#the fur on the floor is from her. i cleaned in here prior to her arrival and there is Already fur

[orcelito]

New Cat

Her name is June Bug

She is home now and she is shedding like CRAZY. Sweet sweet calico cat though. She was standing in my lap and just SOAKING up the pets in the visiting room, so I knew she was the one.

I've always wanted to have a calico cat, and now I have one 🥺

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Now on AO3 here!

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

[oogaboogaspookyman]

Why not

Let's show it to them

[not ALONE]

How the hell did i get here..?

Spookyman, author of this fic you're reading rn, 21 of december 2023

It's a dark, rainy night in Copper 9. No sunlight. No noise apart from the rain. Gloomy night for a gloomy occasion. Dark night for a dark moment.

"Hey, freakshow! Spooky gal!" Said a drone, right before throwing a paper plane on her head. "Remember the time i told you to do me a favour and help me with my homework?"

"Yess... What. Is it. Hanc." Growled the mentioned spooky gal, Six, while gripping her locker's door and not looking at anyone but her stuff.

"No need to get like that, hot stuff, i'm just sayin' you're a fucking bitch for that-" Hanc is interrupted by a chokehold from something strange. A peculiar blue symbol holds his neck as he floats in the air.

Everyone gasps and starts screaming at the sight.

"No need to get like that?" Repeated the girl, who's now visibly shaking in anger. "Look. Who's. Fucking. TALKING"

Hanc is dropped onto the floor, letting him breathe once more, and try to open the door to escape the locker room.

The door is locked.

"I try. I tried, i try, i keep trying, i still keep trying, i will keep trying, i physically can't stop trying, and THIS is how you repay me? For all of the fucking EFFORT--" roared Six as she tore her locker's door clean off it's hinges. "--THAT I CAN'T STOP GIVING, I LITERALLY CANNOT TAKE A BREAK WITH ALL OF YOU, TEARING ME DOWN JUST BECAUSE I EXIST AND EVEN THEN I TRY TO BE NICE"

"Hey, girl, you don't have to do this, we can talk this out! Haha- look- i- i'm sorry for talking to you like that i'm just- uh- i had a bad day and everyone has their gripes, y'know!" Hanc is interrupted again by Six's berating.

"NO. MORE. TALKING. I'M DONE WITH ALL OF YOU. THIS TIME I'M NOT LETTING ANY OF YOU GET AWAY WITH IT" she raises her locker's door up in the air.

"Hey- HEY?? CALM DOWN! HE-"

Splat. Goes his head. Pop goes the weasel.

A cacophony of screams comes from the locker room.

The gal is growing in size, flesh growing on her body, the growth getting inside her casing and inbetween her inner workings, fur growing right out of the flesh...

The cacophony stops as soon as Six begins roaring...

"Let's never talk about this again, got it?" She sternly growls to Hanc while using her strange magical powers she calls an "Absolute Solver" to clean up the mess in the locker room.

Hanc nods, slowly but keeping up a (albeit false and flawed) smile, because everything is always okay! Right? There's nothing to talk about.

He and the rest walk away while the gal finishes up with the cleaning service.

The day continues as normal, although... Nobody even looks at her for the rest of the day after that. But that's okay, they're all just pieces of shit anyway, as worthless as what they really are. It wouldn't be a surprise if the Murder Drones got to them all one day...

The bedroom door slams shut. V is startled and looks from the bed she got on out of boredom while the gal was away. This is the first time she heard the door slam shut like that.

"What's up now, little worker~?" V gives her greetings to the gal, unknowing of the events that transpired prior...

Six is silent...

"Helloooo? Are you in there? Did the scary evil god program take over again?" V spoke jokingly.

She's still silent... V loses her sing-songy voice and joyful facade, going soft... Getting worried.

"Six? Are you okay?"

The gal responds with sitting down next to her, and sighing.

"I can't take it anymore."

"What?"

"I can't. Take it. Anymore. V."

The gal begins to form a crooked smile as she giggles to herself, at herself, shaking.

"Every day, every fucking day, it's always the same thing now, something goes wrong, the blame is on me, i suffer consequences that don't belong to me, and nobody does JACKSHIT about it but stare like i'm some sort of ZOO ANIMAL." She keeps on giggling, visibly shaking much more as she speaks.

"Do you know what it's like? Being suddenly labeled a monster and the spotlight shining on you for it, only going away after the damage to you is done? They never once recognize you as a victim, as another drone at all, they just hurt you and keep going until you're on the floor and then the lights are turned off, the audience is PLEASED"

The gal grabs onto her arms, gripping so hard she's drawing oil from them, like she's trying to tear her own arms off...

"THERE IS AN AUDIENCE MADE JUST FOR ME, JUST FOR HURTING ME, V." She growls, her giggling slowing down to a stop, getting replaced by the screaming that will follow soon after.

"I... I JUST..." Her visor begins to crack from the top, as tears form in her eyes and she hyperventilates, her hands are shaking the way a bee is trying to GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!"

Her visor cracks in the very middle. Severely. From top to bottom.

V looks on in horror and worry, visibly shaking from the sight and tension of the situation.

Six begins sobbing, falling down on V's chest.

"I don't want this to be me..."

V knew the feeling well. Too well. She wishes she didn't know it. It's what gave birth to her.

She just slowly put her hand on her head, and gently rubbed her hair. Sweet little gentle pets. Gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle gentle ge

She places her hand on the back of the sobbing gal's head, cupping it, holding her close just as much as Six does to V. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hol

V shushes her, softly.

"It's okay... I got you"

...

It's okay... I got you

It's okay... I got you

It's okay... I got you

It's okay... I got you

It's okay... I got you

It's okay, i got you...

Six breaks down in tears, not holding back any drops, not holding back any noise.

This feeling is terribly familiar...

"Don't look at these meanies, little dude, you're fine away from them..."

"They hit me so haaaardd..." *Sniff*

"Let's just go home..."

"Yea, i wanna go home too..."

"It's okay... I got you..."

It's okay... I got you...

"Thank you for being here... For me..." The gal sobbed...

"Anytime, love..." V whispered...

Anytime, little dude...

[maibeemp]

The Fairest Cookies of Them All

Cont. from here W/ @heatherxmp

By the time the blizzard halted, the cookies the demigoddess baked prior had gone stale. And she couldn't just gift her friend stale cookies, now could she? So Mai decided to put on her sunflower apron. She tied her hair in a bun, put her favorite record on and was ready to make a mess of her small apartment kitchen. Again.

The kitchen princess was baking cookies all morning, getting - unwanted - help from her sweet four-legged friends.

I hope Lily didn't get any fur in the dough--

She put two whole trays into the preheated oven, before cleaning the kitchen - and the rest of the apartment as both Lily and Cactus had decorated the floors and furniture with little flour paw prints, the little artists.

Mai cleaned up the big mess, before looking for an empty cookie tin universally used to store sewing supplies and some multi colored ribbons.

Cookies out to cool and out of reach of the mischievous pets as Mai ran to her room to get herself flour and chocolate free and looking presentable. When done, the sunshine girl placed as many cookies as could fit snug into the cookie tin. Tying a bunch of ribbons around it, before heading out.

Within minutes, Mai stood in front of Heather's home, balancing on her tippy toes to reach the bell.

[sparkraptor]

Medusa (1)

(Several weeks prior)

the view from the Olympian towers on Arcadis was breathtaking. the planet was gleaming blue and green beneath them,  space glittering dark above. the apartment was luxurious: golden walls, just muted enough to be tasteful rather than first family gaudy, set the stage for dark velvet couches in deep garnet and emerald, woodwork in teriazeen ironwood and the creamiest granite from Heidigger X. the stone had a subtle glitter as the delicate lamps shone down upon it.

seated on one of the couches, the back draped in golden fur, sat a woman in a scarlet gown. at her wrists sparkled jeweled bracelets, twinkling as she toyed with her gilded hair.

the only things that marred the scene were the two ugly cyborgs behind her, and the the battered, shabby synth bleeding out on her antique palladian carpet.

Medusa delicately nudged the synth with the toe of her ivory boots, and regarded him with a cool eye.

"Ise, we've been over this." She said indulgently."I don't give a shit about the Pilgrims. I want to know about those clowns you provided false IDs for."

"Fuck off, Medusa." The Milspec growled.

"They were good, by the way. If it had been anyone but me, they wouldn't have noticed the subtle data fragments." She leaned forward. Across the way, the combat mech that Ise had restored lay in a heap. She wasn't a monster, she reminded herself. She could've forced it to tear itself apart. "I have Adi's eyes." Medusa purred then. Gently she reached over and pulled the ratty old watchcap from Ise's head. The sunset-pink hair, so at odds with his scarred face and rough demeanor.

Medusa watched the synth's hands clench until the engineered flesh on his palms began to tear. She pitied him in a way. Primes might not have been able to truly feel the range of human emotion, but what they could was real enough for them. She twisted the connections in his mechanical legs again, until he rasped out a little cry.

"The Pilgrims don't deserve you. They may have unchipped you and carved a valley inside of you for your love." She sat back, looking at the box on her side table that contained Adi's eyes and faceplate. "But they won't ever come to your aid. If they get wind that I've had you in my hands, they'll cut you loose and never look back. Now, tell me about that marach and his friends - the big, handsome solarae and that remarkable synth they brought to the fight." __

She was impressed how little Ise gave up when he finally spoke.

"What happens now?" Ise rasped, trickles of synthetic ichor dripping from underneath his tattered blindfold.

"Merrick will clean you up and reboot your mech friend. Weapons cold, of course." Medusa ran a finger over Adi's box. "I'll return these to you before you leave. I'm not an animal, old man."

She paused. "I'm going to have Merrick spin you up a new set of legs while he's at it." The burly augment picked Ise up as if he weighed nothing at all, and the synth's ruined legs dangled uselessly above the floor.

She could tell that Ise was clenching his jaw, fighting back the sarcastic vitriol for fear she would destroy Adi's eyes. "I know it might not seem like it, Ise. But I've always respected your work. The Pilgrims  won't know you've been here, but think about what I said."

__

She waited until her pet augments had left with the synth and his mech, drumming her fingers on Adi's case. With a small push, one of the gems on her bracelet unfolded into a tiny, glittering drone. "Update my to do list. I want to know everything about this Kiosho and his friends."

[forgotten-contract]

Voidtouched-blue--[Prior]

Yet her body would continue to betray her. The room spun as the spots blinded her, but the door was so close. Stubborn to the core, she continued to try and push past her limit, only to be met with a clumsy stagger. Her tail flicked, smacking the chair as she began losing her balance again. With a light, meaty thud, she half-collapsed to the floor again, just as before. And just as before, she had shifted to her hands and knees. The spinning room, the stippling dots that took turns obscuring parts of her vision, and the unbelievable fatigue that gripped her had her reeling. Before he could even react to the sight of her trembling, and huffing figure, she let out a tired warning. "Don't-....I just...I just need a moment..."

Silvaire had left with all the intention of allowing his feline companion the privacy to walk and move on her own, staying in the adjoining room and once more assessing the damage to his property… not that the man really cared. Idle hands grazed against the inlet stain that her huddled form had left onto the bedding, walking with small lazy steps through the unavoidable pool of ichor that clung to his boots, bringing him to the bedside table.

There was nothing like the feeling of fresh blood parting beneath your heel, even if it held only wasted opportunities.

Atop that marred furniture still rested those tomes, the translation harboring starred droplets of ink and rose alike, and it was with a sigh that he picked up the books with the full intent of bringing them while she walked on her own-

The audible crash of a chair from some huffing tail and the fall of a light body earned a cocked brow and a tilt of the head as the lord walked back to the room, leaning into the light to see the way she struggled and shook on his floor for… the third time? Perhaps the fourth.

Dark nails held back a smile as he clicked his tongue, placing both her Compendium and his translation atop the counter, going to assist in some capacity when her exhausted voice gave him warning, a warning that earned a low hum from the man as he straightened to, indeed, give her time.

In those moments (That began to stretch into minutes) Silvaire studied the woman who had finally gotten herself clean, though the wounds atop her head still glistened and dripped in rare beads, she seemed relatively unscathed by the gore that he noticed stained the tub all the same. A few cuts here and there marred her body, though some of them, he now realized as the hem of his shirt rose along her thighs, were no dark scratches like he had wrongly assumed but stripes that naturally patterned to her fur.

Those slow lazy steps resumed as the demon watched with an idle fascination, hands behind his back (To hold himself still?) as Cyra began to all but crawl towards the doorway. It reminded him so much of bygone years; a blood soaked floor, a meaty puppet bemoaning their helplessness as he waited - watching them claw and plead towards a presented exit.

Her paws hooked on any surface they could with the edges of the flooring, and each rise of those knees, each pull of those thin shoulders, served to highlight the draping fabric on her form. Many layers had hidden the curves beneath, but here he was uncomfortably aware of the way her jugular pulsed along her strained collar, how her tendons tensed, relaxed, and tensed again with each struggling motion of a stubborn well-trained will.

Even the way that tail swished beneath that fabric - however low it stayed - brought those predator’s eyes to watch the tiger in the trap, watching as it thwacked against the marble with her growling complaints dimming as her strength began to wane once more; it would be here that normally, in the pleasure of the past, he would begin the real game-

Circling around he picked up the fallen items to occupy himself from those thoughts, sensing her discomfort with his study of her body, of her mannerisms, of him. Clearing his throat he avoided the reddened towel for a moment before turning back to her to kneel at the Keeper’s side once again.

“You’re in no condition to move on your own it seems.” It was a statement of fact by this point - the lord had given her more than enough time to manage on her own, and now it was proven she wouldn’t be able to even make it outside the doorframe. “I would rather not leave you to shiver on the tiles, so…”

Internally his body revolted at the idea of picking her up, again.

But, it was a means to an end.

This time however, the Elezen was aware enough of her own dislike, and some unspoken condition, of touch - and it was with a tentative angle that he made to scoop the feline into his lap once more-

Only to feel her full palm press against his chest in a firm denial, sliding from his grip to fall to her side with a groan that could only be a measure of regret. He had to admit, he hadn’t thought she’d do something like that all things considered; and it earned a twitch of the lip of honest mirth

Stubborn.

“Cyra-” He moved a touch closer and felt the flick of that thick tail against his thigh in obvious warning that his contractual obligation had to ignore. “-You’re too weak.” The man bit back the words ‘You can’t stop me’.

Seeing a measure of thought drift over her eyes as those attentive ears flicked forwards and back, Silvaire took that opportunity to make the choice for her and once again picked her up but this time standing as quickly as possible while keeping her balanced, ending up with one of her arms slung over his shoulder to hold her high on his chest as his hands held far too much warmth in them through the single layer of fabric, and as she struggled for a few heartbeats to push and wiggle, her eyes clenched tightly in a taught history that made him wait, wait and let her move as she needed while still being in his grip.

If she’d let him grab her properly the first time he wouldn’t have her so close-

Cyra stilled as she most likely accepted the outcome, and it was here that Silvaire could feel the thick hammering pulse of her heart through the arteries of her side pressed flush to his shoulder, the rhythm dancing in a tantalizing tempo as the lower hem drifted from the gravity of how she was sitting in his arms, nothing revealing in the traditional sense, but the aether that hid beneath that slickened fur, patterned beautifully along the collarbone in such a way it made his tongue run along the inside of his teeth; the feeling of her and the heat that came from a real life wasn’t something he was used too and… she… she was just as close to him as he was to her. She could see him just as well. Just as clear.

Though his heart was cold, it still worked in the anatomical sense - the sense of the emotional of the man who realized he’d been caught quite literally red handed - and with the lacking excuse to leave the room as he had often done thus far, there was no way for him to escape the flush that rose to pale skin as gilded eyes blinked and looked away, his voice a low rumble in his chest as he tried to ignore the thoughts that spun, the hunger that ached deep within.

“-I’m sorry. I’ll let you go as soon as I can.”

True to his word he was quick to walk as needed, desperate in his own mind to ignore the way her arm slid over his back, or the way her tail once more curled for balance on stained wrists on instinct - or the way he could feel those bright eyes watching him.

Soon enough he had brought her to his room where the food waited, and for once, he didn’t leave as soon as he was done, despite how he had many excuses to do otherwise at the moment.

[a-fluffer-nutter]

Bath Time

A/N - Here is a cute fic of Lady Sneasler giving her kits and Ingo a bath. Naturally, shenanigans ensue. Please enjoy!

Word Count: 1,938

           The sun was bright after the torrential storm had gone through the day prior. The dirt was turned to a thick, muddy paste that enveloped any who dared step through it, drying immediately in the vibrant sunlight. This posed an issue for the pokemon mostly commonly preyed upon, muddy footprints trailed their every step, however the predatory pokemon were weighed down by the cement-like paste on their feet. Thus, it was a sluggish day for all in the Coronet Highlands.

