#the hatred he piles on top of it is just snow

[leoisstillalive]

i think the full quote (or at least the version that was being passed around here) is “so you are the brave marc. i hope they’re treating you well in the world championship. you just let me know if they don’t, i’ve got a bit of influence around here” and he said that back in 2008 when they first met, to my knowledge

wow fuck this is

so. so much worse than i presumed. thank you anon

[widoglock]

Just Like the Present

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.” Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I know.” “But?” “Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.” “Out of practice with…” Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…” “Kingsley.” “For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

Rating: M

Tags: 6k, Widomauk, referenced Shadowidowmauk, hurt/comfort, pining, touch starved Kingsley (cursed object edition), my usual obsession with hugs and lucid dreams

CW: Dissociation/derealization, hallucinations (sort of...see cursed object for details), anal sex (both Caleb and Kingsley have a penis), self-hatred

[Also on Ao3] Full fic below:

---

Kingsley wakes up from a nightmare, and he’s warm.

Groggy fingers find Kingsley’s and tangle.

“All right?” Caleb murmurs.

Kingsley groans. The cabin is crack-of-dawn dark. The blankets are the perfect kind of heavy, and smell like bay laurel and the two of them.

Caleb kisses the back of Kingsley’s head. Kingsley curls his tail around Caleb’s ankle. Caleb yelps.

“Scheiße, you’re cold.”

Kingsley doesn’t let go. “How’d you sleep?”

Caleb grumbles into his hair. “Well. Very well.”

“Storm didn’t keep you up?”

“Nein.”

“Nein,” Kingsley repeats, really plucking the consonants. “Magic man?”

“Circus man.”

“I'm not getting out of bed.”

Caleb snorts, and he’s so warm, and Caleb can hear the rain outside. “So sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Kingsley gets one last glance at the pile of clothes on the floor—takes a moment to admire the way Caleb’s overclothes fit along the grooves of his frock coat. Then a shadow blocks the window.

Kingsley looks up. Caleb is standing in front of Kingsley’s desk. He’s scraggly with dirt and exertion; a streak of blood darkens his forehead. Kingsley can barely make out the shock on his face.

Kingsley says, “Caleb?”

The Caleb on the bed tenses. “What’s wrong?”

The Caleb by the window is gone. Kingsley exhales.

“Nothing,” he says, because he really needs it to be true.

“Would incense help? I could open the drapes?”

Kingsley kisses his wrist. “It’s fine. Really.” He forces the shake out of his fingers, and tucks Caleb’s hand back against his chest. “Thank you, though.”

Caleb refits himself along the curve of Kingsley’s spine. “I worry about you, circus man,” he says after a while.

Kingsley closes his eyes. “Wake me when you smell breakfast?”

--

The rain is still spitting a bit when they get up for breakfast. The cold tastes like snow, and the sea air sets a sparkle to the mundane. The crew eat lavishly, having just been to port, enjoying fresh meat and cheese. Some rope snapped from the cold last night, and now the carpenter’s repair planks are lincoln-logged all over the hold; Kingsley and Caleb work out a solution with some magic and a little leftover sail line.

Around ten, Kingsley takes his turn at the helm. Caleb goes up to the crow’s nest to read. Frumpkin chases mice and rats and cheek skritches. It’s less cloudy now, with an added burst of wind, and the deck shimmers with rainwater. If Kingsley cranes his neck at the right angle, he can see the very top of Caleb’s head—a spot of color against the soft steel of daylight.

“I’m falling in love with you!” Kingsley shouts up at him.

Caleb shouts down: “What?”

“I said, I want to make you happy for the rest of your life!”

Caleb leans over the edge and yells what sounds like, “You know I can’t hear you from up here!”

Kingsley waves. Caleb mirrors the gesture. When Kingsley laughs, his breath fogs out of him. Caleb shouts something else and goes back to his book. Kingsley feels eyes on him, but when he turns around, there’s only the ocean.

The sea settles. The air shakes its winter bite. The crew gather for a game of cards, and Kingsley eats a sandwich for lunch. He’s on his way stern-side when he hears Caleb say, “Kingsley!”

Kingsley turns. He sees Caleb behind him on the stairs and says, “Problem?”

Caleb’s clothes are different. He looks scared. He says, “Kingsley, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you—what’s wrong?” He grabs Caleb’s elbow.

“This isn’t real.” Caleb grabs him back. “It’s a construct. You are under a—a spell of some kind. Do you remember?”

Kingsley starts to say, “Remember what?”—but then he blinks and Caleb has vanished. More than that—there are no bootprints to mark his passage. No dribble of rainwater. Not even a crease where Caleb had grabbed his coat.

“Okay,” Kingsley says, and goes to find some booze.

--

Kingsley wants to get drunk. He doesn’t. He’s got shit to do on deck, and anyway—he can’t make Caleb worry. They see each other often now—for days at a time even, when Caleb’s schedule permits. Still: Frost gathers on the porthole panes at night. A certain sacrosanctity clings to everything. If Kingsley carries a flask of the good stuff, so does the rest of the crew. It’s a pirate ship; pirates drink. It’s fine.

Normalcy creeps back into frame. Dinner is a jovial affair. Kingsley and Caleb trade gossip over wine and biscuits and salted pork. Caleb’s work stories are less gory than Kingsley’s—but by a smaller margin than one might expect from a man of his vocation.

They go walk along the bulwark and watch the stars come out. Their fingers graze, and Caleb gasps.

“You’re freezing!" Caleb begins rubbing Kingsley’s hands. “Doofi. Where are your gloves?”

“I dunno. Somewhere.” He loves the way Caleb shuffles his hands around like a stick in a fire plough. “I’m not cold, really.”

“You’re frigid. Hold on.” Caleb switches gears and takes off his scarf. He winds it around Kingsley’s neck. It’s dark blue and warm with residual body heat. Kingsley nuzzles his nose into it as Caleb dusts the hair from his face.

“You know you can tell me when things are bad,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers stilling upon Kingsley’s jawline. “You won’t scare me away.”

Kingsley takes a long breath through his nose.

“Yeah. I know.”

“But?”

“Things have been…” He covers Caleb’s hands. “From what I remember from—from the others. It’s been a while. So I guess I’m out of practice.”

“Out of practice with…”

Kingsley laughs. “I dunno. Happiness? Good things? It didn’t bother me until today but for some reason I’ve felt…I feel like a square peg in a round hole all of a sudden, like me and happiness aren’t made for each other. Like it’s all too good to be true, for um. For someone…”

“Kingsley.”

“For someone like me, maybe, and I know that’s not—but there’s this—I think I hallucinated today, is the thing, and it’s got me spiraling. A little bit.”

“Shit. That’s—”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Caleb says firmly. “It distresses you: It’s not nothing. I don’t portend to, ah, to know an awful lot about the mind. Hallucinations. But. There are ways to—there are paths to take, to help. And you…” Here he soothes his thumb across Kingsley’s cheek. “And you. My wonderful friend. You deserve the world. Nothing but goodness and love and rest. I will happily remind you of this as…as often as you’d like. Ja?”

Kingsley blinks rapidly. “Ha. Um. Ja.”

