sweet, that her heart quickens. Their combined breaths drift away from between them, and she can taste alcohol on the warm, heady air. Even up close he doesn’t look all that wasted, with that sheen of clarity in his eyes, or maybe she’s pretty tipsy herself.

She closes her eyes, closes the last few millimeters between their lips. A quick, chaste kiss. And another. His lips are softer than you’d expect. Without disentangling their fingers, he brings his other hand up to angle against her jaw, neither rough nor gentle. Just firm, and it’s anchoring.

There’s the sound of a shutter going off, instantly muffled by a clear tap of the shishi-odoshi.

She licks the tang of apple sake from his lips. (Maybe…drowning wouldn’t be all that bad an ending.)

.

.

.

Sasuke wakes up dry-mouthed and to a nasty pounding in his head. The chill in the room hits his naked skin the next moment, and he curls up inside the futon.

His vision is blurry, his extremities weak. He bites down on another groan and brings a shaky hand to his head. If he didn’t already know misery, he’d say this is it and it is never, ever happening a second time.

Now it occurs to him that someone other than him has laid out the futon. He buries his face into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, a suffering groan, and stench of alcohol on his tongue. There is no recollection as to how he’s even made it to the bedroom.

What he does remember is Naruto’s dumb face, a look of loss braved by loud guffaws and half-jokes that were completely serious. Advice unasked for is no different from spit in the face.

Who does Naruto think he is, anyway, prying into her and Sasuke’s business? (And that’s what it is: business)

The angle of the light on the tatami tells him it’s still morning, a little later than he normally wakes. After a small battle with the heavy blanket, it takes him a few more minutes to gather his bearings to pull on a kimono and make his way to the kitchen.

Out in the living area, he finds Sakura slumped over by the coffee table with a small army of sake cans standing watch at her side. A blanket is draped snuggly over her shoulders.

He slides the door shut behind him, more discreet than when he’s opened it.

“Nn, good morning, Sasuke-kun.”

He pauses mid pouring a glass of water and meets her gaze that’s half-hidden behind mussed pink locks.

“Maybe.”

She giggles into her arms she uses as makeshift pillows. He takes immediate aversion to the bubbly mood, and though he doesn’t think he’s letting it show, she seems to pick up on it anyway and grins a little wider.

“Take that with your water then.” He follows her finger (small, he remembers; lightly rough to the touch) to a plastic bag perching near the edge of the table that he’s assumed was just more sake. “Medicine. I asked Lee to get it since I figured you’d be in need. He told me I was most youthful.” She giggles again in some private joke.

Sasuke sits down across from her, their socked feet touching in the small space beneath the table. He’s careful not to knock over the empty cans, pushed haphazardly toward his side of the table to allow Sakura the rest of the surface, and rummages through the bag’s content.

The medicine is hidden underneath several unopened sake cans, a small tube with bright labeling that he brings up to the light for examination. Not that he has any expertise in this branch of products to judge.

“Save some for me.”

“Hn.”

He drops two tablets into the water according to the fine prints and watches them dissolve into clear white foam.

Sakura is still sprawled out on the table and playing with one of the cans. The sun rays seep through the kitchen window and settle on her face to deepen those greener shards in her eyes. There’s a light flush to her cheeks, knots and tangles in her hair that she hasn’t bothered undoing; some pink strands sticking to the side of her face as she returns his watchful gaze.

“Did you see the news?” When he remains silent, Sakura produces the phone he’s recently given her, already decorated with all manners of animal stickers, and shows him the screen after a few quick taps.

He squints to see a picture of them from last night, wedding garbs and all, caught in the middle of what appears to be a kiss.

It was. He recalls now, doing something like that upon sensing the paparazzi, how she’s been the one to lean in at the end. And the velvety taste of lipstick at the tip of his tongue. Without the haze of alcohol, it doesn’t seem as good an idea anymore.

(At least, he thinks, that’s a well-taken picture.)

“They’re writing up a storm on us.” She takes the phone back to scroll down a few times. “You should see the comment section.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh.” Her smile fades. Her hand, with the phone, retreats inside the blanket cocoon, and she drops to her cheek on the table. “It was my first kiss, you know,” she says after a bit.

He stares at the top of her head. Her tone is light as far as he can tell, but his instincts tell him to apologize. And he does, even if he doesn’t mean it.

“No.” She sighs. “No. It’s not like I was particularly saving it. There was just no good timing.”

“I see.” He picks up the glass and downs it in one breath and puts it back down none-too-graciously. Fruity, like melon. Maybe apple.

“You know, I’ve always had it in my head—nothing specific, just somewhere in the back, the idea that I’d marry someone I love. I mean, who else does the common person marry, anyway?”

“You’re not the common person, Sakura.” This he can say with certainty. Sasuke has no use for the common and run-of-the-mill.

She doesn’t take it as a compliment as he intended. She shifts to rest her chin on her arms, staring up at him unimpressed. “No, I guess not,” she says. “So, poison is no big deal, but it’s alcohol that gets you.”

“I suppose.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, feeling strangely on edge.

“Stay away from it from now, you’re a boorish drunk.”

“Aa, I can say the same for you.”

Sasuke doesn’t mean to sound annoyed, never mind that he is. He’s usually more tolerant, a little more scrupulous even if not patient. (He’s still not equipped to deal with this on a good day.) Her foot moves away from his as she draws her knees to her chest and tucks herself further into her cocoon.

Lee. Lee’s fault for even buying this obscene amount of alcohol on top of the hangover medicine as if they weren’t irony in a bag. Was it because Sakura also has a say in the house now?

As the silence stretches between them, he sighs. “Look-”

“How are you feeling?” She grabs one of the cans nearer to her and tips it against her lips for a sip.

He takes the out she’s offering. “Aa, better.” And in retrospect, like an idiot, for losing his temper over something so trivial. The hangover, he supposes.

“Shishō always said that brand worked faster than the rest.”

“I can’t say I’m impressed she was able to draw that conclusion.”

Sakura laughs at that, a belly-laugh of when you find something genuinely funny, and he can’t help but wonder if this is actually her default. This airy personality that’s prone to smiles and giggles, that takes his words and doesn’t dissect them for more than face value. More girl than woman.

And he wonders, where she disappears to on the days Sakura isn’t drunk. Or if it’s just him that hasn’t experienced her before.

Compared to the usual Sakura, with the guarded melancholy and a guilt complex, this one is vastly different, and he’s not sure how to use this information just yet.

Her laughter subsides and her smile fades by a shade. “I tried turning to alcohol before, too you know, but couldn’t make it work quite like shishō.”

Making alcohol work is an oxymoron unless you’re Lee and in combat, and even that is a wild card as far as Sasuke is concerned. But he stays his tongue. She doesn’t intend to rely on alcohol, and that’s good enough for him. It’s not his place to change her opinion on anything.

“If I’m this much of a mess right now…I can’t imagine how much she’s seen, at her age. Oh, but don’t tell her I said that,” she says with a little laugh as if he’s going to be picking up the phone to call Tsunade Senju for a friendly chat in the near future. “Shishō’s strong.”

“Hn, so are you.”

Sakura takes another sip before placing the sake down with a soft clink. “I’m going to wash my face,” she announces and shimmies out of her cocoon, oddly reminiscent of his recent struggle with the futon. When she stands and knocks her knee into the table, sending the several empty cans clattering onto the floor, Sasuke rises as well and walks around the table to her side.

“Sorry…”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll get that.” But she missteps and places her foot onto one of the rolling cans. From the way her limbs are completely relaxed as she falls backward, she would have hit her head on the floor if he wasn’t already behind her.

He steadies her with an arm around her shoulders. Sakura turns her head and gives him a blank stare that tells him she’s not all there. Near putty against his chest, and smells strongly of sake, just like last night.

“Sorry,” she says after a bit.

“Don’t do this anymore, it’s unbecoming.”

She smiles. “Of Uchiha?”

“Of you.”

Her smile dims again; she gestures to the cans. “Just leave it. I’ll clean up later.”

“I’ll do it. You already cleaned up after me last night.”

“No, I-”

“Sakura, I’ll do it.” He squeezes her shoulder and attempts his best reassuring tone. “Go get a bath instead, you stink of sake.”

She pushes away and rounds on him with a frown and huff. “Well hello, pot.”

“I’ll go after you.”

“Hmph.” She turns to leave.

As she opens the door, he calls after her. “If.” She looks over her shoulder at him. “If it helps, that was also my first kiss.”

Sakura blinks a few times, then laughs. “Not in the least. But it’s pretty funny that you think it would, Sasuke-kun.”

Is it? An eye for an eye; one first kiss for another. It makes sense in his mind, as it must in hers as well, even if she laughs about it. (Or does she laugh at it?)

“We’re married, silly. Let’s not keep scores, okay?”

With one last giggle, the door slides shut and he’s left in the kitchen by himself.

He clears the cans away and rolls up the blanket she’s left behind, he thinks about the sobering sound of shishi-odoshi and the night air nipping at his nose and cheeks; and waking up alone with the futon laid out just where he prefers. He thinks about bittersweet apple sake and compares it to the melon candy taste of the medicine on his tongue.

Her look of surprise and doubt when he asked for her hand. That moment when her hanko presses firmly next to where his own seal was still drying.

After making sure everything is in order, Sasuke takes the blanket back to the bedroom.

So, she doesn’t wish to keep scores.

He’ll give that some more thought and decide what to with it later.

[antecedentlypod]

EPISODE 1 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

Lorrie: [Flipping pages, muttering to himself] There. Ah, alright. The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, read by Lorrie Adams. Take one. 

[sighs] take three. 

[mutters, sighing] The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse. Take fifteen. 

-A cat had made the acquaintanceship of a mouse, and had talked so much about his great love and friendship for her, that he eventually convinced her to live in the same house and set up a common household. 

”But we must get supplies for the winter,” said the cat, “or else we’ll starve. A little mouse like you can’t venture just anywhere, for one of these days you might get caught in a trap.”

They acted on his good advice, and bought a little jar of fat, but they did not know where to put it. Finally, after long deliberation, the cat said: ’I can’t think of a safer place than the church, no one would dare take anything away from there. Let’s put it under the altar and we won’t touch it unless we really need it.”

The little jar was safely stored away, but it was not long before the cat felt a craving for it and said to the mouse: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, little mouse; my cousin gave birth to a baby boy, white with brown spots, and I’ve been asked to be godfather. I’m to hold him at the christening. Would you mind letting me go out today, and looking after the house by yourself?”

“No, of course not!” answered the mouse, “Go for God’s sake! And if you get something good to eat, think of me. I sure would like to have a drink of that sweet red christening wine.” 

Naturally, none of what the cat had said was true. He did not have a cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept to the little jar of fat, and began licking and licking until he had licked the skin off the top. Then he strolled over the roofs of the city and contemplated his opportunities. After a while he stretched himself out in the sun, and wiped his whiskers whenever he thought of the little jar of fat. It was not until evening that he returned home. “Well, you’re back,” the mouse said, “I’m sure you had a wonderful day.”

 “It wasn’t bad,” the cat responded. 

“What name did they give the child?” the mouse asked. 

“Skin off.” the cat said dryly. 

“Skin off?” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s a strange and unusual name, is it common in your family?” 

“What’s there to it,” said the cat, “it is no worse than Crumb-thief, as your godchildren are called.”

Shortly after that, the cat felt another great craving. He said to the mouse: “You’ve got to do me a favor again, and look after the house by yourself. I am asked to be godfather once more and, since the child has a white ring round its neck, I can’t refuse.” 

The good mouse consented, but the cat went clinking behind the city walls to the church, where he ate up half the jar of fat. “Nothing tastes better,” he said, “then what you keep to yourself.” And he was very satisfied with his day’s work. When he returned the mouse asked: “What was this child christened?” 

“Half-gone.” answered the cat. 

“Half-gone? You don’t say! I’ve never heard such a name in all my life, I'll bet it’s not on the list of proper names!”

Soon the cat’s mouth began watering once more for the delicacy. “All good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse, “I’ve been asked to be godfather again. This child is all black and has white paws, aside from that, there’s not a white hair on its body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Skin- off! Half-gone!” the mouse responded, “Those are really curious names, I’m beginning to wonder about them…”

“Look. You can sit at home in your dark-grey fur coat and your long pig tail, and you begin imagining things. That’s because you don’t go out during the day.”

While the cat was gone, the mouse cleaned the house and put it in order, meanwhile the greedy cat ate up the rest of the jar.  “It’s only after everything’s all gone,” the cat said to himself, “that you can really begin to rest.”

It was very late at night by the time the cat returned home, and he was fat and stuffed. The mouse asked right away what name had been given to the third child. “You won’t like this one either!” the cat said. “It’s All-gone.”

 “All-gone!” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s the most suspicious of all the names! I have never seen it in print. All-gone; what’s it supposed to mean?” She shook her head, rolled herself up into a ball, and fell asleep.

From then on, no one asked the cat to be a godfather, but when the winter came and there was nothing more to be found outside, the mouse thought about their supply of fat and said: “Come, cat, let’s go to our jar that we’ve been saving, it will taste good.” 

“Yes,” said the cat, “You’ll enjoy the taste just as much if you stuck your dainty tongue out the window.” They set out on their way, but when they got there, the jar of fat was still in its place, but it was empty. 

“Oh!” said the mouse, “Now I know what’s happened,it’s as clear as day! Some nice friend you are! You ate it all up when you went to be a godfather. First the skin, then half, then–”

 “You better be quiet!” yelled the cat, “One more word, and I’ll eat you up!”

“All-gone” was already on the tip of the mouse’s tongue, no sooner did she say it then the cat jumped on her, grabbed her, and devoured her. You see, that’s the way of the world-

[sighs] that’ll do, I guess. 

[stretches, groans] My back’s killing me though. Gotta get this edit in and sent off. So, listening back to the recording it’s still not perfect. I guess I’ll have to do more takes! But not tonight. [sighs softly] I’ve been stuttering a lot more lately and reading aloud is still stupid hard. Thankfully Fish should be back home soon. She’ll be able to tell me if it’s an okay take, I think. [yawns] Take one of Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might fi- fuck! 

Take six of the Far- take twelve of the Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. 

- Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might like, there was sky. Sky that went on for miles and miles, sky the milky color of cataract, sky you could choke on. There were many things under this looming infinity of clouds, but there is only time enough in this story for one.

  A thicket. More precisely, one comprised of berry bushes. You know the sort, the kind you spot on a long hike or a narrow trail and consider plucking from before your mind gets the better of you, for fear of poison. Picture it, if you will.

 No. Try again. The berries are darker than that, the thorns sharper.

 Right. There you are.

 The thicket surrounds a clearing in a tight circle, with winding trees woven through it whose canopy of leaves block out all but slivers of sun. In this clearing is a woman. She’s curled up there, shrouded by a pair of tattered wings. She’s larger than a woman, or any human for that matter, should be. Beneath her wings lies a bulging sternum, to allow for a set of lungs that would threaten to burst in any chest like yours or mine. Her arms bend at odd angles, her legs short and with a lack of any tailbone. She is curled there, she is ugly, for she is unknown to us, and she wails.

 It is nearing noon, though she would have no way of knowing this. It is at this approximate time, though, that each day she crawls to the thicket and begins to worm her way through. Scratches and cuts litter and linger on her skin from yesterday and many a day before, but she ignores the way they catch on thorn and reopen to the biting air. Ignores the tickling trickle of red everywhere she can still feel. Because today is the day, she’s sure of it. She’s going to make it through. She’ll come out on the other side, torn and tired, but wilted wings still rising to flight. To feel that air beneath them would be to know true bliss. Still, she’s aimless in her endeavour. She can only feel in front of her, cling to the dirt and to branch and swat away the swarming insects that live between these leaves and settle on her skin. She marks them, on occasion, and cannot see the smear of gut and brown they leave upon her. Her sight was long since robbed from her. The thorns had sought her eyes, spiteful for the way she longed to escape the home they’d made for her, and if it hadn’t been the poke it’d’ve been the venom. And yet she pushes on through this impossibly thick jungle of a berry bush.

 She makes it not even to the third’s way mark before she collapses into herself.

 It’s two o’clock, perhaps, when she wakes again and finds herself in the center of the clearing, no further away from this prison than she’d started. She’s glad for the size of her lungs when they allow her the breath to properly scream them out.

 If I might redirect your attention, dear reader, I ask you to imagine with me a cottage. For not far from this thicket, and its accompanying clearing, there lives a farmer. The winter had not been kind to his crops, nor the drought that followed it come spring, and what little livestock he’d kept in the barn out back fared no better. The cabinets are filled only with dishes and the occasional tin can. He stares numbly at the holes in his rotting wooden floorboards.

 Hunger laces every dusty windowsill, every rusty nail, the sparse closet and the achingly bare kitchen as hollow as his stomach. He’d had coin stocked in a great lockbox, hidden in the loose backing panel of a dresser. This had gotten him along, for a while. The prices at the marketplace are forgiving if you know where to look, and he’s practiced enough to bargain if he paints a sympathetic picture. His stomach would be sated with apples that might’ve once been crisp, and loaves of near molded sourdough. But the lockbox is near empty now, and the pit in his belly grows impatient. He can feel it fold and knot and kick at him, seeking satisfaction by eating away at itself with sharp teeth and an ever unhinging jaw. He shudders at the thought, and more to know it will not cease until he’s swallowed himself up completely, throbbing with the wholeness of it, and leaving nothing but a sigh of relief through a house that would then know what it means to be full. 

 It’s when he’s taken his finger between his bared teeth that he hears the weeping song of a warbler from just beyond his door. His gut lurches at the sound of it. Go, it whispers, go and be fed. And so he rises to weary feet, sheep wool shears from the mess of tools upon his table now tucked into the back of his pants.

 To follow this warbler’s cry is to follow the North Star to salvation, it seems, as his hunger reminds him in sweet growls that soon he will remember the warmth of meal-drunk content. How he aches for that small forgiveness, what one last small meal to a dying man might grant him some clear thought. And so he seeks it and nearly sobs with joy when he comes to the source of it. The thicket is foreboding, but no threat which he cannot face with the shears he unsheathes from his belt. He trims for what might’ve been hours or might’ve been days, but no difference is seen to him. Just a sense of soonness, and an excitement that bubbles up in him and threatens to spill out upon the final grinning snip. The warbler’s song stops short, and his eyes fall upon the frame of what he doesn’t dare to call a woman.

 For what feels like an eternity, a heavy silence between them. She sees nothing, but the presence of another is hard to ignore. She reaches out to touch, to feel, to assure herself that this is no dream. She weeps upon the sound of approaching footsteps as the farmer crouches before her.

 “No bird that’d been, then, but you, wretched creature, whose song had graced my ear?”

 “Not a song, sir, but a sorrow, for I could not free myself of this place.”

 The farmer nods thoughtfully, and rises to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “Come then, to your feet. I’ll fix you up with bandages and salve to soothe your wounds.” She clings to him and limps, wings dragging behind her, as he guides them through the worst of the thicket and along the path back to his cottage, a slow travel for how the thing’s limbs fall so heavy they threaten to sink her through the very crust of the earth.

 “Rest here, on my cot, and I will fetch the bandages.” The farmer says, and so the winged woman lays upon the surface he sets her to.

 How stiff a cot, she thinks, but does not voice, for the farmer had saved her life, and she is in no position to complain for an uncomfortable bed.

 She hears the farmer’s return not long after, and shifts toward the sound of it. “I really must thank you. It had been set in my mind that I would die there, in that clearing.”

 “I should not let that happen.” The farmer replies, “To die there in your state is a fate I would not wish upon the worst of men.”

 “Then it is in your just mind to bring me from it, though I hold you under no obligation to treat what harm it’s done to me.”

 “I should see you taken care of, for it would weigh on my conscience to leave you in this misery.” He says. This is enough for her, and so she falls into sleep as the farmer tends to her cuts and takes a wet cloth to her wings.

 It’s the heat that wakes her. Barely licking at her toes, and then consuming the space around her, hotter every moment than it had been the moment before. If she had not worn her voice from her earlier sorrow she might’ve cried for help. She sees the oven door before her no more than she had seen the table she was set upon, nor the farmer rummaging for dough or seasoning her now searing skin. Where there is only hunger, a man must make do with songbird pie.

 And so the sky waits above for wings that will not part it, a thicket begins to mend it’s shear cut path, and a winged woman howls as her flesh crispens for the chew of a starving man. And you, hiding under blankets from the dark, pretend that this land is far, far away.The end .-

The end. [sighs] Fuck it. I’m tired. That’ll have to do for now. End recording. 

-credits-

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 04. Tywin I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s:  Kevan Lannister Sr, Tywin Lannister, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Miana Hill, Brynmor Royan (mentioned) Location/s: Casterly Rock Premises: ...but what if I made you feel for Tywin? Mood: There were probably emotionally healthier ways to deal with things but then Tywin wouldn't be Tywin Warnings: N/A NOTE:   Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert   Baratheon, Queen Cersei  Lannister and their family set out for   Winterfell. It therefore takes  place a little bit before the start of   the first book, ‘A Game of  Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime //

Lord Tywin strode out onto Casterly Rock's twilit inner bailey and into the pouring rain. Down the narrow way between the beacon and the western wall, he went, ignoring the late summer storm. The watchman sat huddled leeward of the twelve feet stack of soaked firewood. No flame but wildfire would light it now. The wind seized Tywin's thick crimson cloak as he came around the beacon, throwing the heavy damask about like a living thing. He ignored it like he ignored the rain pelting his face, seeping into his golden side-whiskers and drenching his quilted burgundy doublet. He held a square of fabric in his fist, water running in rivulets between his knuckles to soak into the faded embroidery. He went up the stone steps, worn concave down their middle from centuries of sentries doing the same. The western wall was the tallest of Casterly Rock's myriad defences, the drop down to sea-level sheer safe for a small ledge.

Tywin stood upon the western battlements and surveyed his storm-torn domain. Far below, the lighthouse of Lannisport cast its fire across the raging black sea, guiding its fishermen home. The storms were ever wild at the tail-end of summer. It would be wet, and then it would be cold. His gaze turned north, to the Iron Isles. The beacon at Faircastle was dark, even the Ironborn had deemed to stay ashore. But summer was drawing to a close, the lean months of winter approaching. They will come before long.