           High up in the rocky cliffs, a small cave hid amongst the overgrowth of ivy. Peering out over the mountainous landscape, Lady Sneasler leaned against the cave mouth with a sigh of relief. With the weather as harsh as it was, she knew there was not much for her to do. There would not be much danger or activity stirring in her domain, so she got to relax for the day. Though to her, relaxing was entailed performing a very important task in her den.

           Bath day.

           It was the first time in a few years that the Noble had produced kits, which came as a great delight for the Pearl Clan, as Irida was concerned that Lady Sneasler would never have anymore, thus an end of the Noble’s lineage. Since she has not had a warden since before she had those kits, there is no one that can track down her adult offspring in the event of her untimely demise. However, this year was different. With Lady Sneasler choosing a man from faraway lands as her new warden, there is now a record of her five kits. Technically, four kits were hers. The other was premature and was found by Ingo as he and Dawn were trapped in a Distortion. Most pokemon they had encountered in these distortions were fully grown and very angry, but Dawn had managed to hear the quiet squeak of this Sneasel from behind a rock that Ingo was heading toward. Seeing the state that she was in, the humans rushed for Lady Sneasler’s aid and thankfully, she took the kit as one of her own in no time at all. Aside from having to teach her other children to be extra careful around the smaller kit, with her not being a poison-type, thus not being immune to their natural toxins, she treats them all the same. However, a certain someone has formed a strong bond with the young Sneasel.

           “Little Lady, I just cleaned them,” Ingo let out a sigh, dropping the wet piece of cloth onto the floor of the cave. He was sitting in front of his Magnezone, the newest addition to his team, and had just finished polishing the mud and grime off it. Naturally, the tiniest Sneasel had decided to leap from Ingo’s shoulder and onto the steel-type and paint its large body with tiny, pebble encrusted footprints.

           Magnezone twirled its magnets with a deep, mechanical cry. Ingo was still figuring out Magnezone’s different mannerisms, but something about the steel-type felt familiar, as if Ingo had encountered a similar pokemon before. Every time Ingo called its name, he would feel another name grace the tip of his tongue, though he could never spit it out in time. This had been dissuading him from using Magnezone much in battle, though after a conversation with Dawn, he was beginning to use the pokemon more. That and he felt a deep connection with it, having also found it in a Space-Time Distortion while it was just a Magnemite.

           The small Sneasel stuck out its tongue at Ingo as it ran away, though was stopped abruptly when she ran into an obstacle. Her mother.

           Lady Sneasler let out a low hiss as she scooped her baby up into her arms, the youngster letting out a high pitched trill of annoyance. The Sneasel looked back at Ingo with pleading eyes, though the man just shrugged at her as Lady Sneasler began bathing the young one.

           Bath time was a serious deal to the Noble, Ingo observed. Not an inch of fur left untouched as Sneasler plopped down beside the man and began the bath. She was very gentle with each kit, manipulating each of her claws in a way that she could not hurt the youngster, but still have a firm grasp in the event that one tried to wriggle away from her. Only this kit and the eldest of the four Hisuian Sneasels posed any issue to her, the other three relaxing into the bath and accepting their mother’s touch. This one however, was feisty, and thrashed as much as she could. Ingo raised his brow in amusement as Lady Sneasler let out a rumbling growl, which halted the antics of the young kit immediately. The kit frowned, resembling Ingo, which Sneasler acknowledged with a trill, then tilted the kit so Ingo could see her too.

           “I see she has been taking after me,” Ingo mused, letting out a low chuckle as he proceeded to repolish Magnezone. “I am likely not a very good influence on her. If she keeps it up, it might be permanent. That’s what Rei seems to say, that is.”

           Ingo was very aware of what the Hisuians had been saying about him behind his back, word spread around quickly in such a small population. He knew his permanent frown was off putting to most of them, but there was very little he could do about it. Smiling just did not come to him naturally, nor did any other facial expressions really. Dawn had caught him staring at his own reflection in a river once at the beginning of their friendship. He had his index fingers pushing up the corners of his mouth, trying to compose a natural smile, but failed to do so. Not until she pointed out how ridiculous he looked and compared him to Lord Electrode did he finally reveal a real smile, which he didn’t even realize had occurred until she mentioned it. By then, of course, the smile had dropped, and Ingo looked down at his usual frowning self. From that moment of, Dawn had taken it upon herself to make him smile whenever she was around.

           “Oof,” Ingo let out a groan as he was suddenly tackled onto his back, his thoughts being torn from his brain. Lady Sneasler stared down at him as she pressed him down by the shoulders, her long legs kneeling above him. Ingo simply blinked, stunned by this situation. The Noble was not the most playful of pokemon, and rarely manhandled him, which he assumed was because he seemed frail to her. He saw the five kits watching him from behind their mother, their beady eyes drawn to the sudden surge of activity.

           “Is there something the matter?” Ingo posed, brows raised in interest, eyes glowing. Lady Sneasler bent down until her nose touched Ingo’s. Once contact was made, the Noble chirped with a smile.

           “What are you doing?” The pokemon suddenly hugged him, throwing herself backwards so he was laying on top of her, her back pressed down against the cavern floor and his pressed into her torso. Ingo’s hat flipped off his head, which was quickly captured by the ice-typed Sneasel. Sneasler began to lick the back of Ingo’s head, having decided that he too, needed a bath. The five Sneasel watched in awe has he limply sat in her grasp, accepting the bath.

           “Thank you,” Ingo stared at the ceiling of the cave, feeling the rough tongue drag across his now messy hair. He opened his mouth to make a statement when he suddenly jolted, letting out a loud gasp. Startled, Sneasler sat up and placed him on her lap, setting him sideways so he could look up at her with her arm supporting his back. Brows furrowed and head tilted, she looked down at her warden.

           “Be careful around the neck,” Ingo rubbed said body part at the mention of it, looking up at the Noble apologetically.

           Sneasler chirped in recognition, having just recalled a moment from a few days ago where Ingo’s Tangrowth had been especially playful. Flashing him a toothy grin, Sneasler leaned forward and began to lick at Ingo’s neck, wrapping him with her other paw.

           “Sneasler, wait!” Ingo was cut off by his sudden bout of hysterical giggles, which was low and wheezy. He felt Sneasler’s purr resonating through her body as she continued to gently lick the side of his neck and under his chin. His goatee was rough, much like the fur of the ice-typed Sneasel kit, which Lady Sneasler was quite amused by. She was also amused by Ingo’s lack of movements. He made no attempt to get away, just instinctively scrunched his neck up a little as the bath went on. He was hugging himself, arms wrapped around his middle as he shook with mirth. Ingo was completely relaxed into the ticklish bath, until “Not there! N            o, Sneasler!”

           Lady Sneasler held him tighter before he could fall off his lap as his body began to flail, his head back with deep, booming laughter. Amused by this, Sneasler continued to lick his ears despite him pounding the palms of his hands against her chest and his legs kicking out. She quickly pulled him over so he was facing the other way, so she could bathe the other side of his face. Ingo let out a soft snort once she began to attack his other ear, which provoked loud cooing and snickers from the five staring kits.

           “It tickles too much,” Ingo managed to stutter through his hearty laughter. Magnezone’s interest was piqued by this statement, however. The steel-type rose from its spot and floated over to its trainer. Though amused by the antics, Magnezone let out an electrical shock that hit the ground with a crack. Lady Sneasler let out a startled yelp and recoiled from Ingo’s face, letting the man catch his breath.

           “It’s okay, Magnezone. Thank you,” Ingo acknowledged his savior once he could breathe at a steady pace again. The pokemon’s magnets twirled as it let out a low buzz, happy to have given their assistance. Magnezone was built to save people, Ingo was sure of it. Not only did it just help him here, not that it needed to, it was the thought that counted, but it had saved Melli when it had met both wardens in that Distortion. Melli would deny it to his dying breath, but the Magnemite at the time had shoved him out of the way of a very dangerous fire blast from an enraged Flareon, a pokemon that Melli had never seen before. Its bravery is why Ingo became so attached to the steel-type.

           “You’re okay too, Sneasler,” Ingo scratched at her chin, feeling her begin to purr once again. “I feel much better now, thank you.”

           Lady Sneasler let out a content chirp as her warden smiled, a sight she adored. She was happy to have brought some happiness into his life for a little bit. The five Sneasels ran up to them and began to climb all over their mother and Ingo. With an amused huff, Ingo snatched his hat back and fit it back atop his head. As the dark-type Sneasel cried out in protest, Ingo scooped her up into his arms and scratched into her belly fluff. The Sneasel squealed and flailed playfully, purring as she beamed up at the man. Magnezone gently ran into the back of Ingo’s shoulders, completely surrounding him with his pokemon companions.

           Right now, Ingo was at peace, surrounded by love. Just how it used to be.

[draconic-ichor]

Spinning Gold

Elden Ring fic

Morgott/female tarnished

Part 6

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, handjobs, cumshots, begging, femdom, light mentions of gore/death

Summary: Morgott and the Lady Tarnished enjoy a bath together after the dragon attack

Feedback appreciated, 18+. This is a spicy one.

They made sure things were in order, taking account of any casualties and starting preparations for repairs.

They graciously declined joining in the festivities, instead asking for privacy to clean and unwind. Thankfully their presence wasn’t needed any longer, allowing the Tarnished and her consort to retire to a royal bath chamber.

It was one of the few with a tub big enough for Morgott’s size. The center of the room was a large pool surrounded by marble tiles, the servants already had it filled with hot water.

The tarnished herself was fairly clean, given that she rose anew just hours prior. But Morgott was a sight, fur matted with blood and sweat, grime knotted into his tail.

He watched as the tarnished gathered up some soaps and stood by the edge of the tub.

“I can cleanse mine own self well, I assureth thee.” He frowned down at her.

“I’ll clean your tail as you bathe, it will save time.” She insisted.

He gave a deep sigh, not in the mood to argue. Stripping away his robes, he slowly lowered himself into the hot water, hissing as it bit his flesh before becoming a soothing sting.

He got comfortable, leaning against the far wall. His tail draped out the far side, laying across the floor.

He watched as the tarnished removed her own clothes, cheeks reddening as his eyes followed her curves. She saw his starring, flashing him a cheeky smile.

His face reddened further, looking away. Morgott grabbed a sponge in an effort to distract himself.

The tarnished sat alongside his tail, soaping down the fur and taking a stiff brush to the horns that grew from it. She made a sound of distaste, seeing knots of brambles and dirt caught between the more interwoven horns.

“I thought his Lordship said he knew how to properly clean?” Her voice accusing, turning just enough to give him a sharp gaze.

He paled a bit under her ire but shot back, “Given enough time.”

“Some of these burs are from the Weeping Peninsula!” She chided, standing.

He chuckled a bit, watching her stomp across the washroom, her bare feet smacking the wet floor as she went.

She returned with a bone tooth comb, pointing a finger at his smile, “You better clean between your head horns well, I’ll check after I’m done here.”

Morgott raised his hands in mock surrender, “I’ll do mine own best, I assureth thee.”

She gave a tiny nod, sitting back on the tile to begin carefully working the burs loose from his fur. She was very diligent, Morgott deciding it would be discerning to do her bidding and busied himself scrubbing all the nooks between his tangled mass of horns.

It was odd, to be bathed. Such a gentle act of affection made his chest hurt as he watched her. She had nothing to gain, yet she was there.

“Come here, let us savor the remaining water's warmth.” Morgott lay back against the wall of the tub, draping one arm over the lip while motioning her closer with his other.

The tarnished lowered herself fully into the water, having to wade over to him. He patted his chest as if inviting a feline, the tarnished responding without pause, crawling up onto him.

There was a rush of water as she spread herself comfortably over his abdomen, plush chest pressed against his own more lean one.

From this position she could rest her cheek near his collar bone, face above water and easy to breath.

Once she was situated, Morgott shifted his free hand to cradle her a bit to him, sighing deeply.

For once she wasn’t full of wide eyed questions, lids heavy as she melted into his embrace. The water was still plenty hot to seep into their aching bones.

Morgott realized, with a pain in his chest, how tired his little tarnished must be. The image of her flesh melting from her bones in an azure flame flashed across his mind, the sound of her death cries and the smell of burning meat a poison now. How much she had to suffer, and yet she was here. Not allowing herself to rest until the capital was safe and her consort cleaned up to her standards.

He held her ever closer; mouth a thin line as he realized how much losing her, even for a few fleeting hours, felt horrible.

She gave a little relaxed huff, his wet fur sticking to her skin.

“I thought I hath lost thee…to the dragon.” His voice was low, gravely with emotion. His other hand moved to entangle around her body, his words bubbling up earlier emotions.

“I always come back.” The tarnished soothed, leaning up, searching over his face worriedly.

It was uncommon to see such deep emotions from the man, him long since trained to be composed.

“Aye…” he nodded, pain shadowing his next words, “However,…seeing thee felled,” he swallowed thickly, looking away, “So closely now that I…I..” the words caught like thorns in his throat, dry and scratching.

The tarnished shifted further, propping herself up by her hands upon his chest. He almost shuttered at the feeling of her skin sliding against the fur of his abdomen, eyes flicking to watch the water stream from her form.

“Morgott?” She chirped, voice like the sweetest cream but heavy with concern. It was rare to hear his true name, especially spoken with such empathy.

He choked a bit, scooping her up closer as words tumbled out his lips, “I am quite fond of thee.” He swallowed thickly before adding, “More than I thought was possible.”

The look of concern melted from the Lady tarnished face, replaced with an emotion he’d never seen offered to him in the past. It was one of warmth, something deeper still swirling in her bright eyes.

She smiled, reaching up to cup his face. Morgott bent forward to press his face into her offered hands, squeezing his good eye shut as he tried to collect himself in some manner.

“I’m very fond of you too!” She spoke, voice genuine. She pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips. He welcomed it, melting into the act.

His hands explored down her body, kiss deepening. When she finally pulled away, falling into the water a bit more, she felt something bluntly poke at her ass.

She twisted around to find his hard cock fully from its sheath.

Morgott instantly started asking for pardons, “Mine apologies, my Lady.” His voice was tight.

She turned back towards him, cheeks rosy, “Don’t apologize for being attracted to your wife.”

He gave a nervous chuckle, attempting levity, “Is that an order?”

She flashed a cheeky smile, taking his chin in her hand, “Would that excite you?”

He flushed further, admitting, “Thee dost not have to try in that regard, I assureth thee.”

“And where is the fun in that?” Bright eyes flashing mischievously.

Her challenge sent a shiver down his spine, but he could not deny how his cock jumped at her sultry tone.

The tarnished moved down his body, fingers dancing over exposed skin. She was teasing in her wandering, touching him just enough to leave him hungry, leave him wanting. She could feel his breath hitch as she bent down, kissing his abdomen as her hands dipped below the water. The heat and steam fogged his head and made everything more sensitive.

As she slid off of him he raised his hips so more of his manhood was exposed above the water.

The tarnished took him in her hands, eyes full of curiosity as she bent forward.

Morgott hissed as the tarnished ran the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock.

The little sound made her gaze flick up to meet his, looking like a cat that got the cream.

“Thy touch is intoxicating…have mercy on me, I can scarcely compose myself under thee.” He swallowed, “I am undeserving of such pampering."

She flashed him an almost innocent smile, a stark contradiction to her current actions.

“His Lordship begs so sweetly but says he is undeserving?” The words fanned over his straining cock, “Most curious.”

She could see his mental struggles, feel his need with every pulse. But she would give no mercy yet.

The tarnished scratched softly up his inner thigh, lips curling at the way the muscles trembled.

Despite his self-deprecating nature he was a proud creature, not one to easily grovel or beg. Unfortunately for him, that’s exactly what his tarnished wanted. She sought to have him spill all the ways he wanted her, all his carnal cravings and deep sinful musings.

His lips shadowed the please she desired, mind still struggling to let go. He fought internally against the need for her, as her fingers touched him everywhere except where he ached the most.

Finally she found his cock, only giving it feather light teasing. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as she gently squeezed the head, circling the pad of her thumb slowly on the underside.

The tarnished pulled away, the way he lifted his hips towards her leaving touch bringing a smirk to her face. She snaked up his body, wet skin pressed invitingly against fur. The way Morgott gripped the tub lip with whitening knuckles in an effort to compose himself was not lost on her, though he was rapidly losing the battle.

She pulled him into another inviting kiss.

The kiss was hungry, heavy and feral as he forced his tongue into her mouth. The tarnished made a little sound of surprise but didn’t shrink from his storm, grabbing at his horns for leverage.

He broke the kiss, pulling back enough to bite at her throat, hearing her mewl made him growl. “Please…” his voice was a gravely rasp.

She met his gaze, biting her lip as she teased, “Please what?”

Annoyance flitted across his feature for a moment before he finally gave in, pleading with her, “Alloweth me release, by thy hands. I beg of thee, my Lady.”

The tarnished shifted, reaching over to a small basket near the tub. She pulled a flask of oil free.