“‘For someone like me,’” he scoffs. He cups Kingsley’s hands. “You are ridiculous. Treasure yourself.”

Kingsley can’t quite nod. He feels the pool of fabric around his neck, and the cold wind through his hair. Caleb says,

“And for shit’s sake, let me buy you some gloves.”

That breaks the dam, and Kingsley laughs as he wipes his eyes. “I have gloves.”

“Not good ones, if you prefer to keep them off. Come to the city with me soon. We’ll find something versatile.”

Kingsley hears a ruckus on the stairs, and then the ship’s carpenter bubbles up from the galley like a cask buoy, suspended by the arms and cheers of her crew. She’s the musical flavor of drunk, and would like the whole ocean to know.

“Brine below with brandy in tow, on seas and—and sails of…what’s the last part?”

“Ferry,” Kingsley shouts.

Her friend rattles her arm around. “Sing the one about the girl from Brokenbank! The girl from Brokenbank!”

“And ferry! On seas and ferry and sail on the—the what? The girl from…?”

“Brokenbank!”

“Right! La…la fille d’Brokenbank!”

The carpenter launches into something bright, brash, and palpably Swavanian. Her friends shout and sway along. Summoned by demand or opportunity, the ship “musiker” appears from belowdecks, and with a few sweeps of his bow promotes their drunken sing-along to a proper soiree.

Kingsley leans against Caleb, and Caleb leans against Kingsley, and the both of them lean back against the bulwark. “La fille d’Brokenbank” ends in a chorus of applause. The next number sounds oddly familiar. Kingsley can feel the vibration when Caleb starts to hum along.

Kingsley says, “You know this one?”

“The Zemnian version. The original.”

“How’s the translation?”

“Terrible.”

Kingsley offers his hand, palm up. Caleb takes it. Drunken whoops accompany their sashay onto the main deck.

The body remembers what the mind forgets. Sometimes that means panic attacks over innocuous shapes and sounds, and sometimes it means knowing all the steps to a dance he’s never heard of. Kingsley’s feet fall into something tap-like, and he and Caleb bob and weave like streamers at Harvest Close. They collide; Caleb takes the lead, and his hand finds its home between Kingsley’s shoulder blades. They’re close enough for Kingsley to map the laugh lines on Cakeb’s face. There’s still a smudge on his temple from journaling, and a dusting of cat fur on his shoulders, and Kingsley loves him so much he has to laugh.

Off-beat claps bolster the tempo, and soon Kingsley and Caleb are spinning faster and faster, around and around and around like feathers in a gale. Caleb raises their joined hands, forewarning a swingout, and Kingsley lets their combined momentum carry him out onto the deck. The tassels of Caleb’s scarf fling around his neck on a delay; the frost nips his nose and ears. A familiar pair of hands catch him by the hand and waist before he can spin himself apart. Kingsley meets Caleb’s eyes again—

And finds them shadowed. Desperate. Caleb’s cheeks, once flushed with wine and exertion, are pale like snow. His hands clutch hard enough to hurt. He looks fragile, and frantic, and his clothes are the wrong color. He opens his mouth and says,

“Kingsley, please.”

Kingsley’s heart stops. He wrenches out of Not-Caleb's grasp.

“Kingsley—!”

“Stay back!” Kingsley warns, and tastes metal—the signature ozone buildup which precludes very powerful magic. He turns to find Caleb—the ruddy, soft one—with his arm outstretched, palm full of fire.

Kingsley doesn’t process the distance between this new bedraggled Caleb and the old. He feels more than sees his hand take Caleb’s wrist. He knocks his aim aloft, and Caleb’s spell unloads right over his doppelgänger’s head. The fire bolt cuts through the fog like a signal flare.

“You can see him too?” Kingsley pants, as the sparks scatter over the water.

Caleb stares at the doppelgänger. His fingers are still staticky with magic: “Who are you?”

Not-Caleb won’t look away from Kingsley. “Kingsley. It’s me. This is a dream. You are under a witch’s spell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t—I'm sorry, but I can't keep the connection open for much longer. I can wake you up, but it has to be your choice.”

Kingsley smells rain and salt and wine. “You’re not—I’m not under a spell. I’m—I’m here on my ship with you—the real you. And we’re headed to Nicodranas—"

“Kingsley.”

“We’re headed back to see Yasha and Beau and, and Fjord and Jester and Veth, and we’re all going to catch up at your wizard tower—”

“But how did you get here?”

Kingsley flounders. “What?”

“I asked you, how did you get here? Here on this boat, on your way to Nicodranas?”

“Wh—we took off from the coast. A port town.”

“Which port town? On which coast?”

Kingsley doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know? He looks back at the scared faces of his crew—at the musiker, bow frozen on the upswing, and the drawn swords of his seamen. If they know the answer, they aren’t keen to share.

“What are you?” Caleb snaps. “Who sent you?”

Not-Caleb sways with the wind. “How did you get here, Kingsley?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You will die if you stay here much longer. This spell is like a drug, to keep you complacent while it sucks the life out of you.”

“You are the real spell,” Caleb accuses. “Where did you come from? What do you want from us?”

A smatter of snowflakes find purchase on the sails; the deck; the collar of Kingsley’s coat. He should be cold. Why isn’t he cold?

“Answer me!” Caleb shouts.

Kingsley tests the words out on his tongue: “What happens to you? If I stay.”

Not-Caleb’s fingers twist around his coat sleeves.

“Kingsley.” The real Caleb grabs him by the shoulders. “Look at me. This is real. I’m real.”

“Where were we, two weeks ago?” Kingsley’s vision blurs. “Caleb? Why—why don’t I know the names of the crew?”

“I think—I don't know. I think you are under the weather somehow.” Caleb’s grip migrates to his hands. “It will be okay. Kingsley? Listen to me. There are paths to take, paths to help, remember? We can fix this. Together.”

“Why are you here?”

That lands a blow; he can tell. “Kingsley, please.”

“You’re a professor. From Rexxentrum. You do meetings and private lessons. You never have time for anything. Why are you out in the middle of the fucking Lucidian ocean? Why are you here?”

“I am here because I love you,” Caleb pleads.

Sometimes, you only learn there was a beam under your feet when it breaks.

Kingsley can hear his own heartbeat, and the murmurs of the crew. He looks out over the rail at the tar ocean that stretches on and on forever.

“No you don’t,” he says.

“What?”

“You don’t love me.” Sehanine, he’s such an idiot. “You love Essek. You live in an adorable little cottage together on the east side of the capital, near the academy, and you keep a garden with green beans and crocuses and funny wooden shelters for the bees—and I’m out here on the ocean, and you don’t love me.”

“That’s not true,” Caleb—no, not Caleb, never Caleb—says. “Kingsley. You aren’t well. You aren’t making any sense.”

“To your credit, it was a very nice dream.” Kingsley pecks him on the forehead. “Thanks for the dance.”

He unlocks their hands. If Caleb calls after him, he can’t hear him over the roar of the ocean, or maybe the blood between his ears. He holds out his hand to Caleb—the one with traces of garden dirt in the grooves of his boots—and says,

“I’m ready.”