Lannisport huddled amid the rugged hills, shrouded in a curtain of grey. A dismal port along a desolate stretch of limestone cliffs and shingle beach, its shoulders in brooding old-growth and its toes in dark tidal waters. But Tywin knew how it could be, when the wretched weather rolled back and all glistened in the morning light. White shores, before a colourful port. And beyond, a green cloak of broadleaf forest. The limestone crest of the Rock pearlescent under a swift sunrise, setting fire to its gleaming battlements. The Westerlands were his home, and always would be.

“My Lord.”

Tywin ignored the call as his gaze wandered inland, to the mountains and the Golden Tooth, just visible behind the old quatrefoil keep. Beyond them, the deltas of the Riverlands, the forested Crownlands and the supposed jewel in Westeros' benighted crown: King's Landing. A presumptuous name for a hive of intrigue and petty crime. Yet Tywin's gaze lingered, even though he much preferred viewing Lannisport at dawn. Kevan would be a squire, soon. A boy of ten and a child not for much longer. He could remember the day he'd held his son as a mere babe as if it were yesterday. Small and blond and freckled, like his mother. Tywin smiled. He'd make a fine Lord, one day.

“Tywin.”

The rains were becoming more frequent. Tywin could smell it, the vague scent of damp never entirely leaving these days. It lingered in the wood and draperies, rotted rushes within the day. They marked the change in the season. Winter would be upon them before long. Not a cold snap, like the frost spell out of nowhere six years ago, which the smallfolk called ‘little winter’. But a real winter, one that would last years rather than nine moons. Tywin pursed his thin lips. Kevan would be fine, he was a vigorous child. Like himself, Kevan had been born towards the close of winter, braving its tail-end as a babe. Tywin clenched his fist, squeezing water from the strip of cloth he held. They'd had to bury Kevan’s baby brother together with the uncle the babe had been named for. Tywin did not miss his brother Tygett.

“Brother.”

‘Brother!’ Tywin could hear Gerion’s flippant call and laughter as if he’d never left. His gaze returned to the choppy sea and the shrouded lands beyond the horizon. Gerion was out there, somewhere. He ought to have been born a Lannisporter. ‘Look to the sea’ their words were. Tywin clenched his jaw. Gerion would return one day, laughing and swinging Brightroar in jest, mocking their concern as he swaggered down the docks. Laughing, always laughing. Tywin’s gaze lingered. Make haste, little brother. Winter will soon get into the sea.

Tywin had never thought he must steer their House through another winter. He’d always believed Jaime would, considered even that Tyrion might. Jaime... Tywin’s gaze found the pass across the Golden Tooth, the first rays of a watery dawn lighting the jagged peak to honour its name. In a few days, Kevan would be a squire. One more winter and Kevan will be old enough to do it in my stead, Tywin thought. He could do one more. His grip on the cloth tightened. He must. It would be his sixth winter. It would be his last.

Ser Kevan reached for his older brother’s face with both hands and turned it towards himself. “Is there any particular reason you are out here in the rain, trying to catch consumption?”

Tywin glanced at the beacon. The watchman was gone.

Kevan Lannister was a large man of modest stature with broad shoulders and a thick waist. In that, he took after their father. “He was just doing his job, Tywin.”

Tywin pursed his lips. Perhaps, not only in that. “His job is watching the beacon at Faircastle.”

Kevan sighed. “Come inside, take a hot bath. Lady Loren will have both our heads adorning these battlements if she returns home to find you bed-ridden.”

At the mention of his wife, Tywin’s gaze returned to the Golden Tooth. Kevan’s squiring was eight days hence. The ride down the gold road would take six days, even at haste. Loren wouldn’t rest beside him for another fortnight.

“Come on.” Kevan put a hand against his brother and Lord’s back, urging him towards the keep.

Tywin let him.

The venerable keep of Casterly Rock was old and known precisely so, as the ‘Old Keep’. Its correct name, if ever it had one, was lost to time. It squat on the westernmost tip of the limestone promontory, the summit forming a natural motte. Erected from pale, quarry-faced ashlar, delved right beneath its ancient feet, and crowned with smooth red shingles, the keep sat quiet and dignified in the storm. The Casterly’s had built it in the Dawn Age, but its four-leaf clover shape suited the person that had winkled it from them: Lann the Clever, not for no reason, also named Lann the Lucky. Some considered him a son of Floris the Fox, daughter of Garth Greenhand, but Tywin was not a man who put stock by tales that banked on fancy for veracity alone. For that matter, he doubted their eponymous golden-haired ancestor had existed at all.

“Why have you not left for King’s Landing?” Reproach edged Kevan’s tone.

Tywin put his hand to the pale stone as they entered, the seaward face of the Old Keep worn smooth by the unrelenting gales. It was cold and slick from the rain. “No one wants me there.”

Men-at-arms in the red cloaks of their household guard stood inside, sheltering from the dreadful weather. Tywin ran their faces past his recollection, putting names to each as he glared at them in turn. Ser Harren. Donyllo. Briella. Ser Marreo. Selvin. Young Selvin glanced away as Tywin caught her gaze, her sallow cheeks tinging red. So, you were on watch.

“I dare say your wife would like you to be there.” Kevan pulled the hood of his mantle down and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. Water dripped from his close-cropped beard.

“Loren knows better than to wish for foolish things.” Tywin made no effort to prevent the trail of water he tracked onto the flagstones. The household guards closed the crimson doors behind them with a boom, and he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. Ser Marreo and Briella took up posts by the door while the others retreated to the guardrooms beyond.

“Don’t tell me you honestly believe she’s safer without you nearby?” Kevan pressed. He put a hand to the limestone column as they ascended the spiral stairs.

“Loren can handle herself.”  Tywin scowled. She couldn’t uncover what they needed to know with him around. The tourney of his grandson Joffrey’s name day had shown the sorry truth of that.

“I’m not suggesting she can’t.”

Tywin paused. “Then what are you suggesting?”

Kevan squared his shoulders, filling out the narrow stairwell. “Ride for King’s Landing. You can still make it.”

Tywin started back up the stairs.  “Loren can handle herself.”

“What about my little nephew? Your son? What about Kevan? You don’t think he wants you to be there on the most important day of his young life?”

Tywin’s jaw moved, but he didn’t speak. When he had left King’s Landing a fortnight past, his young son had asked if he’d make it back in time for his squiring. He’d given the boy a non-answer. His mother needed as much time as he could carve out for her.

“You can still make it,” Kevan insisted. “Ride out now. Ride fast. Send a raven ahead.”

They emerged into what had once been the Casterly’s great hall, long since turned into a solar. It was dominated by four paired limestone fireplaces, protruding proudly from the walls on either far end of the hall. The seaward side comprised seven tall archways with leonine capstones, the middle one twice the size of any of the others. They were shuttered with bloodwood from the Summer Isles now, but on fairer days they provided a view of the sunset sea like no other. Across, a semicircle dais marked where the high table had once been. The earliest Kings of the Rock had carved out the Grand Assembly, and they had moved their court there. Comfortable couches, upholstered chairs and even a claw-footed divan from far Qarth now occupied the place of honour. Among them, distinctly down-sized but equally well-made furniture. An assortment of wooden toys laid spread between them, including a gnarled, flaking dragon whose wings would flap when tugged along on its wheels. It had been a gift from King Aerys Targaryen, many years ago. The dais was flanked by a pride of true-to-life limestone lions. The roaring one had a crimson table runner thrown across its back, like a make-shift saddle.

Overlooking the solar from that fair vantage point hung the life-size portrait of a noble lady resplendent in crimson and gold. Regal and arresting, she sat frozen in time upon a divan just like the one standing before her likeness. Her dress was of luxurious, red damask and edged with ermine, the fine needlework and delicate fur beautifully rendered in paint. A golden pendant, shaped into a stalking lioness with ruby eyes, graced the curve of her pale collar bones. And many rings, crowned with pearl and ruby and a crest of two lions entwined, sat around her long, slender fingers. Her gentle, oval face was framed by hair as burnished gold that fell well past her waist in tender waves. It seemed in paint as silken as it had been in life. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

Joanna.  Tywin paused in front of it, as he always did. Loren had hung it here, during the Little Winter. ‘It saddens me to think that she can only ever hear our little cubs from her dark bed below,’ she had explained. ‘Now she can see them.’

“Brother?” Kevan’s hand rested on his shoulder. There was a question in his sea-green eyes, but he did not ask it.

Tywin shrugged his touch and turned abruptly from the portrait. It was paint on panel and merely shaped into the likeness of his late wife. It couldn’t see or feel any more than the old tree in the Stone Garden could. He shook his head. A streak of bear-blood ran through the Lannisport cadet branch of his House and, some times, he could feel the breath of the Old Gods roll off Loren like a half-recalled memory of the Long Night. Such as when she spoke of portraits keeping watch over their offspring. He pursed his lips and shook his head. Hrm. No.

“Kevan is the first boy to squire at nine since Aegon the Unlikely,” Tywin said, not without pride. He’d been right to decide his son page with his brother,  for his namesake had taught him well. He ought to have insisted on the same for Joffrey.

“He is eager to become a knight of great renown and live up to his Lord Father’s fame,” Kevan said as they climbed one of the twin stairs flanking the portrait.

Good, Tywin thought. His son would be Hand to a worthy King, one day. He would make it so. The tourney had been the perfect opportunity for Cersei to showcase Joffrey’s qualities to his future realm, but she hadn’t. A frown creased his brow. It wasn’t like her not to preen.

“He reminds me of you, you know, when we were younger,” Kevan added, stirring Tywin from his thoughts.

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Does he, now?”

“Mhm. The intensity with which he sets to mastering something new.”

Tywin glanced at his brother from across his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. You don’t exactly lack in tenacity yourself, Kevan, he thought. Kevan had hounded him about King’s Landing for four days now. Genna, too. He wondered when his siblings would resolve to gang up on him.

“You remember that?” It had been a goodly while ago. He’d been twelve, or so. Maester Hrothan was no longer with them. He regretted it now, for Creylen was not nearly as competent. They ought to demand a substitute from the Citadel. Or, perhaps, Loren could winkle Maester Ainsley from Lannisport.  

“You hammered the quintain through the dead of night for a fortnight,” Kevan said as they stepped into a smaller solar, though not less sumptuously furnished than the hall below. A fireplace, its limestone arch fashioned into twin lions, protruded from the oak panelling and dominated the secluded chamber. The dawn crept in through the diamond-paned bay window, filling the room with warm, filtered light that set sparkles to the gold-thread in the red samite hangings. “I dare say we all remember.”

Tywin had met Ainsley on occasion, a diligent man and an expert on the histories of the Westerlands. Tion sorely needed a proper tutor and currently wanted nothing more than to learn the origin and purpose of every pebble and peasant in their fief.

“I am glad it healed well, in the end,” Kevan added.

Tywin crossed the solar and strode into his study, a private office where he might retire and work in peace, undisturbed by courtiers or claimants. He flexed his right arm. “I am still not as proficient dexter as I should like.”

Kevan lingered at the door, his hands behind his back and his gaze on an elegant painting he had beheld a hundred times before. It depicted Lord Tywin, standing stately complacent holding his then 2-year-old son Kevan. Lady Loren stood beside him, a delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. The finely rendered sparkle of amused satisfaction in her soft gaze betrayed that whoever had supervised the painting of her, knew her well. The same could not be said for Casterly Rock. The picturesque landscape behind them evidently meant to depict their family seat but had clearly been rendered by someone who had never seen it.

Tywin made for the cluttered, dark wooden desk dominating his study. He produced a small, bronze key from the pouch concealed at his hip, opened a drawer and took from it a bijou coffer of elegantly carved ivory. Lions danced along its finely worked panels. Before opening it, he glanced up and found his brother diligently studying the painting King Robert Baratheon had gifted him for his 50th name day. Then he pressed the concealed indents on the small strongbox. It opened with a soft click to reveal a lining of faded crimson velvet within. Tywin folded the cloth he had been holding, still damp with rain, and laid it on the velvet pillow. It was threadbare from age and handling, the neatly embroidered heraldic lions having long since lost their gold-thread lustre. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. Their attitudes had been arranged to make it look as if they mated. After a moment, he snapped the box shut, put it back and locked the drawer.

“A fine gift, this painting,” Kevan said, as ever.

Tywin straightened and pocketed the key. “I am fond of it.”

Only after Tywin had spoken did Kevan turn to him. “Our King is generous.”

Tywin pursed his lips. With my coin.

A girl with thick curly black hair, no older than eight, in the ruby livery of their House, entered with a pitcher of wine. She made a curtsy, holding the pitcher perfectly straight, her pinky lifting free off the handle as she did so. The dainty obeisance made Tywin think of Helaina mimicking her older sister and Queen. “Milords Lannister.”

“Only water,” Tywin said.

Kevan smiled at her. “We would break our fast with warm toast and egg, boiled well, Miana.”

Tywin paused. Joanna liked runny eggs. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it with my knife,’ she’d joke. Gerion would invariably make a rejoinder unsuited to the dinner table, as to why she preferred her egg so.

“Straight away, milords.” Miana left as swiftly as the full pitcher allowed her, to arrange the command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Joy’s friend, isn’t she?” Kevan said, ignoring his comment. Tywin suspected his wife had instructed Kevan to hound him over it if need be.

Tywin frowned. Joy was a pale, sallow-faced girl whose light hair was akin to straw more than spun gold. She was his little brother Gerion’s natural daughter. Loren had all but adopted the girl, diligently heeling her into the lady she might have been had his brother bothered to wed first. Tywin had seen the two girls play on occasion. They would go to the stables and braid the manes of every horse in sight, and of every young man that didn’t flee fast enough. “I’ve seen them at play, yes.”

“I wasn’t aware Ser Brynmor had wed,” Kevan said. Miana’s resemblance was more than passing and not purely because of her warm brown skin which seemed to hold the sunshine of the Summer Isles. She had the same, soft, round features. Her small, broad nose and high cheekbones framing bright, intelligent eyes the stormy grey of her father’s.

Tywin’s frown creased with disapproval. “He hasn’t.”

Kevan’s expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

A few years ago, Lord Gawen Westerling had sold the deed to the hamlet of Westerbridge title-and-all to the Royans, in an attempt to bind one of his last remaining banners to him. Like so many things Lord Gawen undertook, it had fallen sorely flat.  Lord Lloyd Royan, the newly minted petty Lord of Westerbridge, had sent his sibling to Casterly Rock faster than a dead-whipped runner boy. He’d charged Ser Brynmor with swearing fealty directly to Lord Tywin himself instead of Lord Gawen. Tywin had accepted and formalised the penny-sized fief. Ser Brynmor had chosen to stay as part of their Household guard.

Tywin entered his bedchambers to find a bath had already been drawn. He had no doubt the temperature of the water would be as he preferred it. The corner of his lips twitched as he entertained the notion of his wife drawing up precise instructions for his siblings and their staff alike before they left.

“Loren noticed when she saw her as a toddler,” Tywin said as he undressed. His wife was prudent in her caution towards strangers. Ser Brynmor had still been a new face among their guard at the time. She had kept the girl at hand, should anything unfortunate occur. Though these days, Miana’s uncle was a fixture among their vassals and her father had been commended by the assiduous Ser Gnaeus.

“You don’t approve of her friendship to Joy?”

Tywin pursed his lips. Even trueborn daughters of their respective Houses would not be friends for much longer. “Not all bastards are begotten equal.”

Tywin reached for the golden bowl and rinsed himself shoulders to toes. The plink of water drops falling from his limbs carried Tywin’s thoughts to the balnea, where bronze pipes brought water up to patter down from the ceiling like salty summer rain. They plinked just so on the warm ceramic tiles of the bathing hall. It was a feat in engineering. Tywin’s grandfather had built it for his Lady Alysanne, who had been of delicate health. It was well-loved by all the women of his family, and plenty of the men besides. After Joanna had… After she had gone, he had not used it in near two decades. Until he’d wed Loren. She loved it there, too.

“They grow fast,” Tywin said as he rinsed himself. Though the water was a pleasant temperature, it failed to soothe the cold that had seeped into his thoughts. “Before long, Kevan will be a knight and a man grown.”

“Aye, time used to seem so slow, didn’t it?” Kevan agreed. “It feels like yester morn that I held my Lancel as a swaddled babe. I remember it so well.”

Tywin did, too. When the twins had been born, Maester Hrothan had given him his little girl. So small and quiet, she’d been. Unmoving as she laid in his arms. Until she took in a breath and came alive, opening her emerald eyes for the very first time to see him. The maesters said life resided fully formed in the seed, but he didn't think so. He had seen life come into his firstborn when he held her. Joanna had said the same about Cersei’s twin. Two children in one, they’d never dared hope. But then his thoughts clouded, and he frowned. Thrice-ten-and-two this year. A knight and a Queen they had become. Yet Cersei hadn’t been herself when they arrived for Joffrey’s name day.

“Kevan will need a suitable match soon.”

Kevan’s voice broke through Tywin’s pensive mood. He focused his gaze on his brother, who held out scrub and cloth. He took them, belatedly. “We have spent some thought on it.”

“Banners?” Kevan said as Tywin had known he would. Tywin had never meant to remarry. He knew there were, and no doubt are, those among his banners who were peeved he wed the daughter of a second cousin, rather than one of theirs.

“Perhaps a Kenning of Kayce, or a Farman of Faircastle,” Kevan suggested. “It can never hurt to strengthen those ties.” His brother was shrewd, for these matches would please Loren too. The two fortresses stood vigilant between the Iron Isles and Lannisport. They formed the first line of defence against the Ironborn.

“A Marbrand,” Tywin said as he cleansed himself. The Marbrands of Ashemark were an ancient and powerful family, and their allegiance went back centuries before Aegon’s conquest. Lady Jeyne, their own Lady Mother, had been a Marbrand. As was Darlessa, the wife of his late brother. “Its been long enough that they’ve suffered our brother as their last tie to us.”

Kevan frowned at his words.  “Longer for the Farmans. And Lady Alysanne is great mother to none of us.”

Tywin pursed his lips. They were not shy for choice. “Has Loren said anything to you on the matter?”

“No, she has not.” Kevan shook his head. “And even if she had, neither of us is served with her feeling she cannot tell me something, you will not hear of too.”

Tywin frowned. He didn’t like the notion of either of them withholding information.

Kevan handed him a heated cloth. “What do you think she would want for your boy?”

“What does every woman want?” Tywin said as he climbed out of the bath and took it. “He’s her firstborn. She’s ambitious. She’ll want a dynastic marriage.”

Kevan stared at him for a long moment. Amusement flitted across Tywin’s face as he dried himself.

“That’s why you came home.”

There were various reasons he’d come home. Tywin frowned and reached for clean garments: a long, black tunic of finely tanned leather with a subtle pattern of lions embossed across the shoulders, and dark braies and chausses to match. Loren needed more time. Cersei hadn’t been herself. Her poise had been fragile, her willingness to demonstrate Joffrey’s capabilities hesitant, and that was nothing like her.

Kevan squinted, though amusement crept onto his round face. “You didn’t accompany Loren so she might mingle at court. True, enquiries such as these are more becoming for women to make.”

“I came home because Tion is too young to stay at court.” Tywin pursed his lips. Too young and too troublesome, for now. It was offensive enough Tyrion had insisted on staying.

Kevan’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Tyrells, the Starks… even the Martells, they all have girls in the right age range. Stannis Baratheon, too.”

“Shireen? Cersei is wed to Robert.” Tywin said as he dressed. He doubted Loren would double up ties. He knew her well enough to know she’d want to forge her own path, iron out a new alliance. To show that she could.

“The Martells? That’ll turn the court on its head.” Kevan’s smile turned wry. “Though not unthinkable.”

No son of mine will be a hostage to Dorne. Tywin fixed his brother a look. “I’d sooner perish.”

Kevan chuckled, though there was no genuine mirth in it. “Oberyn will be happy to oblige, I imagine.”

“The red viper is mad, and welcome to try,” Tywin said. The comment made Kevan frown, but he said nothing about it.

“What about the Starks?” Kevan said instead, shifting the topic away from Dorne. “There’s precedent.”

“Arsa Stark?” Tywin frowned. She’d been sister to Lord Beron Stark and had wed their grandfather, after their grandmother had disappeared. No children had come of it.

“Yes. And Lord Tion was betrothed to one of her brother’s daughters.” Kevan’s expression darkened, for their uncle had broken the betrothal. “Though that ended poorly.”

Tywin shrugged on his tunic. “Poorer for the Reynes.”

“It would be good to re-acquaint those ties,” Kevan said. “The North is a powerful ally in trade, politics and defence against the Ironborn.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. He’d heard that argument before and, at the time, it had made him consider agreeing to wedding Jaime to Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark. “The Starks never come to court.”

“Which is a shame. Last they came south, they had two fine girls,” Kevan said. “One of them is around Kevan’s age if I am not mistaken. The other is only a little older, though she may already be betrothed.”

Tywin straightened his tunic before fastening his sword belt. “That leaves the Tyrells, and they’re kin through her brother’s wife. Aliyah is sister to Lord Paxter.” Brokken and Aliyah’s eldest daughter, Lynara, had become one of Loren’s ladies-in-waiting the previous year. “Margaery? How old is she now, five-and-ten?”

“I believe so. You think Loren will sue for an older maid?”

Tywin crooked an eyebrow as he finished dressing. “Maybe. Lady Rowenna was twice-ten when she wed Lord Gerald. Loren herself three-and-twenty when she was betrothed to the Greyjoy boy by them.”

“Unhappy unions, both,” Kevan reminded him as he followed Tywin from his bedchamber.

“Indeed.” Tywin crossed his study, back to the small solar. Perhaps not Margaery, then.

“A banner marriage would be wise,” Kevan said as they descended the stairs once more. The sweet scents of toast and sugar drifted up to them.

Tywin’s hand trailed the limestone column, absently counting the terminal rondels as they went. He wondered who Loren would set her sights on. No doubt, he’d hear before long. A smile tugged at his thin lips. They’d argue about it, but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t wed her for her placable nature.

“Unless she can convince you otherwise,” Kevan added as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the grand solar once more. He turned to Tywin and gave him a searching look. “Can she?”

Tywin pursed his lips, but it could not hide his amusement. “Maybe.”

Warm morning light flooded the erstwhile great hall, revealing flecks of gold in the pride of limestone lions. The one in repose had a crimson table runner thrown across its back like a make-shift saddle. Tywin crooked an eyebrow. It was the roaring lion that was the children's favourite to play knight-of-mine with. It's concave back and scuffed flanks were a testament to its suffering. When Cersei had been little, she would perch sideways on it, brushing her long golden hair and waving daintily at imaginary crowds. Tywin remembered how she had sat sideways on Robert’s warhorse at their wedding, waving just so at the gathered smallfolk, and he almost smiled.