Morgott watched as she poured oil into her palms, moving back to straddle one of his thighs to stay above water. She slicked down his cock, wrapping her hands around it best she could before pumping with fervor.

His face was crimson, breathes coming in ragged huff, body tight with a mixture of desperation and self-consciousness.

The tarnished felt him pulse under her fingers, going from tip to knot, squeezing down on the pound of flesh. That was it, Morgott’s hips bucked up in her hold, giving a shameful cry.

A thick rope of release shot into the air, splashing back into the now tepid water.

“By the Erdtree…” he rubbed his face, hiding from the Lady’s gaze.

The tarnished was quite preoccupied, amazed by the height his release arched. She gave his knot a second squeeze, flashing her teeth excitedly as more cum pulsed out the swollen tip.

Morgott placed a hand on her head in an effort to stop her curiosities. He smoothed his wet hair back from his face to see the tarnished beaming up at him. He gave a nervous chuckle, pulling her closer to hold her.

“Thee shall be the end of me…” he murmured into the crown of her head.

“An enjoyable death I hope?” She giggled.

“Mhm.” He cracked a smile, “Every moment.”

[imekitty]

Each and every hair that Danny sheds, turns white.

Maddie pulled the lint trap out of the dryer to empty it but paused when she noticed bits and specks of it glowing.

She pinched at one of the glowing parts and rubbed it between her fingers.

A hair. A single white hair just a few inches long.

Maddie combed through the rest of the lint and picked out a couple more strands of glowing white hair. She sealed them in a zippered storage bag and brought it into the kitchen.

“Jack? Have you seen strands of white hair around the house?”

Jack held the fridge door open and stared intently at the options on the shelves. “White? You mean grey? I’ve been losing a little more hair than usual lately, I guess.”

“No, it’s not yours.”

“Oh, babe.” Jack turned back to her with a frown. “They’re not yours, are they? Hey, middle age, you know I’m there with you—”

Maddie scowled, her cheeks flushing. “No, Jack. They’re not mine either.”

“Oh.” Jack blinked. “Uh, sorry. What are we talking about?”

“This.” Maddie held up the bag of white hair. “I found them when I was doing laundry.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “They’re glowing. White ghost fur?”

“No, it’s not fur. It’s definitely hair.”

“Really?” Jack took the bag from her and held it close to his face. He reached inside and pulled out a single strand, squinting in inspection. “You’re right. But I’m not seeing a follicle. Might’ve been destroyed in the wash if it was ever there at all.” He placed the hair back in the bag. “Might be tough to get a good DNA sample.”

“Maybe there’s more around the house.” Maddie held a fist to her chin and looked out at the living room. “On clothes or blankets or even just in the carpet.”

“Let’s be on the lookout for more. If there’s a ghost hanging out in our house, we’ll find it.” Jack bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m just surprised our ghost sensors haven’t detected anything.”

Maddie crossed her arms and tapped her boot against the floor. She raised her eyes as a thought struck her. “Phantom.”

“What about him?” asked Jack.

“Phantom never triggers our ghost sensors for some reason,” said Maddie, her tone rising, pace quickening. “And he knows where we live. And we’ve seen him holding one of our Thermoses or other inventions multiple times. Obviously he’s been sneaking into our house and stealing things.” She held up the bag. “And he has white hair about this length! It’s got to be his.”

Jack smirked. “You’ve got Phantom on the brain again, don’t you?”

“But doesn’t it make sense?” asked Maddie.

“We’ll need to find a strand of hair with a follicle on it to find out for sure.” Jack clenched a fist. “But if it is him, that punk ghost can’t outrun us forever.”

Later that evening, after a healthy meal Maddie made sure was not contaminated with any ectoplasm this time, the whole family watched a movie together in the living room.

“I knew that was going to happen,” said Jack. “I told you, remember?”

“But it doesn’t even make sense,” said Jazz. “That could never happen in real life.”

Jack and Jazz proceeded to debate and criticize the movie as they so often did. Maddie smiled at Danny, who was sitting next to her but had fallen asleep some time ago. His head lay back against the sofa, his mouth open slightly.

She brushed a few unruly bangs off his forehead, bangs that really needed a trim. He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes, groaning slightly when he caught her looking at him.

“You’re such a light sleeper,” teased Maddie. “Are you tired?”

Danny mumbled a reply and groggily blinked.

“If you did your homework earlier, you wouldn’t need to stay up so late finishing it,” said Maddie.

Danny leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I did some of it during lunch today.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Maddie.

Jack and Jazz were still picking apart some trivial detail from the movie. Maddie started rubbing and scratching Danny’s back.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tiny light.

Maddie turned to inspect. She plucked a strand of glowing white hair from off the couch behind Danny and held it close to her face.

How long had it been here?

Didn’t matter. The important thing was this one had a follicle.

Maddie closed her fingers over the hair and stood. All heads turned to her.

“I’ll be back.” Maddie walked to the door leading down to the lab. “You don’t need to pause it for me.”

At her work station, Maddie cleaned the hair, cut off the fragment she needed, and placed it in an extraction reagent to be digested. She had done this so many times before but this time seemed to be taking forever.

Heavy footsteps fell on the basement lab stairs. Maddie did not need to turn to know who it was.

“What’s going on, Mads?” asked Jack, coming up behind her.

“I found a white ghost hair with a root on the couch.” Maddie gestured to the equipment at her station. “It’s incubating right now.”

Jack grinned. “Really? Talk about luck!”

Maddie groaned and leaned over the counter. “I just wish the extraction process didn’t take so long.”

Jack tugged on her arm. “We’ll come back later when the kids are in bed. We’re gonna analyze that sucker tonight and figure out which ghost it belongs to!”

“It has to be Phantom,” said Maddie, allowing Jack to drag her out of the lab. “Who else could it be?”

Late that night, long after they made sure their kids were in bed, Maddie and Jack determined the final sequencing results from their DNA extraction and analysis.

Jack yawned and checked the clock in the lab. “I can’t believe it’s three already. I’m beat.”

Maddie bounced lightly on her toes. “Oh, I’m not. I am ready.”

They compared the DNA sequencing from the hair sample to a sequencing they had already obtained from Phantom several months prior.

“It’s a match,” said Jack. “You were right. It’s Phantom’s hair.”

Maddie clutched the printed results in her hands, crumpling the sheet slightly. “I knew it! He’s been coming into our house to steal our inventions!”

“And sit on our couch apparently,” said Jack. “Maybe he likes our Netflix subscription.”

“We’ll need to set up cameras.” Maddie began pacing the lab. “We’ll just tell the kids it’s only for a little while. Or we don’t have to tell them; they’d never know.”

“And maybe some laser sensors that only ghosts can trip,” suggested Jack. “Worth a try even if our other sensors never pick him up.”

Maddie grinned at him. “If Phantom wants to be in our house so bad, we might as well make our lab his permanent residence.”

Over the next couple weeks, Maddie studied footage from the interior cameras installed in the house and checked the logs for the laser sensors. But there were no hits, no glimpses, no Phantom.

Saturday afternoon, Maddie drove toward her favorite hair salon with Danny in the passenger seat. She had found several more strands of Phantom’s hair around the house just that morning, but still no sign of Phantom when she checked the camera recordings.

She stared out at the traffic, her head feeling heavy and dull.

“What’s wrong?” asked Danny.

Maddie pulled up to a red light and turned to look at him. The tips of his bangs collided with his eyelashes.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just waited way too long to schedule your haircut.”

She brushed his hair out of his eyes. Danny looked annoyed but smiled anyway.

Inside the salon, the stylist gushed over how thick Danny’s hair was before taking him to the shampoo bowls in the back. Maddie sat in the waiting area nearby and checked the camera feeds and sensor logs on her phone. Jazz was doing yoga stretches in the living room. Jack was rummaging through the pantry, probably looking for the last ounce of fudge he had forgotten he already ate.

The stylist returned with Danny and guided him into a chair, wrapping a cape around his shoulders. Maddie watched from a distance for a moment before returning to the camera feeds.

Phantom had to be somewhere in the house. He just had to be. Why else would his hair keep showing up?

“What is this?” asked the stylist, holding up a pair of scissors. “Is this glitter on your shoulders?”

Maddie looked over at Danny and the stylist. Something was indeed shimmering on his cape, small specks of light.

“It’s on the floor too.” The stylist picked up a shining piece. “No, wait, I just cut this off. This is your hair—”

Maddie marched over, her eyes darting from Danny’s shoulders to the floor. Small pieces of the same white hair she had been seeing for weeks were flecked all over his cape.

Danny caught her eye and grimaced. “Mom, it’s not what you—”

She tore the cape off him and dragged him out of the salon by the wrist. Danny pleaded and whined and begged her to listen but Maddie did not relent.

Out in the parking lot, she turned around to face him, still holding his wrist. The muscles in Danny’s jaw looked tight as his lips twitched.

“Mom.” He held up a palm. “Please listen to me.”

Maddie reached forward and plucked a hair from his head. Danny yelped and rubbed the area with his free hand.

Maddie watched as the dark strand turned white in her fingers, lighting up with a ghostly aura.

She stared at the hair for some time, then stared at Danny. His face was pale.

She held the spectral hair up between them. Her hand shook, her whole body shivered.

“I’m listening.”

Follow-up

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for blood/violence and language Genre: Action with a lil bit of fluff Warnings: Lil bit of blood Notes: There's an unnamed character in here who may or may not end up as recurring in my stories. I don't really have anything in particular planned for her, she's kinda just here to fill a role/allow for some easter egg type shit in the next chapter. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1, Pt. 2

{Wounded Love 3: Bloody Valentine (No, not that Valentine)}

“Mother Miranda, I must insist, if these lycans stray any further they might start feasting on the village as well! Pray tell, who will you use for research then? We can’t just-... Forgive me… Mhmm. Yes, I understand. Of course… Have a good night, Mother Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu said, before setting her phone down with a loud thunk. Her hands shake a little, and for a moment you worry that her vanity won’t survive the coming moments. Then you make eye contact with her reflection, giving her an encouraging smile, watching as her gaze softens. “I’m afraid there’s nothing she can do, my dear. I cannot allow Heisenberg’s negligence to go unpunished, but we will have to take care of it on our own, without Mother Miranda’s support.”

“Is that wise, love? To go behind her back like this? I can’t imagine she’ll be terribly pleased if we cause chaos for one of her favored few,” you replied, clicking your tongue as you thought things over. Again you see anger cloud Alcina’s face, though she makes sure not to direct it at you.

“We are not the ones who started this mess,” she reminded you, through clenched teeth. “But we will be the ones to end it, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to gut that wretched man-thing and bring Miranda his corpse as proof of his incompetence! He has shown his lack of loyalty hundreds of times… and now he will pay.” Gulping, you rise to your feet, wanting to comfort your girlfriend. While you had understood that your injury angered her, you hadn’t (until this moment) realized the sheer intensity of that rage. How much blood would be shed before this was over?...

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

Crimson drips down the beast’s side, across matted fur, before hitting the wooden floor. A stench as awful as you had ever found filled the air, only made tolerable by the nearby presence of scented candles. What a mess, you think, glad that you wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. Why had the girls insisted on bringing the damn thing inside? Couldn’t they have simply snatched a few teeth from its jaw as a prize? Somehow you doubted that the thought had even crossed their minds. Violence was a passion of theirs, and they preferred their trophies to be as large as the effort they put into getting it.

“How close to the path did you find it?” You asked after finishing your examination of the lycan. Next to you, the eldest daughter is rapidly taking notes in a leather-bound journal. Both of her siblings stand near the fireplace, hands held out next to the flames, needing to warm up after being outside for so long. It wasn’t even that cold of a day, with temperatures averaging around eighteen degrees celsius. All the snowfall from the prior week had now melted. While you knew of the family’s weakness, you also knew that they had bundled up before leaving, and had even taken a torch with them in the hopes of using it on a lycan. Their powers had taken somewhat of a hit, temporarily, but not nearly enough to prevent them from killing a single lycan.

“Heard it howling almost as soon as we left the castle. We couldn’t smell it until halfway to the village, though. Once we could we tried to track it, only for the stupid thing to come charging at us. Must have been eight, maybe ten, meters away by the time we collided,” Cassandra answered. There’s a bit of a shiver to her voice, and you can’t help the rush of sympathy you feel in response. Being out on the path, wearing little more than a dress and scarf, had been absolute hell for you. Even if it was warmer outside now, you imagined that being weak to the cold just about made up for the difference. “There was a little more howling once we started walking back here. Louder, if not closer. Heisenbitch isn’t even trying to keep these fucking things in check.”

“Cassandra, language!” Came a voice in the distance, making everyone present look up at once. Strutting down the stairs was a clearly miffed Alcina, eyes narrowed, body tense. “Did you three really have to bring the mutt inside? Surely you advocated against this, Bela? Or did you think I wanted new bloodstains right by the entrance, where everyone can see them?” Next to you Bela winces, but doesn’t respond, too worried about angering her mother further. “And you, my dear, what on Earth are you doing on the floor? You should be resting, in an actual chair, if not lying in bed awaiting my return. There’s enough for me to worry about without you limping around on a useless leg!”

Now it was your turn to wince.

“Please, love, I know you’re stressed, but I can still help. Given enough time I could help ascertain these things’ weaknesses. At the very least I could pass on what I learned during my fight with one,” you pleaded. Then you tried to stand up, wanting to prove yourself, only to stumble, barely avoiding a faceplant- and only doing so because of Bela’s quick reaction time. She helped you to your feet, letting you lean on her, then lead you towards a bench. Begrudgingly you sit back down. “You’re only doing this because I got hurt. Helping you in your endeavor to avenge me is the least I can do.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alcina snapped, now just a couple meters away from you. Even with that space between you, her presence was intimidating, and you almost felt like a child being scolded. “Were you to get hurt again, how would we avenge you? If you fall by your own hand, there will be naught I can do other than lock you away somewhere without any dangerous elements. What sort of existence would that be for you? I simply can’t allow it, no exceptions.” At this you pout, feeling rather disappointed. It’s not as if you were asking to carry a gun and shoot Heisenberg yourself! Not that you would be opposed to doing so, of course. “Try to put yourself in my place, my dear. Could you live with yourself if you failed to protect me?”

“I suppose I could not, love. Very well, I shall simply root you on from here, and kiss away any injuries you return with,” you replied, at last giving in. Then you found yourself smiling… and on the receiving end of a very soft forehead kiss. “Nothing will separate us, my love. None can tear apart that which the universe has stitched together.”

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

“Like I said, my Lady, I already want him dead. Did you really think that your family was the only one to suffer because of his machinations? I know half a dozen people who would love to put a bullet in that fucker’s skull, bare mims,” the huntress said, white teeth showing in her half-smirk. There was an odd coolness to her voice, like this whole ordeal was just another job, and you couldn’t help but feel uncertain about her. Could she really be the solution to Alcina’s problem? You couldn’t even judge her arsenal, considering she had been instructed to come unarmed. After all, she was a hunter of monsters, with a sizable history to her name. If not for her hatred of Heisenberg, you would never have felt comfortable letting her come within two hundred meters of your girlfriend.

“How can I be sure that you’ll succeed? The last thing I want is to have that wretched man-thing come crawling out of the filth he lives in, angry and coming for vengeance,” Alcina responded, scrutinizing gaze locked on the huntress.

“Didn’t Duke give you my file? Or at least read the good bits out loud? I’ve been in my fair share of scraps, with all sorts of bioweapon mutant freaks. Besides, I don’t plan on leaving any receipts behind. If he manages to survive, which is already one hell of an if, there’s no way he can prove that you asked me to do it. Considering he’s already seen my face, and knows I want him dead… yeah, he won’t bother accusing you, not when I’m in the picture, and certainly not when you’ve got such a big reputation for following Mother Miranda’s word down to the very last letter. So, you gonna make this official, or what?” The huntress asked, gesturing her arms wide. Although you’re still not convinced, Alcina nods quietly, seeming ready to make her decision. Regardless of how you feel about the stranger in front of you, you’re more than willing to support your girlfriend in whatever she planned.

“Very well, huntress. Show us just what you’re capable of.”

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

Flames licked at her heels, even as she charged forward, tickling like hot breaths against her skin. Behind her half a dozen lycans roared and screeched in unison. Smoke and ashes flew upwards, into the air, but could not poison her lungs, not when she had come prepared. Still, the mask was not as easy to breathe in as she had hoped, making her chest heave with effort at each intake of air. Good thing I’ll be gone soon, she thought, sparing a glance behind her as she ran. Dozens of trees were aflame, and countless glowing eyes watched from between the branches. They wouldn’t be there for much longer, not with what she had done.

Soon enough an explosion would shake the Earth. Then, finally, both the lycans who had killed her father and the man who desecrated the remains would be dead. And if a certain countess happened to pay her for her services? All the better, really. Funerals could be expensive, especially in such a remote village. More than that… there was no guarantee that she’d be able to outrun Mother Miranda on her own. A little money would make the flight out a hell of a lot nicer.