--

Kingsley wakes up from the best dream of his life, and he’s fucking freezing.

Pebbles scratch his cheek. He sits up, leans over, and vomits up his breakfast. He’s pretty sure he can hear people shouting. Someone grabs him around the waist.

“Caleb?” he slurs.

“He’s okay.” Yasha runs her fingers through his hair like she hasn’t done since he was Molly. Each point of contact feels like a breath after a week underwater. “Rest. We’ve got you.”

“‘M I gonna die?” Kingsley asks her.

“No, Kingsley, you are not going to die.”

“Feels like I’m gonna die.”

Yasha says something else—something firm. Kingsley claws for purchase. The tide drags him out from under her hands, and he drifts.

--

Consciousness is fickle after that. Kingsley thinks he sees a wagon bed, and Jester’s face, and the honey glow of late summer through a canvas tarp. His dreams are empty and waterlogged, his reality a disjointed stream of technicolor snapshots.

Then his brain finds a foothold. It hoists him over the ledge into cognition. Kingsley sees moonlight first. Or, a refraction thereof. Kingsley looks up to check. The windows overhead link arms to form an elaborate glass triptych, their panes bustling with circus wagons and astral cities and tieflings who wave and dance and drink Hupperdook mead.

Kingsley pulls the covers up over his head. At the foot of the bed, an uprooted Frumpkin meowls his displeasure.

Chair legs scrape hardwood. “Kingsley! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, you’re awake!”

“Despite the gods’ best efforts.” He didn’t know a person could get this cold. Jester peels the blankets from his face and says,

“You look awful.”

It’s great to see her. “I feel awful.”

“You should be healed by now. Like, super duper triple healed. I’ve been pumping spells into you like crazy.” She flicks his nose. “You really freaked me out, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Here, drink some water.”

He accepts a cup. The water settles like a rock at the bottom of his gut. “What happened?”

“Okay, so…do you remember how we found a house full of super spooky witchy stuff?”

For once, Kingsley does remember. The artifacts were deemed too potent to leave for the crows, so they’d stuffed their cart with odds and ends and rattled away toward the capital.

Kingsley teases out the details like puzzle pieces from behind a shelf. “We hit a pothole.”

“Mhmm.”

“A crystal fell out of a bag, and I…I uh…”

“Mhmm.”

“Shit.” He drags a hand down his face. “I really grabbed the one that puts you in a coma, didn’t I?”

“Like it was a platinum piece. Caleb says it makes you live out your greatest hopes and dreams so you don’t notice it sucking out your soul.”

“Right. Yeah, he told us that part before I uh…” He watches Frumpkin knead himself a nest along the crook of his knee. A claw pierces the blanket. “Ow. Yeah. How am I not dead?”

“Caleb cast some kind of dream spell and fell asleep next to you. It was super cute. And super scary.” She props her elbows up and rests her chin on her hands. “Frumpkin, you are going to tear the quilt.”

Frumpkin yawns his derision. Jester says, “Sooooo. What did you dream about?”

Kingsley whistles. “The world’s biggest pirate boat orgie.”

“Oooooh!” Her tail stands up straight. “Was I there?”

“We were on our way to pick you up. If that counts.”

“I think it should. Caleb told me to tell him when you woke up. He’s really worried about you.”

Kingsley pulls the covers back over his face. Jester coos and pats his horn through the blanket.

“Don’t worry. We can just hang out for a bit. Oh! And Caduceus said to give you some tea. I’ll be right back.”

He’s asleep before she even leaves the room.

--

He cracks an eye open, and Yasha is in the chair next to his bed. Beau sits crosslegged on the rug. The couple appear to be mid-argument over school districts, or maybe what constitutes a blade versus a sword. The windows cast elaborate landscapes on the wall. Kingsley goes back to sleep.

--

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark again, and Caduceus is bent over in his sleep. An empty cup keeps vigil from the bedside table. The air still smells faintly of dead people tea.

Kingsley thinks his blood might be frozen. He hooks his nose over the lip of the blankets and glares at the empty fireplace. There don’t appear to be any matches around, or even any wood.

Kingsley counts to ten and pries himself from the depths of his bed. The cold wood floor shoots needles up his feet. He dances his weight around until his body adjusts.

A ginger shape darts off the bed and out the door.

Midnight zoomies. Kingsley looks after Frumpkin, then back at the fireplace. He could pull the rope for a servant, but he also knows there’s a library two floors down with a hearth the size of a wagon cart. The guest room has always felt more like a shrine than a bedroom anyhow.

Kingsley drapes the first blanket over Caduceus. He wraps the second around himself like a sheet of butcher paper and shivers his miserable way to the library.

The library lights are periwinkle tonight. Kingsley picks his way through the warren of shelves and arm chairs to the couch, then the hearth. He stands with his numb fingers brooch-locked around his blanket, washed out by firelight, and waits for the heat to permeate the cold front under his skin.

And waits.

And waits.

Well, fuck. Kingsley steps closer to the fire. He can feel the heat on his face, but only by degrees of separation, like there’s a veil between himself and the flames. Kingsley dumps his useless blanket on the floor. Fuck the fireplace. Fuck the whole tower and all its gleaming monuments. Kingsley thrusts his hand into the fire.

Someone yelps. A strong grip wrenches Kingsley’s hand from the fireplace.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“That’s sort of beside the point.” Shit, that hurt. Kingsley looks down at his hand, and then the hand that paints a line of heat around his wrist. “Dick and balls, Caleb. Are you—?” He takes Caleb’s hand. “Are you burned anywhere?”

“I am not the one who shoved his hand in a fire.”

“Fire-resistant, remember? It’s fine. Barely stung.” Kingsley tilts Caleb’s hand. Runs his finger along the slant of his pinky. “You look a little pink here.”

“Why are you trying to set yourself on fire two days after I pulled you out of a coma?”

“Just quirky like that, I guess.” Everywhere their fingers brush, a shock of heat pricks the veil between Kingsley and the rest of the world. “Thank you, by the way. That was…you didn’t have to do that.”

“You know I did.”

“Just…” Kingsley needs to let go of Caleb’s hand. “I’m sorry to ask for one more favor, after everything.”

Caleb looks at him with inexplicable tenderness. “What do you need?”

Kingsley releases Caleb, and cold floods right back up his arm to fill the spaces pierced by Caleb’s touch. He’s tasted relief now. Kingsley’s nails grazed the riverbank only for the current to drag him back under, and the cold hits so much harder for the memory of air and sunshine.

Kingsley says,

“I need you to forget it. All of it. Everything you saw. I’m sorry to have put you through it, but there’s no taking it back now—so the best I can do is ask you to…to kindly put it in a box in your brain somewhere and bury it. Bury it deep and spare me the mortification.”

“Kingsley—”

“Tell me I haven’t ruined our friendship over a silly little daydream.” Kingsley will not cry. He will not. “None of it has to mean anything. Anything at all.”

Caleb kisses him.