The round, oaken table near the furthest of the archways, and pleasantly close to one set of fireplaces, had been laid. The shutter beside it had been opened, a isinglass pane replacing the red wood. It allowed the soft, orange light of dawn to filter through but kept the rain at bay. The petulant patter against the mica the only sound on this quiet morning. Fresh rushes had been spread, here and their, the last scents of summer trying to chase the damp reek away. Tywin eyed the flaking wooden dragon toy sitting among horses and knights. The mark of a friendship he had thought would last his entire life. Every time he saw it, the urge to throw it out the nearest archway was real. Tion would be inconsolable.

“Have you decided for Lancel?” Tywin took the place he always sat when breaking his fast, his back to the wall and the sea to his right. His nephew would come of age soon.

“No, wish that I had," Kevan admitted as he seated himself on Loren's place, nearest the lions and toys.

“What did Lord Emmerick say?” Tywin studied his brother as Miana poured each of them a glass of water. Had the seat been an idle choice?

“He was civil but ultimately declined.” Lord Emmerick Prester was the widowed Lord of Feastfires, his only child and heir his daughter Alynne. “Dorna was disappointed. The Presters are kin to her through her nephew Jared.”

The Presters are kin, to us, too, Tywin thought. Through Joanna’s mother. Kevan never spoke of her. And so, neither did he.

"Boiled well, milord," Miana said as she moved to serve Kevan.

"No, no," Kevan said and placed his hand across his platter, before indicating Tywin.

The girl flinched but recovered admirably. She swiftly moved around the table towards him. "Apologies, milord."

Tywin inclined his head a fraction. After serving him, she returned to Kevan.

“Lord Emmerick has only one match. No doubt he means to make the most of it,” Tywin said. Whomever wed Alynne would be the next Lord of Feastfires. Tion was only three, but he committed the footnote to memory, regardless.

“Lord Gawen approached me, regarding Jeyne, his eldest daughter.”

Tywin cut his toast in precise squares, revealing the hard-boiled egg inside. It stayed where it’d been put, as it well should.  "Reject him."

Kevan looked up. “Gawen is a good man and the Westerlings have always been loyal to us.”

"And he had a good wife in Rona of Lannisport." Tywin pointed at Kevan with his knife, a square of toast pricked on it. "But no children came of that."

“Lady Sybell was very courteous." Kevan spread his runny egg across his toast. Tywin glanced away from it. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it!’

"Of course she was courteous," Tywin said as he caught his brother’s gaze. "If she isn't even that, she has nothing at all." House Westerling was not what it had once been, and it had been a poor match for Loren's aunt, even then.

"I said I would give it thought."

“Don’t." Tywin said. "Sybell Spicer is the daughter of a commoner. And any betrothal to those baseborn children of theirs is an insult to the name Lannister." Tywin held his brother's gaze. He wouldn't allow his young children's prospects to be tarnished by a poorly wed cousin.

Kevan glanced away. "I will write them."

"Gawen should never have married her." Tywin pursed his lips. "The Westerlings always did have more honour than sense."

Kevan gave a dejected nod.

Tywin poured Kevan and himself another glass of water. It had been some time since one of them wed a Crakehall. A maternal grandfather of Loren, if memory served him. “Lizl Crakehall, daughter of Ser Tybolt. She’d be a good match for Lancel."

Kevan looked up and smiled. “I shall write them, too.”

Maester Creylen appeared with young Tion at his side. The three-year-old boy never failed to conjure up memories of Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos: short, soft, round, with a head of golden curls and those ever-smiling eyes. Tywin pursed his lips. The boy wore a red samite tunic that reached near his ankles. It was trimmed with soft squirrel because fabric edges bothered him. A fine little belt that matched his small boots gathered it around his waist. His hair was tied into thin helmet braids like his favourite knight, ever willing to let him ride his high shoulders or yeet him into the nearest hay bale, much to Tion's delight.

"Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan," Maester Creylen said with a bow. Creylen was a gaunt young man, a peer to Loren and the twins. A stark contrast with ancient Maester Hrothan.

"Lord Papa, Ser Uncle." Though only three, Tion's speech was clear and precise. And not remotely like the terrifying mess his brother had made of talking until he was nearly five.

"Good morning, Tion," Tywin said as he put his knife down. "How was your lesson?"

"Boring."

Tywin looked at Maester Creylen. "Is that so?"

"He is a smart boy. A very smart boy, my Lord." Maester Creylen clasped his hands and dodged his gaze.

Tywin made a dismissive gesture with two fingers and a flick of his hand. He would speak with Loren regarding Ainsley. "Leave us."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Tion climbed onto the dais and plopped down amid his toys. He picked up the flaking dragon and made it fly around him.

“I am told the Spicers are wealthy but the Crag remains a ruin,” Tywin said, picking up their conversation.

“Deeds to the eastern copper mines have been written while you were away.” Kevan picked up the glass and drank from it. “Envoys are en-route to pledge fealty.”

“Who were they sold to?” Tywin said as he resumed eating his breakfast. The copper mines were some of House Westerling's oldest and most profitable holdings.

“Ser Teron Worting,” Kevan said. “And Dame Miriam Hill, now of House Worting of Silverbrook.”

"Daughter of Ser Gerrit Closter, is she not?" Tywin shook his head. The old tourney knight had too many children and none of them by his wife.

“Aye, one of the elder ones, I think.”

“The northern shores are splintering among a dozen petty Lords while the Crag lays a ruin.” Tywin scowled. Something had to be done. And soon. “They’ll squabble before long, and the moment they do the ironborn will stir. Those sea rats smell weakness like a shark does blood in a pond.”

“One of them will prevail over the others,” Kevan said. “And if not, a cadet branch could marshal them.”

Tywin frowned. Little Tygett would have been the right age in a few short years. “It’ll be two-and-ten long years before Tion is old enough.”

“You have another son.”

Tywin's scowl deepened. And none did ever let him forget it for very long.

“Why not give this task to Tyrion? Let him stand on his own two feet.”

Tywin looked up to find his brother studying him. There was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” Tyrion was cunning enough, Tywin didn’t doubt that. He frowned as he observed his brother. Loren had suggested something rather similar, not too long ago.

“If little Kevan is to be the one to follow in your footsteps, you will need his older brother settled before long.” Kevan choose his words carefully. “He may be younger than the twins but not by that much, and not for very long. He’s five-and-twenty, its not too belated to wed yet.”

“It’s past time.” Tywin rubbed his fingers past his lips, considering it. But to who? Perhaps Loren had an idea. It was as his brother had said: enquiries such as these were easier for women to make. Kevan shifted in his seat, drawing Tywin’s attention. What are you two up to?

"Lord Papa?" Tion stood beside him, that benighted dragon under his arm.

"Yes, Tion?" Tywin said.

Tion reached out his small arms to him, dragon-and-all. Tywin shifted his chair back and picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

Tion eyed his father's near finished breakfast. There were still some choice bits left.

"Do you want the yolk?"

Tion turned away from the table, his nose against his father's tunic. His eyes never left the plate, though.

"Here," Tywin said as he picked up his knife and pricked a bit of the hardboiled yolk to it and held it near his boy's lips.

Tion took the bite, smacking a little and snuggling closer against him. Tywin shifted, removing the dragon’s wooden wing from between his ribs. Tion’s grip on it tightened as soon as he touched it and Tywin ground his teeth as the thing was squeezed against his side once more.

"Studying is hungry work," Kevan said.

“Indeed.” Tywin pricked another morsel on his knife and fed it to Tion.

Kevan smiled as he watched the boy, then turned to Tywin. “Castamere could be rebuild and used as a cadet seat, it’s stood empty—”

“And so it will remain,” Tywin interrupted. Castamere served a purpose and it would remain as it was: a shell of the proud fortress it had been.

“The woodlands surrounding it could provide the boost in charcoal we need,” Kevan pointed out. “And the silver mines may not be depleted even if the gold mines are.”

“They are, they loaned heavily from our Father.”

“Debts he always cleared. They lend because they could, we don’t know that they needed to.”

Tywin’s frown creased deeper.  

“Tailyn wishes to lead a prospecting expedition to the old mines.” Kevan laced his fingers. “She is confident that if there’s still silver there, she can find it.”

“Out of the question.” Castamere had stood crumbling for soon twice-twenty years. For all they knew what was left of it would collapse as soon as it was disturbed.

"Can I see the mines?" Tion sat up, putting his dragon on his own lap. He was a curious boy, and an intelligent one too. He already knew his letters.

"Absolutely not."

Tion looked up at his father, his bottom lip trembling.

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

Tion scowled. "Down."

Tywin obliged and put his son back down on the ground. Having finished their breakfast, Kevan and he rose as well and moved to the dais.

“She’s very adamant that there might be silver yet,” Kevan said.

“Loren's sister is adamant about everything.” Tywin sat down on the divan beneath Joanna's portrait. Tailyn was as stubborn as she was skilled. He frowned. She’d been skipping dinner of late, taking her food with to the forges. So, that was what she was up to.

“She seemed certain, Tywin.” Kevan sat in a chair at his side and leaned forward as he spoke.

“You’re fond of her.” Tywin followed Tion from the corner of his eyes as the boy moved around the solar. He knew Kevan was wont to humour Tailyn's outlandish ideas. It made him suspect his brother missed having a daughter to dote on.

“As are you of Loren. Does that cloud your ability to gauge the merit of her words?”

Tywin’s scowl returned. Think carefully before you go there, brother.

Kevan sighed in response.

They sat in silence, for a while, watching the boy play.

“I go outside,” Tion announced.

“No, you will not,” Tywin said.

Tion turned, regarding his father. He took a step towards the shuttered archways.

Tywin’s eyes widened in warning.

Little Tion pouted, a crease wrinkling his button nose and his small chin jutting forward as he squinted at his father in defiance.

“No.”

Tion's bottom lip trembled but this time, it was real. Tywin could tell. "The weather is poor, you'll be swept off the balcony."

The fascinated look the boy gave the shutters was precisely the opposite of Tywin's intent. "Come here, " he said, beckoning him.

Tion picked up his dragon, and a lion for good measure, before going to his father. "For you, " he said as he held out the lion.

"Thank you, Tion." Tywin accepted the lion, which had once been a stair baluster top. Its gilding had long since flaked and it's garnet eyes had been removed for safety.

“Up?” Tion stretched out his arms.

“You’re a big boy, come climb on here yourself,” Tywin said. The divan was low enough. Tion scowled, his little nose wrinkling. Then threw the toy-shaped block of wood into his father's lap.

“Tion.” Tywin scowled as the dragon struck him square in the stomach.

“King Dragon is bad at flying,” Tion said before clambering onto the couch.

Tywin could scarcely wait for the day Tion would bore of the toy. He’d have it fly right out the window.

Tion snuggled against him, the dragon lodged between them. Tywin picked up the lion. It had less pointy parts. He shifted, intending to swap it with the dragon. However, as soon as he placed it between them, Tion latched onto it. The boy wrapped his arms around the wooden toys and curled closer, now nestling both hard objects into his father's ribs. Tywin sighed. It wasn't worth the tantrum. He was still so small, even though he sounded wise. He had risen very early for his lesson about the night sky and it had disappointed him, which angered Tywin. His bright little boy deserved the best tutor they could find.

"You can still make it in time, " Kevan said.

Tywin glanced up.

"To King's Landing, " Kevan added.

"Yes."

Tywin’s thoughts drifted back to the tourney. His daughter was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. What are you up to, Cersei, he thought, for the first time in a long while.

Kevan smiled and nodded. “Good. I am glad.”

The rain pattered against the isinglass as the morning light crept across the solar. Tion's eyelids fluttered. He tethered on the edge of sleep, his thumb in his mouth and faint suckling noises escaping him. Can you see them? Tywin's gaze found Joanna's face, her emerald eyes smiling at him. He is as clever as his mother. Only three and he already knows his letters. Tywin stroke Tion’s curls, golden as the sun in the filtered morning light. Loren is proud of him. I am, too.  He gathered the dozing boy closer and hummed the dulcet tones of a song he’d once danced to. Its words came to him despite himself, and he sang them softly to his sleeping son: “I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunshine in her hair.”

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[selanaris]

A Beastly Fate

(Note: An amazing writer @moonlightdeer739 wrote this amazing piece and I cannot wait to read more!!)

Bumblebee made an impulse buy as he and the rest of the repair crew were docked on Cybertron, most mechs buy small domestic pets to keep them company on long flights, but hey, when a hulking great big Cyger is going for less than most fancy breeds, who’s he to turn such a deal down? Little does he know just what a fate he’s set himself, the Cyger, and his small team on.

Chapter 1

Bumblebee wasn’t the brightest bot, he’d never claim that, one of the fastest online? Oh he’d say that until his final cycle, he’d say that if he was rusted to the planet itself, one of the fastest bots ever even.

But now he had a new little title to go by, Bumblebee, the impulse buyer.

He’d bought things on impulse before, upgrades, frame decals, the whole seven kliks, normal things that normal sane bots will on occasion impulsively buy.

But this?

His latest purchase had ever mech and femme leaping aside in horror, and was following him like some obedient cyberhound, keeping a good bit of slack on the leash he’d bought to attach to the blank collar of his latest impulse purchase.

The beast that’s shoulder was higher than his helm, with jaws that could snap his helm off, and massive claw bearing pedes almost as big as Bulkhead’s clumsy servos, had a colouration of bright red and blue, with near neon yellow breaking up the two in a pattern of yellow strikes that slashed downwards to the black and grey underbelly of the beast.

Bumblebee almost laughed when a mech leapt clean into a trash receptacle to escape his new purchases gaze.

Those bright, almost crystal blue optics, hazed unlike the clarity of higher sentience, continued to glance around, taking in every shocked face, but also kept focused on his new owner, the first member of his colony.

Bumblebee was practically preening himself, this was so worth it, this was worth Zeta screaming at him, worth Ratchet’s scolding at miss-using their funding for getting spare parts for the Spacebridges, Bulkhead would, well, Bulkhead would probably be too scared to be in the same room as his new pet, the big soft spark.

Bumblebee glanced behind him when the leash went taught, his impulse buy was looking at something, giant snout sniffing the ground, massive whiskers twitching as the beasts optics narrowed a bit, before winding when he gave the leash another tug.

Not a moment later, and his purchase practically trotted a few steps to stand beside him, the beasts helm was level with his own, a slightly unnerving factor.

He reached out, and after a moment of hesitance, petted the beasts helm armour, which came with an interesting addition, a detachable helm guard, which wrapped around the beasts pointed audios, the lip at the front could be pushed forwards to cover the beasts slit optics.

The beast perked up, letting off a chuffing noise at it leant into the touch.

Honestly, Bumblebee had been shocked at how… tame the beast was, all chuffs and huffs, tail wagging up a storm despite the giant blade like stinger that appeared from the second to last piece of armour on the beast’s tail.

He’d been just, window shopping when he noticed a petshop was getting a rather large delivery.

He’d gone to investigate, and after a bit of a wait, the owner of the shop, had dragged the beast into a holding area, Bumblebee had purchased the giant beast on the spot, shocking the much larger mech, who’d had to drag the beast through the shop, it’s massive talons schreeching as it tried to fight the pull.

Clearly the cybernetic beast was much happier following him, so, he kept going, taking another step, the beast ambling at a slow walk, it’s massive strides far longer than his own.

Bumblebee’s attention left his pet at the next shrill screech of someone noticing the beast on the other end of the leash he was holding.

He’d hate to return the beast, but if all the fun he got to have, was seeing those around him react to the giant beast, then it was worth the shanix he figured.

If the others, namely Ratchet, he didn’t care what Zeta wanted, let him keep the beast, he’d have to come up with a name for the beast, which was a him, something good.

Now it was just a matter of convincing the others to let him keep it.

“CYGER!” Someone shouted someway ahead.

And again Bumblebee chuckled, he couldn’t understand it really, his new pet was so… docile, like a well trained Cyber hound, only, much, much bigger.

Oh, and known for being Cybertronian eaters… back when all the Cygers weren’t locked away and domesticated-ish.

How the sweet slag had he forgotten that?

Ratchet was going to fragging murder him.

By some miracle, Ratchet didn’t slag him for using their teams funds to buy a Cyger, he cursed the minibot out about it, or at least tried to.

The Cyger made itself known again when Ratchet reached for a wrench, the growl it let off more a… chastise… over a threat of attack, and it cowed Ratchet into stepping away from the wrench covered bench… somehow…

Bulkhead, surprisingly, was absolutely enamoured by the giant beast, comenting how hard it was to get ‘such a nice balance of the primaries’, whatever that meant.

He, Bulk, and surprisingly the Cyger’s, it’s optics suddenly going wide like as if it was still a little kit and not taller at the shoulder than both him and Ratchet, were all able to convince the old war vet, that, though unorthodox, a pet Cyger would be a good guard pet for his ‘precious ship’.

Bumblebee even cited the reactions he got when he’d walked the Cyger back to the dock they had the ship parked in, refuelling for another run out to fix another bridge.

Within a cycle, the Cyger was well established, he never followed one of them for long, but when the congregated on the bridge, he’d be there two, flopped over on his side, tail wagging lazily as hazed blue optics followed the mechs, listening to them speak, but not really understanding any of what they were saying, or even the language really.

Well no, he knew what they were saying, he had enough sentience for that, just not what really to do with it, and how he should react to it.

So, he did what his base coding told him, make sure his colony was happy.

Bumblebee was easy, just chuff and huff and rub up against the mech till he fell over, laughing at the absurdity of a Cyger really acting like an overgrown Cyline.

Bulkhead liked to pet him, he was big enough to not have to worry about the larger mechs cumbersome servos crushing him, in fact, when the mech was paying attention, he was a really good at it, even knew what spots to avoid.

Which was primarily, his paws, the plating over his simple spark, and the plating that covered his interface array.

The last of which, Ratchet had learned not to go near, after having tried to check if the Cyger.

The scratches weren’t deep, but the surprising amount of fear and wariness in the Cyger’s hazed optics was enough to convince Ratchet that it was probably better not to see if the Cyger had been… fully domesticated.

Within a few joors though, the Cyger was right back to sniffing stuff in the med bay, giving the old medic a chance to ramble of explanations, it was nice sometimes just to talk about his tools, the ones he still had.

He wasn’t blind, he noticed that the Cyger had spotted the missing part of his arms armour.

The look in the Cyger’s optics had been one of a strange… sympathy, not quite there, but enough to read.

It somewhat unnerved the medic to see such a… advanced expression on a creature of sentience like a Cyger, yes they were self aware creatures, yes they were as alive as he was, but they… they didn’t have the processors for that level of emotion…

Unless he was just confused and going on his basic, run of the foundry understanding of Cyger’s, and they were all just collectively a bit sharper in the processor than many gave them credit for.

It was all going well enough, they all forgot their Captain hadn’t yet returned from his own ‘rendezvous’ with the city of Polyhex.

 Until he did, that is.

Zeta, none of them would ever actually refer to him by his title, was furious.

He threw an absolute fit, yelling all sorts of threats at the small yellow mech for ‘brazen miss-use of funds’, and other such slag they’d all worked through much more calmly.

The Cyger, evidently, did not like Zeta, the mech received no love from the Cyger, not that he even tried to show any back.

When the Cyger whimpered his way to Ratchet, the blade like stinger at the end of his tail missing, the stump sparking, and a good chunk of the tail itself flattened, it wasn’t difficult to guess the culprit.

The blade couldn’t be found, so Ratchet had to put the Cyger under, and just remove the rest of it properly, leaving a flat, weapon-less tail, that, upon waking and realising what he’d lost, the Cyger had just, shut down for a time.

At least, until Bumblebee flopped down against the Cyger’s side, and scratched the massive beast under the chin, perking the Cyger right back up.

It wasn’t spoken, but it was obvious that the Cyger, who still hadn’t been designated when they took off for the next job, was now avoiding Zeta like the red rust.

Which was fine with the less than liked captain, who amused himself by bossing around the two younger bots and trying to get on the old veterans sensors, primarily by trying to toy with the ships systems. ‘Make it go faster.’ ‘Still can’t believe you didn’t let me install a holo-screen’. And so on and so forth.

It got to the point that the three mechs actually started just… venting, to the Cyger, still not designated, but not for lack of Bumblebee trying, he just couldn’t find a designation for the life of him that stuck.

 The Cyger, surprisingly, or really, unsurprisingly, at this point, was a very good listener, and seemed to follow their vents well enough to react with similar emotions.

Zeta kicked the ships controls again? The Cyger would curl up around Ratchet’s pedes, and just listen as the mech vented out his frustrations on the latest little gizmo he worked one to keep his servos active.

It kept him from pulling at his old war wound.

Zeta called Bulkhead a bumbling foo, or some other unpleasant thingl? The Cyger would be chuffing and rumbling a storm, driving out those harsh words with the soothing rumble.

And whenever Bumblebee was given the worst jobs to do? Specifically because Zeta took offense to him buying the Cyger in the first place? They’d race in the lower level of the ship, Bumblebee always won in his alt mode, but he swore that was because the Cyger always seemed to trip, or stumble, or suddenly run out of endurance just before the finish line when he took the lead.

Bumblebee actually tried to talk about that to the Cyger, convince the beast that, no, he didn’t want an easy win, he wanted the Cyger to help him go even faster.

The Cyger apparently took it to spark, and now, Bumblebee was now really having to push himself to keep his title as the fastest member of the small team.

Within two Orns, it was almost like the Cyger had always been there.

Zeta still hated the Cyger something foul, but after an attempt to throw the beast out of the Air-lock whilst it recharged backfired, mostly because the airlock refused to open, and Ratchet finally reached the end of what could be considered his patience, and threatened to space the captain himself, considering the ship was technically his, not Zeta’s.

Since then, the Captain hadn’t made anymore attempts to harm or remove the Cyger, but the animosity still festered.

The Cyger himself seemed to be relatively unaffected by this, focusing on either recharging in places Zeta couldn’t reach, like hidden away in the engine room, or in the cargo bay, or Ratchet’s medbay.

When the giant beast wasn’t resting, he was prowling the halls, sniffing and huffing at everything and rubbing his flanks against everything, marking his territory when Zeta couldn’t see and get defensive.