Assuming she made it that far. There was another scream behind her, this one more human, though somewhat warped by mechanics. It wasn’t a pained cry. No, it was filled with rage. Clearly Heisenberg had come out of his lair, hearing the fireworks, finding his scrap metal and werewolf army in chaos. From the sound of things- metal against metal, electricity crackling- he was coming her way.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” She muttered, desperately trying to get to higher ground. Even if the lycans succumbed to the overwhelming fire, it wouldn’t be hard for their leader to overcome. But the huntress was still too close to her explosives to risk activating the detonator. Just a bit farther, she thought, ignoring the way her lungs ached. Rocks kicked up with every step, loud enough to be heard from a distance, and made traction harder to keep. In the end she had to scramble to get up the side of a short cliff. A few scrapes appeared on her hands, making her curse under her breath.

But with one last movement, pulling herself up with both arms, she was finally far enough to be relatively safe. In one clean second she turned around, pulled the detonator out of its pouch and clicked the trigger. Just like that, a forest blazing turns into a mushroom cloud of pure hellfire. The setting sun makes for a beautiful backdrop, and the sight almost brings a tear to the huntress’ eyes. For a few moments she just enjoys the view. Then, without hesitation or remorse, she starts to walk away, mentally congratulating herself for a job well done.

Until something shoots past her head with terrifying speed. Before she can react another sharp piece of metal flies past her, grazing her arm, and there’s a blood-curdling roar from behind her. Then she’s running, fast as she can, pulse pounding harder than it ever has. One hand goes to the rifle on her back, pulling it out as quickly as she can. The area is rocky, with plenty of outcrops, perfect to hide behind (assuming there weren’t any hidden metal deposits). Quickly she ducks behind one, crouching to keep her head out of sight. Mere milliseconds later another metal spike slams into the ground just beyond her cover.

In the distance, more screams pierce the air, and something heavy drags itself across the ground. It almost sounds like a tank rolling through the woods. The thought alone worries the huntress, but she had never been one to let her fear control her. So she double checks her rifle, adjusts the scope, and pops out of cover. Less than a second later she has her target in her sights. It’s Heisenberg, for sure, more metal than man, but dripping with red. One press of the trigger sends a bullet straight for his ugly head. Unsurprisingly, it’s not enough to pierce his cranium, instead making him mad as hell.

Which is why automatic guns were invented, probably. The huntress holds the trigger down this time, though briefly, before dashing to the next piece of cover. She repeats the process a few times, hoping to kill the man before he could climb the cliff she stood on. If he managed to get up there with her… no, she couldn’t think about that, not now. She had to focus.

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

Hidden among the trees, the Dimitrescu sisters watched as plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Even though they had been aware of the huntress’ plan, they hadn’t expected this much carnage. It was certainly exciting! But they really couldn’t see much from where they were. Getting closer was probably a horrible idea, and yet Cassandra shared a meaningful look with Daniela. A split second later they were forming a swarm, rushing into the trees, leaving their elder sister to yell after them.

“Mother’s going to kill me,” Bela said, before rolling her eyes and following. Maybe she could at least keep them out of trouble?... Probably not.

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

Metal hands wrap around the huntress’ throat, squeezing hard, but do not twist or otherwise break their prey. No, Heisenberg does not intend to end this that quickly. This rodent had taken so much from him, set his plans back by decades. He was going to kill her slowly. When she still fights back, pulling a knife from her boot and trying to stab whatever she can reach, he does little else but laugh. It’s a crazed cackling that echoes through the surrounding rocky hills.

Just barely loud enough to drown out the sound of insects buzzing.

“Fuck that guy!” Someone shouted, right as a sickle descended upon the monstrous Heisenberg’s neck. The first slice isn’t enough to sever the connection, which is why it’s immediately followed by a second, from another sister, then a third, from the eldest, that finally does the job. Just like that the hands release from the huntress’ throat, and she gasps for air. Coughs leave her distracted as the sisters move to surround her. “Good thing we wanted to see the show up close and personal, eh?” Daniela asked, twirling her sickle with a little giggle.

“You idiots are just lucky I followed you,” Bela added, glaring at her sister. Internally, she was relieved that the end result was a success. Still, she worried about what her mother would think, and certainly didn’t intend to voice her satisfaction at delivering the killing blow. “Now let’s get back, before mother assumes the worst and comes to get us herself.” Sighing, she extends a hand to help the huntress up. Though their mutual enemy had been defeated, there was still much to be done. Who knew how Mother Miranda would react? Who, if anyone, would take Heisenberg’s place? There was plenty to be unsure about, and Bela let her mind wander the whole way back, hoping that things would only get better from here...

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛  Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit. 

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.” 

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

--

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time. 

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle. 

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips. 

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation. 

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water. 

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

--

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade. 

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

[jadelynlace]

a dead woman tells no tales / vikings fiction

series based on Lady Lazarus, a poem by Sylvia Plath.

chapter four / catch up here

synopsis: He left you for dead and now you’re back.

author’s note: the one small detail the reader has, is that she is a red head. 

specific chapter content warning(s): mentions of blood, torture (aftermath), suicide and sexual content below the cut (female receiving oral, during her cycle). also note that I included a favorite quote of mine per their characterization and dynamic.

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

Noticing the blue sky, it stung in your mind the same shade Ivar’s eyes had been the last night you saw him. Preoccupation with the thoughts of torture—wine red blood slipping between your fingers as shone to Ivar while his absurd laughter overtakes the vicinity—you keep a fair distance from him as he spun the tales back from his own memory. You had no prior knowledge of the day you two were in the field, overcome with sudden whispers in your ears that the visions you saw so clearly dancing on your closed eyelids were no longer there. That they were not real. Stumbled together in a stew of colliding past details, but you two always went to that forest, you two always snuck away, you two always took swords and daggers to each other for practice, you always kissed his cheek when you were to head back and he would always grab you face to plant your lips on his instead. Your mind knew up to that, then your head spoke of the rocks, how your spine felt along their backing, leaves at your feet with Ivar looking over you—but he was standing as he gazed—he could not stand long enough, even then, to examine your injuries to gather if he should carry you back or bring back the aid.

What Ivar told you was a far fetched tale of haggard details, how he told you then of his plans to follow where he was destined, how he would not let you raid, battle alongside him. How you were to wait, or pass time with others who were better than the crippled boy you so loved. How you stopped meeting him in the forest to practice and how when he went days without word from you, sight of you, he went to that spot in the forest once more. Your legs swinging from the ledge as he could see the sunshine in your hair lighting it like a fire, a brief turn back to him with the softest smile he remembers, and then you fell forwards. Dropping his swords and crawling across the ground to see you on the rocks below, eyes dead yet still stuck on him. By the time he made haste back, few in his wake there was a shadow of crimson on the slate but you were gone. Ivar went on with his troops so plainly disturbed by what he watched he had spent every night since locked in a dream of its repetition.

For days now, you wanted no sight of him, no word, no touch. You begged the Gods for silence, to answer you and gift upon you the details you did not remember. You wanted the great wings of the overhead birds to carry you back in time to re-watch the story, to see where Ivar had pushed you, but the longer you harped on such instances, the clearer his story unraveled in your mind.

The stars were powerful above you as your feet carried you to the overgrown area you had spent too long trying to stray from. How the sky gathered out before you as you looked up through cracklings of branches while simply laying among the brush. How the darkness spoke to you of your sadness, your directory of losing Ivar to consume you into a guilt that you were not good enough for him. Enough to fight with him. For him and his crippled legs, that you were not enough. The moon was vacant from the sky, the slithers of a blanket of blackness coated the woods and you alike as you could suddenly hear the whimpers of a woman. Sitting up slowly, your dagger in your grip your mind told you that you were seeing the young girl you remembered to be, stuck on the cold stone crying to the immortals above to set Ivar’s mind in the right path, to make you stronger, or to just keep him safe on the voyage. You hear bitter sarcasm spoken back, an evil spirit answering your voice in deep pity, and then as you try to look away from your own body sitting perched, everything lightens. Your head is on a swivel as the unclear figure looms in the distance and you know that crooked stance to belong to Ivar. You watch how he approaches you. You watch yourself smile back so gently. You watch him with his eyes on you. You watch yourself fall forwards. You watch Ivar drop, hastily maneuvering himself to the ledge and you watch him scream. Your body shoots up in the forest as if it was pulled back like an arrow, your chest heaving as the night terror passes back through your vision and you know now Ivar was telling the truth.

*

You had met cunning women before, serpents of lies who leech, return to the grounds like the nine lives of a feline, but Freydis holds a spot in your mind that fits not of that. There is a vileness about her, the way her blonde hair curls across her breasts, how her hips have widened from bringing forth a child Ivar was so hopeful to teach as his own. As she sees you in Ivar quarters, a brief wave of confusion passes down the bridge of her nose before she raises it up towards the structure’s ceiling.

“Has he wed you?” She asks but you scoff in reply. “Has he promised you the ends of our world? His devotion? Has he promised to change from the monster that he is?” Your head tips slightly in interest, longing to see how far this woman may crawl to spite the name of the man she hurt. “Has he promised to stop the terrible things he does?” But her mouth closes too soon for your liking.

“I am not here to wed Ivar the Boneless,” You answer.

“Then why are you here before me?” Freydis asks as you finally smile.

“To watch you bleed,”

*

You peeled Freydis’ skin like a cloth. The pits where her eyes once lived housed the curve of your dagger, you carved holes where out leapt her organs and pooled red paste along the floor. The height of her lungs through her chest, how the hair on her head could make wigs to barter, the bones could be gathered for handles on your wardrobe. While Freydis had been untangled like a scrunched ball of yarn, you remain of skin and bones, unchanged. It was art, how Freydis’ perished. It was art how you held the red soaked blade to Ivar’s tongue as he lapped the blood away from the forged metal. It was art how the soak of the wet fabrics took the day of torture from your hands as Ivar washed you in the river.

“You have gifted me love, despite the horror,” Ivar says out of nowhere during the silence of the water across your bodies. “I thought I would not want your love unless you really knew how repulsive I am. But you still love me even as you know of it,”

“I jumped, Ivar,” You then whisper. “I remember now,”

“I know,”

“I jumped because I was confused; how you spoke of my skills but would not let me raid alongside you. How you wanted me to find happiness with another man who was not you; but if it was not you, then who else was going to love me?” You’re unsure of the wetness across your face to be from the droplets of wet hair, or the tears from your lashes, Ivar’s arms heavily around you.

“Tell me every terrible thing you have done since that jump, Y/N. And I let me love you still,”

Sunlight dries both of you, heated skin tickled across the grass as you two are there to lay far longer than deemed appropriate. Wisps of flowers along your thighs as the wind become the only noise in your ears before the beat from within Ivar’s chest comes next. You covet the time alone with Ivar, how you two would spend the afternoons in search of creatures in the clouds, how he has changed to become a man of tough steel. Your monthly blood came not soon after Freydis was drained of hers, still streaking your inner thighs despite how long you spend changing your linens. Another wave of pressure nudges just top of your womanhood and you hiss slightly, maneuvering off of the fur to stand level and hope it will drain more. Your nudity along the bed catches Ivar first when he enters, across a plain of fabric still cleaning the crimson from your skin.

“I assumed I got it all in the water,” Ivar states when he is on the furs.

“It is my blood, Ivar,” You whisper back, his head turning to catch your gaze. “My monthly blood, I am not hurt,” You assure him. He pulls a fur to cover your shoulders, taking his time to unlatch the beginning parts of the casts, watchful to see if your eyes linger on how he works. “I will take them off if you would like,” You say softly but he snaps his disapproval of your quick idea. You compensate the moment of silence by tending back to yourself, ready to toss the rag for another one and pray the bleeding does not last longer than it should. There’s a new cloth next to your knee before you’re able to rise for another one. As you lay back, Ivar still sits, swinging the tied limbs over the bed as you cast eyes up to the ceiling. The first stroke of the wet cloth on your skin at the end of Ivar’s hand jolts you, curling your knees together and away from him.

“I can not work if you do not stay open,” Ivar says to you, a raise of his brow in challenge.

“You do not clean me,” You say back, climbing forwards to grab the cloth but Ivar holds it too high for your reach at your angle. “Ivar do not be childish,”

“I will clean you,” He states. “How is cleaning you now different than in the river?”

“Because that was blood of another—blood from a battle, this blood is mine, and mine only. I will clean it,” You say back but he still keeps his arm stuck though the air.

“I will clean my queen,” Ivar then says. “Let me,”

“I am not your queen,” You huff back, you arms dropping to bring you back to your position of laying. It would be tale of lies if his words did not catch you with your guard down. You did not plan, not now, to wed Ivar. But the first few breaths after his statement makes those thoughts fade like the sunset. “As you wish,” You finally say, rolling your eyes to take in the vicinity and turning your head away from him. He provides no movements, transfixed on the slight color change that takes over the lips of your cunt with the leeched moon cycle. How it had caressed your legs’ inner flesh, over the scar he had asked of and how it sticks against you. He remembers how Freydis’ blood tasted on your blade, and Ivar wonders how much sweeter yours must be flavored. The next brush against your skin is warm, and you remember the cloth to have gone frigid. Your head cranes quickly to see Ivar between your legs, looking back to you as his tongue drags closer to your middle. His chest heaves as his arms curl around your bent legs, rolling himself to lay between them as his tongue moves the same. A quick rush of air enters your mouth before his lips are against your cunt, slowly tasting the crimson that has stained you. His moan comes low from in his chest, eyes since closed as his hands pull at you further to spread, tingling a peeking pleasure against you as he laps. You don’t notice right away how your nails dig against the furs, how they move to dance over your own chest or how the old pulse in your abdomen has been overruled by bliss. His tongue is warm still as his mouth studies you, drinking you, and as you moan back Ivar replies with his own. His name is hot against your mouth when your spine arches, but he shows no hints of stopping, trying to grip roughly against your thighs as they shake, twist and turn with your hips as a creep of your release moves closer. He does not pull back until you have screamed his name as a chant as you come, raking your nails against your breasts in attempts to quiet yourself but it pitiful how unsuccessful you are. He only looks up at you as your breathing slows, his mouth stained with your blood and release as he cleans it with the back of his own hand. His eyes now almost as dark as the night sky as he crawls back over you and he is all you feel.

Tagged:

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full masterlist can be found here.

[tevanavernus]

Saudade - Chapter 1.

||Prologue||

Summary: "Saudade" - A nostalgic longing for a person or thing that was loved once, but is now lost.

Helmut Zemo's life was forever changed when the Avengers picked his country as a personal playground to fight their own creations. He would never regain the pieces of his life where he was a husband and a father of two. But the existence of new Super Soldiers might just bring him closer to that life he once had than he ever thought was possible. Madripoor holds secrets that even Baron Zemo does not know about.

Word Count: 6.2k

Helmut led them deeper into the garage where his personal collection was stored. Flicking the lights on, he was met with a couple of rows of his favourite antique cars. Just like he left them years ago. It wasn't all of his collection, the remaining couple of dozen were hidden away in other parts of the world. He made a mental note to thank to whoever kept the place cleaned and the cars taken care of. From an initial glance, all of them were spotless, just how he liked them.

"So our first move is grand theft auto?" Sam asked, crossing his arms the moment the light came on.

"These are mine. Collected by the family over the generations." Helmut explained as he pulled open the lid of the trunk. Some of the cars dated back all the way to pre-WW2. He could still remember his father showing him the collection when he was a young man himself. It was a tradition of a sort, in their family. A tradition that he carried on with Nic and was planning to do with Carl once he was older. Years down the line, the same cars, amongst others, were going to be split and passed down equally between them. Now, they would forever be in his collection. He supposed the traditions along with the family name would end with him.

Helmut glanced down at the trunk of the 1946 Packard Clipper that was filled with weapons, knives, and ammunition. He scanned through them all, considering what to take. Some of it will be useful, especially the ones that he could conceal easily. Hearing the doors of other cars being opened, he tilted his head towards Sam and James but refrained from making a comment. Sam chuckled from somewhere behind Helmut, making him turn to him. Sam pulled back from the 1934 Packard Twelve Series 1106 that he was checking out.

"Hey Zemo," He called out, grinning at whatever he was holding in his hand. "Have been secretly a fan-boy all along and were pissed we didn't invite you to hang out?"

"May I?" Helmut asked as he extended his hand. He had a suspicion of what it was already but wanted to see it himself.

"You should keep it. Really brings out your good side." Sam bit out sarcastically and lightly threw it across the couple of feet that were between them.

Helmut caught it easily and opened his palm to see a scratched-up keychain of Iron-Man's helmet. It was light, made of cheap metal, with nearly reflective orange and red paint.

"Huh," he muttered lowly, turning it around a couple of times. The key chain was an old, cheap trinket. He couldn't even remember where Carl picked it up. Their city wasn't exactly in support of Iron man even before the Ultron mess so he doubted it was in Novi Grad. "It belonged to my son. My eldest stole it from him, she liked to do that when they were fighting. I imagine there was another fight over the fact that she lost it."