Kingsley’s brain skips and starts. He feels the tickle of Caleb’s stubble first. A match catches, and heat—real heat—grazes his lips; catches on his gasp. Jester told him once about the Temple of the False Serpent, when the room flooded and Fjord passed his last breath to Jester on a kiss. Caleb’s lips are soft and sure. The tips of his fingers dust Kingsley’s cheek. Sunlight pierces the thicket.

Then Caleb breaks away. “I’m sorry. I know you—”

“Don’t stop.” It’s a pathetic mewl. He’s shaking so hard it hurts. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Caleb’s face crumples, and then his hands are back on Kingsley’s face. Their lips meet. Kingsley makes a sound from the very pit of his chest. The relief is so profound he thinks he’ll crumple.

“Shh, shh.” Caleb kisses his cheeks; his brow; his jaw. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Es ist in Ordnung.”

Kingsley sways. Caleb braces him with his arms. The warmth spreads up Kingsley’s spine; down his throat; expands with his lungs, slow as daybreak.

“Es ist in Ordnung,” Caleb repeats, like he can taste Kingsley’s desperation. “Es ist in Ordnung…”

The kiss deepens. Caleb hugs him closer. Kingsley’s arms ache. He screws his nails into his palms. If he touches Caleb he’ll break the spell.

Caleb rests their foreheads together. He pants, and his nose brushes Kingsley’s, and he says,

“You are an idiot. I love you.”

The world tilts on its axis. “You don’t. You can’t.”

“I love you both. Essek knows I love you both.”

It kills Kingsley to tear his head away.

“Kingsley…”

“If you ever loved anyone with this face,” Kingsley says, “it wasn’t me.”

Caleb makes a low noise at the back of his throat. He grabs Kingsley by the arms and pushes him onto the couch. His mouth locks around Kingsley’s throat. Heat spikes through Kingsley’s chest like a blade; he only knows he threw his head back from the give of the cushions. Emboldened, Caleb teases the skin below his ear. Kingsley hears, over his own keen,

“You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“It’s cold,” Kingsley manages.

Caleb recaptures his lips. His legs brace Kingsley’s hips; his palms leave sunshine prints on his chest. One hand slides down, down, down. Fingers tease the line of skin between Kingsley’s shirt and pants. Kingsley arches up. He must make some other sound, because Caleb says, “Right here, schatz.”

“Caleb.” The fingers press harder. Lift the edge of his shirt. “Caleb.”

The touch vanishes like a snuffed candle. “All right?”

“Please—I can’t—”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No. No, please. Please. Caleb, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Lips on his lips. Kingsley softens.

“Es ist in Ordnung…Es ist in Ordnung.” Caleb’s hand slides back up under his shirt. “I have you. Just stay with me.” He runs his fingers up his ribcage. “Just stay here with me.”

It takes a second to remember how to speak: “I’m here. I’m here.”

A flash of magic, and the library doors swing shut. Caleb undoes the first three buttons of Kingsley’s shirt; stops to kiss the exposed skin; undoes the last three. Pushes the fabric aside.

“I loved Mollymauk. I loved Lucien. I love you.” He kisses the words down Kingsley’s ribs. “I am in love with the dust that makes you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

Kingsley laughs. Forces back tears. “A bit, yeah.”

“Why?”

He wants to live under Caleb’s hands. He wants to run away to the ocean and never look back.

Caleb dips closer. He stresses, “Why is it so difficult to believe that you are loved, Kingsley?”

“Don’t ask me that. Please don’t ask me that.”

Caleb’s fingers slide back down his stomach. “I want to hold you. I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“I’m not a real person,” Kingsley tells him. “I’m just a jumble of broken parts in a pirate coat.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

Caleb says, “Do you know what I dream about? I dream about waking up next to you on a Saturday morning, with nothing to do but lay around and kiss you and watch the light change.” His hand wanders below his pants. He cups Kingsley’s hip. “I dream about taking you to the market, and filling our baskets with fresh berries and sweetbread and whatever you like. I dream you show me the ocean. I dream we lay out on the deck of your ship and look up at the stars. I dream I forget my lunch, and you appear mid-lecture with a bag of snacks and tomatoes from the garden, and I get to show you off to my class. I dream about that a lot.”

His hand trails back up his thigh. Kingsley writhes, a live wire under his touch.

“I dream I wake up from a nightmare, and you are there. I dream you teach me how to sail.” His thumb sweeps closer to Kingsley’s cock. “I dream I stay up grading papers, and you come up from behind and wrap your arms around my shoulders, and you tell me the work will still be there in the morning. I dream I get to hold you and kiss you and make you come. Will you let me?”

Kingsley looks up at Caleb, and the way the fire halos his hair.

“I love you.” Kingsley’s fingers are claws on the cushions. “Before I knew my own name I knew I loved you. Fuck me, use me, whatever you want, you’ve got me.”

“I told you, I want to make you feel good. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Caleb draws his hand back up the line between his thigh and stomach, away from his cock.

Kingsley whines. “I’m not…I don’t deserve this.”

“Ah. Too bad. Tell me anyway.”

That shocks a laugh out of him. “You’re a tyrant. I want…”

The fire crackles. Caleb’s hands are on his hips, anchors to reality.

“I want you,” Kingsley chokes out. “I want to feel you. I want to feel you on me, around me.”

“How do you mean? Do you want me to fuck you? Ride you?”

“Oh fuck. Shit.” He’s sure his heart will pound out of his chest. “Touch me, ride me, please. Yes.”

Caleb kisses him. The world narrows back down to the bloom of his touch.

“All right. All right, I’ve got you.” He pulls away. “Not going anywhere. Lay back for me?”

Kingsley musters the wherewithal to obey. Caleb shuffles out of his boxers. He reaches for the waistband of Kingsley’s pants.

“Ja?”

“Please. Please, shit, here, let me—”

He helps Caleb pull down his pants and underwear. Magic dusts Caleb’s hands, and then a vial appears between his palms.

“Oh.” He rattles the vial. “I am glad that worked.”

Kingsley pretends not to stare at Caleb’s cock. “Yeah? What was the alternative?”

“Forty-five pounds of dinner rolls.” He uncaps the vial. Kingsley looks on, almost from outside himself, as Caleb warms a dollop of oil between his hands.

Kingsley’s body knows sex. It’s had sex as people he can’t bear to claim, with people he’ll never care to know. In the wake of his resurrection, as Kingsley grappled for some kind of ownership over his body, he’d collected flings like copper pieces. It shouldn’t be a shock, when Caleb brushes two fingers up his shaft. It shouldn’t feel so new, when Caleb swipes his thumb over the head of his cock.

Caleb’s free hand finds Kingsley’s on the couch. He says, “Touch me?” and there’s a tremor. Maybe there’s been a tremor for a while.

Kingsley unlocks his grip from the couch. He takes Caleb’s wrist, and the world doesn’t end. Oil spills down his cock with the steady up and back of Caleb’s other hand. Kingsley’s grip spasms. He finds Caleb’s sides and clutches for purchase. Caleb says something soft and low. He breaks away to pour more oil onto his palm. Kingsley watches, helpless to move, as Caleb reaches down with lathered fingers. He preps himself. The firelight catches his fingers as they reappear. He says,

“Still with me?”

The memories are fuzzy. “I’ve left you a lot, haven’t I?”