And when work had to be done on a Spacebridge?

Turns out the Cyger was very much a helpful servo so to speak.

Primarily working with Bulkhead, all the larger mech had to do was point, and the Cyger would tear larger space debris to shavings, the hooked claws normally hidden away easily sharp enough to cleave through the vast majority of what blocked up the giant portal generators.

It certainly sped up the process of getting to the mechanical work.

As was the routine, Zeta would stay on the ship, not even paying attention to the work, and rarely giving a Scraplets aft if the conditions were even safe to work.

They all knew this, they all accepted that that wouldn’t change, and that they had to just keeping each other as safe as they could whilst they work.

It was on one of these more dangerous cycles when Bulkhead and the Cyger were having to fight against a small asteroid field, that had been bombarding the bridge they were now at, that Bulkhead’s wrecking ball swung wide after bouncing off an especially large piece, that it crashed into what looked to be a hollow rock.

Almost instantly, the Cyger perked up, and jumped away from his teammate, bounding to the hollow rock, huffing and sniffing as his whiskers bounced, picking up even the faintest of electro-magnetic signals.

Claws scrabbled against the rock for a moment, before purchase was found and the Cyger managed to force himself inside.

This whole incident flew completely past the others of the crew, too busy trying to prevent any more damage to the Spacebridge.

That is, until a scream came from that very same hole.

One that caught Bumblebee, who was closests, attention, in a moment he’d abandoned his position, and raced over, clambering up himself as best as he could to see what had caused that noise.

What he saw, surprised him.

In the hole, no, cave, was his Cyger, practically flattened to the ground whining, tail tip flicking as his hazed blue eyes kept staring at the other entity in the cave.

A black and gold motorcycle former with a blue visor, three pointed throwing weapons primed and ready to fight.

Realising this mech could actively hurt his pet, Bumblebee called out. “Hey! Hey! Leave him alone!” He called, catching both of their attentions, he was too busy trying to get through the hole to notice the shock on the bots face, or really hear the happy chuff coming from his pet, but once he’d less than gracefully fallen flat on his aft and looked up, he was able to better see the situation.

The cave was lived in, somewhat, there was a small stash of energon cubes, a few small trinkets and other weapons, and outside of the hole in the cave, what looked to be an exit had been blocked up.

Had the mech planned to slowly offline in here?

Creepy.

Before he could speak, his Cyger was on him, chuffing happily and giving him a lick with that rough glossa, taking some of his paint with it, he didn’t bother complain, his Cyger just liked to be affectionate.

“Hey! Hey, no, down… good Cyger.” He petted the side of his pets helm when it gave him room again, allowing him to look over to the other mech and gestured to himself. “Bumblebee, and this…” He gestured to the Cyger. “Is my pet, so put the weapon down, he ain’t gonna hurt you.”

The other mech didn’t look convinced, at all.

Bumblebee couldn’t help it, he smirked. “What’s the matter? Scared of a little Cyber-kit?”

The black and gold mech scowled. “Does your processor malfunction? That’s a Cyger.”

Bumblebee gave the mech a surprised expression, looked back at the giant metal beast, who’s helm was level with his own. “Oh? I didn’t notice, he’s cool, see, hey, pet, do the thing.”

The ‘thing’, was the Cyger opening those massive jaws as wide as they’d go, baring the rows of serrated fangs within.

Bumblebee smirked at the bot, and stuck his servo into that open maw.

The Cyger didn’t even twitch.

“See? He’s completely tame.”

The other bot just looked at Bumblebee like he was out of his mind.

Bumblebee just rolled his optics. “Fine, don’t believe me, come on, we need to go back to work, or Zeta will have even more to shout at us for… Err… Pet?”

The Cyger didn’t follow, still looking intently at the other mech, tail thumping on the ground.

Then the Cyger looked at him. “Mmmrroww?”

Bumblebee shuttered his optics a few times and looked at the Cyger. “Huh?”

Whatever had just passed between them, brought his pet to a decision, the Pet slunk up to the mech,and then reared up onto his hind pedes, causing the giant Cyger to tower over the over mech.

Within a few moments, the Cyger had the mech by the scruff bar, and was waddling the mech back over to the hole in the cave and climbing back out, completely ignoring the mechs protests.

It took Zeta four cycles to notice the new, somewhat aloof and less than amused member of the crew.

But by that point, there was no turning around, not that Zeta would, another pair of servos meant work got done quicker, and he could have them take on more jobs, meaning he’d get paid more, a win in his logs, so, he just ignored the matter, though sent the Cyger another foul look when he overheard it was the beasts doing.

It mattered little, the Cyger had already gotten into Prowl’s spark, and the mech wasn’t so keen on going anywhere else anymore, not that the Cyger would probably let him.

The Cyger was practically preening, another member, his colony was one stronger now, this was good, the bigger the colony, the happier the colony.

And when his colony was happy? He was happy.

[uas-fics]

Title: The Goth And The Vampire

Rating: T

Summary: For the sake of the stray animals of South Park, Raven will put his utter hatred of the Vamp Kids aside to help one of them out.

Ships: Stutters

Content Warnings: mild gore, animal death

Other: inspired by this art peice by @bybasily

~~~~

Raven couldn’t stand humanity. Humans were cowards, hiding behind false faces as they danced around in a predetermined play.

Animals, though, animals were pure. They ran not on societies stage, following stereotypical scripts that they didn't want in the first place.

Animals were different.

When wolves ran together as one, it was joyous and a show of strength. When birds or frogs sang over the woodland, it was a glorious melody.

When animals were one, it was instinct. It was nature.

Not like the ungoth human masses.

Raven held animals in the highest regards. So when he heard the terrified cries of some poor creature on his way home from the graveyard, he froze.

A heavy blanket of clouds clung over the sky that night. Only the sickly yellow of the street lamps gave any light to the empty town.

The mountain chill settled down into his bones as Raven strained his ears.

Usually, he would assume the cries were of a prey animal, desperately trying to escape its fate, and he would leave nature alone to her cruel design.

But these cries, they weren't from a prey animal.

They were from a cat.

They were from a predator.

Raven's brow furrowed as he slowly followed the ever-growing cries towards an alley between Tom's Rhinoplasty and an abandoned office building.

He pressed himself up against the clinic front. His breath fogged up the glass and obscured the prices for nose jobs hanging up in the window.

He shuffled closer and heard a voice.

“Please stop struggling! It'll be over soon, I promise!” Someone whimpered softly. The voice sounded just as scared as the cat.

So this was a human's doing! Of course, some pathetic human would do this! Probably some kid on a dare, trying to crawl their way up the social ladder.

Raven narrowed his eyes and scooted to the edge of the building. His shoe brushed against something wet and sticky.

When he looked down. The bloody remains of a squirrel stared up at him. Its eyes were so wide in terror that only the smallest pinprick of black iris looked back. Its fur had been torn out in places and blood oozed from its nostrils and covered its broken teeth.

The most gruesome disfigurement of the broken corpse, however, wasn't the twisted limbs or missing fur, but the squirrel's stomach. The belly fur was slick, wet, and pointed upwards. All of it ringed by deep punctures.

The squirrel must have been in agony when it perished.

“Shh, shhhh, now. Please, I don't gotta choice.”

Raven jerked his head up as the voice once again pleaded with the cat. He reached to his back pocket.

South Park had a lot of weirdos. It would be better to go into this armed. Firkle had given him and the rest of the Goths a knife last Christmas. Raven only kept it because of how Goth it made him feel.

This would be the first time Raven would have to use it in defense.

Steeling his nerves, Stan peeked around the corner into the alleyway.

The cat struggled against the hooded figure that loomed over it. The figure held down the striped tabby by its head with one hand and, with another, pressed the tabby's middle against the concert.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry...” The figure mumbled.

The figure looked about teenager sized. Were they planning on shaving the poor cat? Cut off its whiskers? Duct tape its tail to its back?

The soft flesh of his palms pressed against the crudely carved bird in the handle of the his knife. He could do this. For the cat. For nature herself.

The clouds above parted. A beam of silvery moonlight basked the scene in its cold embrace.

The light glinted off the saliva and blood on the monster's fangs. Red-tinged drool ran down its chin, dripping onto the tabby's grey coat.

All Raven's mind could comprehend at that moment were those fangs. Nothing that big and sharp could belong to a human, but there was nothing else it could be. Dogs and bears and other large predators didn't have hands, nor did they speak.

Trapped in place by the horrific awe of the monster, Raven watched as it lowered itself down. Then, with its jaws opened wide, the monster clamped down on the cat's neck.

As a disgusting slurping sound filled the night, a movement behind a box in the alley tore Raven’s eyes from the grotesque scene.

A kitten peeked its head out, eyes wide as dinner plates, then another, and one more. Three little tabby babies. One of them mewled, taking a tentative step closer to the scene, only to scamper back when the cat let out a yowl.

Raven’s heart caught in his throat. The monster wasn’t just eating a cat; it was eating a mother.

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to flee. He should just up and go. This was not his fight is what his flight or fight response told him. But when the mother cat’s yowls and screams went silent, Raven knew he was going to make it his.

Gripping the knife in white knuckles, he crept forward towards the monster. Steps away from it, he raised the knife up. He took two, quick steps and swung the blade down in into the flesh of its shoulder.

The monster let out a screech that sounded a little too human. Raven shook it off, before kicking the monster in the spine. It tumbled forward onto the cat's corpse.

With his adrenaline giving him a boost of speed, Raven moved to scoop up the three kittens and shove them in the box they hid behind.

“I’m sorry; I can’t save her!” He whispered to them. One last glance over his shoulder at the monster as it groped its back in an attempt to reach the blade, then Raven turned and ran away as fast as his feet could carry him.

~~~~

“Woooow, so, like, you saw a monster vore a cat,” Pete’s mouth gaped, “and you fought it? That’s pretty Goth, dude.” He stroked one of the kitten’s fur.

After a vet checkup, Raven had moved the kittens from his room to the garage. Luckily, the kittens were friendly and not too skittish, and his mom promised she’d make sure they were taken to good homes when they got a little older.

“Yeah, it is, but,” Raven shook his head, rubbing another kitten’s stomach as it batted at his fingers, “no one believes what I saw wasn't a dog!”

Three days had passed since that night. The next morning he’d dragged his parents to the scene. He expected to find pools of thick blood and the corpses of the squirrel and mother cat, but when they arrived, almost no evidence remained of the night prior. There was blood, but not enough to match the gore he'd seen in the moonlight. The squirrel and cat corpses were nowhere to be seen.

Raven’s father fixed him with his usual look of disappointment as his mother stroked his head reassuringly.

“It was probably just a big dog that killed the mama cat, sweetie,” His mother had told him softly. “We’ll keep the kittens for now and call animal control to keep an eye out for the dog before it hurts anyone else, ok?”

“I bet it’s a beast that only those with eyes unclouded can see.” Henrietta nodded. “To everyone else, it would look like a dog, but not to someone as Goth as us.”

Michael wiggled a string above the final tabby kitten. “Even if it was a dog, that was, like, super brave of you. You risked rabies, man.”

Raven grunted, scooping his kitten up to set it on his stomach. He wanted to say that he knew it wasn’t a dog but held his tongue. What was the point? It’s not like he would see the monster again, anyway. He was grounded until Kingdom come for sneaking out to the graveyard.

Michael tossed the string to Firkle. They watched as the kitten scrambled over itself to try and catch its prey, only to skid out the open garage door into the wet snow.

The day was a surprisingly warm one for the mountain town, so Raven’s mother told him to leave the garage door open to let the sunlight in.

It was almost too bright for someone as accustom to night as the Goths, but Raven needed to work his way back on his mom’s good list, so they suffered with the glaring light.

Raven let out a sigh. He knew he should consider himself lucky. Whatever that thing was, it could have killed him. The only thing he had lost that night was his hat. It fell off his head in his mad dash for home.

And, of course, the knife he plunged into the monster's back.

"I guess,” Raven muttered, then, louder, he asked, “Hey, Firkle, where’d you get that knife you gave me for Christmas, by the way? I feel really ungoth without it anymore.”

“You look unGoth,” Firkle chided with a shake of his head.

Raven rolled his eyes. With his favorite hat gone, he had to wear his old red and blue one that barely fit. That, coupled with the fact he’d been too tired to put on the foundation that kept his naturally rosy complexion pale as death, of course, he didn’t look particularly Goth!

Pete shoved Firkle’s shoulder. Seeing its opportunity, the kitten jumped and grabbed hold of Firkle’s hand and the string, playfully chomping down on his knuckles.

“Lay off,” Pete scolded the youngest member of their friend group. Firkle just rolled his eyes then began to pry the kitten off him.

“I’ll send you the link later,” Firkle promised. He opened his mouth to say something else when Henrietta covered his lips.

“Hey, that kid's been standing looking at us for a while now.” She raised her sharp, black painted nail to point across the street. Raven, Pete, and Firkle turned over their shoulders. Michael stood on his knees to look over everyone else.

On the other side of the road, a kid stood, swaying his weight left and right. Raven narrowed his eyes. The kid looked familiar. He was probably in the same grade as him.

Seeing five sets of eyes on him, the kid jumped. He waved a little then looked up and down the street before jogging across.

“He’s wearing all black,” Pete commented. “Think he’s Goth?”

Henrietta scrunched up her nose. “No, wait, I know that kid. He was a friend of my brother. He’s a fucking dork.”

She finished saying that just as the kid entered the garage. Now that he was closer, Raven could tell, yes, he did know him.

His real name was Leopold, but no one ever called him that. Instead, everyone called him ‘'Butters’, though Raven couldn't remember why.

He was the Stotch’s son, and he and Raven used to hang out nearly six years ago, back in third grade, when the both of them were desperately trying to be just “unique” enough to be memorable but not so much as to incur the wrath of their peers’ taunts.

That of itself was not enough to damn him in Raven’s eyes. It made him a conformist poser, sure, but so was pretty much everyone else.

No, what made bile raise up in Raven's throat at the very sight of Butters was the fact he was a Vamp Kid.

He had escaped them once when Mike first formed his douchey little “coven,” but then he just had to go back to them, for some reason.

Raven swallowed down his disdain as Butters waved cheerfully at them.

As he stood, Butters blocked out the sun, leaving a halo around him. Some of the sun’s rays glinted off his pale blond roots. Was that a fashion choice on Butters' part or was Butters just too lazy to redye it?

Not that it mattered, since, like all the other Vamp Kids, Butters reminded Raven of someone the Hot Topic vomited up on, right down to the peeling temporary tattoo saying 'bite me' on the top side of his hand and fake, plastic fangs.

Raven cringed, sitting up. The kitten rolled into his lap. It peaked up, looking around before its eyes landed on Butters. Suddenly, it hissed. The fur along the kitten’s spine rose.

Its siblings turned from what they were doing. The one Pete was playing with turned on its heels and dashed into the old dog bed to hide. The other spat at Butters before following suit, scurrying behind one of the stacks of boxes.

Raven’s kitten looked at its siblings, then back at Butters. Seeming to decide the new 'threat' was too great to take on alone, the kitten then clambered out of Raven’s lap to go hide as well.

“Oh, look,” Michael scoffed, “even the cats know to fear your brand of douchey mediocrity.”

The Goths chuckled amongst themselves, but the smile on Butters’ face never wavered. The only indication Raven saw that he was at all offended was a flash of hurt in his good eye. His other eye had a dead, cloudy film over the iris and pupil and a scar carving through it.

It was about the only feature Raven could at all call ‘Goth’ about him.

“Yeah, cats are pretty scared of the creature of the night,” Butters joked.

Rolling his eyes, Raven snapped, “What do you want?”

“Oh, uh,” Butters looked to the side, his cheeks pink, “I have something of yours, Stan.”

“Raven,” He corrected coldly. No one called him ‘Stan’ anymore. That conformist loser died the day a pretty girl broke his heart and crushed the pieces with her mary janes.

“Oops! Sorry, Raven. I have something of yours.”

“What could you have of mine?”

“Your hat.”

Raven reached up, his fingers brushing the faded red and blue wool.

“My hat?” He repeated.

“Yeah, the knit grey one with the black trim and puffball? It had your name sewed on the inside,” Butters informed him. “Did your mom do that for you? If so, that’s really sweet of her! My mom doesn’t label my clothes anymore.”

He laughed as Raven’s cheeks burned. His tone didn't sound particularly mocking. Instead, it sounded like a statement of fact, but Raven couldn't imagine anyone saying that without a taunt behind it. This Vamp Kid was just trying to goad him.

Raven fixed Butters with a glare.

Raven did loved his mother, but he would never outright admit that. If you were Goth, then you didn’t get along with your family. That’s just how it went. Henrietta got into fight after fight with her parents. Michael always complained about his step-family being a bother, while Firkle and Pete would bemoan their own parents and siblings.

“Fuck off,” Raven growled. “If you have my hat, then give it back.”

“Well, I don’t have it on me,” Butters admitted. “It’s at my house.”

“Why didn’t you bring it?” Michael asked.

“Well, I wanted to make sure it was his first,” Butters knocked his knuckles together in front of him. “It’s a really nice hat. I’d hate to give it to the wrong person.”

“Well, then, go get it,” Raven ordered. “I’m grounded and can’t leave the house.”

Butters’ expression shifted from a positive, if embarrassed, one to something dark. His eyes narrowed and lips turned downward. A shiver ran along Raven’s spine.

“Oh, that's something else my mom doesn't do anymore.” Butters’ voice was emotionless. “I’ll bring it later. See you, Raven.” With that, he turned and walked away.

Once he disappeared from view, the Goths let out a collective breath.

“What the fuck is that kid?” Pete muttered, standing up. As he wandered towards the back to fetch the kittens, Michael shrugged.

“A freak, probably. He was friends with Henrietta’s brother, after all,” He said, rolling to his feet to help Pete.

Henrietta snorted. “God, yes, I think those two had a sleepover once years ago, and they stayed up all night playing ‘Hello Kitty Island Adventure’. So annoying.”

Firkle and Henrietta started making condescending remarks about the Hello Kitty fan base. Pete and Michael searched the boxes and containers in the back of the garage for the kittens. And Raven looked down at his hands.