"Put it away before you lose it," Helmut told her the moment he noticed it dangling from her pocket. "What is it with you and stealing Carl's things?"

"I'm not going to lose it." Nic rolled her eyes and grabbed it. Throwing it to the holder inside the car door she turned to him. "See?"

"Hold up," Sam cut in, pulling Helmut's attention back to him. "You have kids?"

"Had, until your friends showed up. Why does this surprise you? I had a life outside of work." Helmut asked as he ran his thumb across the keychain before putting it into his pocket. It held no value or use, just a small sentimental trinket, he should throw it out.

"Don't get sassy with me, man. If you drop a bomb on us like this, I'm gonna have questions." Sam rolled his eyes, shutting the door harder than it was necessary. Rude.

"As we all do I imagine. Curiosity is wired into our genes after all-"

"Not the time." James interrupted their conversation.

"Right, as I was saying," Helmut cleared his throat and went over to the yellow 1934 SS1 Jaguar where he knew he stored his coat. It was a nice coat. Warm, great quality leather with soft fur around the neck. Ivana loved to steal it and drop it over her shoulders the moment he looked away even for a second. No matter how many times he offered to get her one as well, she would just roll her eyes at him and stick her arms inside it as if to prove the point that it was already hers. It was funny how much it would engulf her, he wouldn't be able to protest for too long even if it ended up in him freezing his ass off at times. He blinked. "I spent years hunting people HYDRA recruited to recreate the serum. Because once it's out there, someone can create an army of people… like the Avengers."

Helmut placed the coat on top of the car, making sure it wouldn't fall to the dirty ground. Trying to keep his expression neutral as a wave of bitterness washed over him, he bent down to retrieve a bag from the inside. Once the coat was removed, on the green leather of the car seat, his old, purple mask stared back at him. He paused, having forgotten that he threw it here the last time he drove the car.

Nic made a face as she lifted the mask up and took a look at it. He had stored it away in the compartment box but Nic made her way inside it to snoop around.

"You don't like it?" He raised his eyebrow, pulling out of the garage and into the traffic. He promised to bring her to the Zoo couple of days prior and they were meant to return back home the next day. So begrudgingly, he found a couple of hours in the day when he could bring her, even though they went there not even half a year ago for her thirteenth birthday.

"It's…um…very purple."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Why is it so purple?"

"I think you just don't appreciate fashion." He accused her teasingly.

"You call this fashion?" She shot back.

" I let you sit in the front of the car with me and this is what I get in return?" Helmut feigned the hurt in his voice. "Being bullied by my own daughter."

Nic snorted and pulled it over her head. She pulled down the sun visor to see how she looked before turning to him. He wasn't surprised in the least to see that it was way too big for her. The holes for the eyes and mouth were too low and covered her vision instead.

"You're going to be grounded if I find any makeup stains inside it." He threatened and moved his hand from the gearbox to pull the mask off her head. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why she was already putting it on her face. Throwing it behind him to the back, he ruffled her hair even more, causing her to cry out and swat his hand away.

Swallowing, Helmut reached for the mask. His hand lingered on the soft material for a moment. Clicking his tongue, he grasped it tighter and pushed it inside the bag. It will be useful if they ran into trouble and he needed to stay out of the public eye. Nothing else. They really needed to get a move on. The familiarity of the place was making all the memories that he had no time or energy for to come back.

"I ended the Winter Soldier program once before. I have no intention to leave my work unfinished." Helmut asserted, taking the coat and dropping it over his forearm. With the bag in hand, he walked back to the 1946 Packard Clipper.

"To do this, we'll have to scale a ladder of lowlifes." He explained as he filled up the bag with a couple of knives, handguns, and few boxes of rounds.

"Well, join the party. We've already started." Sam remarked from behind him. He was the jokester amongst them, Helmut thought but ignored his comment.

"First stop is a woman named Selby. Mid-level fence I still have a line on. From there, we climb." He added.

Once he was by the door, Helmut placed the bag on the floor and turned back to his 'team-mates'.

"Stay here." He ordered them, not particularly wanting them to go around and explore the rest of the building.

"Where are you going?" Sam demanded to know, ready to leap into a fight.

"To change, Sam," Helmut smirked and made a point to look down at his police uniform. "I would offer you to join, but I must say I was a married man and I don't break my vows."

"Just hurry up," Sam grunted disgusted at the image Helmut must have created in his brain.

Helmut did not hurry up. In fact, he took his sweet time in choosing his outfit. The upper level of the garage was converted into a somewhat livable space if it ever came to that. Ignoring the spare bedroom, he went straight to the room that acted as a walk-in wardrobe. After going through the options, he ended up settling on a pair of black slacks and a dark purple turtle neck that was loose enough to conceal the Kevlar bulletproof vest underneath.

"My, my." Ivana grinned, coming into their bathroom and leaning against the door frame while he was buttoning up his shirt. "Don't you look charming tonight?"

"Are you sure your opinion is not swayed by the fact that you got me the shirt?" Helmut raised his eyebrow as he watched her through the mirror.

"Of course not, Helmut," She rolled her eyes playfully, coming in further and wrapping her arms around his neck from behind. "But I gotta say, purple is your colour."

He hummed and tilted his head against her cheek as he finished the buttons, leaving the top two unbuttoned. She leaned in and placed her lips on his earlobe, nibbling it lightly.

"Brings out your eyes," She breathed into his ear, making him shiver.

"Honey," He grinned and turned around to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer until she was pressed firmly against his chest. He leaned in, pressing their lips together for the briefest moment. "If you keep this up, we won't leave this bathroom."

"Doesn't sound half bad to me," She quipped and grabbed his shirt to tug him back, deepening the kiss.

"Daddy!" Carl called out all the way from the bottom of the stairs, interrupting them. At the age of five, he possessed the power to scream down the house when he wanted something. "The TV stopped!"

"Duty calls," he half groaned out and stole another quick kiss, not wanting to leave just yet. "You nearly ready?"

"More ready than you."

Helmut blinked the memory away as he put the razor back in its place and looked at himself in the mirror. With a clean shaved face and back in his regular clothes, he looked half decent. Almost like he didn't spend years rotting away in a cell with nothing but books. Almost like he was presentable enough to go home. Except there was no one to greet him there now. Sighing, he grabbed his gloves from the sink counter and shut the light off on his way.

"Really? You couldn't have taken any longer?" James asked exasperated the moment he reappeared. To his surprise, they seemed to have listened and stayed where he ordered them to.

"I certainly could have, but unfortunately we have a plane to catch." Grabbing his bag and coat, he opened the door and threw them into the back.

"How you plan to get all this through the security? Not to mention that you're a runaway criminal?" Sam quizzed as he side-stepped quicker than usual to get to the front seat.

"I have my ways, you'll see," Helmut responded and pressed the button to open the garage door. Sitting down behind the wheel felt nice. He had to admit, he missed driving.

Once on the road, the car fell into silence for a few moments with the radio playing quietly, before Sam ruined it by opening his mouth.

"So what? You took your kids on your little killing sprees?"

"Killing sprees, as you call it, involve a great amount of waiting around. We went sightseeing, mostly. Sometimes shopping." Helmut entertained his idiotic question as he sped up, darting in between the traffic. He smiled smugly catching James' eye-roll in the back mirror.

From their expressions, Helmut gathered that both Sam and James did not expect him to bring them into a small airport forty minutes outside the city and waltz through it like he owned it. The workers that noticed them simply nodded their heads in greeting and minded their business.

"So all this time you've been rich?" Sam asked, surprise evident in his voice as the three of them made their way towards a private jet that was parked on the runway.

"I'm a Baron, Sam. My family was royalty until your friends destroyed my country." Helmut explained as they walked past the plane's wing.

Oeznik was waiting for them by the stairs. Helmut smiled, genuinely happy to see his most loyal friend. The man was in his life as long as he could remember and he was there by his side when Nic and Carl were born, watching them over while he was away. Helmut owed him a debt that he could never repay.

"Hello, Oeznik." Helmut greeted him in Russian the moment he was close enough to be heard over the engine. Oeznik was the one who sat him through hours of Russian lessons many years ago. It was only fair that he would greet him in it.

"Welcome, gentlemen." Oeznik greeted them back in Russian, causing Helmut to grin wider. While James knew Russian better than anyone, Helmut wasn't sure if Sam did.

"Old friend." Helmut embraced him and kissed both of his cheeks. It had been too long. Nodding to him, Helmut turned to James and Sam. Partly to get them on the plane, and partially because he couldn't look at the man for too long, not when he was looking at him with such adoration. Like he was truly happy to see him. It felt wrong. Undeserving. It made his skin crawl.

"Please." Helmut invited them in and boarded the plane. It was one of the smaller jet's that belonged to him; a six-seater with a small gallery. Perfect for quick travel.

While Sam and Bucky got comfortable in their seats, Helmut took a moment to go through the gallery in hopes of finding something that would pass the time between taking off and reaching the optimal altitude. He wasn't a fan of how rocky the first part of the journey tended to be. Helmut could already hear them going back and forth between each other. Finding a book, he pulled out a small red notebook from his coat's pocket. He nicked it, mostly out of curiosity, from James when he wasn't paying attention. He was sure it would also help to understand where the soldier's mind was at currently. After having his memory scrambled for decades, he was bound to be desperate to write down anything important, in fears of forgetting it. It was only logical.

Putting it in the middle of the book, he returned to the cabin and picked a seat near Sam, so that he could have a viewpoint advantage to watch James. He took a look at him for a moment before opening the book and feigning his interest in it. The former Winter soldier had no idea that he lost something. Perhaps James was trying to suppress anything that had to do with the Winter Soldier, including his heightened senses.

Once they were airborne, Oeznik returned with a glass of champagne for him. Helmut chuckled softly and reached out for it, crossing his legs as he leaned back into his chair.

"Apologies if that's a little warm, the fridge is out. But I will see if there is some good food in the galley."

"If it doesn't pass the smell test… give it to them," Helmut suggested in Sokovian, tilting his head towards them, to give just enough suspicion that he was saying something about them. It was fun, getting under their skin. Besides, it wasn't likely that they would tell a difference even if they took the offer of food which he doubted they would. Probably would believe that he was trying to poison them.

"It's good to have you back, sir." Oeznik chuckled with affection in his voice and returned back to the gallery. Helmut tilted his glass before taking a sip, hoping to wash away the heaviness in his stomach that formed. He could think of a couple of things that would be better than him to have back.

"You don't know what it's like to be locked in a cell. Oh. That's right. You do." He couldn't help but deliver the dig, even at the expense of setting their 'friendship' a step backward. He wanted to acknowledge Sam's time in the RAFT, of the time that he was a prisoner just like himself. That they had something in common, not just an enemy. Also to hint that he kept up with the news, that he knew of their actions and steps, even all the way from a prison cell.

"Why don't you tell us about where we're going?" For what it's worth, Helmut had to give a point to Sam for not falling for the most basic bait.

Helmut instead of answering picked up his book and flicked through the notebook, settling on a list. He paused for a second. He was familiar with the names on it. After spending over a year learning everything there was about James' time as the Winter Soldier, he had Black widow to thank for making his job easier, he understood the meaning behind them. What took him by surprise was to see his own name amongst them.

"I'm sorry. I was just fascinated by this." Helmut changed the subject, concentrating on one name that he didn't recognize. Nakajima was circled a couple of times, most likely the most important name on the list. However, he never came across of a Nakajima in James' files. "I don't know what to call it, but this part seems to be important. Who is Nakajima?"

James jumped from his seat and within a second, had the vibranium arm around his throat. The suddenness did catch him off guard, causing him to exhale sharply but he wasn't scared. The grip was tight, in a way that was meant to send a message, not to actually cause harm. Besides, why would you be scared of a thing you craved in the dead of night? Death wasn't something that could be used against him, not when he welcomed it years ago.

Helmut maintained eye contact, almost daring him to go further. To prove his point. That was what the serum did to people. Edged them towards extremes, and James Barnes was as extreme as one could get. A man-made killing machine.

"If you touch that again, I'll kill you." James declared, with a calmness in his voice that only people who had their hands dirty could muster. Touchy subject then. He yanked the notebook out of his hands and only then released his grip.

"I'm sorry," Helmut apologized, his voice sounding hoarser from the strain it just experienced. "I understand that list of names. People you've wronged as the Winter Soldier."'But why is my name important enough to you for you to write it down in your amends?' was left unasked.

"Don't push it." James bit out, becoming guarded once again, just like when he came to his cell. He reminded Helmut of a dog he used to see back home. Desperate for help, but too long on the streets to trust anyone.

"I've seen that book. It was Steve's when he came out of the ice." Sam noted with fondness in his voice. "I told him about Trouble Man. He wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What'd you think?"

"I like '40s music, so…" James replied, clenching his jaw.

"You didn't like it?"

"I liked it."

"It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience." Helmut joined in the conversation.

"He's out of line, but he's right. It's great. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye."

"I like Marvin Gaye."

"Steve adored Marvin Gaye."

"You must have really looked up to Steve. But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America's Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals."

"Watch your step, Zemo." Sam warned him but he ignored it.

"They become symbols. Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull? No. That is why we're going to Madripoor."

"What's up with Madripoor? You talk about it like it's Skull Island." Sam asked, glancing between him and James.

"It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s." James was the one to answer him. That was a light way of putting it.

"It's kept its lawless ways. But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone."'But we both know that's not quite true don't we?' Helmut left unsaid.

The flight from Germany to Madripoor took roughly fourteen hours. For the first couple of hours, they sat in relative silence. Helmut drowned himself into the book while James looked out the window and Sam had his AirPods in, drumming his fingers against the armrest to the beat of a song.

Helmut shifted in his seat, closing the book. Sighing, he placed it on the chair opposite of him and stood up needing to stretch his legs. The jet didn't have that much space to walk so he chose to cross the gallery to refill his glass. With the drink in hand, he wandered down into the cockpit where Oeznik and another pilot were sitting.

"Sir." The pilot greeted him in Russian the moment he noticed him leaning against the door frame.

"Excellent flying, Dabrowski." Helmut smiled, crossing his arms. "haven't felt any turbulence."

"Thank you sir."

The cockpit fell into silence, not that Helmut minded. He was too used to it to find it uncomfortable. He watched the clouds pass them by, sipping the champagne. Feeling eyes on him, he turned to Oeznik.

"Did they treat you alright, Helmut? Truly?" Oeznik asked, switching to Sokovian while looking at him with such adoration and worry that Helmut had to look away yet again. He cleared his throat and plastered a smile on his face. Even to himself it felt forced.

"Of course Oeznik, you worry too much." He chided him gently. The man always fussed about him. He always fretted over Ivana as well, concerned if she ate enough throughout the day. Never went a day without secretly giving Nic and Carl a piece of candy even if Carl never was able to keep it a secret.

"Well it has been my job for over forty years and you tend to find trouble around every corner." The older man chuckled fondly.

"Nonsense, I'm always on my best behavior. How have you been? I imagine you enjoyed the much-needed vacation days." Helmut changed the subject easily. He didn't want to linger on what once was.

"If I knew your drastic ways of making me take the vacation days off, I would have taken them sooner," Oeznik joked before his smile fell away. "Things have been quiet. It a strange thing to get used to. Even after all these years, I expect to hear Nic and Car, to just pop out around any corner that I turn. I make sure they always have fresh flowers, especially Ivana. She was hellbent on having fresh flowers around the house."

His voice broke, thick with emotion. Helmut had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep himself composed. The metallic taste filled his mouth and as he ran his tongue over the spot, it sent a small jolt of pain.

It had been so long since he saw their graves. He only went there once, to watch their caskets be lowered into a deep hole. As if that somehow could have brought him some sort of closure, as if it would have granted him the ability to say goodbye. The thought of returning, of stepping a foot in that damned graveyard, of looking at three tombstones, side by side, washed him over with such coldness that even if he jumped into antarctic water he would have been warmer. Shame flooded him. What kind of a man did not visit his own family? What kind of a husband, a father, would let them rot alone.

"Thank you, Oeznik. I'll…" Helmut swallowed, trying to find the words that seemed determined to be stuck in his throat and left unsaid. "I'll make sure to pay them a visit. Later."

Helmut did what he did best; he lied. You told her they would be safe. Look how that turned out.

Made another useless promise, knowing full well he couldn't walk down that path, not without putting a bullet in himself and joining them.

Madripoor was just as vivid and bright as he remembered. The lights of the High Town shone from miles away. They stopped by Helmut's safe house, where James and Sam reluctantly changed into a set of clothes that wouldn't instantly attract attention to them. Especially for the roles that they would have to play if they wanted to get information. Unsurprisingly, it took longer to convince Sam to dress up than it did James.

"We have to fix this. I'm the only one who looks like a pimp." Sam groaned out, looking at his apparel for the tenth time in disgust.

"Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp." Helmut sighed as he dug out his phone and split his attention between looking at the road in front of them and through the gallery to find a picture of Conrad Mack. "You look exactly like the man you're supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger."

"He even has a bad nickname." Sam took a glance at the picture. "he does look like me, though."

Sam passed the phone back to him. The closer they walked to the city, the sharper the distinct stench became.

"You smell this?" Helmut asked keeping his attention upfront. A car was arranged to collect them at any moment now, but anything could happen between now and then. He rather not have surprises popping up at them in a place like this. Even he didn't know the city that well and he doubted many people would be willing to help out.

"Yeah, what is that? Acid?"

More like a combined mixture of the fumes from the buildings, production of drugs, all the imported animals and God knows what else. Helmut had no doubt that the water surrounding the city was toxic and could kill someone if they fell into it.

"Madripoor."

A bright beam of headlights flashed them as a car came to a stop a short distance away from them.

"No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There's no margin for error." Helmut explained calmly, barely moving his lips just in case the driver felt particularly nosy. They could trust no one.

"High Town's that way. Not a bad place if you wanna visit, but Low Town's the other way." He added, opening the passenger door.

"Let me guess. We don't have any friends in High Town." Sam said as he walked around the car.

Helmut gave him a smile and sat down in the front. The destination, Brass Monkey, was already agreed during the call so Helmut only needed to forward the payment before the car moved in the direction of Low Town.

It did not take long until several motorcycles surrounded their car. Someone already knew of their arrival before they even took a step inside Low Town. Helmut's money was on the Power Broker, which was not the best news for them. He watched Sam turn around and look behind him through the rear-view mirror.

Once the car stopped, Helmut nodded to the driver and exited the car. Wordlessly, he led James and Sam through the streets, passing armed guards, dealers, and hookers until they arrived at Brass Monkey.

"Here we are. Remember your roles no matter what happens." He reminded them again, giving a hard look to Sam. He knew once James got into the role of the Winter Soldier again, there would be very little that could affect him enough to give up their act. It was Sam who made him nervous. His seemingly constant need to check up and staring at James might be the thing that gets them caught. The last thing they needed was for the whole city-state to put a bounty on their head.

The inside was packed with all sorts of lowlifes.

"Ready to comply… Winter Soldier?" Helmut asked James in Russian, loud enough for people to hear and for whispering to begin. He needed the whispers to travel to the right people. Not only would it get them to Selby faster, but it would also buy him security. Winter Soldier's reputation around these parts was well known, not many would want to dive headfirst at them.

Helmut lead them to the bar and took a quick glance around. For the most part, there was no one that stood out or seemed out of place. He noticed that to their right a couple of feet away, two women stood together, but only one of them kept her eyes trained on them. It was the insistent staring that caught his attention. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell much about them, the taller one wore a hood and the one that was watching them had a mask that covered half of her face. The mask reminded him of what the Winter Soldier used to wear. The Bar's security perhaps. Or maybe an interested party.

"Hello, gentlemen. Wasn't expecting you, Smiling Tiger." The barman approached them, distracting him from the two women. He took a look at Sam but didn't appear to be suspicious over his appearance.

"His plans changed. We have business to do with Selby." Helmut answered instead. They had agreed that he would do all the talking and they would simply need to nod along and look pretty.

"The usual?"

There came their test. Seeing the barman take a cobra out of a glass container and drag a knife across it, Helmut sighed dramatically, expressing his feigned happiness at receiving Sam's 'favourite' drink. It was made out Gin, Triple Sec, Cobra heart, and finger lim.

"Smiling Tiger, your favorite." He emphasized with a smile on his face. Helmut had to admit, it was going to be fun.

The barman placed their drinks on the table.

"I love these," Sam spoke up and looked at him, holding the shot as far away as he could from himself.

"Cheers, Conrad." Helmut clinked their glasses and knocked back the shot. It burned his throat as it went down, the heart adding that extra kick of spice to the mix. It wouldn't be his first choice of drink, but it wasn't the worst that he tasted.

"Mmm. Mmm."

While Sam tried to force himself to drink the shot before it became too obvious, Helmut glanced to the corner of the table again. The woman with the hood was gone but the second one was interested in watching Sam with the drink. They definitely had an audience. Not so good.

Hearing someone approach from behind, Helmut turned in time to see the Power Broker's henchman coming up.

"I got word from on high. You ain't welcome here."

Helmut considered his words carefully. They needed to prove that James was under his control. These types of talks often needed a bargaining chip and what was better than a Winter Soldier?

"I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me…" he responded and gestured to James who was stiffly standing beside him.

"New haircut?"

"Or bring Selby for a chat."

After a glance at James, the henchman left them alone. Hopefully to get Selby. Licking his lips, Helmut turned back to the bar.

"A Power Broker? Really?" James muttered out lowly, unimpressed with the name. Not that Helmut could blame him, the name was a little bit cliché.

"Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar." Helmut shrugged. The one time that he indirectly dealt with the Power Broker was back in '08, when the EKO Scorpion needed to obtain a particular nerve agent for one of their missions. Even back then, you did not want to get on the wrong side of the Power Broker. He didn't even want to imagine how big his empire was now.

"Do you know him?" Sam whispered, glancing around the bar.

"Only by reputation. In Madripoor he is the judge, jury, and executioner." Helmut elaborated and tilted his head to their watcher. "And has eyes and ears everywhere. She hasn't stopped watching us ever since we stepped a foot near the bar."

Sam's eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise and he glanced in her direction. Helmut didn't have much time to say anything else. More of the Power Broker's men were making their way towards them.

"Winter Soldier." Helmut looked at James dead in the eye. "Attack."

He ordered in Russian just as a hand gripped his shoulder. James did not hesitate, ripping the man's arm off him and bending it backward. Dragging him towards the centre of the room, he broke the man's arm in half and threw a punch in his face using the prosthetic arm, rendering the man useless on the floor.

Helmut smiled. He was right after all. No matter how much James denied, the Winter Soldier was right there, still inside him. The bystanders took out their phones, filming as the Winter Soldier single-handedly took out anyone that came at him.

Helmut stood back and apart from pushing a couple of them into Winter Soldier's path, he watched the scene unfold. James was lethal, just like he was all the way back when they first met and Helmut uttered the words of his programming. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman leaning her body over the counter as she said something to the barman who promptly left with a phone pressed to his ear.

"Didn't take much for him to fall back into form." Helmut chuckled, shrugging his shoulders at Sam who seemed a little bit pale. He barely paid any attention to Helmut, his eyes only watching James.

The Winter Soldier grabbed someone by the throat and lifted him in the air before throwing him over the counter. The sound of multiple guns cocking behind them made Helmut's heart skip a single beat. Glancing around, it seemed like every single person was arming themselves. Sam gripped James' forearm causing Helmut to hiss out:

"Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us."

The Flying Tiger certainly would not be touching James' without wishing a swift death sentence. James' not reacting to a threat, allowing a touch on himself would blow their cover to pieces. Sam let go.

"Well done, soldier." Helmut praised James, replacing Sam's hand on him with his own. He needed to take control of the situation and fast.

The barman returned and nodded to the woman.

"Selby will see you now. Follow me, gentlemen." She spoke out for the first time, rising from her seat. The honeyed voice twinged with a familiar accent ripped the breath right out of Helmut's lungs. Even muffled by the mask, it was distinguishable in all the ways that it couldn't have been possible. It halted him to the spot, unable so much as to inhale the air that his lungs started to scream for. He did not see James let go of the man or Sam cast him a confused look when he made no move to follow.

This was not possible.

I 'll try to update the fic once a week to keep somewhat consistent schedule :)

Please let me know what you think and I can't wait to bring you more content soon x

[saphie3243]

First Solstice

For my Secret Snowflake @tomtenadia

Nesta spends her first Solstice sober in Illyria, unable to bring herself to brave the inner circle celebration for a second year in a row.  

Word Count: 5500+

Read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297182

There  was something soothing about a room being so crowded it became hard to breathe. Better still when the music was so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Best when bodies are grinding, booze is flowing, and something to smoke is being passed around. Everyone was here for the same reason, everyone wanted a distraction. Amren had made several comments that she couldn’t believe Nesta got males to go home with her when she smelled like sweat and a distillery. She apparently didn’t understand that everyone smelled the same at places like this. 

The band was better than usual. The music was… actually good. Maybe that’s why the bar was extra packed today. Or maybe it was because Solstice was tomorrow and no one wanted to think about all the ways they’ve disappointed their families this year. 

Disappointing. The male she dragged into the bathroom was just that. He wasn’t even worth the time she wasted not getting another bottle of wine. She didn’t even let him finish before booting him out and stumbling back to her favorite stool. The bartender knows her by now and has mulled wine waiting. 

It’s warm and more mulled than wine. She nodded to him. They know how to take care of her here, she certainly spends enough. Leo is decent enough to warn her off of the less than savory types that might be interested in more than even she was willing to give. She sighs back into the glass. Why she felt the need to judge herself when tomorrow she was going to get 5 times over from Feyre and insipid little family was why she needed another glass. 

She turned around in her stool, facing back out, watching the crowd move in a formless mass. This band had changed over. The new one wasn’t nearly as good. Several months haunting bars and clubs to all hours in the morning had provided Nesta a proper sampling of Velaris’ bands, and, in her mind, gave her a liberty to criticize as she saw fit. This crater-faced crooner was pitchy and couldn’t move a room if he winnowed them. That earlier one had a woman out front. She was unusual for a Fae. She was beautiful, yes, but she wasn’t the wispy waif most fae women were. She was tall and built, covered in a layer of extra fat that filled out wonderful curves and jiggled when she danced. But that wasn’t what made her remarkable. Her voice took your heart by the ears and pulled you into the emotion she wanted you to feel.

“Weird compliment, but I’ll take it.” 

__

“Lor-Cass said you weren’t going home this year,” Emerie placed the breeches she was folding into a pile of identical wares. 

“I didn’t go home last year, either,” Nesta swished the black liquid in her cup as she reviewed the ledgers. Last Solstice only served to remind Nesta how much of a stranger she was to her own family, to Feyre’s new one. She would never be able to call that debacle “going home.” This year, however, she could avoid Velaris. Being banned from the city meant Feyre no longer had the ability to force her into attending farcical family meals, no matter how pissy she was about it. 

She closed the books with a sigh and placed them back into a drawer. “Numbers look good.” 

Emerie moved her pile of pants over to their shelf. “Thanks for looking over them, I haven’t had anyone to check my math since dad.” Nesta nodded and pulled out the books and notepads Emerie kept hidden with her accounting ledgers. 

She leafed through to the furthest marked page. “You didn’t get much further last night,” she commented. 

“Ah, no time, had to process a big shipment.” 

“It’s fine,” Nesta muttered. 5 words underlined. Not the most, not the least. She reviewed the best-guess at the words definition in Emerie’s notebook. Most were correct. She added pronunciation guides next to some. “Macabre means bloody, gruesome.” 

“Why is there an R in it?” 

“Because the gods are cruel.” She heard Emerie’s answering laugh. “You’re doing well though. We can probably move on to actually writing.” She didn’t really think it would be that hard for Emerie to learn to read and write. She ran this business - she was clearly whip-smart, just uneducated. It could easily be remedied.  

“In the meantime, can you answer the orders?” 

This little arrangement worked out nicely. Nesta lended her books and made her literate, meanwhile she would help out with store correspondence and would review the books. Reviewing the books was less about checking Emerie’s math - that she had a natural understanding for - and more about making sure each transaction had sufficient notes. 

She took another sip from her night-black liquid. The best part of Illyria, in her mind, was this coffee thing. It didn’t grow locally, needing a warmer climate for the source plant to thrive, but it had become a staple in the tribes as a way to keep troops moving with minimal sleep. Hot and bitter, it really shouldn’t have been as pleasant to drink as it was, but she found herself unable to stop. 

“When does Lo- Cass head down south?” 

“He should be meeting everyone Solstice morning and be back the day after.”

“What are you going to do?” 

Stare at the liquor bottles he filled with water to tease me.  Drink my weight in coffee and stand outside Devlon’s house at 2 am sending waves of power over the door to fuck with him until some asshole walks by and works up the balls to ask me back to their place - or die of exposure. Whatever’s first. 

“Not sure, why?” 

“Would you… I don’t know… want to spend tomorrow with… me?” Emerie had approached the table, tapping her fingers with each phrase. Nesta looked her up and down. If it was anyone else, she would have thought Cassian put her up to it. But she was also alone for the holidays, and Nesta knew that was probably a much bigger deal for the Illyrian than it was for her. She had mentioned once that she didn’t have many people since her father died. Adding in that Emerie didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do... If she was asking, it was because she wanted to spend this day with Nesta. 

She smiled at her friend, “Come over whenever.” 

___

Dinner was hot and ready when she came in. Cassian always made sure that their meals were piping. His own way of combating the awful wet cold of Illyria. She had to wonder if part of it also had to do with keeping the fires low in the house.  

Nesta kicked off her boots by the door and carried them to the fireplace. She set them down next to Cassian’s - the secret to warm feet, he’d said. Their coat rack was also by the fireplace for similar reasons. She gently felt the socks left hanging there- warm, thank the Wall. She pulled off her damp knits and left them in a pile on the floor while pulled on the fresh clothes. They went up to hang immediately after.

“Do you need to take every peg? Emerie’s store is only 5 minutes away,” Cassian called from across the house. He was standing in the kitchen with two bowls of stew. 

“Five minutes flying, 25 walking,” she turned to him. “Through a foot and a half of snow.” 

She pointed to the bottom of her dress and the crust of ice that had formed there. He grimaced. 

“I would have picked you up if you asked.” 

“Unnecessary.” She pulled the dress over her head and left it to hang on the coat rack. After months of living together, they had long overcome the initial discomfort with mild nudity. Not that she was anywhere near naked. She still had the chemise that ended at her knees, her wool sleeves, her knitted belly warmer, and a double layer of wool hose. She was more covered than either Amren or Morrigan on any given day. Finally in only dry clothes, she marched over the kitchen and took the bowl from Cassian. 

Four months of living with Cassian in Illyria was… surprisingly easy. The mountains were peaceful, simple. The way of life here is more similar to the human society she grew up with than the magical speed of Velaris. Emerie was a pleasant discovery. She still wanted a drink, desperately, but the biting cold had a similar numbing effect if you stood out in it long enough. The worst part was being dragged out of bed at dawn for “training”. Though her training was less about learning to fight herself and more about standing around the training rink terrifying males while Cass tried to teach little girls to throw a punch. 

Coincidently she hadn’t gotten laid in 4 months either. 

“As much as I love seeing you in your underwear, you do have very nice, very warm leathers.” 

“Bite me,” she said as she shoveled food in her mouth. She had made it this long avoiding putting those damn things on. She wasn’t going to cave now. No matter how much imagining the fur lining made her whimper. 

He smiled down at her, making a point of flashing his teeth. “Gladly.”  Whatever mischief was running through his thoughts cleaned itself up as he changed subjects. He was the other surprise. The animosity between them was turned down to a polite simmer. Oh they still bickered, and they flirted. They never said it, and God willing never would, but any edges of disgust in their banter had long been smoothed by fondness. “Az will be picking me up at 7 tomorrow. If you change your mind about coming with me, be ready to go then.” 

“I won’t,” she answered, choosing not to tell him that she would be spending the day with Emerie. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t push. 

“Oh good, you’re up. I’m making breakfast, if you want.” 

__

Nesta woke up in a bed that was far too clean to be her own. Her head ached, her throat was dry, and she was naked. She sat up and took in her surroundings. This room was not hers. She had less furniture and more piles of shit everywhere. She was trying to figure out how she got there when the door opened and a woman came wandering in. 

Nesta recognized her as soon as she spoke and finally recalled the night prior. She was the singer for that band. They chatted each other up at the bar for hours, getting progressively drunker. By the time the bar closed they stumbled home - going to hers because it was closer. They jumped each other as soon as the door closed. It was a new experience for Nesta, being with a woman. And it was good. The singer sounded as lovely when she came as she did when she belted. 

Staying for breakfast would be nice. Something real in her stomach to soak up the alcohol was very needed. And if she played it right, there was a chance for as lovely a morning as there was a night. 

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Nesta waited until her partner had left the room before she pulled on her dress and snuck out the window. 

Lovely wasn’t what she deserved. 

___

No training didn’t mean that Nesta didn’t wake up at first light. It just meant she didn’t need to get dressed. Part of the initial torture of first arrival was learning that Cass put her in an east facing room with larg windows on the walls - and refused to let her have curtains. Privacy apparently wasn’t as important as making sure she didn’t have oversleeping as an excuse.

She swore at the sun, as she did every morning, and felt around in the bed next to her. Before getting out from under the covers, she pulled on her fluffy robe. This little trick she learned back in the hut. Sleep with the clothes you’re going to wear if you want them to be warm in the morning. 