“You always come back.” Caleb prestidigitates his hands clean. “This couch may, um. May prove a challenge.”

“We could move to the floor?”

“No, ah, I think this will work fine. Just…”

The cushions dip with one knee, then the other. Caleb sits so he brackets Kingsley’s thighs. He plants his palms to frame Kingsley’s head, and looks down at him with such lavish adoration Kingsley wants to wither away.

Caleb’s brow furrows. He hooks his finger and feathers the underside of Kingsley’s horn. Kingsley shudders.

“Someone lied to you,” Caleb whispers. “Who convinced you that you are worth so little?”

Kingsley looks away. Caleb’s finger finds a certain spot along the base of his horn; spurred by Kingsley’s moan, he massages the skin there with slow vigor. He says, “You deserve so much more than I could ever give you. I’m selfish that way.”

Kingsley musters a scoff. “Only you could look at this and call it selfish.”

Caleb kisses him. Kingsley thinks the world could end and he wouldn’t notice. He runs his fingers through Caleb’s hair, like he’s always wanted to do, and Caleb rewards him with a shaky noise. Everything is yellow and soft and dappled.

Caleb leans back. He raises himself over Kingsley’s cock. A pause, as he looks to Kingsley for permission. Then he sinks down. Caleb takes the tip of his cock. Heat envelopes his shaft, slow and steady. Kingsley can only heave for breath. His horn half catches on a pillow. Caleb hooks his palms above Kingsley’s hips. He says something punched out, like he can barely fit the words out of his throat, and the walls around Kingsley’s cock contract and release. Kingsley bites back a wail.

Caleb, fully seated now, takes a moment to adjust to the stretch. He’s still wearing his sleep shirt. His hair is ruffled from Kingsley’s fingers. Kingsley covers his hands. He closes his eyes and floats with the pattern of their overlapping breaths; feels the hug of Caleb’s body all around like a winter coat.

“Don’t think I’m not gonna…” Caleb’s muscles flex, and Kingsley has to pause to recover his wits. “Don’t think I’m gonna last.”

“Good. Because I won’t be able to keep this up for very long.” Caleb raises himself to the tip of Kingsley’s dick, then rides the shaft back down to the base. Kingsley doesn’t hear the sound he makes, but he feels the air leave his lungs and mouth. Oil beads off his thighs and cock and stomach. Kingsley’s fingers knit with Caleb’s, hard enough to sting. The sound of skin on skin; Caleb’s broken Zemnian as Kingsley ruts up to meet him on the downturn. They find a good angle; Caleb shouts, and Kingsley drives back at the same spot. Caleb’s muscles pulse; a few drops of precum bob off his cock. A shock of pleasure nearly throws Kingsley over the edge.

“I’m—fuck, Caleb, I’m…”

Kingsley is a star in Caleb’s hands. He’s bleeding light and Caleb is holding him through it—holding him like he’s something soft and impossible.

“Kingsley…”

“I can’t—”

“Come inside me.” Caleb draws their joined hands over Kingsley’s stomach. “Please—”

Kingsley thrusts back up at him, and the words are lost. Waves build upon waves. Kingsley’s cheeks are wet. It’s hard to see past the pleasure. He says Caleb’s name, and Caleb squeezes his hand, and Kingsley comes.

He hears Caleb gasp. Kingsley reaches out through the haze. He cups Caleb’s cock with his free hand, and Caleb thrusts down once, twice. He comes over Kingsley’s stomach.

A suspended moment. Caleb rolls up onto his knees, off Kingsley’s cock, and collapses. Kingsley throws his arms around his back.

“Caleb. Caleb…”

Caleb plants a messy kiss to his shoulder. Kingsley’s fingers find his hair. The world realigns itself in panting increments.

A log splits in the fireplace. Caleb groans. He starts to sit up, but his hand slips; Kingsley catches him before he can slide off the couch.

“Okay?” Kingsley laughs.

“Ja. Ja, I’m…” He laughs too. “Move over a bit.”

They shuffle until they’re face to face, Kingsley hammocked between Caleb and the back of the couch. Caleb flicks a prestidigitation cantrip at Kingsley; at the couch; at himself. The mess evaporates.

The cushions dip; Caleb’s fingers dust the floor. Kingsley can’t be bothered to open his eyes. A little buffet of air tickles his skin, to the snap of fanned-out fabric. He thinks of clotheslines in summer, and the blue sheen transition from the outdoors to a worn foyer.

“I’m good,” Caleb whispers, as he tucks the blanket over their shoulders.

Kingsley pricks his fingers into Caleb’s shirt.

He murmurs, “Don’t wake me up, all right? I like it here.”

Kingsley feels Caleb exhale. “You think this is another trick?”

“I don’t know. Mostly I’m warm and I’m tired and I love you.”

“And tomorrow you will wake up,” Caleb taps one knuckle, “and you will still be here,” another, “and I will still love you, too.” He kisses Kingsley’s hand. “So. If you are tired, sleep.”

Kingsley thinks he was an optimist once. Belief comes to him like muscle memory, and he sleeps.

[cabe0512]

The Night a Witch meets a Beast, a snippet of The Curse of Darkness.

A puff of smoke shining in silver poured out of the hall like an explosion, but harmlessly faded into the wind like sand against a storm. As the smoke began to clear, Julia brushed her eyes clear to see what her exorcism had wrought upon the beast.

But as she saw with her own bewildered eyes, the nasty beast was no longer there where she had left him. Only a pile of worn-down and bloody bandages remained, and the figure of a young man bathed in the middle of it.

Julia, drawn by curiosity and fear, slowly approached the pile of bandages and smoke fumes to take a closer glimpse of the man sleeping in front of her.

He was completely nude, his body bore the astute complexion of a skeleton. His skin was covered in horrible scars, not a single inch of it was free of any old wounds. His messy hair, pale as snow just a moment ago, now transformed a tinge of brown.

And his face, obscured by his own luscious hair, was something that Julia wanted to see. So carefully, she reached out her hand and touched the locks to get a better look at him.

The young man was stirred away, and quivered violently at her touch. His pale blue eyes saw her, and they were empty yet ferocious like a wolf's. He flailed his arms at her and tried to roar, but even the vicious roar of the beast itself had left him entirely, now screaming on the top of his lungs.

He pinned her down with his arms reaching out as soon as he got up, but Julia got ahold of his wrists and kept them in place. The man incessantly screamed at her, trying to bite her and break free from her bond yet his body was far too weak to push her away.

Julia was scared out of her mind just like him. She had never encountered another human before, not after the witch hunts from so long ago. She loathed them to the core, but that hatred was now replaced by fear when she most needed it.

As she struggled to maintain the young man, Julia suddenly remembered how Rosalie would calm her down in times of distress. Acting accordingly, Julia released her tight grip on the man's arms and placed them on his cheek. She chanted a small prayer, the same one Rosalie sang every day, as her own palms began to glow.

Slowly but surely, the young man stopped pushing her away and the warmth of her touch, and the serenity of her magic. He then fell against Julia like a limp noodle, but she caught him and let him land on her lap.