He was shaking, and he didn’t know why.

~~~~

The night was his domain. Everyone else in the house had gone to bed a hours ago.

In the silence, Raven could finally start to prepare for the black void of sleep.

As the time ticked closer to midnight, Raven crept to the bathroom from his room, where he had barred himself away for the last few hours.

Originally, he did abandoned his family after dinner because that seemed to be how it was done amongst the Goths: Eat dinner with your family, if you had to, then venture away to your own self-imposed isolation.

Nowadays, he did it to avoid any snide remarks and forlorn sighs his dad might toss at him. There were only so many eye rolls and ‘how long will this phase last’ s one person can take, after all.

Raven scrubbed his face. He had just finished his left side when he winced. He hadn’t worn any make-up today. Disgruntled, he tossed the washcloth into the clothes basket by the sink before quickly brushing his teeth.

He'd felt off every since Butters showed up to chat that afternoon. Something about how Butters’ peppy voice lost all emotion left a heavy lump sitting in Raven's stomach.

Not that he would ever admit that to any of his friends. Butters was just a stupid Vamp Kid after all. His friends would tell him Butters wasn't someone Raven should waste his thoughts on. They were right, of course.

On the walk back to his room, he purposely stuck close to the wall away from his parent's room. If he didn’t get close, he didn’t risk hearing them talking behind his back again.

A knocking came from downstairs as the moment his hand touched his doorknob. Raven raised an eyebrow, taking a few steps backward to look down the steps.

It was nearly midnight. Who in their right mind would come knocking at midnight? Unless it was an emergency. Maybe someone died. Maybe someone was missing. Maybe the school had burnt down with every preppy dickwad inside.

Raven glanced at his parents' room, then shrugged.

“I’ll get it,” He said to the empty hall. Padding his way down the stairs, Raven then walked to the door. He opened it mid-knock.

Butters raised his gaze in surprise. “Oh! Heya, Raven,” He greeted warmly.

Raven didn’t hold back his wince of disgust. He’d expected Butters to return his hat at school the next day or during the evening, not in the middle of the night. Butters probably wanted to give him back his hat this late so he could avoid the other Goth's mockery towards him, Raven thought.

What a coward.

“You have my hat?” He asked, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Butters bobbed his head. “Yeah, yeah, here, everything you lost.” With his grin plastered a little too firmly on his face, he held out Raven’s hat, folded in half.

Raven reached out and took it back. Something felt off about its weight.

There was something inside of it.

With an eyebrow raised, he unfolded the hat and reached inside.

His fingers brushed against cool plastic and a familiar carving.

His heart froze in his chest. Shaking, Raven removed the knife from the hat. He had to turn it over, praying he hadn’t felt what he thought he’d felt, only to have a choppy carving of a bird, its wings raised out, staring back at him.

“I’d forgotten how strong you are, Raven.” Butters chuckled. “Took me fifteen minutes to get that out — I bleached it, so don't worry.” He nodded at his action before continuing. “Then I had to clean everything up in the alley with a hose from the office and got all soaked. It was really chilly out, too. If I could still catch them, I would have caught a cold when I walked all the way to the woods to bury that cat." He shook his head. "It was just an awful night.”

Forcing his body to move, Raven raised his gaze to Butters’ face.

One of his eyes glowed a pale red while the other, the one with the scar through it, disappeared in the shadows of his face. The monster pulled his lips back, exposing sharp fangs.

Raven reeled back, dropping his hat, but keeping the closed knife in his hand. He reached out to slam the door when a hand grasped his wrist. He found his fingers pried off the door and then his body pushed inside. The monster shut the door behind them with a kick of his foot.

Without any other options, Raven opened his mouth to scream, only to have the monster’s other hand clamped over his mouth.

“Shh, please be quiet,” The monster ordered.

Tears pricked Raven’s eyes. This was it. This was how he died. He wasn’t sure which made him feel worse: dying at the fangs of a monster or dying at the hands of a Vamp Kid.

The latter, he decided, squeezing his eyes shut.

“If you’re gonna kill me, make it quick. I’ve suffered enough in this bull shit life,” He mumbled against the monster’s palm.

The monster took his hand away, pale eyebrows knit together. “I just wanna talk to you. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He looked around Raven up the stairs. “Are your parents awake?”

Raven shook his head. He would play along with the monster’s whims until he could escape. He still had the knife; it wouldn’t be impossible to stab the monster again if he caught him off guard.

“Can we talk in your room then?” The monster asked, slowly lowering his hand from Raven's mouth, but not releasing his wrist.

“I guess,” Raven stole a step backward, “C-com’on.” Raven tried to pull his wrist free, but the monster's grip was too strong.

The monster slid his hand down until their fingers were lace, with the knife cradled between them, then squeezed his hand uncomfortably hard. Raven almost groaned.

Holding hands with a Vamp Kid might kill him of pure embarrassment. Now he really had to stab this monster. It would be the only way to redeem himself.

As they started up the steps, the monster came right up behind him and whispered in his ear, “Please don’t try nothin’. You don’t want your parents or sister dragged into this, right?”

Raven faltered in his step. So, the monster knew his plan.

Great.

Maybe he could convince the monster he wasn’t a threat to him. If Raven promised never to tell, the monster would have to leave him alone, right?

Finally, they made it to Raven ’s room. He shut the door and locked it before the monster released his hand. The monster then looked around his room a moment before pulling his desk chair out and taking a seat. With his hands in his lap, he nodded for Raven to sit as well.

As Raven slipped onto his bed, he couldn’t help but wonder what happened to Butters. Did this monster kill him and take his form? Was the monster an alien that crawled into his brain through his ears?

A pang hit his stomach. Their friendship may have ended years ago, but he had still enjoyed Butters’ company back then. Butters was a sweet person, if a little too naivé. Seeing this monster take him away made Raven regret anytime he’d been mean to him.

“Well, I guess you probably have some questions, huh?” The monster laughed nervously, pulling at his studded leather wristband.

Raven nodded. “What happened to the real Butters?” He glared.

“What? I am the real Butters!” The monster frowned.

“Bullshit. The real Butters isn’t a monster who eats cats.” Raven gripped his hands into fists.

“He is now,” The monster whispered, looking at his feet. “Listen, Raven, about the cat, you gotta understand something really important.” He took a breath. “I’m a vampire — “ when Raven opened his mouth to counter, he quickly added, “ —  and not a fake one like Mike and the rest of them.”

The monster reached up and tapped his fangs. “These aren’t fake.” He gave one a tug. “See? Real as the nose on your face.” He offered his teeth out for Raven to touch, but Raven declined with a shake of his head.

Under normal circumstances, Raven would have called BS on that as well, but then he remembered the cat and how Butters eyes flashed.

“H-how?” He cursed himself for letting his fear show.

The monster laced his fingers together. “I...don’t really know, exactly. Some sixth graders chased me down the sewers two years ago. I stayed down there until I got the courage to head up. I bumped into this really nice lady as I was heading home, and she said she’d take me there in her car. Turns out she wasn't a nice lady, but a not very nice vampire lady and, then, um,” he squeezed his hands together, “I don’t want to talk about what happened next. It wasn’t...I don’t...I...”

His body began to shake. He refused to look up from his feet. His breathing came out in quick and shallow bursts. Something like a sob escaped his throat.

Raven chewed his lip then tentatively reached across the gap between them and set a hand on his knee. The monster’s head snapped up with a faraway look in his eyes. He blinked hard a few times as he forced himself back into the present.

“Sor...sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s ok,” Raven reassured, gentler than he intended to. So maybe this monster was Butters, but he was still a monster, nonetheless.

Raven took a breath. “So, you’re a vampire now. That’s why you...you know, like, ate the cat?”

Butters nodded. “Yeah. I used to have a human source of blood, but he and I had a falling out after we got into a fight about this pretty girl.” He sighed. “He said I couldn’t even sit with him at lunch anymore, so I had to go join the Vamp Kids, since I thought one of them might be like me.”

“Let me guess, they’re all a bunch of fakers?” Raven cocked an eyebrow. He already knew the answer.

“None of them are real. None of them were any help to me.” Butters nodded. He twiddled his fingers a moment then continued, “Since I lost my friend and blood source, I had to go to animals’ blood to live.”

“Can’t you just break into a blood bank or something? Why hurt the animals?” Raven asked.

“It’s not like in the movies, Raven.” Butters crossed and uncrossed his ankles. “I don’t have super strength or speed. I’m just a little faster and stronger than everyone else.”

“That’s it?” Raven couldn’t help but ask. “You drink blood and all you get from it is you can walk faster the normal people?”

Butters scooted back until his spine pressed straight against the chair back. “I can do other things too, like, I’m really good at persuading people to do what I want. And healing really fast, too. I can do that glowy thing with my eyes, and make my teeth longer or shorter, and, uh, what else, I think I’m technically immortal now? Maybe? I don't get sick normally, at least, but, well, you see? I can do a whole lot as a vampire, but only when I drink blood — people blood.”

“Then why don’t you? There are plenty of people who walk the streets at night you could drink from.” Raven took his knife and set it on the bedside table.

All the fear he had for Butters was beginning to wane. How much of that was Butters’ natural innocent and unthreatening aura, and how much was his distaste for Vamp Kids clouding his thinking, he wasn’t sure.

“Golly, I can’t! It’s one thing if the town thinks a real-life monster is going around killing strays, it’s another if they think a pervert is attacking people!” Butters shook his head. “Besides, I don’t think I’m strong enough to hold an adult down, and biting a kid without permission would make me feel bad.”

Raven hummed in thought. “So, if you had a person to eat from, you’d stop hurting the animals, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right. That’s why I was so sad when my friend cut me off from drinking his blood.” He deflated a bit, tapping his knuckles together. “I went as long as I could without drinking blood, and I tried only drinking blood from dead meat, but that stuff doesn’t do it. I got so sick from it, I couldn't take it anymore and had to go get blood from something alive.

“I didn't mean to kill any of the animals, but I was so used to drinking from something big, like a human, that it just kind of happened. I couldn't judge how much was too much and...I didn't want to do it. Honest.”

The sorrowful look on Butters' face and sincere guilt in his voice told Raven everything he needed to know.

He took a breath, then stood from the bed. He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside before sitting on his knees with his back towards Butters.

“If it’ll save the animals, you can drink mine, I guess,” Raven stated. “Just don’t kill me or turn me into a vampire either, got it?”

Butters stared at him with his mouth agape. He reached out, fingers about to touch Raven’s skin only to flinched back.

“Are you sure about this? Really, really sure?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to lean closer to Raven’s but didn’t touch him. He could feel his breath across his shoulder as he inhaled his scent.

“It’s whatever. It’s just blood. I can make more.” Raven picked at his nails, pretending to be uninterested. In truth, he was pretty scared about the prospect. He hoped his racing heart wouldn't get Butters over-excited.

He saw Butters kill that poor cat. The last thing he wanted was to end up like her.

For the animals, for the animals, Raven chanted to himself.

A wide, toothy grin spread across Butters face, showing off his fangs once again. In one quick motion, he pulled Raven into a hug.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re a lifesaver — a real swell pal!”

“This doesn’t make us friends, and you can’t tell a soul about this ever,” Raven snapped.

Butters crossed his finger over his heart in an x shape. Raven rolled his eyes.

“Just take what you need for the night then go home. We can talk more about this, uh, ‘arrangement’ tomorrow.”

“Well, Okie-dokie then!”

Butters coiled his arms around Raven, holding him just a bit too tightly as if he feared Raven would run away before he had his fill and opened his jaws wide.

Raven looked away.

If he saw those long fangs dig into his flesh, he would chicken out. Instead, he let his body relax as a sharp pinching feeling resonated from his shoulder.

He squirmed in Butters’ grasp. This hurt. It wasn’t agonizing, but there was no way Raven could find it pleasant. What’s worse, he felt every lash of Butters’ tongue across his skin. So being a feeding bag for a vampire would leave him aching and covered in spit.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

There was no way he could back out of it now, though. For the animals’ sake, he had to do this.

Maybe he would get used to it

~~~~~

Part 2.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Blue Shoes, CH1

Genre: wlw, urban fantasy, supernatural

Words: 3.7k

Summary: A story of a werewolf that is becoming more wolf than girl and a witch with no powers waitressing at a local diner.

How do you save someone from them self when both parties are particularly hard headed and prone to pouts of self-destruction, a study

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Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Chapter 1: The Girl at Table 12

warning for mentions of past injury and puking

-

When I was seven I passed a cat huddling from a thunderstorm under an old brown truck. It was a gnarled brutish thing with wet fur plastered to it’s back and mud caking it’s side. It must have been caught in a small mudslide or maybe crawling through the trenches of Vietnam. One or the other.

It had deep cuts on its forearms, stark indents that stood out against it’s grey fur, I couldn’t tell if they were new or not. Some of its whiskers looked like they were singed off- by fire or bad kids or a world that threw cats to the devil and locked the door.

Under the mud there were obvious mats and tangled fur that weighed heavy on it, making it look beefier than it was.

It’s eyes were angry slits and teeth bared like a barbed-wire fence, at the time I approached the battered cat because that was the sort of girl I was back then. I put my hand out and looked at it’s huddling mud streaked body, I waddled closer to the car and peaked underneath, “The rain will stop soon.” A promise. The cat hissed softly, it’s lips pulled back against sharp yellow teeth and eyes glowing amongst the dimness. I adjusted my little pink raincoat and don’t even cry when I hear another thunderclap far away.

The cat doesn’t budge, I stick my bottom lip out.

“Come on kitty,” I reached out under the truck, maybe I planned to grab it by the scruff like I’d seen mama cat’s do with kittens. Maybe I thought it needed a hug.

It’s hard to remember exactly why I wanted to touch the mangy thing, but the pain was hard to forget. A red hot sticky shock that shot across the center of my hand, a long bloody gash across the back that tore deep into the skin. I screamed and jumped back, reeling from the attack, the cat hissing loudly and arched it’s back as it stayed in place.

That’s the day I got my first rabies shot.

That cat was mangy, wretched, and looked like it had gone through basic training with a wind storm. I remember that cat when she walks through the door that night and a single thought goes through my head: she looks worse.

-

It was 3am, closer to 4, and I my eyes were unfocused on a TV monitor as an ad for a bowflex machine comes on. Just 29.99, order now.

We had been watching Comedy Central a second ago but Bernie had heard a word bleeped out and reminded us this was a family establishment. I snorted, because it wasn’t like any kids were hunkering down with us right now.

She came in just as the bowflex lady stretched her muscles and smiled into the camera, sparkling. I was in an ad-induced stupor by the counter at the time- still sulking from having lost the rock-paper-scissors tournament 3 hours ago.

It had almost turned into a knife-fight when Bernie had announced one of us could go home early, meaning avoiding the curfew and not being trapped in here until sunrise.

Of course, I would have been here anyway, I needed the extra shift, but it was the principle of the matter. Being forcibly locked into your place of work with customers was probably one of the rings of hell.

The girl who walked in through door probably had seen some of those rings and then some. I could have gotten her in trouble for escaping around past 11, but I wasn’t about to call the sheriff or curfew hotline or whatever it was they set up.

I blink a couple times and go very stiff.

My mouth hung open and one of the few patrons in the joint gasps lowly. It was the heavy-smoking lady who had been murmuring to the busboy about her lousy husband and last divorce and bad hay fever for hours now.

She falls silent, I blink again.

The figure’s clothes are torn from Sunday to Tuesday, long strips of dirt-caked fabric trailing on the ground after them and hanging loosely off the person’s body, like mummy wrappings. Under the clothes is muddy-cracked skin and visible small cuts.

Her posture was loose and weighted, like something immense rested on her shoulders tops and unbalanced her spine.

She sagged at every corner like a tattered doll filled with sand, her face was covered by chin-length dark hair that was also full of dirt clumps and at least 2 twigs and a couple crumpled leaves. Her head hung almost to her chest and I can’t make out her expression.

I squint my eyes at it all, of course this would happen at 3am. It was always something.

“Are you... okay?” I ask cautiously and wait for something,

She was barefoot and limping toward the counter, I stand up straight and summon up the ancient words: ‘sorry ma’am, no shirt, no shoes, no service.’ But the words don’t come and she keeps walking. I catch her eyes for just a moment as she passes, the briefest heart beat as she glances up through her dirty  bangs. Her gaze is dark and bloodshot, veins as bright red as hot irons.

Red as harlot’s lipstick, red as a cardinals breast, red as sin and every time I cut my knee in gym class.

“Fine,” she says in one breathless tired word, finally answering my question and then turning away. She didn’t look fine.

She limps toward the very distant corner table and collapses into the booth, I’m remembering that damn feral cat that mauled me.

“Ronnie,” I turn around in tight circles and try to locate the busboy on duty, he’s standing slacked jawed at the other side of the room. I bustle over in his direction. “Where’s Bernie?” I hiss at him, moments like these made me grateful for a manager.

Ronnie just looks at me dumbly and his eyes dart back over to the new customer. “Casey...”

“Excuse me,” I hear a ragged thin voice croak across the small diner, it sounds like it’s been dragged across the ocean floor- full of salt and brine.

The two homeless men and Dolores eye the newcomer. She seems to sway back and forth in place, “Could I have a water?”

I turn my head slowly, the red bloodshot eyes coming for me again. They are hazy and sunken into her head, like shadows of themselves, I flinch.

“Uh,” I clear my throat.

“If you could… please,” the voice says faintly, I hear someone moving before I do.

Ronnie pivots toward the kitchen and quickly brings out a glass of tap water, he always was a better person than me with his small face and large round blue eyes. He flashes me a look that says he’s not going to be covering my tables all night though.

I take a deep breath and turn toward the kitchens, “Bernie,” I call out and make a beeline for the freezer, “Bernie, we have a thing.”

I wander in past the grills where our one chef on duty is filing her nails down to a blunt point, we ignore each other. Sam immersed in trying to rid herself of fingertips and me in trying not to get lectured on etiquette at just that moment. I hear coughing from the back room and make a sharp turn, kicking a box aside as a reach for the door.

I yank the pantry open, “Hey!” I say loudly as an older woman with a pinched look on her face sits up. She has tight steel gray curls and a flat-iron mouth that didn’t lend itself to smiling.

She shifts her generous body toward me, turning on the floor and facing the light. Her curls are flat on one side where she must have been napping on a sack of potatoes.

“It’s my fucking lunch break,” she says waving her hand in the air, “go handle whatever it is on your own.” I set my jaw, “someone just walked in from, I dunno, the set of a disaster movie,” I shift from foot to foot, “she might be tripping or something.” That should get Bernie’s attention, I would bring up the bloodshot eyes in a moment I needed to.

“Casey,” Bernie says slowly, pitchedly, “you can either handle it or handle my foot up your ass. It’s been eight hours since my last break.” The ‘fuck you’ energy was very high in the air and I take a deep resigned breath.

“If I get stabbed tonight I’m suing,” I say with my shoulders hunched and back straight, Bernie chuckles.

“Duck and weave my girl,” she shakes her head, “it’s not like we haven’t had transients in here before.” Bernie was closing her eyes again, I only sigh. “Handle it.”

“Yeah, but most of them don’t have ‘murder scene’ written all over them.” The rabies shot in the ass feels like a phantom pain right then. Bernie rolls over and starts ignoring me.

I reluctantly wander back into the main area and try not to look into the corner, Ronnie is still eyeing me. His chin is jutted out and he doesn’t stop looking very fixedly in my direction.

“What?” I finally ask and Ronnie raises his eyebrows and his eyes dart over to table 12.

“That’s your table.” He says in his pale, quiet voice.

I grind my teeth, “You’re the one that served her!” I murmur lowly to him and he wrinkles his nose. “You want me to tell Louis you’re shirking your tables again?” It was a threat, his huge eyes shrinking into darts. He reminded me of a little brother threatening to tell mom and I straighten my back.

“Whatever,” I turn away and clench my hands, “fine.” It’s not like I hadn’t handled worse, it was Gilford.

I meander my way back over to the war-zone victim and raise my eyebrows.

She lifts her head slowly and I see thin cut marks along her chin and cheeks. I take my place next to her and lift a notepad up and give a smile, “Welcome to Sue’s Diner, can I get you anything?”

I input the usual phrase and watch curiously to see what would come out.

The girl was already done with her first glass of water, I made a mental note to go get another one along with filling up Arthur’s coffee cup on the way over.

She seems to swallow dryly and I wait for a good minute before anything actually happens. Her eyes are dull and distant, like looking off into a dark ocean. I have a strange memory of one of my classmates having this same look on his face when he was trying an experimental drug called ‘Eevee’ for the first time.

She swallows again and her head tilts to the side, “are you Sue?” I make a face, I had gotten that question before. I lean over her instead, “nope,” I put on The Usual Smile, “jus’ the next best thing.” The girl gives me a lost, almost desperate look, her eyes glaze over and I wait another long moment. “Casey.” I glance down at my employee name tag, “that’s me?” It was a question. Somehow her demeanor was making me feel a little lost too, was I Casey? Was I in purgatory? Was a stuck in a diner with a bunch of strangers and someone probably on the worst drug-trip of their life? Possibly.

It was Gilford.

She reaches out and I take a mild step backward, I don’t know what she’s reaching for, but she comes up empty and then slumps over again.

“Uh,” I take another step back, she reeks of fresh earth, blood, and something I might describe as ‘fungus.’ I consider really calling the cops, she was out past curfew and… up to something, but I’m also not in the mood for making a statement to the cops.

She retracts her hand and takes a deep rattling breath, she looks around, “Can I have an omelette with… eggs?” I take it as a good sign she’s still talking, a bad sign that she was about to make Customer of the Month (a little award among the staff to counter ‘Employee of the Month’).

“What type, hun?” I ask slowly while her looks like her head is about to spin, I wait. “We have Denver Omelette, Vegetarian Omelette, Egg-ceptional Omelette, Pennsylvania Delight, and Mexican omelette.” She nodded her head up and down continually as if processing that and I was afraid it might get stuck in that motion. Another long awkward pause descends.

“What was the first one?” She finally asks.

“Denver Omelette.” “And second one?” She was definitely winning Customer of the Month. I smile instead, “Veggie.” She lulls her head back and seems to contemplate the ceiling, this was taking a lot of waiting.

She clears her throat, “What’s your favorite?” “Oh,” I pretend to think, “If you’re looking for eggs, the Egg-ceptional one is the one for you.” The girl looked ten seconds away from passing out, “can I have that… and pancakes. And hot chocolate. And bacon. And another omelette.” I write that all down and I have feeling I was about to experience Dine and Dash or Dine and Die on Me. “How will you be paying today, cash or credit?” I should at least check.

I raise my eyebrows when the girl pulls out a muddy wallet from God knows where, she yanks out a filthy fifty from the front pocket. “Cash.” She puts her down on the table. “And just… call my name when it’s ready.” “And what’s your…?” The girl’s head was on table, “What’s your name hun?”

She had stopped responding, her messy hair was splayed out on the table and forehead pressed down into the wood.

I consider poking her to check her vitals or something, but touching a sleeping Dirt Monster was also a good way to get stabbed (pictured: waitress, listening to bowflex commercials, pictured: waitress making headlines as ‘cute latina girl in a tragic dirt-and-knife-and-poking accident’).

I turn around and go stiffly back to the kitchen, I knock on the walls as I walk in, “We got an order Sam.” Sam Honey sticks her head of the kitchen window, done with her nail business it seemed.  “Lovely!” She was always way too cheery for night shifts, I had a few theories on this but none of them held much water. “I was getting so bored back here.”

I hand over the paper, “don’t spit in it or anything. This ones a livewire.” “Never, I would never,” she looks actively appalled at the idea, giving me the Come to Jesus look and then disappearing with the order.

I hear the shuffling of feet and Ronnie makes it to my side again, like a little shadow that was happy to appear and disappear according to the rules of Social Anxiety.

“Did she say anything weird to you?” He asks curiously.

I shrug, “like what? ‘My shower broke and hey, a diner seemed ideal right now.” “She on something,” He frowns, “cocaine?” I give a thin smile, “My money is on acid.” Sam comes out in a few minutes and she bets on really strong weed. I roll my eyes at that and we get a small pool going.

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

I was shifting from foot to foot.

Hrrrrrnk

I wince, a loud snore fills the restaurant.

Hrrrnk

I hold the plates of hot food a little higher. “Okay,” I breath deeply but not through my nose, “alright.”

Hrrrrnk

She sounded a little like she choking on a piece of wet paper while snorting a packet of koolaid (something I had done and was not proud of).

I bump the side of the table with my hip, “hey,” I bump a little harder, “foods here ma’am.”

I don’t get so much as a wiggle from her, I wrinkle my nose, I didn’t plan on touching her at that exact moment. I put one plate of food down and reach for a sugar packet.

“This is for both of our own goods,” I shake the sugar packet, “so like… you should still tip.” I throw the sugar packet directly at her nose, she twitches.

“Hey lady!” I say again and throw a second sugar packet at her. “Come on.” Third sugar packet.

“Ah!” The packet bounces off her chin and the girl startles awake, throwing herself completely backward and her red eyes darting around quickly. Her chest heaved as she look back and forth, “where the hell am I?” I take a deep steady breaths, maybe she was better now. “Foods here.” I deposit the large tray of eggs and pancakes and a hot chocolate in front of her.

She blinks a couple times, seeming to process this. “Thanks.” I just nod, “there you go hun. Take your time.” It was almost 5am by then, one more hour of the curfew and then I could go home.

She just blinks one more time and picks up a fork with her dirty hand, I contemplate pointing out we had a perfectly good bathroom to wash her hands in.

The girl was already shoving food into her mouth, “it’s June.” I pause, the girl was halfway through choking down one of her omelettes, she mumbles, “June.” “Okay?” “For my name,” she says slowly, “when waking me up. You could have called June.” I just nod ever so slightly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I turn my back on the odd girl and let her continue eating or whatever it is vacuuming up eggs into your mouth is.

I fill up another coffee cup for Arthur and slip back behind the counter, I exhale deeply as I see the back of Bernie’s head, finally come from her lunch break.

“Looks like we have a full staff again.” I say loudly and see Bernie whip around to look at me.

Her mouth is a hard line, harder than usual, “Get rid of that one.” My heart drops into my shoes, my brow folds in, “you told me to handle it.” I feel like a five-year-old stomping her feet at her mom. “I did. Plus, she does have money.” “I can’t expect you lot to take care of anything, can I?” Bernie was keeping a fine curdling glare on her face, “bunch of incompetents!”

I imagine retracting my hands around the older woman’s throat, “I handled it.”

Bernie keeps going, “She’s not wearing shoes!”