She trudged out to the main room and kitchen, beginning the process of preparing breakfast. Another rule of the house, if you are up first, you cook first. Same for dinner and coming home. Lunch they were on their own. There was a housemaid when she first arrived, but… she didn’t last long. She found the tea kettle and set about making hot water while she poured oats into bowls. From their icebox - a box they just left sealed outside to let winter keep cold - she pulled out a package of cured bacon. The kettle whistled, and she used the entire batch to steep the coffee. The next round of water was for the oatmeal.

The shadows between the windows grew and darkened. Before he even stepped out, Nesta greeted him. 

“I’m making coffee. Get a cup if you want some.” 

“Thank you. I’ll take bacon, too, if you don’t mind.” 

“It’s Cass’s money,” she answered, adding three more pieces to the griddle. 

Azriel was the only one from Velaris that visited with any sort of regularity, mostly due to how closely he needed to work with Cassian. He would come up about once a week for updates or meetings or to winnow Cass somewhere. He had begun to make a habit out of arriving early to chat with Nesta. Sometimes he just came up to hang out with them. He probably only came up to spend time with Cassian, but since she was usually around, they included her.

No one else from the Inner Circle bothered to visit. Rhysand and Feyre came up once, but that… did not end well. Elain felt too guilty to come see the sister whose banishment she had consented to. Morrigan wasn’t even on the island, so it wasn’t a surprise she didn’t stop by. And Amren… Amren was keeping her vow to not speak to Nesta until she apologised to Morrigan. Something Nesta still didn’t think she needed to do. 

Morrigan spent 4 nights a week at a gay bar. How the fuck was Nesta supposed to know she wasn’t out? 

“Elain asked me to bring this,” he conjured a set of books and hand-knitted socks into existence, placing both onto the table while pouring himself a cup. The books were tied together with ribbons and decorated with small bows, clearly meant to be her Solstice present. The socks - well, Elain had taken up knitting sometime in the last year and had Azriel deliver a pair every time he visited. 

“Why didn’t she just ask Cassian to bring it back with him?” Nesta scooped some brown sugar into her oatmeal. 

The ever so slight blush on his cheeks told her what his answer did not. “She wanted to make sure you had a present for the holiday.” 

“Because she knows how much I care about holidays,” and it had nothing at all to do with you leaving from her room this morning and it seeming convenient at the time. They wanted to be discrete, and Nesta accepted that - no matter how bad they were at hiding it. She poured in the hot water into her breakfast and stirred. “Any messages with that present?” 

“The bacon looks done.” 

“Azriel.” 

He sighed. “No.” 

Nesta tightened her jaw and moved the bacon from the stove to a plate, allowing him to have a piece. She wasn’t sure if she was more pissed that he didn’t have a message or that she was still hoping he would. Either way she was going to play it off. “I’m surprised they didn’t have you hock me about going, too.” 

Az cocked his head. “Cass made it pretty clear you weren’t ready for that.” She snapped up at him. 

“And what was his barometer for knowing if I was ready?” She sneered. 

But Az only shrugged, well accustomed to playing referee for Cassian and Nesta by now. “You not wanting to go.” 

__

Nesta was still thinking about Azriel’s answer by the time Emerie came over. She couldn’t decide if Cassian was being a presumptive ass or if he was being genuinely considerate. He had a habit of being both interchangeably. Like when he finally made his way to the kitchen, fully dressed and demanding breakfast. He added in some last minute jabs about coming back early if she got lonely as Az winnowed away with him. And even through the mocking tone, the message was clear. “If you don’t want to be alone, just say the word and I’ll come back.” 

He still didn’t know she was spending today with Emerie then. 

“Do you not own any decorations or do you just not like them?” she asked, looking around the room. 

“What decorations?” Nesta strained in her thoughts, there was a lot of extra shit in Feyre’s living room last year… 

“Solstice decorations.You know, candles, holly, garlands,” Emerie explained. It sounded like what Feyre had up - and what most of Velaris had up -  but in all honesty she was not sober enough last year to make the connection that it was for the holiday and wasn’t just some seasonal nonsense. Emerie squinted at her and placed a wrapped box on the table. Presents! 

Fuck. That’s right. Fae exchange presents on the Solstice. 

“I honestly don’t know.” 

Emerie squinted at her. “What do you mean you don’t know?” 

Nesta shrugged. “Humans don’t have holidays.” At most they had festivals, but they were distinctly not holidays, just an excuse to drink and dance with as many strangers as possible. The closest thing they had to a formal holiday was Treaty Day, and even that was not the intimate affair this seemed to be. She hadn’t even heard of a Solstice dinner until Feyre asked her to go last year. 

“How do you not have holidays?” she asked. 

“Holidays used to be very dangerous days to be human.” There were plenty of horror-stories around the suffering of human slaves on religious days. Whether they were being traded as gifts or killed as sacrifices...  even if the stories were exaggerations, it led to whole-sale rejection of everything religious by human society. 

“So you know nothing about solstice?” Emerie placed a hand on her hip. 

“It is the longest night of the year.” 

Emerie made it her mission to instruct Nesta on the finer points of an Illyrian solstice. First and foremost, every 5 years it was the last day of the Blood Rite. The theme of doing battle still continued in the other years, most tribes had hunts or tournaments for the men to mark the occasion. Women were expected to work the day to prepare for the night. The night of the Solstice was the only true peace Illyria ever saw. Solstice nights were for feasting, music, and dancing. Fighting after dark was strictly forbidden. Gifts were expected between families, friends, and especially rivals. It symbolized an acceptance that though Illyrians may compete with one another, they were still members of one army. 

“Does this tribe have a tournament?” Nesta asked. Cassian hadn’t mentioned anything about it, or a feast afterwards, but he might not have thought her interested. Or ready, she thought ruefully.

“Devlon hosts a melee tournament. Puts all the entrants in the ring together and waits to see who comes out. The large feast at the end is prepared by entrant’s families,” Nesta knew she meant women in those families, “For the entrants and their families. Dad didn’t enter, so we would just watch the tournament and then spend the night at home.” 

“Do you want to watch the tournament this year?” 

“Yeah but you’re still in your pajamas,” Emerie laughed. 

She watched by the door as Nesta dressed in her warmest clothes. Watching men fight on her day off wasn’t exactly Nesta’s idea of a good time. But Emerie wanted to go. And Cassian had tried to make the decision of whether or not she should go by not telling her about it, so that in and of itself made her want to go. Because neither were entering, and certainly neither were cooking, they wouldn’t be able to attend the feast after. But that’s just as well. A night back at the house with hot drinks and Cassian’s pantry seemed just fine to both of them. 

The tournament took place in the training rings. Normally the 5 or so rings were roped off from one another, allowing different ages and skill levels to train separately. But today Devlon had taken down the separators, providing an obnoxiously large space for his melee. But it was needed. It seemed every one of Devlon’s soldiers signed up for the tournament. About 200 competitors, ranging from small boys to grown men. There were even some father-son pairs helping each other warm up in the ring. 

Outside the rings, there was yet another crowd of voyeurs. Women and girls taking breaks from their preparations to watch, the merchant families - like Emerie’s, and the men too old and frail to compete anymore. Standing at the head of it all was Devlon, a poor-man’s Cassian. He caught wind of them walking up and immediately flared at the sight of Nesta before turning back to the tournament. Being a witch in Illyria had certain perks. Devlon’s apprehension being only part of it. The crowd parting for them, allowing them to stand at his side and have the best view, was another. 

“Soldiers!” Devlon called as he stepped forward. All 200 men turned to him at attention, well trained by now. “You know the rules. No siphons, no weapons, no flying, no killing. You fall, you’re out. You yield, you’re out. You get knocked out of the ring, you’re out. The last men standing at sunset wins.” He raised his arm in the air, making it visible to all. He took one last look around the ring, took a breath, and dropped his arm and stepped back as he bellowed, “Lay on!”

The chaos was immediate. One of the younger kids, there without a father to hold them up, fell immediately. The rest were at each other's throats, kicking, punching, wrestling. Part of her was worried that the battle-royale would be too similar to the war. But without the clang of steel and the geysers of blood, she found this was more similar to the crowded dance halls in Velaris. Devlon, now standing next to the girls, kept his eyes on the mock-battle as he spoke. “I thought you’d be with Cassian today.” 

“And miss a battle royale? Honestly Devlon, do you know me at all?” She smiled at him, relishing how he flinched at her grin. “Can’t help but notice none of the girls are competing.” 

His jaw tightened. “The Solstice melee is not training. It’s tradition.” 

“Now you said the same thing about the girls training, too, did you not?” Nesta had no interest in ever learning how to fight herself, and didn’t really care if girls trained or not. But there was a difference between choosing not to do something and not being allowed to do something. 

“If Lord Cassian wants to insert his views here as well, he should be here to do it himself.” The harsh words were undercut by the bead of sweat racing down his cheek. He wasn’t wrong. That was part of the reason Cass was stationed up here full time. Changing the rules around women required full time intervention. In Nesta’s mind, it also required more input from the women, but that was a discussion for another time. 

“Maybe next year,” Nesta yawned. She watched the battle progress. After the initial early eliminations, they had plateaued into a minor stalemate. Some alliances also became clear. Groups of friends or families fighting together, watching each other’s back, catching each other before they fell. She didn’t cheer as the crowd or Emerie did. Rather, her and Devlon seemed to be the only calm people there. 

Then… something odd happened. One of the teenage boys fell suddenly. He didn’t seem to get hit particularly hard, for one. And secondly, he didn’t get back up. Both Devlon and Nesta leaned forward, looking closer. She saw it first, sniffed it out. Blood. The boy had been hit in the side and was bleeding from the wound. 

“Devlon,” she said very carefully. 

“I know, I didn’t see who did it.” 

“We need to get him out.” 

“His friends will get him out.” 

She held her breath, watching. No one came. She hadn’t been watching him particularly, but she didn’t remember him teaming up like the others. The way they walked around him… “He doesn’t have friends,” she snarled. Even Emerie gulped as Nesta’s anger stirred the well of her power. Cass told her stories. Back when the shakes and cold sweats were unbearable, he stayed up with her and told stories, trying to distract her through it. Trading one dark truth for another. She told him about watching her mother die, he told her that he was alone for years until Rhys. A bastard that was left to fend for himself, potentially to die if he wasn’t strong enough. From the way they walked over this kid, he was the same. She needed to get him out of there. He was bleeding out and no one was doing a damn thing about it. 

“We cannot interfere with the melee,” Devlon said, “it’s against the rules.” 

“So is weapons, but someone clearly has a knife,” she spat. Devlon didn’t say anything to that. He just kept scanning the make-shift battlefield, searching. “There!” he shouted, and his green siphon flashed. Another teenager was plucked into the air by his wings. He kicked and thrashed, a small knife in his fist. Devlon pulled the kid to him, releasing his magic’s grip and decking as asshole as he got in range. The boy went down with just that one hit. 

But the first boy was still out there. He was still bleeding out. Alone in a crowd. He was going to die. He was going to die in this little mock battle where killing was strictly forbidden. Was this why Cassian didn’t tell her about it? Did he have holidays like this? Did older boys gang up on him and try to kill him without anyone noticing? Was he left alone to bleed on his own? 

“Nesta!” 

Emerie’s voice was farther away than it should have been, and muffled by a crowd of idiots fighting with one another. She wasn’t entirely sure how she got here, but Nesta was standing over the fallen boy. As they registered her presence, one by one the soldiers stopped. “The witch.” “It’s the witch.” “Why is the witch here?”  She ignored them all, kneeling down to the injured. He was pale and grimacing, having lost a lot of blood - still losing it, actually. The knife had gotten him just below the ribs, catching who knows which organs. Without another word she picked him up, allowing his head to rest against his shoulder and his body to rest on her torso. 

She turned back to Emerie and Devlon, one watching with concern, the other pissed as hell. She stepped towards them, slowly, carefully. She didn’t want to jostle the kid’s injuries more than necessary. No one came near her as she walked out of the ring. At first she thought it was the same as the audience, that they were simply afraid of the witch. But a glance around gave her a different answer.

Her power extended around her in a sphere, creating barriers of ethereal flowing silver. The grass around her withered and died, and no man here wanted to see what would happen if they touched the walls of silver flames. When she got to the edge of the ring, the rope touched her power and rotted to nothing. She didn’t know how this boy still lived in her arms, but he was still breathing- barely. She spoke to both Devlon and Emerie. 

“He needs a healer.” 

“I’ll find Marta and have her meet you at the house.” 

Nesta nodded to her friend and turned to walk the familiar path to Cassian’s house, her power dying down as she crossed the threshold.

__

Marta arrived at the same time she did. They set the kid down on the kitchen table as the old woman got to work. The boy did get stabbed, but only in the liver. It took longer than Nesta would have thought, certainly longer than the battlefield-healing she remembered from the war, but Marta was able to stabilize him and stitch him up. She left them with instructions to make sure the boy didn’t get infected or pop a stitch in the night. 

“Not how you planned to spend the Solstice, I’m guessing?” Nesta asked. 

Emerie tilted her head, “No but seeing every warrior in the village piss himself is worth it.” She slumped down on the couch. “We have a moment, want to open your present?” she gestured to the box on the table. 

“Y-yeah, just let me grab yours.” Nesta ran back to her room. She grabbed the stack of books Elain bought her, still wrapped from this morning. Definitely a faux paus, but she would never know. 

Nesta came back out with the present and set it in front of Emerie. “Happy Solstice.” The look of awe and excitement was worth it. As Emerie began to untie the books, Nesta began to unwrap her present. Under the paper was a long, thin box. She unlidded it to find a set of leather and wood hair pins - Illyrian style hair pins, made to not get cold in winter. 

“Thank you,” she said, still admiring the etching on the leather thong. 

“I’d thank you but, I think mine goes to Elain.” 

“What?” Nesta whipped her head up to see the first book open on the table and Emerie holding a hand written note. She was clearly reading it but let Nesta snatch it from her anyway. 

“So should I let you borrow the books or-”

“Shush.” Emerie laughed and paged through the first novel as Nesta read the note. 

Dear Nesta, 

I know you are still upset with me, and with Feyre, for sending you away. And you are right to be upset. You were there for me, after the Cauldron and after Grayson. You held our family together after Feyre left. And when you needed us, needed me, I didn’t know how to help. 

I don’t know if it is the power or just my own knowledge of you, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I knew that if I tried to help, I would only fail. And that is not an excuse. Fear of failure does not make not trying ok, but it is what I did. And I am sorry. 

I know putting this in a letter hidden in a book is still the coward’s way, but I don’t think I could face you if I didn’t apologize first. I hope to have Azriel take me for a visit after the Solstice if you would have me. 

Your sister, 

Elain

___

They stayed up most of the night, playing cards, reading, and watching over the boy. Nesta had planned to stay up the full night, but using her power that day and waking up at 6 am had taken its toll. She found herself drowsing into her cards. Around 3am, Emerie sent Nesta to bed, agreeing to stay up and keep watch. Nesta’s head barely hit the pillow before she was out. 

She woke in darkness. Not odd for her. Waking up in the middle night was fairly common. But when she looked to her window, she saw that it was not night. There was sunlight shining behind the makeshift curtain someone had thrown over her window. She pushed herself up. Who? 

“You’re up.” 

She turned her attention to the chair on the other side of her bed. Cassian sat there, watching over her with an indecipherable expression. She sat up.

“When did you get home?” 

He ran his fingers through his hair. It was down and knotted, unusual for him. There were bags under his eyes. “Last night, before dawn. Az brought me back,” he brought his hands together and looked at her. “Emerie told me what happened. You lost control again.” 

“How’s the boy?” 

“Petros is fine. I moved him to my room to sleep off the rest of the potion the healer gave him.” 

“That’s good.” 

“No, you couldn’t,” his hands gently reached out and lifted her face to look at him. “Why couldn’t you?” 

Cassian moved to the bed, sitting next to Nesta. “You lost control for him.”

“I-I couldn’t just let him bleed out,” she explained, staring at a spot on the bedspread.

Because he reminded me of you. She didn’t know if she said the words out loud or not. But Cassian’s answering kiss was so soft, so gentle, so sweet, she didn’t care. She responded to his kiss in kind, her hand cupping his face, finally feeling those perfectly chiselled cheekbones. His tongue passed over her lower lip and she opened for him, inviting him deeper. She met his tongue with her own and wrapped her hands around the back of his head, pulling him closer. He grinned through the kiss, gently placed his hand on her shoulders, and pushed her back down on the bed. 

It was the first time Nesta stayed for breakfast after.

___________

Tagging potential readers:

@perseusannabeth

[heartbreakgrill]

and to my prior request i have like those round coffee house glasses if there’s any consolation on what glasses i’m talking about lol & can i be on ur tag list? i love ur writing!!

description:

a/n: i am so sorry this took so long! despite quarantine, i’ve been unmotivated lmao. hope you like it!!