Julia's heart skipped a beat when her fear had finally waned, as she could now see his face as his hair was now out of the way. He had to be the most handsome face she had ever seen, something that came out of her dream. And that confused her even more.

In the end, she unbuttoned her cloak and wrapped the young man around it. And together they sat on the cold floor of the ruined chapel as the night passed by around them.

As the first ray of the morning sunlight peered through the broken roof, the young man fluttered his eyes awake and found himself resting on Julia's lap. This time, his eyes were less animalistic and more human than before; they saw and they gleamed with a drop of hope.

"Are you..." His voice was hoarse and dry. "Are you an angel?"

Julia didn't know how to respond to that question. Up until now, she had always detested her sister Rosalie's optimistic belief that humans were more than worthy of a second chance. But now she stood at a hill of uncertainty; she saved a human's life and she didn't even realize it.

Her heart was pounding so fast, Julia nearly mistook it for a horrible hex laid upon her. At once, she adopted a hopeful smile, the same as Rosalie's own, and said to him.

"I'm not an angel. I'm a witch, and I freed you from your curse."

The young man managed a smile of his own, as specks of tears formed on his eyes upon realizing his freedom. "At last... Thank you for saving me, kind witch."

Julia blushed so suddenly; she had never received such nice words of her expertise from anyone other than Rosalie. Her fear, as well as her stone cold heart completely melted away whenever she gazed at his eyes. She managed a giddy little giggle to let these feelings unfold much neatly.

"My name is Julia," she told him. "Do you still remember yours?"

"I... I..."

The young man averted his eyes away from her, scared as he hasn't fully recovered his memories, his only thread that tied him back to his past life before the curse overtook him.

He started squirming under the cloak in panic before he stopped completely and began to smile fondly. Julia knew what it meant; his memories have returned to him, even if it were a little late. When he finally remembered it all, his face lit up and faced her once more.

"It's... Grant. My name is Grant of... House Danesti."

[yoriichitsugikunii]

Chapter 5: Master Kohga

Michiko meets with Master Kohga.

Brief mention of death. Physical fighting and slight sexism.

There was fresh snow covering the cliffs of Gerudo Desert as Michiko’s eyes glowed bright red — Karusa Valley was devoid of any other life as the bodies of her comrades lay piled on top of each other. As she approached to check if anyone was still alive, Michiko noticed a familiar cracked mask amongst the bodies. Panic swelled in her chest, and she checked Sooga’s pulse but he had none.

Before she could even register that he was gone, a hand grabbed her wrist and as Master Kohga took his final breaths, he uttered four words. “You could’ve saved us.”

His grip loosened and his body went completely still. Michiko had failed to help protect her clan. Her uniform was covered with the blood stains of her comrades.

“That’s why Hylia cursed you…” Einosuke stated. He looked at her with hatred in his eyes as Lady Kitsune also glared at her but stayed behind Einosuke.

It was as if they were afraid of her.

Michiko reached out to them but they seemed to get further away every time she attempted to get near them. “That’s why Hylia cursed you.” That statement replayed in her mind as she dropped to her knees and she cursed out at the goddess.

She truly lost everything that mattered to her.

Then Michiko woke up with a cold sweat and a shiver ran down her spine.

“It was just a nightmare that’s all.” She told herself as Michiko looked around her room nervously and sat upright. It was still dark outside as she stood up and slipped on her simple robe and headed to the backyard to meditate and ease her mind. After all, Michiko wasn’t expecting sleep to come anytime soon.

It was five months after her family shared where she came from and she had that particular nightmare. However, Michiko felt that she was taking too long to ascend to the rank of blademaster and she could tell that Einosuke and Lady Kitsune were starting to lose hope that she would become the next blademaster. Whenever Michiko would write back home, they’d always ask for an update on her rank status but were always met with the same response — still a Yiga captain for foot soldiers.

And when Michiko would briefly come home from her tasks, they wouldn’t outwardly show it but she could tell that they were waiting for the news of her ascend. Her time at home also significantly dwindled as she was out completing tasks for the clan or training the newer Yiga. Sleep had also become a luxury as she pushed herself to train or take on any task that the master needed completed.

Michiko kept promising to herself that she would get back on track and work towards being recruited to become an apprentice to a blademaster but it was easier said than done. The techniques that were written by Einosuke and every blademaster that came before him, were difficult to master. Not to mention the stress of constantly pushing herself mixed with the lack of sleep were not helping at all. It all came to a head when Michiko was sent to complete a task with two other fellow Yiga captains and one of them made a snarky comment.

“What did you just say to me?” Michiko snarled at a fellow Yiga as she shoved him into a nearby tree.

“Calm down, all I said was to go to sleep, you’re not fit to be out here when you’re moody like this!” He replied.

“You’re not the boss of me, I’m just as qualified to be here as you are, we’re all captains.” Michiko growled.

The third Yiga gently tugged on Michiko’s arm, “just let it go, don’t let him get to you.” She suggested.

Michiko released him with one final shove and turned on her heel to walk away. “Asshole…” she murmured.

“That’s why women in the clan shouldn’t be here and just stick to being nurses or wives because they start acting all crazy.” He shamelessly stated.

As soon as that statement left him, Michiko turned around and punched him right in the jaw. The punch landed with a loud smack as he quickly removed his mask as he looked at Michiko with a horrified expression.

Blood trickled down his nose, “you fucking bitch!” He yelled.

She landed another punch before he could even think about retaliating. Michiko was seeing red the moment he insulted her and questioned her abilities. She kept punching him until he grabbed her wrist and tried to pin her down but it only angered her more. Michiko kneed him on his groin as he doubled over in pain.

“Enough!” The other Yiga yelled as she pulled Michiko away from the boy.

“Do you want to be kicked off the clan?! Huh?”

Michiko was speechless, just processing what she did.

“You’re off the mission. Go home, expect to hear from the Master in the next few days.” She growled.

That was the only mission she has ever walked away from.

The next few days Michiko spent her time furiously writing into her own journal to let out any bottled up feelings at one at one of the retired Yiga’s house. A few other foot soldiers were also staying. Since she didn’t want to go to the hideout or home. Especially if she was running the risk of being kicked off the clan.

She had been so engrossed with writing that Michiko slightly jumped when there was a soft knock on the door of the room where she was staying.

“A letter for Kuni Michiko from Master Kohga.” The host of the house notified her as Michiko quickly jumped up to open the door and get the letter.

“Thank you so much.” She answered as the host nodded once and walked away and Michiko closed the door behind her.

Kuni Michiko,

Master Kohga has requested your presence. Report to the hideout upon receiving this letter. Please send your confirmation and expected arrival time via a written letter.

Her stomach dropped — this was it she was going to be kicked off the clan and head home in shame. And then Michiko would get disowned by Einosuke and Lady Kitsune. She would have to live her life by other means. What would she do? It’s not like she would join the Sheikah that are allies with the royal family. There was no doubt that the King would immediately order her execution. Not to mention her black hair. Michiko wouldn’t be considered “pure” like the Sheikah with white hair.

Michiko could feel herself hyperventilating as she spiraled to her thoughts. But it’s not like she had any other choice — THE master himself was requesting she shows up.