Ronnie shifted back and forth, “she’s got money.” Bernie tuts, “no shirt, no shoes, no service, how hard is that? And what if the sheriff comes in, we’ll have to explain letting in curfew-breakers.”

I make a face, “it’s not like we have to tell them.” Bernie was still mumbling to herself, “and what were you betting on with Sam? Cocaine? Whiskey? Weed? I don’t need that nonsense here.” I could have groaned so loudly my soul left my body, “look, she’ll just eat and leave.” I fold my hands over my chest, feeling the need to defend my choices. “It’s not a big deal.” Bernie grumbles at me, “Casey, what did I tell you? Handle it, did you? No.” I push my sunflower-yellow hair away from my face, “seriously?” She folds her arms over her chest, “seriously.”

I growl, “what do you want me to do?” Bernie jabs her fingers toward the table, “get her out, call an ambulance, do something like you should have done before.” I groan loudly and get torn between making money and joining a ‘punched your boss before you starved on the street’ club. It we weren’t all stuck here and if I wasn’t one of the few people who was long-term at this job I might have had a go at her. Instead, all of our sleep-deprived asses mentally flip each other off and go our separate ways.

The girl is still eating.

Bernie pokes my side before she leaves, “now.” I push my hair back in frustration and go little by little back to table 12. It takes all my willpower not to just take my apron off and declare myself jobless.

I creep up to the same table again, she’s eating slowly, taking one huge bite after the next, stripping pieces off and chewing meticulously, like it hurt her. She is just as worn and malaise as before.

I clear my throat and wait for her to look up.

Like before, she takes a clean minute to lift her head. “Hello?” She seemed lost again, I huff tiredly. “We’re closing in a few minutes.” It was a good a lie as any.

The girl, June, looks back in a daze. “I have money.” “I know.” I itch my wrist, “we’re just… closing.”

“Can’t go.” She keeps eating, “I need… this.” I rake a hand through my split-ends, which were plentiful after too many dye jobs and not enough conditioner.

June was still taking even ginormous bites, I square my shoulders.

“I can get you like… five more minutes, but you do have to leave. The pool should have local showers? Only a few bucks. You could go there.” She shakes her head, “where is this?” She asks in her same cracked, weary tone.

I tilt my head to the side, “the pool is down Warring street and-” “No.” She pauses and covers her mouth, “where is all of this?” “Uh,” I scratch the back of my neck, “Gilford.” She raises her eyebrows, “oh,” she says slowly, “good.” I make a face, I rarely ever heard someone be happy to get stuck in Gilford. I examine her one last time, “the sheriff comes around at 6.” She takes another long moment, “Cool.” “You might want to head out before then.” Her big hazy eyes look back at me and we exchange a very long look, maybe I’m looking for white powder under her nose or the smell of skunk. She covers her mouth again.

“I don’t feel well.” “I know,” I try to sound soothing, “do you need to call someone? We could get you someone.” You just need to go.

She just shakes her head, “Waitress, Casey, I.” “Yeah?” I ask cautiously, June sways back and forth, I prompt again, “yes?”

She looks up at me, eyes empty and distant. “You’re beautiful.” Her face was pale and empty. I tilt my head, “You don’t look so g-”

The girl violently jerks forward and a loud retching wet sound follows, I don’t have a second to react as warm lumpy liquid cascades down onto my blue converse. Eggs and pancakes and hot chocolate slurry hits my shins and my entire body seizes up.

My face contorts, “fuck.”

That’s how I learn the lesson about large feral cats all over again.

[saverspiner]

Sonic exe fnf 2.0

#Sonic exe fnf 2.0 skin#

#Sonic exe fnf 2.0 Pc#

This version uses Majin Sonic From the sonic cd Easter egg with a shorter stature and more angular face. Majin Sonic is a character based on an easter egg in Sonic CD's Sound Test.

#Sonic exe fnf 2.0 Pc#

The original Sonic PC Port was made for Luigikid Gaming's contest, the Luigikid Creepypasta Challenge.

Lord X's old vocals were heavily edited versions of Tricky's voice samples, although it was sometimes mistaken for the Sonic.EXE scream.

He also appears to be more enthusiastic about the “games” the player “plays” with him, and seems to be more aware that he’s in a computer (thus letting him mess around with the files to scare the player). Lord X is similar to Sonic.EXE in personality, but is much more serious, impatient, and sadistic. Finally, the X-shaped scar on his abdomen is less detailed and darker. His pupils lack their X flair, but otherwise remain the same. His up pose shows a skeletal hand with purple veins that appears to exist inside his body. His teeth are far blunter than before, and much more rotten. Oddly enough, Lord X appears to now have prominent eyelashes, which can be most clearly seen in his down and right poses. He is also generally much lankier, with his squatting being more prominent and even dragging his hand across the floor in his idle. His nose now teasers blood in addition to his eyes, and there are even more quills on the back of his head. His feet are also much more grotesque, almost resembling hands. His color palette is overall much darker, with his fur going from faded to almost navy blue, and his shoes changing from a light grey to almost black. Lord X was majorly redesigned in Version 2.5 to go with his new song, Cycles. Similar to Sonic.EXE, this depiction of Lord X has a similar up pose. Disregarding changes carried over from other depictions of Sonic.EXE, Lord X has incredibly faded, almost grey fur, whiskers around his muzzle and doesn't Have a X-shaped on his Stomach. Lord X bears a similar appearance to that of Classic Sonic, but with several differences. A remake created by John-Kun and the PC-Port team is currently in development. Lord X is the main antagonist of OTH305's Sonic (PC Port), a game that reimagines the original version of Sonic.EXE.

Robotnik is fully aware that Sonic.EXE has powers beyond his comprehension.

Robotnik is scared to face Sonic.EXE head on.

Robotnik is the smartest of the souls.

The reason Soul Robotnik laughs partway through his section is because he realizes Xenophanes is struggling to defeat Boyfriend, which he finds amusing.

There is some now non-canon lore said by Rightburst:.

#Sonic exe fnf 2.0 skin#

Unlike Soul Tails and Knuckles, Soul Robotnik differs greatly from his description in the original Sonic.EXE story in the latter, he was described as having grey skin and broken glasses with blood seeping out of them, whereas in the mod, he has no glasses or eyes and his skin is a sickly pale.Because all of the week’s gimmicks appear in this section, as well as the fact that the tempo speeds up, his part is likely meant to convey a boss battle. His part in Triple Trouble references the Sonic 2 Boss Theme.Soul Robotnik's up pose somewhat resembles artwork of Robotnik from Sonic CD.His collar is torn and his clothes have grayed slightly, and both of his hands are gone. Blood also drips from his eye sockets and his mouth. His jaw hangs open limply, and his teeth are yellowed one of which is missing entirely. He lacks eyes and a skull, as his brain now covers the entirety of his upper head. He appears as Soul Robotnik in Triple Trouble, summoned by Sonic.EXE to defeat Boyfriend.Ĭompared to regular Robotnik as he appears in classic Sonic titles, Soul Robotnik's skin has faded and paled, and his head is partially split open, revealing his brain. Eggman, is the main antagonist of the Sonic series, and the last to die by the hands of Sonic.EXE. See also: Eggman / Robotnik (disambiguation).ĭr.

[teacuphuman09]

One thing I’ve found in my thirty-odd years is that playoff beards mainly fall into two categories. Dear God No, and Why?

But occasionally the sportsball boys do it right.

Joe Thornton (San Jose Sharks) grows a mighty beard and I have to say, it’s one of the better ones. Most hockey players don’t even trim their playoff beards and they get scraggly and dry, but Joe is definitely at least conditioning it because it’s wild, but soft looking, like no hit from Joe ever is.

Brent Burns (also of the San Jose Sharks) is just fucking adorable with his man bun, toothless smile, and uneven beard. He just looks so pleased and his joy is infectious. 

I don’t know much about James Harden of the Houston Rockets, but I like what I see. He’s one of those guy’s whose beard just makes me smile. It’s healthy, and curly, and I bet it smells nice, too.

I cannot lie. Brett Keisel’s (Pittsburgh Steelers) beard turns me on. It’s glorious when he’s playing and majestic when he’s not:

10/10 would sit on that beard. Unfortunately, Keisel shaved off his muff warmer at a fundraiser benefiting The Pittsburgh Children’s Hospital and Cancer Research. It’s unfortunate that his beard is gone, not that he raised money for sick kids. You got that, right? Good. Anyway, without his beard Keisel looks like any other white guy named Brett and I can’t pick him out of a lineup. Too bad.

These well oiled chin whiskers belong to relief pitcher Brian Wilson (no, not that Brian Wilson) of the Los Angeles Dodgers. This beard speaks of commitment and attention to detail. The only strike against it is that he’s using a rubber elastic to keep it together. Brian, babe, rubber with break the hair! Get some ouchless plastic ones at the very least!

This is Edge. He’s a WWE superstar and one fine looking hunk of man meat. And I feel like I can call him that because he wrestles other men in practically nothing, sorry, in skin-tight practically nothing, in what I’ve long considered the best form of homoerotic entertainment. I’m looking at you, Triple H. Anyway, Edge showed up to Summer Slam with a full beard and the arena was moist, if you know what I mean. Dude is hot without the beard, too, so double points.

I tried to find THE best pic of King James with his gorgeous beard, but I couldn’t choose, so you get two! You’re welcome because on and off the court, Lebron is one dapper sob.

This is Roy Keane, an Irish footballer and Assistant Coach, or something. I know nothing else about him except he looks like the villain in a Keanu Reeves film that I would watch. Plus, I’m a sucker for grey and white in beards.

And now, my friends, we’ve reached my favourite sportsball beard:

Adam Kleeburger. Ahhhh, look at that thick thatch or red bliss! Adam has a special spot in my heart not only because he was born near where I was born and plays for Rugby Canada, but also because he used to play for the UVic Rugby Team while I went there and I was super into rugby...players. 

He’s hot, he’s bearded, and he’s talented. What more do you need? And if you’re wondering if he’s as yummy without the beard...he is. If you like strong jaws, broken noses, wide shoulders and massive thighs. I mean, who doesn’t? Adam also shaved off that panty dropper at a Movember fundraiser, so yeah. Would smash.

[warriorsredux]

Chapter Seven

This was where they’d left the deputy.

Fireheart had never dropped by when the body was still here by the road. He had just been told to avoid this particular spot for a few days by Bluestar. The very intimidating look she’d given him ensured that he obeyed and hunted on the east side of the territory until Teaselfoot had come to camp and quietly told Bluestar that the body was gone.

There was no last scent of meat or blood, no stray hair or impression in the grass by the road that indicated anything or anyone had been here at all, and yet Fireheart could practically taste the foul stink of a rotting corpse. He held his breath, counted to three, and let it out before sniffing again. It was all in his mind, he knew that, but it was still incredibly potent.

He stopped, frowned, and sniffed again. No, that was too strong to be fake. Nose wrinkling, he followed the scent up the gravel mound and onto the edge of the dark, smooth road. Just before the white line on the border was the flattened remains of what appeared to be a squirrel.

Fireheart grimaced. The blood had dried around the corpse and parts of the body where meat had been exposed were covered in maggots. A fly rested on the exposed chin, rubbing its front legs together as if in anticipation for a good meal. Fireheart faintly recalled a scary story about a monster Raventhroat had told him that had also been covered in flies and maggots, which only made him feel ill.

At least this time it wasn’t a cat. Fireheart vividly remembered the ShadowClan cat he’d seen back when he was an apprentice. Yellowfang had been there with him, and she’d looked disturbed at the corpse of her former Clanmate. She’d been a queen, a mother to-

“Is that you, Fireheart?”

Fireheart looked up from the squirrel. On the other side of the road, a pair of cats were watching him.

“Yes,” he called, and then, thinking of who owned that voice, “Rainpath?”

“That’s me.” The little grey tom waved his tail. “ We didn’t get to talk at the Gathering. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“It’s been a moment, yeah.” Fireheart tilted his head, examining the even smaller cat beside Rainpath. “And... that’s Goldenpaw.”

Goldenpaw looked thrilled to be remembered. He bounced on the tips of his toes. “Hi, Fireheart!”

“I told you he’d recognize you.” Rainpath’s whiskers twitched in amusement. “He hasn’t really grown any since you last saw him.”

Goldenpaw’s eyes darted away, embarrassed.

“I’m a flea in my Clan too,” Fireheart said. “Don’t worry.”

The apprentice didn’t look back up at him, but he lost the shame on his face.

“Who are you talking to?” Someone else poked their head up - a black tom that looked remarkably similar to Blackstar, except for a less hardened face. “Oh, is that the one you were telling me about?”

“Yes.” Rainpath nodded to his Clanmate. “Fireheart, that’s Dipperfoot. Dipperfoot, Fireheart.”

“Hello,” Fireheart said.

“Not the best place to be meeting.” Dipperfoot climbed up further into view. Fireheart could see the white on his throat and paws. “What’re you doing here alone?”

“Just taking a walk,” Fireheart said, and it wasn’t a lie. “Needed some fresh air.”

“Did you just try to catch that squirrel?” Goldenpaw asked brightly.

“I don’t think he could have, Goldenpaw,” Rainpath said. “Smell it. It’s been dead for a while.”

“Oh.” Goldenpaw sniffed and wrinkled his little face. “Ew.”

“What are you doing?”

All of the cats jumped. The voice was sharp and loud. One more cat showed up over the border of the road - a dark ginger molly, larger than the toms, with scars peppering her face and shoulders. Her yellow eyes narrowed coldly at the sight of Fireheart.

“Just saying hi to a friend, Russetfur,” Rainpath said calmly, and to Fireheart: “Have you met our deputy?”

“No.” Fireheart nodded respectfully. “Hi, ma’am.”

He couldn’t tell whether Russetfur was pleased or annoyed by this greeting. She just stood and watched him.

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to cross or anything,” he said quickly. “Me and Rainpath and Goldenpaw just know each other.”

“Hm.” Russetfur narrowed her eyes even further.

“Oh, that reminds me-” Rainpath’s cheery demeanor suddenly fell. “You haven’t scented any of us near your border, have you?”

“No.” Fireheart remembered something. “Are you still looking for Badgerpaw?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Dipperfoot sighed. “And we can’t even go into town to look for him, because the r-”

Russetfur hissed. Dipperfoot shut his mouth with a clack of his teeth.

“We’ll have to tell them eventually,” Rainpath said to Russetfur.

“Not yet,” was her curt response. She turned away from the road. “We’ve wasted enough time. Come on.”

“Nice meeting you too,” Fireheart said under his breath. He waved his tail to Goldenpaw and Rainpath before turning, carefully climbing down the gravel, and trotting back into the woods.

 --

 “Having trouble with the town?”

“It seemed like it.” Fireheart watched Rushpaw tackle Ryepaw. “Dipperfoot didn’t finish what he said, but that molly wanted something to be kept quiet. Actually, she didn’t really look like a ShadowClan cat, now that I think about it.”

“You said her name was Russetfur?” Yellowfang looked up from her vole, a piece of furry skin dangling out of her mouth. “What’d she look like?”

“Kinda lanky, taller than her Clanmates.” Fireheart thought. “She was pretty scarred. Dark fur.”

“Hm.” Yellowfang chewed noisily on the skin for a moment, then swallowed. “I remember her. Used to be called Red. Unpleasant little brat. Don’t know why Blackstar let her in. They can’t be that desperate for members, can they?”

“I didn’t ask.” Fireheart leaned back to let the twins roll past him. “The toms were nice, but she didn’t seem especially pleasant.”

“And she’s the deputy?” Cinderpaw limped out of the ferns behind the stump. “I thought ShadowClan were all about purity or whatever.”

“Not necessarily.” Yellowfang hardly even glanced back at her apprentice. “Loners and town cats come into the Clan once in a while. They usually don’t get a position of authority, though, let alone an apprentice or deputyhood.”

“Wonder what Blackstar was thinking on that.” Cinderpaw sniffed the vole. “Can I have some?”

Wordlessly, Yellowfang pushed the remainder of her prey to Cinderpaw. Cinderpaw licked her lips and started on the vole with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

“You’re supposed to have an apprentice before you become deputy, right?” Fireheart continued. “I think she’s a pretty recent introduction to the Clan. Would she have time to be a mentor?”

Yellowfang snorted. “I doubt it. But Blackstar isn’t completely stupid. He must have seen something in her to hurry and make her a deputy. Something none of his Clanmates has.”

“What do you think that might be?” Fireheart said.

Yellowfang stuck out her jaw. “Maybe the right attitude. Maybe a forceful personality. Maybe a pretty face. Who knows, except Blackstar?”

“I’ll ask Rainpath the next time I see him.”

“And how is that boy?” Something almost pleasant came over the old molly’s face.

“He and his apprentice seemed to be doing well,” Fireheart said. “They were friendly to me, at least.”

“Rainpath was always a good kit,” Yellowfang said. “Glad to see he’s passing on that nature to someone else. He was never afraid of me. I liked that about him.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to hear that.” Fireheart glanced at the prey-pile. “I’m going to get something to eat for myself. Want me to bring you more prey?”

“I’m fat enough already.” Yellowfang shook her head. “Surprised you haven’t commented on that recently.”

“What’s the fun if you already know it?” Fireheart said.

Yellowfang pushed his leg with a paw. “Get on out of here. Go find Raventhroat and keep helping him with that apprentice of his.”

“Alright, I can see when I’m not wanted.” Fireheart stood up and stretched slowly, flicking his tail rather close to Yellowfang’s face. “See you later, Cinderpaw.”

“Fee yff,” said Cinderpaw with a full mouth.

[sunstriderling]

gency, genji teacher and mercy as school nurse au thing? cat cafe au where either genji or mercy is the owner and one of them wants to adopt a cat?

[ one light canon divergent cat café AU coming your way.]

The crowded street leaves a small opening for the man standing behind the window. At first, Angela doesn’t pay much attention to him; he looks like a war veteran, hood pulled up over his head and the exposed wrist visible from the wrinkled sleeve of his dark shirt mechanical, implying a non-civilian grade prosthetic. She sees them every now and then, comes with the field - she used to see them a lot more, but after the incident, after moving here, she’s just tried to not think about it. The war, the suffering, the prosthetics, none of it has place in her mind today.

She turns the page of her book like her gaze from the man, sips her coffee, and plants the mug back on the desk. Her feet are propped up on the stool next to her and on her lap, a slim grey cat with dark stripes naps peacefully. Before carrying on reading, she’s distracted by the milk splatter pattern over the animal’s small muzzle, and the shivers of its whiskers, the attentive twitches of its ears perceiving the sounds of its dreams. If she didn’t respect the cat’s sleep, she’d touch those small, silky paws gripping her jeans now, but… she’d rather let the creature rest.

Interrupting her, the door bell chimes as a customer walks in; she lifts her gaze, as does the cat on her lap, although the cat is less attentive than she is. And that’s when the odd feeling of familiarity strikes her. No - she’s seen this man before.

He walks in the café, a hesitant gait to his steps, like he’s not used to moving in the daylight.

”Can I help you?” she asks him, but her voice is weak and cracks and he doesn’t even seem to hear her. Instead, he stops, looks around and then kneels slowly onto the floor, reaching out his hand to let a cat make acquaintances with his scent.

She sees his hand, and she recognises it immediately. Every piece, every joint, every pad and every curved plate - it’s her work. Her design.

The cat slips down from her lap as she stands up, stunned and barely realising she’s moving. She skips forwards and moves faster than intended, until she’s standing next to him, and he’s standing up very slowly in comparison, his red-tinted eyes examining her with the shock of recognition widening them. She hears him breathe out, but she’s holding her own gasp.

”Angela?” he calls her name the very same instant she breathes out his; Genji.

A stunned silence later, her gasp and his defeated laughter mix the same as their words did.

”Out of all people…” he mutters, turning his gaze away.

”Where have you been all these years?” she asks him, and he’s motionless for some time.

Then, as if deciding there’s no way to avoid this, he returns to her.”Looking for myself,” he tells her quietly, the same accent tinting his familiar voice, now less rough and lacking the edge it once did, ”How about you, Doctor Ziegler? I heard you are no longer in the field.”

She shakes her head.

”Painful subject, huh,” he fills in the following silence, something of a smile playing in his tone.

”I suppose it would be the same for you,” she says, and he nods.

”Perhaps we should sit down, then,” he suggests, ”and speak of other things. Perhaps we should meet as strangers today, forget about the things that we do not wish to speak of.”

Angela looks around, her eyes staying upon a white round table for two in front of an old-fashioned window, the frames of which are painted with white, although the surface is now peeling in that charming fashion that the whole interior design supports. The pillows on the windowsill are taken by a white cat that seems to melt into its surroundings; she’s a mixed breed female named Valkyrie, and she’d raised her herself. Weeks of hand-rearing after the cat’s mother had rejected her had made Angela quite fond of her, and out of all these cats, she’s the one whose papers she signed for herself - she’s the one she brings to her upstairs apartment with her every evening after closing, and who sleeps on the pillow next to hers in the creaky, heavy-framed bed that came with the place.

”Would you like -” she starts, but then she looks at him and her smile climbs up to a crooked, apologetic tone.

”Were you about to ask me what I would like to drink, Angela?” Genji asks her, a hint of tease in his voice.

”Perhaps.”

”In that case, I would very much like a glass of water, or if you have herbal tea, then only that, the flavour does not matter; no honey, sugar, milk, or anything else that would cause my system to suffer shock.”

She sighs.”Genji, I -”

”Do not apologise, Angela. It has been years since you last saw me. If I read your approach right when you came to me, it seems that you did not, at first, even recognise me. I am a different man now.”

He reaches up to his hood, pulling it down from over his messy dark hair; his mask is still covered under the high collar of his shirt like a bandana, but she can see the framework disappearing underneath his skin around his temples anyway. Genji tilts his head and examines her for a moment.

”You have not aged much,” she tells him, averting her gaze as she speaks the words.

”Neither have you,” he notes, ”At first, it made me quite uncomfortable. I felt like a cyborg vampire, as if by denying me my aging you’d denied me the shreds of humanity that remained within me. Then I understood this is nothing but a side-effect of everything you did to keep me alive. Side-effect of, if I am correct, the treatments I received to help my body recover and regenerate fast enough to survive?”

She nods slowly.”You said you would like herbal tea. We do serve that. If you’d take a seat and give me a moment,” she speaks quietly, and he nods gracefully, stepping aside without hesitation.