Relationships are all about connecting to another person, learning to love every single little thing about them. Because people were so unique, with deep personalities, this could take some time to do. Eventually, you may know everything there is to possibly know, which seems shocking. You still remember the plot line between Jim and Pam on The Office, in which Pam insists there must be something she doesn’t know about her husband. But, she does.

It’s difficult to think about for too long because you’ll find yourself becoming infatuated with the idea of learning as much as you can. So, in this relationship of just two months, you were letting things happen as fate allowed them to. You told Calum things here and there, and he reciprocated.

It would be when a morning when you showed up for breakfast that you learned he preferred tea over over coffee. There’d be a boring day at his house where you’d learn that he and Roy had a rotating chore list, shared in their text messages but sometimes written on the white board in the kitchen.

It was on a Thursday night when Calum learned you liked to be in bed on a work night at 9 pm. He’s wrestled with you, wanting to stay longer, but gave up when he realized how tired you truly were. Finally, there was that time at Ashtons, for a barbecue, when Calum learned you were allergic to strawberries after attempting to romantically feed you the chocolate covered piece of fruit.

But, there was still things neither of you knew about each other.

Friday nights were usually when you had the most fun. You’d spend all weekend together, and it kick it off with some late night Taco Bell runs or trips to Luke’s for a double-date, movie night with him and Sierra. Tonight would be spent in, watching movies, most likely going to get some type of fast food way-too late and, for the first time ever, staying the night at Calum’s house. It was going to be a learning curve for many reasons.

In preparation for your night in, you had already removed your makeup and contacts, coffee-house styled glasses framing your clean face. Your hair was in a bun, Calum’s green Empathy hoodie around your torso, and black leggings adorning your thighs. You drove to Calum’s house with the driver’s side window down, but now the sun was set, and you began to roll it up as a chilly gust of wind blew across the valley.

Soon enough, you were stepping out of your car, tugging the strap of your overnight bag over your shoulder, and shuffling towards Calum’s doorstep. You knocked three times before beginning to rock back and forth on your heels. The door pulled open and Roy grinned down at you.

You offered a polite smile as he stepped aside to let you in, “Hey, Roy. How are you?”

“I’m good, [Y/N], thanks. You?” He stood against the now-closed door, watching as you slipped out of your shoes.

Your voice dropped to a murmur with the lightest pink coloring your cheeks, “Nervous.”

Roy laughed, moving back towards the living room with, “Ah, you’ll be fine.”

As soon as he turned the corner, you heard the Duke’s nails tapping against the hallway floor. He came into the parlor, running as quickly as his little legs would allow. You crouched down, the strap of your bag falling down your shoulder. You shrugged it off further and picked Duke up in your arms. He licked your cheek, tail wagging against the crook of your elbow. You stood upright, moving further into the house.

“Hi, baby,” you nuzzled your nose against the soft fur of his neck, grinning at his comfort.

“Wow, Duke, so quick to abandon me just because [Y/N]’s here,” Calum rounded the same corner, dressed down in a Santa Cruz sweatshirt pulled over his blonde hair and pajama bottoms. He looked so cute, your heart almost melted.

You looked up from the dog, a shy smile adorning your features. “He just misses me.”

“Well, he’s not the only one,” Calum wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close to him as he could with Duke between the two of you. You pulled back slightly, bending down to set Duke on the floor. Calum brought you back against his chest, lips grazing your cheek in a sloppy kiss.

You giggled, writhing away from his lips. Calum’s mouth moved towards your nose, eyes shut, but he pushed so harshly because you were pulling away from him that he bashed his face against your glasses. They fell to the ground and you stumbled into Calums chest, laughing so hard your face burned bright red.

Calum was laughing, too, though it was being dialed down by his guilt and worry for the frames he didn’t even know existed. He managed to grab them from the floor, doing a once over to see if they were okay. They were, save a single Duke hair on the glass, so he handed them over.

You calmed down and slipped them over your ears. Calum’s eyes focused on them, admiring the way they fit your face. He, “didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“I do,” you pushed them up your nose, hand dropping to your side. “Do they look bad? I-“

He grabbed your hand as it moved back up at the frames, fingers intertwining with them, “No, they’re, like really cute. Like super adorable on you.”

You blushed again, chewing on your bottom lip, “Really?”

“I just wanna kiss your face, you’re so cute, Jesus,” Calum grabbed your waist with his free hand. You bumped into his chest, finding your footing with your forearm draped over his shoulders.

“Just dont knock them off again.”

-

Later that night, Calum drove the two of you to Taco Bell. It was chilly, but in spite of that, you cradled a slushee in your hand. Calum was holding the other, intertwined in your lap. He pulled off a road that didn’t lead back to his house, and didn’t answer your questions.

He parked the car on a hill overlooking the city. He pushed up the center consol to reveal the middle seat underneath. With a light tug, he had you under his arm, snuggled against his side. You leaned into him graciously, the scent from his hoodie matching that on his neck.

You closed your eyes for a moment, nearly falling asleep when you felt the slushee slipping from your fingers. A flash, also, woke you from your near passed-out state. Your eyes opened to a photo on Calum’s Snapchat of you and him, in the same position. He was grinning, eyes trained on you. They were flushed with pure adoration and you felt your cheeks redden, chest swell.

“Can I post this on Instagram?” He scrolled through his phone, which was still in your eyesight.

You were slightly taken back, thinking that you looked awful in your glasses, face red from the poor car lighting, and chin nearly doubled because you were so snuggled up. You shook your head of the self conscious thoughts, “Oh, sure, I guess.”

“Hey,” Calum set down his phone and turned so he could meet your eyes. “Youre beautiful, okay? I know it might not be something you agree with or feel and I cant force you to believe, but you are beautiful.”

“Cal, I,” you hesitated, “Ive just always been self conscious of my glasses. You can post the photo, Im just scared that the comments are going to reflect my thoughts.”

Calum opened his phone again, tapping on more buttons than needed. He turned off the comments. Added a caption that said, “My personal (and cuter) Harry Potter.”

You glanced back up at him, cupping his cheek with your free hand. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, holding him against you for longer than a moment. He jerked back only to press his lips against yours.

“I want to make you fall in love with yourself while I do.”

TAGLIST: @mantlereid

[ladyhallen]

The Sentient House and Alice

Three weeks before the elections, Alice woke up with the nagging need to move to her grandmother’s house.

It was a nice house, but simply too large for one family to have. Just simply, impossible large. Alice had once tried to catalogue all the rooms in the house but just lost count. It was as if the house itself didn’t like to be measured.

Alice got used to inanimate objects having opinions of their own. It wasn’t so bad and at least if you treated them right, they wouldn’t object to being used. It was a side effect of having taken too strongly from her grandmother.

She had a feeling that nagging need to move into the house was another quirk of her blood. Her mother never could explain it properly, other than knowing more than people.

So, with just that urge, Alice packed up her bags for a weeks clothing, all her documentation that labelled her as having something extra and moved out of her tiny apartment.

Her landlord, a man with cat-yellow eyes, sighed.

“Must be something important, if you have to do it without any prior notice,” he murmured. He was one of the few people who knew about her. Being part of the Other community, people often knew everyone else. Mainly for self-defense.

“I don’t know if it’s a calling,” Alice said. “But…there’s a need? I don’t know. A need to hide.”

The landlords eyes were wide. “Alright. I’ll spread the word.”

Alice wished he wouldn’t. While there would be some people who would appreciate the warning, there would also be others who didn’t like false alarms.

“Alice, you’ve never actually given me false alarms before,” he reminded her. “Now, stop being modest and get moving.”

Alice nodded, feeling a little bit better. “Just remember, I’m not a Seer,” she repeated, feeling the need to reiterate things.

“Yeah, you just know.”

Alice gave up.

..

The house was situated in the middle of the city. It was a large, sprawling land bracketed by fruit trees and large, rustling grass. Even if it was in the middle of the city, the trees were tall enough and thick enough to block sound and make it seem isolated.

In the middle of it all was the house.

Wreathed in spells, the windows blurred as though it was moving. It made measuring things difficult. If Alice didn’t already know that the house was sentient, she would have believed it after spending a night inside. The bathroom tended to rearrange itself according to how she liked it.

“I’m here, I’m home,” she called, opening the door that didn’t even pretend to be locked. It swung invitingly open, like it had just been closed and not closed for a good twenty years. “Stop calling, I’m here.”

The chandelier flickered and turned on.

“What’s the problem?”

The lights turned on, one by one until Alice could clearly see what was lit and what wasn’t. The house was leading her to the library and she followed, leaving her bag on the sofa by the fireplace.

It was clearly agitated and it showed. By the time Alice reached the library on the second floor, the lights blazed.

On the bookstand by the door, a book was open and being flicked to and fro by the wind. She took the hint and bent close.

“Of all the creatures that witches spent battling,” she read aloud. “Demons are the worst. Banished to the Otherworld by the Coven of Witches in the year 1905 after the disaster that was the Spanish Influenza. They are characterized by their yellow eyes and the scent of sulfur that follows them. They also have an aversion to cats.”

Alice breathed deep, trying not to panic.

“But,” she whispered. “The UCO just declared demons to be a myth. If the Coven of Witches did this and then scattered afterwards, that leaves a mark on the World. Why would the UCO declare demons to be a myth?”

Alice had no answer and the house rattled around her in agitation.

..

Since the house was clearly averse to letting her leave the house – as evidenced by the doorknob that wouldn’t twist open and the trees that suddenly blocked her way outside the gates – Alice made herself at home.

She picked a bedroom, almost jumped out of her skin when she found the drawers to be full of clothes her size and even felt her eyebrows climbing when she saw the pantry overflowing with food.

Evidently, it had prepared itself for her arrival.

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” she said.

The windows preened.

Half-forgotten lessons with her grandmother resurfaced and Alice ended up baking cookies. The scent wafted up to the third floor and the house actually felt lived in. She knew the house appreciated it by the bubble bath it drew up when she headed for bed.

..

On Alice’s third day, when she was arguing with the house on whether she could go outside and get some other supplies, the doorbell rang.

She paused in the act of wiping the glasses and glared at the nearest mirror. “This discussion is not yet finished,” she declared.

Opening the door, she found herself face to face with a petite woman, glossy wings protruding from her back and an energetic smile.

“Hi!” the half-fairy greeted. Alice knew she was half since her skin wasn’t green. “I saw your ad in the internet and wondered if you were still hiring? I’m a good cook and can work around substitutes in case of allergies and Other problems.” Alice blinked at her. The woman didn’t even pause. “I can also bake and clean and sew. So anything is really fine. I just need a place to stay. The cats are all saying their fur is standing up and – “

“Wait, wait, just stop,” Alice said, trying not to shout. Fairies didn’t like sudden loud noises. “Why are you here?”

The woman looked bewildered. “You posted an ad in the internet asking about housekeeping.”

Alice sighed and pulled the woman inside. Once they were seated inside the kitchen, Alice glared at the mirror. “You posted that ad, didn’t you? I thought I told you not to do things like these without asking?”

In response, all the drawers in the kitchen, which had been obligingly opened once Alice took out the polishing rag, drew shut.

The half-fairy goggled. “The drawers just moved.” She stated carefully.

Alice sighed again. “It has a mind of its own. Most things do, when they spend enough time around me. And the house was likely the one who posted the advert too. Most probably, it convinced my laptop to do it. People,” she said loudly. “We have consent issues. Didn’t we have this discussion when I was fifteen?”

The woman laughed, a gay and infectious sound. “You must have some sorcerer blood! They’re the only ones I know that can do that, even by accident. So can I work here?”

Alice nodded. “Why do you want to work for food and lodging anyway?”

“But that’s just it,” she said seriously. “Anyone who has a drop of Other in them are hiding. Apparently, someone with Seer blood said to be careful or something.”

Alice had the feeling she could blame her old landlord for that. But…

“Wait, where did you find my advert?” she asked, feeling dread.

The woman obligingly rolled out a printed sheet and Alice felt blood drain from her face. “Is that Facebook? And the UCO page? And that…”

“The official chat room for the Other community,” she supplied. “I was really lucky to get here first. I think there’s going to be a lot more people coming here.”

Alice dropped her forehead to the table and she couldn’t even hurt herself since the table softened to avoid hurting her.

“Oh my god. What are you planning, you crazy house?” she muttered.

…

The half-fairy woman’s name was Susan and Alice set her to cooking or baking.

It was amazing to have conversation that actually talked back.

“This was your grandmother’s house?” Susan asked. “Wow, it’s amazing the UCO hasn’t seized this yet.”

Alice shrugged, trying to peel the apples. It was slow going since she didn’t particularly like holding anything sharp. “I think they tried?” she said. “I remember a year when Mum was going gray about grandmum. She and dad had a spectacular row about it.”

“It’s really well taken care of,” Susan said. “Especially the garden. I really like your trees. There’s something…different about them.”

Since Alice had seen them move and walk around, they definitely weren’t ordinary trees.

…

Alice’s next applicant was an elf, pointy ears and all.

She stared at the man when he volunteered to be the gardener.

“Pick a room,” she said. “There’s a lot.”

“My name is Samuel,” he said, a melodic trill in his voice. “Thank you for sheltering me.”

Alice blinked dazedly at him and then marched determinedly up her room to continue arguing with the laptop about taking down the adverts. She didn’t need more people.

…

Even with the advert being taken down, people still arrived in staggering, slow numbers.

After Samuel came three more elves. They all took care of the gardens. A werewolf and his mate, a half-lizard. They started a vegetable garden – which struck Alice as ironic since werewolves and lizards didn’t like vegetables and were as carnivorous as possible.

Then came the pixies who roosted in the Roof Gardens and only came down to steal some desserts. They did amazing cleaning and swept the house of any dust at night when everyone slept.

Two gnomes arrive, bringing with them one earth nymph and two tree nymphs. Alice, at this point sits down with Susan and tries not to pull out her hair.

“How am I supposed to feed an earth nymph and the gnomes?” Alice hissed at the fairy. “Aren’t gnomes vegetarian?”

Susan giggled. “It’s a good thing Erik and James have just harvested their first crops then. It’s like fate. You gather such amazing people, Alice.”

It definitely wasn’t Alice’s doing. She merely stared at all the people arriving and kept worrying.

Meanwhile, the elections draw closer.

….

The first time Alice sees a cat when she’s doing laundry, she dismissed it as unimportant. Its green eyes stare at her, and then seemingly finds her suitable.

The next time she sees a cat; there are four of them sunning themselves on a patch of sunlight in the library.

“Okay, this is definitely not normal,” she said with a frown.

The cats ignore her.

..

Two pairs of vampire mates arrive and seek sanctuary. Alice tried not to cringe when Erik eyes them up.

“Please don’t fight,” she pleaded. “The house will definitely get angry.”

At that statement, the pixies that were watching the proceedings by the roof beams, gasp.

The vampires paused and Erik goes still.

“I’m not fighting them,” Erik announced. “But I’m not going to make any promises if they mess with my vegetables.”

The vampires nod at him regally.

“What can you do?” Alice asked before someone else exploded. Vampires tend to make people irritated. “We can sort your books. And do repairs. We also brought with us some animals. We know you like fresh milk and we can get blood from the cows as well so it balances evenly for us.”

Alice tried not to laugh out loud. Vampires volunteering for animal husbandry. Vampires volunteering to be repair men.

….

Marcia, one of the most well-known in the Other community, shows up and it nails the coffin to how weird her life is.

Because Marcia, White Mage extraordinaire, just volunteered to be her librarian.

“I can also help raise defensive spells,” Marcia adds at Alice’s flummoxed silence, mistaking it for hesitation.

“That’s fine,” Susan interjects for her. “But...”

The words, why are you here remains unsaid, but the White Mage hears it anyway.

“I did a divination spell once the warning reached me,” Marcia says, like its normal for someone to manage a divination spell and have it work. Gosh, it’s blowing Alice’s mind. “And my results said that the best place to be in right now is the house of a Witch.”

Her houseguests look at Alice in interest. The words take a while to penetrate.

“But!” Alice says with surprise. “I’m not a witch! I mean…I don’t think I am? I can’t work with plants for shit and my empathy is out of whack. I don’t have a green thumb!”

Marcia finally looks confused, which makes Alice feel better. There are finally two of them suffering here.

“I do agree that an affinity with plants is a sign of a witch, but you are so obviously magical and good with witchcraft that it’s affecting everything around you, even non-living things,” the White Mage says. “The cats agree with me,” she adds, pointing out the three cats twining by her feet.

Alice, for the first time in a while, finally knows what she is. And she doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

…

On the day of the election, the camera pans to the president candidate and Alice almost jumps a foot in the air when his eyes turn yellow. Not dragon-gold or cat-yellow but demon-yellow.

An instinctive revulsion rises up in her and Alice finally understands why she had known to hide.

Because demons had finally come back from their banishing and Alice was one of the few Witches left in the world.

...

wrote this a few years ago, just posted this now.