She quickly started collecting her things and putting them away as she tidied the room Michiko was staying in and made sure to thank her host for allowing her to stay for a few days.

After countless trips to Karusa Valley, Michiko already knew how to get there by heart. She opted to walk there instead of using the teleportation technique to mentally prepare herself to be kicked off the clan.

Michiko had a hard time keeping down the lunch she had earlier the closer she got to the hideout. The cliffs surrounding Karusa Valley suddenly seemed intimidating and suffocating. The frog statues that were covered with an inverted eye cloth seemed to be watching her every move.

And that all changed the moment Michiko was greeted by Master Kohga himself.

“Kuni, thank you for your swift arrival.”

“Master Kohga! Please, call me by my given name, Michiko.”

She wasn’t sure why she requested that he call her by her first name.

Master Kohga chuckled, “very well then, Michiko, please follow me.”

The two of them headed into the hideout and towards what was the master’s study. “Please take a seat. Would you like some tea and banana bread?” The master asked.

While Master Kohga always had his right hand man at his side, today Sooga was away completing a task so another blade master walked into the room and brought a tray of banana bread and tea.

“No thank you, Master Kohga. I don’t wish to impose any further.”

Master Kohga rubbed his chin for a brief moment. “Impose? Whatever gave you the impression that you’re imposing?”

“I know why you requested my presence today, Master. Because of the mission I was removed from…”

He hummed softly as he gestured to the blademaster to come forth. He silently made his way towards them and poured two cups of tea, then left the study making sure to close the door behind them.

“So you’re aware of your actions?”

His question was ambiguous but she knows very well which actions he was referring to.

“I’m rather interested to hear your side of the story, Michiko. I’ve already spoken with the young man.”

Her hands grasp at the fabric of her uniform. While the master is surprisingly calm and composed, the dread blooming in her chest outweighs his calm demeanor. And Michiko can’t hold her anxiety in anymore. She quickly bows to the floor in front of the master.

“Please Master Kohga.. I only want to make my parents proud. I was raised by retired Yiga members and don’t want to let them down. I understand and apologize for my actions but please do not discharge me from the clan.” She begged.

A long minute passes as she stares down at the wooden floor underneath her.

“Michiko, please rise.” Master Kohga states softly.

Her eyes meet his masked face with tears welling in her eyes. The fact that his face is literally unreadable makes her even more nervous.

“You’re not here to be discharged.”

Michiko takes a sharp breath in.

“Yes, you’re here because you failed to comply with one of the rules of the clan. I’m sure you were made aware after you completed your initial assessment that you are forbidden to fight a fellow Yiga.”

She bowed her head in shame.

“With that being said, I see great potential in you. If I wanted to discharge you, I would’ve sent a blade master to collect your uniform and your weapon.”

“Then if I may ask, why am I here Master?”

“I believe that you are stricken with grief. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but you were abandoned by your family?”

She stopped breathing momentarily, “I-… yes. I was then found and taken in by Einosuke and Lady Kitsune. And I’ve been wanting to repay them for taking me in.”

Master Kohga hummed and nodded. “Ah, yes I remember when they were active members of the clan and when they brought you in as a baby because they were concerned about your wellbeing. I understand what it's like to want to pay them back for helping you out. Sooga says he owes his life to me for taking him under my care when he was just a little boy. So you two might understand each other on that aspect. And you feel that you can’t let them down otherwise you won’t have anyone else. But let me tell you that I care for each and every member of the clan. Including you, Michiko.”

“Master Kohga, I thank you for your generosity, but I should not be blessed enough to receive your kindness. I harmed a fellow Yiga, that is unforgivable.”

“I know, I know. But believe me…” He stops speaking for a second, looking around his study. “Being forgiven starts with understanding.”

He turned back to her and stood up. Michiko could feel the anxiety being expelled from her.

“Lord Ren has arrived,” a foot soldier notified Kohga.

The master stands up, but motions for her to continue sitting. Her eyes follow him as he walks along towards the door, opening it up.

“Apologies, master, I arrived as soon as I could. Please forgive me for my tardiness.”

A tall man dressed in a blade master uniform appears and walks up them, the floorboards creaking under his great presence. The master welcomes him before gesturing for him to take a seat next to Michiko. She bowed to the blade master to show him respect.

“Lord Ren, would you care for some tea?”

“That would be wonderful,” the man says as he sits.

Then it dawns on Michiko that Lord Ren is Einosuke and Lady Kitsune’s son. The very same person she considered an older brother when they were children.

Master Kohga pours him a cup of tea and a slice of banana bread.

“Lord Ren, this is Kuni Michiko, the Yiga captain that I told you about. I was just getting to telling her the details of why she is here today.”

“Ah yes, the young- wait Master did you just say her name is Michiko?” The blade master asked, glancing over at her.

“Yes, Michiko..” Master Kohga looked over at both of them. “You two already know each other?!”

“Yes.” They both said in unison.

“My parents are the ones that raised her- both of us. She’s practically like my younger sister.” Ren commented.

Master Kohga clapped his hands in enthusiasm.

“Michiko, you’re going under the care of Ren, starting today.”

Care???

“Ren, because Michiko’s incident occurred in your area of patrol, I believe she should be taken under your wing. Guide her so that she may become stronger, in the heart and mind as well as the body. And so that she may rise in the ranks.”

Michiko stared in shock at the master.

“I thank you, Master Kohga and Lord Ren, but I am not in the rank of apprentice.”

“I am well aware of your rank, Michiko. I’m willing to take you in regardless,” Ren states, finally directly responding to her.

She’s baffled at his response. He wants to take her in despite her rank status?

“Michiko, if you do not accept these conditions, then I am afraid you will be discharged from the clan.”

The looming threat of returning back to her family as a failure comes to mind. Is this really happening? Is he truly offering her to become his apprentice?

“I-I accept the offer.”

If you would like to be tagged, comment below or send me an ask. 🩷

Taglist: @icantgetnosatiisfaction @swordsofdevotion @nottheheidi

[jdgo51]

Signs of Being Spirit-Filled

Today's inspiration comes from:

Simply Spirit-Filled

by Andrew K. Gabriel

Editor’s note: Today, we celebrate Pentecost! Holy Spirit fire! If the commemoration of Pentecost is new to you or you just want to remember the falling of the Holy Spirit on Christ’s first followers in Jerusalem, read Acts 2:1-4 and then continue to read how lives were changed when God the Holy Spirit was released in power in the first century.

Character

"'One of the first things that comes to mind when Christians think about Jesus is his morally perfect character. When Jesus overcame the Devil’s temptation, he entered the wilderness “full of the Holy Spirit” (Luke 4:1), and forty days later he emerged from the wilderness “in the power of the Spirit” (Luke 4:14). As a result, Jesus “committed no sin” (1 Peter 2:22). Likewise, the Spirit helps us today to overcome temptation and sin in our own lives.