He seats himself by Valkyrie and the window; Angela thinks he had to notice her gaze stopping there. As she turns the opposite way, she sees him offer his hand to Valkyrie as well, and the cat - well accustomed to disabled visitors - gives him a lazy sniff before flopping back onto her pillow. As Angela sets to prepare the tea, she watches his fingers run over the cat’s soft, thick, long fur, and her mind, it seems, has gone back ten years or so in a matter of an instant. She’s reading his movements, the shifts in his body language, to determine the functionality and sensitivity of his prosthetics; she can perceive pleasure in him each stroke, the pleasant communication of a comfortable texture against the sensor pads in his hands, the radiation of calming warmth from the body of a domesticated animal, and from that she can assess that his systems are still functional and provide him the necessary stimulation and support for the production of situationally appropriate brain chemistry responses. She’d love to shut all this off and just look at him like she’d look at any figure from her past, but Genji’s not just anyone. He’s never been.

She places two mugs on the table, one steaming infusion of orange blossoms and ginger on his side, and her own cooled down coffee on the other. She doesn’t mind the state of her drink. She knows she’ll barely taste it now as she sits down, her gaze meeting the intensity and sharpness of his.

”What drove you here? You are not a waitress, Angela.”

”No, I am not. I am a barista, and a co-owner of this establishment.”

”Who’s the other half?”

”Amari’s daughter, Fareeha. She’s still working in the military, but this was her brainchild, and it is a home away from home for her.”

Genji nods.”So you still keep in contact with our past. I thought otherwise. This looked like a hideout. That is what dragged me in; I thought, of all places, my past would not haunt me here.”

He looks amused, and Angela can’t help but laugh at his words.

”I suppose we are two ghosts running for the same hills, then,” she says, ”But no, I do not keep contact - I avoid it as much as possible. Fareeha is a dear friend, however. I could not… say no when she called me. We talk on the phone often, these long conversations - often late in the night - that are mostly fantasy about what could be, the lives we would have lived in another world, but somehow this fantasy stuck and, driven by some madness or another, we… made it reality here in New York.”

He nods again. This time, he stays silent for some time after, looking out of the window; the scenery has turned rainy now, with streams of water running steadily down the stainless glass separating them from the early fall’s chill.

”I am not saying this to blame you, Angela, but… don’t you ever think about all those people who need you out there?” he asks.

She feels chills rushing through her spine. Tears sting at her eyes immediately, and she chokes on the sip she takes from her mug.

”Every day. Every hour, Genji.”

”How did you walk away, then?” he asks her.

”How did you? One day, after what happened with the headquarters, I just walked away. I do charity work even today. I haven’t left it all behind, I cannot escape my calling, but - but I cannot bear the weight of it on my own, and I lost faith that night in - I don’t want to say the world, Genji, but the world. There is so much suffering, and I’ve seen so much of it. And one day, I just couldn’t anymore.”

”So you… started hoarding cats.”

”I started hoarding cats.”

Once more, he nods. It seems to make sense to him. He’s not even laughing. Instead, his fingers bend carefully around the edge of his collar, tug it down, and he spends some time undoing the plate covering the lower part of his face. Beneath it, his face - his cheeks, his jaw, every bone in his face - is mostly reconstructed. Even his tongue, which he runs carefully over his sensor-ridden lip crafts, is artificial. She doesn’t look at him; as a doctor, she knows better than to stare, and she’s seen all of this before. Others, however, have not; there aren’t many, if any, people as profoundly damaged and as heavily modified as Genji Shimada. She can hear the few other customers turning to stare at him now, prompted by one another’s growing curiosity. To her surprise, however, he doesn’t seem to mind it so much now. He brings his drink to his lips, breathes it in through his nostrils into the filters that Angela crafted within to replace his olfactory functions, and lets out a soft breath that ripples over the surface of his drink.

”Blossoms and ginger,” he identifies the infusion, his eyes flickering over to Angela, who nods; her eyes turn to his, carefully at first, but when he shows no sign of discomfort, she lets her head turn back towards him.

”When you came here,” she starts then, ”You looked lost, but like you were lost with a purpose. You came here for something but you didn’t seem confident about your reasons.”

”Ah,” he lets out, ”Yes. You are as keen as ever. I did come here for a purpose. See - I have decided to settle down, Angela. Yesterday, I laid down my bag in an apartment on the seventh floor of an old apartment complex with cracked walls and splintered ceiling looking out at a busy modern street below, illuminated by these yellow, old-fashioned lamps and the glow of neon from the outside world, and for the first time in years, I unpacked everything. And as I was unpacking, I realised that I was quite miserably lonely, you see. A plan formed in my mind, that I told myself I would think over for a while before putting it in motion, yet… here I am today, with everything ready back at the place I suppose I should now be calling ’home’.”

She listens to him, her lips bending over the edge of her mug again, leaving no lipstick stains over the china - she’s not putting on a face for anyone anymore. It doesn’t seem anyone notices, or cares; they’re here for the cats, and she’s just part of the decor, a lonely, fair but disheveled-looking woman with young skin and an old heart.

”Would you have a suggestion for me, Angela, if I came here like any other customer and told you that I am quite lonely and on the lookout for a loving companion I could bring home with me, to cherish and care for in return for his or her warmth and presence and, I would hope, love?”

For some time, her eyes are glassy as she stares at the table between them. Then, she looks up at Valkyrie; it’s by instinct, not by reason, brought upon the combination of factors she’s looking for. Yes - Valkyrie is, by far, the best adapted cat in the establishment when it comes to disabled customers. She doesn’t mind the difference between the touch of skin and the touch of a prosthetic sensory pad as long as the caress it brings is gentle and loving; she’s calm in demeanor, but quirky and fun-loving when prompted, friendly and easily adjusting, unfazed by change of scenery, and perfectly content living in and out of the company of other felines.

But she’s hers. There is no separation between them. Slowly, she turns her gaze back to him and blinks, finding him calmly waiting for her to recover.

”Would you like me to rephrase any of that, Angela? You seem distracted,” he tells her, a vague tease in his voice.

She chuckles, shaking her head. She sighs as she lays her arm on the table, her fingers playing around with the stack of napkins at the side of the table.

”I know the perfect cat for you,” she tells him, a weight in her chest, ”the problem is, she’s the one that I own.”

”Oh? I can’t take your cat, Angela. Choose another, then.”

”No. It’s not about that. She’s the perfect match for you, in every way, as if - it was meant to be.”She smiles quietly. Perhaps she knew this day would come.”I raised her from a young kitten, she is… family to me, but my heart knew she is what you need the moment you spoke those words. It happens often, you know; someone walks in here, and I can tell from that moment, this cat was meant to be with them. This person was always meant to come here and leave with this animal, like they were bound together before they ever met. I just - perhaps did not expect that animal to be the one I picked off the streets. I always assumed she would stay with me.”

”Angela… She is your pet, not mine.”

She shakes her head.”You should at least consider it.”

”I cannot consider it.”

”Perhaps we can reach an arrangement,” she says then, lifting her gaze to him, this time quite confident - it brings out something in her, a memory, or a ghost, of the doctor she used to be.

”What would you propose?” he asks.

”That you meet this cat, firstly,” she tells him, ”I do not give away animals based on some vague instinct and a sense of destiny. You have to get to know her and confirm that this is the cat you want to take home with you, and you have to love her and promise that you will take the best care of her that you are able to provide, and that that care will meet her needs. You have to be a match not only in my mind but in the real world. And then, if all goes as I think it will go, and it usually does… you keep coming back here for some time, to her, instead of taking her with you right away. You said settling down made you feel lonely - as a professional, I can tell you that simply adopting a cat will not make you feel less detached, less out of place, even if a cat will provide you the love and warmth that you, as a human being, need to feel content. Coming here, to this café, on the other hand… will make you connect with other human beings. It will give you a routine, which is necessary in forming healthy habits in a new environment. It’ll give each of your days a purpose until you find something else; a job, perhaps, or a relationship, or a network of friends that will keep you otherwise occupied. Maybe all of these things will be coming your way sooner than you think. And when you’ve built up a proper relationship with your new cat, you can then take her home with you.”

”And where do you fit in this picture, Angela?” he asks her, his voice softer than before; he sips his infusion once more as he waits for her answer.

”Me?” she repeats, confused and thrown off her prescription.

”Yes, you. The way I am hearing it - you are the owner of this cat that I am being set to adopt now. You are the co-owner of this café, and a barista, which I suppose means that should I keep returning here, I will be seeing much of you as well.”

”Would you rather go somewhere else?” she asks, ”Somewhere that doesn’t remind you of the things you left behind.”

”No,” Genji says calmly, ”I am not saying I do not wish to come back here because of you, no. I am merely curious - are you lonely as well, Angela? Would you - perhaps like to start over with me, as a man who walked into your establishment looking for a warm drink and some company, and maybe in time forge a new friendship with me? You suggested that I would greatly benefit from such, and now I have met you, have I not? Maybe this is a good place to start from.”

She feels a distinct hotness spread over her cheekbones. Caught me, she thinks quietly - and she didn’t even realise that this was at the back of her mind this whole time. A defeated sigh leaves her, and her eyes bounce towards the rainy window as she sips her cold coffee before laying it down and looking firmly at him.

”I am not opposed to this arrangement. So be it, then, Genji; tomorrow, I would like to see you here again for another drink and a playdate with our felines.”

He smiles, nodding.”Of course. I will be here, then.”

”Good. Now - would you like to meet this cat I keep speaking of?”

”Yes,” he tells her, ”I cannot wait.”

Her eyes turn towards the long white cat stretched on the windowsill, and Genji’s hand still stuck in her warm fur.

”Well, there she is. Say hello to Valkyrie,” she huffs, her eyes beaming teasingly as she turns for him once more.

He lifts his brows, chuckles, and turns towards the cat in his chair.”Hello, Valkyrie,” he says, his fingers sliding up to her ears, stroking gently over them as the cat opens her bright blue eyes, ”My name is Genji, and I hear that you’ve been waiting for me.”

[frangipanidownunder]

Finding a Way: fic part 2 of 2

Read Part One

In response to a prompt from @i-dont-wanna-wrestle asking what would Bill Scully Jr’s reaction be to the news of Scully’s pregnancy? Tagging @today-in-fic

She’d missed the 12 week scan because she hadn’t realised she was pregnant.

           “I’ve been missing periods for years. I didn’t think…the symptoms are similar to menopause. I don’t even know what made me do the test. I saw it on the pharmacy shelf and picked it up.” He held her as she shook against him. Even after all their years together, it was so Scully to do this stuff alone. To find out all the facts before revealing them to him. He thought of her cancer reveal. How she’d learned everything she could before presenting the fait accompli to him in that too-bright room.

           “We can still get the scan, though?”

           “I saw the OB-GYN yesterday.” She cast her eyes down, wouldn’t look at him. The flame of fear burst out of his gut.

           “What did she say? Why didn’t you let me come? I want to be involved, Scully. I need…”

           Her hand on his chest quelled his fear a little. “I’m sorry, Mulder. You’re right. I should have let you come. But you’ve been…”

           “Is there something wrong, Scully? With the...?” His breath got stuck in his throat and a vague pressure built up in his temples. In his mind he was saying sorry again. Over and over.

           There were tears shiny in her eyes, loaded, ready to drop. She shook her head. “Not that we could see in that scan. But they’re not always accurate. The risk of genetic or chromosomal abnormalities in geriatric pregnancies is high. An amniocentesis is the best way to be sure.”

           “But do you want that, Scully? It’s invasive, isn’t it? There’s an inherent risk in the test itself.”

           She pulled away from him, sniffing back those unshed tears. “Don’t you want to know what we’re dealing with here, Mulder?”

She spread her hands over her abdomen. He imagined the baby rolling and turning under them, seeking their heat. This baby, like William, was an unexpected invader. They had made love sporadically over the years they’d lived apart. Neither of them really wanting to draw a final line. But since she’d told him, she’d spent more time at the house and eventually, recently, moved back in. The inquiry into the deaths, into Jackson Van De Kamp’s disappearance, was being dragged out. Kersh had approved their leave with pay but only to save face. It was only a matter of time before everything changed. Before everything changed again.

“I don’t know, Scully. I’m not sure I’ve ever really known what we’re dealing with.”

***

Dinner is at 7pm. It’s too hard to get up. The soft bed pulls him further under, a warm grogginess enveloping him. His brain is mush. He remembers feeling like this for years, it’s why Scully left in the end. He couldn’t get up. Life pulled him under, kept him down for days at a time. While Scully worked, he slept and when he did wake, the fatigue made his limbs leaden and he sat in his study while Scully kept them both going.

           “Mulder,” she says. “It’s time to get up.” There’s a whisper-kiss and the faint aroma of Earl Grey. It’s enough to rouse him but when he sees the curve of life at her waist, guilt pinballs through him again.

           The light over the mirror is harsh. Maggie Scully judges him from a gold frame on the vanity. “Are we doing it tonight?” His hair is sticking out. His chin is sprinkled with peppery whiskers. His clothes are rumpled. Bill will see him as he sees himself – old, unkempt, not fit to be anything, let alone a father.

           “We’ve faced worse, Mulder.”

           He lifts her hand to his rough chin. “But has Bill faced worse than this?”

           She lets out a laugh and it settles around his ears. “He’ll come round.”

           Mulder breathes out, leaning on the basin. “I’m not sure I have yet, Scully.”

           Her face falls serious. Her short hair is pushed back behind her ears, like she used to wear it, but twenty years and a late-life pregnancy makes her face sharper in places. She hides the grey. She uses more foundation to cover not just that fucking mole, but her lines. She’s been  taking multivitamins for years, even though they both know they’re about as useful as bee pollen in yoghurt. She does weight training, Pilates, swimming. She drinks a little alcohol, too much caffeine and indulges in Ben and Jerry’s Salted Caramel more often than she’ll admit. She’s 54. He’s 56. The sum of their years is going to catch up with them at break-neck speed. It’s amplified now but when the baby is born, it’ll be blaring out of every speaker.

           “We can’t have this conversation now, Mulder. We have to go down for dinner.” Her hands are kneading her hips and she’s looking at the polished floorboards.

           “What happens if there’s something wrong with it? How can we look after it?”             

The fear spills out and takes the shape of words. She turns to walk out. He swings round to catch her arm. “I wasn’t there for you and William. And truth be told, Scully, when I came back and he was gone the first thing I felt was relief, because I knew I couldn’t fuck it up. I’m scared, Scully. And I’m sorry.” His hands are around her neck, nails digging into the taut line of muscle across her collarbones. Tears sting his eyes but they won’t fall, just stay there, trapped and useless.

           “We’ll find a way, Mulder.”

***

Scully straddled him and rubbed her wet heat along his length. She was full, ripe above him. Breasts heavy, inviting his gentle touch, hair hanging forward as she rocked, soft thighs bracketing his. She’d been sick but told him she needed to feel him inside her. Her mouth pushed against his and he let go of the fear that had balled up in his stomach like a clenched fist.

           She lifted herself up to slide on, taking her time, easing herself down. She grimaced and he held his breath.

           “It’s okay, Mulder. It’s just been a while.”

           “I don’t want to hurt you. We don’t have to…”

           She let her head drop back and he watched her throat as she swallowed and talked. “I want to. I need to. I want to feel something other than nausea and worry. I want to submit to my baser instincts. Besides, the release of hormones will do me some good.”

Her movements were tantalisingly slow, squeezing him. She felt different, thicker, slicker. He had to stop himself from thrusting up too hard but she was flaming around him and his baser needs were building and building. He clenched his buttocks and pushed into her, holding down her hips as he did so.

A pained cry and she sat higher, lifting off him, not quite clear but enough so the rush of cooler air surrounded him. “It’s okay,” she said, voice husky. “I’m okay.”

Her mouth sought his and her breasts fell against his chest. He ran his fingers up and down her spine. Her skin was cool, goose-bumped. “I’m sorry, Scully. Let me help you…”

But she rolled off and went to the bathroom.

***

Tara has cooked a feast. There are three kinds of roast meats, two types of potato dish, pumpkin, vegetable varieties, crusty bread rolls, salads and various sauces and pickles. There’s barely enough room at the table to breathe. Everywhere there is a jug, a pot, a bowl, all perfectly lined up, poised. Matthew has arrived and sits opposite Mulder, a carbon copy of Bill.

           “It’s good to see you again, Mr Mulder.” The young man’s hand is thrust into his, over the glazed carrots.

           “And you too, Matthew. How’s life treating you?” He’s mentally calculating how old this he would be. Have they missed his twenty-first? He doesn’t remember.

           “I’m majoring in Economics, Sir. There’s a post-grad internship at one of the major banks in the city I’m applying for. How’s your portfolio looking?”

           Bill guffaws and Tara smiles as she serves Mulder pumpkin and pork. “Oh, I didn’t check, you do eat it, don’t you?”

           “For God’s sake, Tara, he’s not a practising Jew.” Bill piles beef and chicken onto his plate. “Any wedding plans, Dana?” he adds, as he mounds potato and peas next to his meat.

           Scully, to her credit, simply smiles as she serves herself some vegetables. Tara holds her breath. Matthew pours red into Mulder’s glass and offers some to Scully. She covers her glass with her hand. “None for me.”

           “Oh, Dana, I was hoping to get silly with you tonight,” Tara says, cheeks already pink.

           “I’m not able to drink at the moment,” she says and Mulder notices the tremble of his hands as he serves himself some broccoli and cauliflower. This is it, he thinks. And he finds himself subconsciously reaching for his weapon. His pocket is empty, of course.

           “Are you sick?” Tara asks. Bill watches his sister closely, eyes slightly narrowed.

           “No, I’m…we’re… it’s unexpected, but Mulder and I…” she reaches across to him to take his hand. Warm and soft. “We’re having a baby.”

           He squeezes, tries to breathe but the blow to his guts from her announcement has winded him. Out loud, here, before her family, hearing their news is like listening to the hundreds of people who confided in them over the years of the X-Files, about poltergeists, presences, ghosts, monster dogs, pixies, doppelgangers, unicorns, Yetis, blood-sucking goats and vampires. He shrinks into himself but at the same time knows he needs to be bigger, stronger, for Scully.

           Tara is already around the table hugging Scully before he can even consider Bill’s response, who is watching his wife, his knife and fork clattering to the table. Bill finishes his mouthful, pushes his chair back.

           “What in the name of God, Dana? What are you saying?”

           Scully wrestles herself free from her sister-in-law. “I’m saying that I’m pregnant, Bill. That I’m having a baby. We’re having a baby.”

           Mulder stands behind Scully, hands on her shoulders. She’s tense but he feels her breathing even out and he breathes too. In and out. The pit of fear solid in his gut but anger at Bill’s attitude making it a good fear, a useful fear. They can do this, they can prove them all wrong. They can give this child a life. A good life. A safe life.

           “How about congratulations, Bill?” Mulder holds out his hand. Bill’s hands clench at his sides, his jaw sets firm, his eyes drilling through Mulder.

           “Yes, honey. This is fantastic news. A surprise, yes, but it’s a miracle. A beautiful miracle,” Tara says, kissing the side of Scully’s face. She rushes to Mulder and hugs him close.

Bill puts down his serviette. It flops open on his food. “What will you do?” It’s not even a question. It’s a statement about their life. Mulder almost nods in agreement. What will they do? They haven’t even begun to work their way through this. There’s too much grieving to do, too much processing to wade through. They haven’t come to terms with the impact of losing William, let alone faced what bringing another child into the world will mean.

“We’ll do what we always do,” Scully says quietly, but with authority, with hope, with the sense of belief that they’ve both been searching for. She loops her arm through Mulder’s, tips her chin up to him and smiles. “We’ll find a way.”

[arctic-rising]

A Dark Descent - Chapter 1: Contact, Part 6

(( Previous << Lore Navigation >> END))  ((Author’s Note: Wow, this took so much longer than I thought it would to get it published. To be fair though, I was a little focused on graduating haha. However! Now that it’s summer I should be able to work on this a lot more frequently.)) ((Warnings for battle violence and vomiting)) ((Pinglist: @ashenbicornwhale @jedicreed-fr @prancingcapricat @serthis-archivist @blight-nymph @guardianitefr ))

       Adrenaline kicked under Jack’s scales as he channeled his elemental magic. The swirling energy inside made him feel light and airy- the mana fueling his confidence as he soared into the dark sky. Astra cut past buildings on swift wings, allowing a volley of arrows to draw the attention of the spectral fiend to her. It let out another deafening roar and reached towards her, however the young archer was faster. 

       Jack edged closer to the disoriented spirit, his heart pounding. Despite the creatures sluggish movements, he didn’t want to take the chance of the spell missing. If this worked, they could make a quick escape unscathed and head back home. If it didn’t, well...

       ‘Windsinger be with me,’ Jack prayed, and took another deep breath to meditate, calling upon his natural element. He focused his magic; twisting it into a spell. He could feel the mana curling into a tight coil in his ribcage, ready to be released.

       The pearlcatcher darted towards the massive ghoul, and the monster swung its head to face him. Dust and shards of bone fell from its jaws, it’s skeleton littered with arrows and clusters of ice. The horrible whispers grew louder again when it moved closer, however the chill of fear wasn’t able to catch Jack this time. His own built up magic combated the ethereal fright, and he roared as he let loose his spell. 

       The wind around Jack whirled and twisted, picking up and gaining a green hue until it formed a minature whirlwind. The elemental magic slammed into the monster; the creature rearing back as the winds pulled hard enough to snap its skull loose from what remained of its spinal cord. Astra cheered as it fell backwards, its hands clawing at broken ruins in a futile attempt to keep its balance. “Let’s go!” Jack called to Astra. She nodded, and the two of them soaring away from the immeadite danger. 

                                                            ~+~

       By the time the two pearlcatchers had escaped from the Ghostlight Ruins, the sun was setting. Buildings and statues casted pitch black shadows, and the Sea of a Thousand Currents glittered in the fading light. Jack took a deep breath, taking a moment to look at the scene before him. 

       “That could have gone a lot better,” Astra grunted. Jack glanced at her to see her sit down to rifle through her bag before pulling out a red potion. “Thanks for coming with me Jack. I don’t think I want to know what could have happened without you,” she said, popped the cork and downed the drink. A long scrape on her muzzle began to heal, and dark bruises against her hide became lighter.

       “Oh, uhm, yeah. You’re welcome,” Jack said. “I uh, I’m glad you let me- huRK-” Jack had to stop mid-sentence and quickly keel over his pearl as black ooze built up in his throat. The liquid splattered onto the pearl and almost immeaditly hardened, the oilslick substance gleaming in the sunlight. Jack was reduced to coughing once the majority of the ooze was out of his system, and he felt Astra pat his back.

        “You alright? That was a lot of mucus...” Astra asked. Jack nodded weakly, taking deep breaths. He carefully tilted his pearl in his claws to try to get the black liquid to cover the majority of the sphere so it could harden in a smooth layer.

       “I have not fought anything like that before. I don’t, er, I don’t go hunting often,” Jack explained once he got his breath back. 

       “You what?” Astra asked. Jack cautioned a glance at her and saw her wide eyes and long ears standing straight up in shock. “You’re telling me that you volunteered to go to one of the most dangerous places in Sorienth and you have little to no battle experience?”

       “Well-well you, ah, said that you were going there and I-I-I, uh, felt bad because it sounded like you were, uh, going on your own and-and you mentioned that you had not been there before and, well, you bought me that parchment and-and-and-and” Jack rambled, his nerves making his mouth run. He shifted and curled in on himself instictually as Astra stared him, her jaw hanging open.

       “You,” Astra pointed a claw at Jack and he snapped his maw shut. “met me a month ago, offered to go with me on an extremely dangerous outing after you barely knew me because I bought you paper.”

Jack nodded meekly.

       Astra huffed, smiled, and laughed. “You’re weird. I like you,” She wrapped him in a partial hug, squeezing him between herself and her wing. “Comon, let’s go find an inn and dinner. I could go for some salted crickets...”

       Jack blinked at her, confused and surprised. He quickly trotted after Astra, keeping pace with her even as his bruises and cuts stung in protest. He carefully held his pearl with his tail, the tacky mucus already turning an opalescent grey.

                                                              ~+~ 

       The cool breeze of the Windswept Plateau was a welcome feeling on Jacks scales as he soared home, his bag loaded with trinkets, books, and empty potion bottles. Astra had insisted that they try braving the Ghostlight Ruins again, but this time they weren’t going to run away from the first sign of danger. Even after facing off with one of the more deadly spirits, It was still terrifying in Jack’s humble opinion; he almost got his whiskers torn off by a Tatterwing Carcass. 

       “You know, you really didn’t have to get that close,” Astra laughs over the wind.

       “You would have been bird food if I didn’t distract it! It would have taken your throat out!” Jack protested. Astra twirls in the sky, her wings glinting under the sunlight.

       The two of them landed at one of the nearby crossroads that lead to the southern gate of the Kingdom. The bamboo grew taller and taller as they made their way into the Reedcleft Ascent, the winds rattling the plants together to make meaningless melodies.

       The streets of the Kingdom of the GuidingWinds were as busy as ever. Dragons of all elements and statuses wove together to form an endless river of scales, feathers, and fur, vibrant, and dull all at once. Jewelry chimed, fabric shifted, metal clanked, and claws clicked on the cobblestone roads as Jack and Astra wove into the crowds. When they reached the outskirts of the Center District, Astra turned to Jack.

“Are you busy in two weeks?” 

“Uhm, no, I do not believe so. Why?”

“The royals are throwing a celebration for Princess Kima. She’s going to be an offical adult and my parents are dragging me along because they’re important and it’s expected that I show up because I’m related to them, and I don’t want to go alone,” Astra explained. “Would you like to come with me?”

“I, uh, uh, erm,” Jack stuttered. “I am not a royal, or have high standing. Would I even be allowed inside?”

“We can bring plus ones. I think,” Astra bit her lip. “Look, I’ll ask dad but would you come with me to it? Please?”

Jack sighed. “I, well. Sure- yes, yes I will go with you if I’m allowed.”

Astra grinned. “Okay! I’ll find you when I find out. See you later, Jack!”

He waved goodbye as Astra darted off to the Inner District. Jack huffed and mulled over the recent events in his life, fiddling with his pearl as he made his way home.

The cemetary had remained the same when he left it. The dark iron fence was still slightly crooked, the weeping willow still sagged over his den, and the stone markers atop the graves were still partially sunken in the soft earth. Jack felt the tension leave his muscles when he stepped inside his home and went about making a fire. One thing still bothered him though, a small thought that kept pulling at his attention as he settled down to finally, finally write a letter to his parents.

The warmth from the crackling hearth helped soothe his sore body, the light flickering over his feathered quill and blank parchment. Jack carefully removed his birdskull headdress; the beads and bones clicking quietly as he stared at it.

“Why did I hear that ghost speak, and Astra didn’t?” Jack murmered under his breath.

The mask stared back, shadows dancing along the crown and orange feathers as the firelight played off of the beads.

He sighed and placed it on a nearby shelf. Shaking his head, he picked the quill back up and dipped it into an ink well.

Dearest Mother and Father;        It seems that the universe may have more in store for me than the quite life that I had hoped for.

[idontevenknowwhatimdoingugh]

The Best of Intentions

A secret santa fic, however the darling it’s for has chosen to remain anonymous. I hope you like it <3

Summary: Sans doesn’t even like Papyrus, so why the fuck did he just save his life?

Warnings: Underfell bad brother au, brotherly angst, fighting, violence, near death experience

“Oh boy, a guardsman!”

“I’m going to get so many exp.”

“Who said you get them? I did most of the work!”

Two of the thugs turned and began to bicker. They were still in battle mode, so it could turn to blows real fast. Papyrus would be thrilled if they managed to kill each other. Fucking assholes. The problem wast their friend, who was inching around them to get a clear shot at Papyrus, who was immobilized by the jellyfish’s venom. He could probably kill Papyrus before they could even react, claiming the exp for himself.

Papyrus found this to be a particularly undesirable outcome.

The monster, some kind of rat in both personality and appearance, grinned as he got around the second of his friends. He glanced at them one more time before summoning a swam of bullets. They were long, thin, whisker- like attacks that would slice him up. Papyrus summoned all of his defense, well aware that it wasn’t enough to take so many attacks head-on.

The ground under the rat’s feet exploded, spraying the two fighting monsters and Papyrus. All three of them stared, surprised. Whatever had done it had some force behind it. The snow raining down on them was mixed with some of the rock hard earth from even further down. Papyrus squinted, trying to see through the cloud of debris.

The smaller particles of snow floated down more slowly, but they eventually revealed a cluster of sharpened bones, much like his own but shorter and thicker, sticking up out of the ground. The rat monster was no where to be seen, but grey dust surrounded the ground around the bones.

“What the fuck?”

“What the fuck!”

The other two reacted with increasing levels of stupidity and panic, turning in circles to try and find their assailant. Papyrus hadn’t seen Sans fight since they were children, but he knew that they would never get a glimpse if Sans could help it. They were fucked.

There was a soft rumble and they both turned to look. A wave of bones burst out of the snow and came racing for them. The jellyfish withdrew his tentacles, while the bird monster took flight with a sharp laugh.

“Good luck touching me with pitiful earth bound attacks like that one!” He cried, circling up into the air. Papyrus watched him fly with a frown. If Sans let him go too far, he wouldn’t be able to grab him, and he would get away. Then again, Sans probably didn’t care if the fucker fled. He would hardly take almost killing his little brother as some kind of insult.

The jellyfish could only float so high, so they continued to look around. Bones appeared in the air around them, one after another darting in to skewer them. They moved around with a jerky motion that would make a lot more sense if they were actually in water, dodging the attacks. A few grazed them, but they didn’t look too bad off by the end.

“What’s this?” They asked suddenly. Papyrus had no idea what they were talking about, but the bird squawked, drawing his attention. That monster was flapping desperately, but, as Papyrus watched, he began to plummet, regardless of his efforts. There was a loud crunch as he hit the ground, snow flying up around him. Other than the flakes slowly settling, there wasn't any more movement.

“How-!” The jellyfish screeched, but by the time Papyrus looked back at them, they were dissolving onto dust. He didn't see any evidence of an attack, but Sans must have snuck one in there.

“Karma’s a bitch,” said monster sneered from somewhere above Papyrus’s skull, snow crunching as he finally made his appearance. Papyrus wished he could move. It was bad enough that Sans was here. He also sounded mad. He was probably pissed at Papyrus for getting himself in this position. Then again, that begged the question-

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Sans blocked the sky with his skull so he could glare down at Papyrus. The signal went out to jump in surprise, but his body only twitched slightly. That was still better than before. Maybe the venom was wearing off. Papyrus hoped so. If he was going to have to deal with his brother, he'd rather do it while towering over him. Height was one of the few things he had over Sans.

Papyrus actually did try to answer Sans, but his mouth wouldn't move. Sans stared down at him, expectant. When it became clear Papyrus wasn't going to answer, he sighed and withdrew.

“Pouting, huh?” Sans grumbled from out of sight. “Typical. All you do is whine and whine. You want to be in the guard. You want to be a hero. All you really do is get yourself in trouble.”

More crunching as Sans walked around the area. He kept talking, but low enough that Papyrus could no longer hear him. Not that he really needed to. Sans had spent years making his opinion of Papyrus abundantly clear. Too needy. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Too full of himself.

Papyrus reached up and rubbed at his sockets, which were tingling unpleasantly. He wasn't a kid anymore, to start crying when Sans was mean to him. Sans was always mean to him, and Papyrus was past caring about it.

“Well, come on!” Sans yelled. Papyrus wished he could say that he was paralyzed, at least. Though that would be a whole different lecture. He clenched his fist in frustration. Oh wait, he had just moved. With a groan, Papyrus sat up and looked around.

The clearing had been cleaned up. It was clear some kind of activity had taken place, but the evidence that it had been a fight was gone, even the monsters’ dust. Sans had mixed it in with the snow, to be lost forever. At least he was as dismissive of everyone else as he was of Papyrus.

“God, you are so slow. What now?” Sans was already heading towards home. That was typical. He had stopped to wait, unhappily, for Papyrus. That wasn't. Papyrus climbed to his feet awkwardly. The venom was faded enough for him to move, but it made his body feel sluggish and heavy.

“I'm coming,” Papyrus grumbled, looking over the scene one more time. Some snowdrakes might have had a snowball fight or the dogs seen a squirrel. No one would care that Sans had dusted them. It had been in self defense, or Papyrus’s defense. Sans had saved his life.

Of course he didn't want anyone to know that.

Papyrus remembered his original question. Why had Sans saved him? It wasn't out of affection, or even familial duty. None of that had ever driven his brother before. He made it clear they only lived together because Sans wanted Papyrus to take care of all the house chores.

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” Sans grouched as Papyrus came up to him. He turned back to walking almost immediately, and Papyrus had to rush to keep up.

“What the fuck?” Papyrus asked as soon as his long legs closed the distance. His speech was a little slurred, but he kept as much of his strong tone as he could. He would need it if he was going to press his brother on this. Sans’s behavior was too strange.

“Excuse you?” Sans shot back. He always acted like Papyrus had no right to call him on his shit. How Sans had ‘selflessly’ raised Papyrus had been the cornerstone of many fights. Papyrus glared at him.

“Why bother saving me if you're just going to act like I’m a burden? Weren't those thugs about to do you a huge favor?” He snapped. His steps grew sharper as the venom faded and his angered flared up, finally given voice.

“Wow, aren't you grateful.” Sans didn't even turn and face him. He just kept walking, skull down against the wind. “Really want to make sure I regret it, huh?”

Papyrus snorted. Typical of Sans to deflect a question like that. Too bad for him, Papyrus had caught on ages ago.

“Why did you do it?” He demanded again, jabbing a finger in Sans’s direction.

“Temporary insanity? I don't know!” Sans lifted his hands and then dropped them.

“That's not an answer,” Papyrus growled. The more Sans dodged the question, the more he wanted to know. “Even if it was chance you saw us, you could have walked away.”

“They were easy exp,” Sans said haltingly. Papyrus’s eyelights tightened as he focused in on Sans’s skull. Sweat was beading along it before dripping slowly down the dome.

“That isn't it. Why?” Papyrus pressed, a sense of impending victory filling his soul. He had Sans cornered.

“Why did you go running off into the forest alone?” Sans exploded with the question, turning and facing Papyrus finally. “You have to have learned better than that, you idiot! You could have fucking…” Sans wrestled with something, his skull hunching into his thick jacket. “You could have died, moron.”

Papyrus was stunned. He had never seen Sans give a single fuck about his health. This was far from his first near death experience. Before he had followed Sans out to Snowdin, because he didn't have any idea what to do otherwise, the gangs in the capitol had almost gotten him quite a few times. Sans had never so much as asked where the broken bones had come from, or his LoVe.

“So what?” Papyrus asked, still trying to process this new facet of his brother. Sans’s jaw dropped open. The moment of surprise passed swiftly, and his face morphed into a mask of anger. He glared at Papyrus, jabbing his finger this time, right into Papyrus’s chest.

“I raised your ungrateful ass. I have taken care of you- nn, I cannot fucking believe you!” He yelled, stomping in a small circle in front of Papyrus. The snow churned, mixing with the dirt. The slush coated Sans’s dingy slippers, but he didn't seem to care. His fists were clenched and his posture rigid.

“Taken care of me, really?” Papyrus shot back. Since when? “I mostly remember you leaving me alone so you could go off and drink yourself stupid.”

Sans looked mad enough to burst, red magic colored his skull so thickly. He growled, a sound that sent a shiver of fear through Papyrus. The one sin Sans wasn't guilty of was hitting him. Papyrus worried this might be the moment that failed to hold true.

He didn't lash out, though. Sans unexpectedly turned on his heel and stalked towards home. Papyrus stared after him, lost by the sudden disappearance of his adversary. Sans never let him have the last word. Ever. Unless it was an apology, which it hadn't been in years.

Getting it should have felt like victory, but Papyrus couldn't find that feeling in him. He still wanted answers, and he currently had more questions than when he had started asking. Like, what was so secret that Sans would yield to him?

He walked after Sans fast enough that he should have been able to catch up easily. Even at his fastest, Sans’s legs were about half the length of Papyrus’s. Papyrus never did, however, arriving at their house without a glimpse of Sans. He must have taken a different route, probably to Grillby’s. The chances of Papyrus taking the fight there were about as good as him going there to drink.

Grumbling about monsters with no sense of dignity, he walked into the house. Sans was on the stairs, heading up to his room most likely, which was not at all where Papyrus expected to find him. Stunned, Papyrus stepped into the house and slammed the door behind him. Sans jumped and turned, one foot slipping down from the stair he was on with a loud clack. Papyrus glanced to the side and found the soggy slippers by the door.

“Oh, just you,” Sans grumbled, turning and hurrying up a few more stairs.

“Don’t you fucking run away,” Papyrus snapped, walking over to the base of the stairs and looking up at Sans. “You want to claim you ‘took care of me’? Well, you’ve given me shit all my entire life, at least give me some fucking answers.”

Sans stopped and looked back at Papyrus again. His skull was dripping red sweat still, and his eyelights were darting around as if looking for a window to jump out of. Papyrus tensed, ready to keep Sans around by blue magic if he had to. He couldn’t say why, but it felt like there was something coming, that if he could just get a little more out of Sans it would give him a puzzle piece he’d been missing without even realizing it.

“What answers?” Sans asked, voice quiet. “Ask me your stupid questions then.” He turned to face Papyrus fully. His arms were loose by his sides, hands not in his pockets for once. If Papyrus had to guess, this was what he looked like when he prepared for a fight. Had it been a good idea to do this right after Sans gained more exp?

“Why did you save me?” Papyrus asked, his first, most burning question. It wasn’t like he didn’t appreciate that Sans had saved him. He didn’t know how to handle that he did appreciate it. He didn’t know how to thank a monster who had been so cruel to him his whole life. The flickering, feeble flame of hope that Sans helping him had lit needed to be snuffed out now, before it grew large enough to burn Papyrus.

“Because you were going to die!” Sans yelled suddenly. His hands were clenched into fists, but his voice wasn’t laced with anger and violence. It crackled with some deeper emotion. “Because you finally got yourself into a mess you couldn’t get yourself out of, and you were going to die!” His voice broke on the last word. Papyrus was frozen by the sight of tears starting to leak down Sans’s face in a steady stream that dripped onto the carpet of the stairs.

“What do you care?” Papyrus asked again, faintly. He wasn’t getting something. This didn’t add up. What was he missing?

“Of course I fucking care!” Sans gasped, not even bothering to wipe the tears, which really detracted from the force of his glare. “Whenever you- I’ve always been-” He sighed a big, wet, angry sigh as he struggled to finish a sentence. It had been enough, however. Papyrus had the missing piece.

“You’ve always… been there…?” Papyrus asked, because even if Sans confirmed it he couldn’t really find in himself to believe it.

“All the times I knew about,” Sans nodded, looking down at the ground. “You really ran me ragged, as a kid,” he laughed awkwardly. Papyrus didn’t see what was so funny. Sans wanted to talk about how hard it was for him?

“Fuck you!” Papyrus spat. “Why the fuck would you just… watch? Was it fun seeing me get beat to hell? Did you enjoy them breaking my bones? Were you on the edge of your seat each time I was almost fucking dusted?”

Sans was staring at him with shrunken eyelights, the pinpricks of red darting around Papyrus’s body as if picking out specific injuries to go with the accusations. So he had been there, because he sure as fuck hadn’t treated any of Papyrus’s wounds after.

“N-no, of course not,” Sans recovered, but barely. His voice shook, and he walked down a few stairs, arms open. Papyrus backed away, eyeing him suspiciously. “You always won. You always found a way, and you got stronger.”

“So this was your sick idea of training?” Papyrus asked coldly. His other feelings had fled from the onslaught the revelations brought, hiding behind anger.

Sans stopped, still a ways from Papyrus. “No- It wasn’t like that.” He waved his arms. “You had to learn to survive on your own! I knew- I had seen monsters, strong monsters, trying to protect their loved ones. I saw them fail again and again because they were only one monster. As soon as they turned their back, let their guard down, or… dusted, the monsters they’d sheltered were as good as free exp. I couldn’t-”

“You couldn’t?” Papyrus was taken aback by the explanation. It was as pathetic as Sans looked right now. “You couldn’t be bothered to train me yourself? You couldn’t imagine actually fighting with me? You couldn’t what?”

Sans fell silent. He looked down again, hands now clenched together in front of him.

“And the insults?” Papyrus continued, righteous fury sparking in his soul. “Did you have to talk down to me to ‘toughen me up’? Was that why you lorded over me every chance you got?”

“I wasn’t-” Sans raised his skull, but Papyrus was not ready to hear his excuses.

“You were. You treated me like I was nothing. You’re nicer to your drinking buddies than you are to me. Was that part of my ‘training’?”

Sans flinched, looking back down. Silence filled the house while Papyrus waited for some kind of answer. He wanted one, so badly. He wanted Sans to justify away his behavior in a way that was realistic.

Papyrus still wanted a brother.

Gritting his teeth against unwelcome tears, Papyrus started up the stairs. Sans jumped, looking up at him, and there was maybe a little hope in his sockets. For what, Papyrus wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stop and find out. He had run out of questions. All he wanted now was space to process what he had learned. He brushed past Sans and went for the door to his room.

“Paps…” Sans spoke up behind him, voice soft and cautious. Papyrus paused, but he couldn’t look. He just could not look at Sans right now. Stepping into his room, he slammed the door.

Papyrus paced back and forth across the room, the tears burning as they forced their way out of his sockets. He was wound up tight enough to explode, his magic sizzling with the need to lash out. He fought it back. The Great and Terrible Papyrus had better control than that. He wasn’t going to be defeated by his own fucking emotions.

What was he going to do now? A plan of attack always calmed him. Was he going to accept that Sans’s behavior had been some twisted form of caring for him? Should he? Pain, sharp and hot, struck his soul as he realized that the brotherly affection he wanted had always been there, just out of his reach. Sans had hid it from him to… protect him?

That was bullshit. No matter how Sans rationalized it now, that wasn’t how you treated someone who you really cared about. This was all a bunch of excuses from a monster who was being called out on being an asshole. He didn’t actually give a shit, he was just trying to trick Papyrus.

“Nn!” Papyrus stopped pacing and curled down, the tears flooding from his sockets. He wanted so badly for it to be real. He hated that he wanted it.

“Papyrus…” Sans called again, from outside his door. Papyrus didn’t respond. He was breathing heavily, trying to force back all the pain caused by just hearing Sans talk to him like he was… like they were… okay.

“I’m sorry,” Sans offered, which Papyrus found quite unwanted. He didn’t want empty apologies. They fed the flame, priming it to burn up his soul. “You’re right. The way I acted towards you didn’t help you, at all. It was for me. I wasn’t able to do it, at first. I don’t know if you remember, behind that horrible restaurant-” He stopped himself, leaving a heavy pause.

Papyrus did remember. A pack of surprisingly vicious rabbit monsters had ganged up on him. It was the last time he saw Sans fight. The very next day Sans’s cold behavior started, leaving Papyrus to wonder what he had done wrong.

“I had to remove myself entirely, or I couldn’t stand by and let you earn your way in the world.”

The explanation was as unwelcome as the apology. Papyrus didn’t want to know that Sans had just done a shitty job. He had meant well and had tried, but had fucked it up. It left Papyrus with lukewarm feelings he didn’t know how to handle. He knew what to do with anger. He thought he’d know what to do with forgiveness. This lousy explanation left him unable to feel either.

“So what? Do you think that makes it all better?” He grumbled, reaching for the more familiar emotion.

“No,” Sans responded after a pause. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Papyrus wanted to lash out even more now, because he believed him. Sans actually sounded sorry.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.” The self pity in that statement made Papyrus want to scream, but he stayed still and silent, listening. “I do want to try and be a better big brother for you… if that’s something you even want.”

It had been. Papyrus wasn’t sure it was now, but the part of his soul that had longed ever since he was a child ached at the offer anyways. Despite all evidence that this was going to be a complete disaster, only maiming Papyrus worse in the end, he couldn’t overrule that part of himself.

“Fine,” he responded, emotions draining out of him in one instant. Fuck that bit of hope. Fuck Sans for drawing it out of him and drawing him in with it. He could try all he wanted, but Papyrus’s walls were staying up. Trust was a whole different matter.

“Thanks, B-bro…” Sans’s voice sounded lighter, like he might even be smiling. He was going to mean well and try, wasn’t he?

Papyrus sat down on his bed, put his face in his hands, and tried not to let hope swallow him whole.