The Spirit once helped me when I was frustrated with one of my children. Our city was covered with snow, so my family and I decided we would go sledding. We all pulled on our snow pants, mittens, and winter jackets, and piled into our minivan to drive across town. When we arrived at the biggest hill in our prairie city, I parked the van at the top. And as we were climbing out with our sleds, one of my daughters said the seven words every parent dreads hearing when their child is all bundled up for winter weather: “I have to go to the bathroom.” Of course, there were no bathrooms at the sledding hill or anywhere else within walking distance. “No,” I told her. “We just got here… And I told you to go to the bathroom before we left the house.” She explained that she had gone to the bathroom at home, but that she needed to go again.

I figured we weren’t going to have any fun if she was complaining the whole time about needing to go to the bathroom, so I told my wife to stay at the hill with our other children while I drove my daughter to a bathroom. At the time, my wife thought I was being nice, but I grumbled the whole way to the convenience store, and I kept grumbling once we got inside. Then, as I was leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, the Spirit helped me recognize the anger in my heart and convicted me “concerning sin and righteousness” (John 16:8 NASB). And the Spirit didn’t just leave me aware of my sin, either. In that moment it was as though the Spirit also gave me a “new heart” (Ezekiel 36:26). I had a choice to live “according to the flesh” or “in accordance with the Spirit” (Romans 8:5), and the Spirit helped me respond to my daughter with patience and gentleness. Our drive back to the sledding hill was a lot more pleasant.

On this occasion the “fruit of the Spirit” became evident in my life. We can choose to give in to temptation and engage in “sexual immorality… hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition… envy, drunkenness… and the like” (Galatians 5:19-21). But the Spirit works to instill love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. — Galatians 5:22-23 NLT

When we exhibit self-control and are kind to someone who stabbed us in the back, we are following the lead of the Spirit. When we are patient with our spouse, even though they are driving us crazy, we show signs of being Spirit-filled. And when we are gentle with those who sin against us, we exhibit the fruit of the Spirit and holiness in our character.

Whenever I talk about character, holiness, and avoiding sin, some people automatically get concerned that I’m being legalistic. Legalism usually refers to rules people, rather than God, set in order to gain God’s approval, as though we are saved by our actions rather than grace. While God certainly does have ethical expectations for us, legalism is problematic because it promotes slavery to law rather than freedom from sin. Another problem with legalism is that rules don’t change us — the Spirit does.

When we are shaped by the Spirit, we don’t do what is right only because those who live according to their sinful nature “will not inherit the kingdom of God” (Galatians 5:21). Instead, as the Spirit is poured out upon us like water to cleanse our hearts, the Spirit moves us from having a sense of duty to do what is right, to having delight in obeying God (Psalm 119). Overall, when we exhibit holiness, or the character of Christ, and avoid sin, we are the kind of person that the Bible calls spiritual (Galatians 6:1 NASB).

You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be My witnesses. — Acts 1:8

Proclaiming the Gospel

The Spirit not only enabled Jesus to remain sinless, but the Spirit also empowered Jesus for His ministry. Like the prophets of the Old Testament, who “spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit” (2 Peter 1:21), Jesus said He received the Spirit “to proclaim” good news (Luke 4:18). Jesus told the disciples,

You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be My witnesses. — Acts 1:8

As a result, the book of Acts records numerous instances when believers “were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the word of God boldly” (Acts 4:31). Another aspect of spirituality, then, is that we are inspired, led, and empowered by the Spirit to share the good news about Jesus Christ by ministering to our family and neighbors, to those in our workplaces, and to others around us.

When I was a teenager, my aunt owned a little white Geo Metro. I lived with her for a couple of summers so I could work in the city, and I occasionally borrowed her car. I could drive her car, and I could get it around, but it was difficult to get her car to go where I wanted it to go because it had manual steering. I especially had to yank on the steering wheel when I was trying to park. By contrast, I now own a long, green minivan that is two or three times as big as that little Geo Metro. But I can get it around easily because it has power in a way the Geo Metro didn’t. In fact, I could probably park my minivan using my pinky finger. I don’t have to struggle with the steering wheel because I’ve got power steering. Likewise, the Holy Spirit empowers us to be more effective in our ministry. By contrast, trying to do ministry without the empowerment of the Holy Spirit is like trying to drive a car without power steering.

Miracles

In addition to ministering by proclaiming the good news, Jesus was empowered by the Spirit to do miracles. He said he was anointed with the Spirit to proclaim “recovery of sight for the blind” (Luke 4:18) and that he drove “out demons by the Spirit of God” (Matthew 12:28 NLT). The Gospels are full of stories about Jesus doing miracles, from raising the dead to multiplying food. When Jesus told His disciples they would be “clothed with power from on high” when they received the Holy Spirit (Luke 24:49), this also included their ability to do miracles like Jesus. As a result, after Pentecost, everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. — Acts 2:43

This empowerment from the Spirit wasn’t only for the apostles, though. We find others doing miracles, too, like Stephen, who was “a man full of God’s grace and power” and who “performed amazing miracles and signs among the people” (Acts 6:8 NLT).

The Spirit still empowers Christians to do miracles today. We don’t receive this ability so we can look spiritual. Rather, this is another way the Spirit empowers us to witness (Acts 1:8). In the same way “many people saw the signs [Jesus] was performing and believed in his name” (John 2:23), as Christians perform miracles “through the power of the Spirit of God,” the miracles are “signs” pointing people to the truth of the gospel message (Romans 15:19). Therefore, in the first century, when “the apostles performed many signs and wonders among the people…, more and more men and women believed in the Lord” (Acts 5:12, 14).

One pastor I know recalls the Spirit doing miracles as he preached the gospel in a rural French community. The church he planted there worshipped in a modest twenty-by-sixty-foot storefront that didn’t even have a bathroom. One evening a short, stocky, forty-year-old farmer named Marcel arrived at their church with a lump on his right hand. He walked to the middle of the room and sat on one of the old wooden theater seats the church used as pews. At the end of the service, the pastor stood in front of the congregation and prayed for anyone who needed healing. Still sitting in his seat, Marcel looked down at his hand, and his jaw dropped — the lump was gone. The next time he and the pastor were together, Marcel reported what had happened. Although Marcel had only attended the church a few times in the past, after he was healed, he started inviting other families to the church, and he started hosting Bible studies in his home. God continued to use the pastor to perform miracles in his church as a means of confirming the truth he was preaching. As a result, after a few months the congregation outgrew the location where they were meeting, and they found a larger space to rent for their services.

While some people find the idea of the Spirit empowering them to perform miracles exciting, others find this a little depressing because they don’t see it present in their own lives. On one hand, I think we can relieve ourselves of the pressure of expecting to do miracles frequently, given that only some people have the gifts of miracles and healing (1 Corinthians 12:29-30). On the other hand, even though not everyone has the same gifts, this doesn’t mean the Spirit can’t use us in these areas. As I indicated in a previous chapter, not everyone has the gift of encouragement, but the Spirit can use anyone to encourage others. Likewise, the Spirit can work through anyone to heal another person."'

But if we never pray for people to be healed, we have no reason to expect that the Spirit will use us to see people healed. Excerpted with permission from Simply Spirit-Filled by Andrew Gabriel, copyright Andrew K. Gabriel.

[aceinejghafa]

on the magic inherent in snowflakes and in laughter

Kanej | Rated general | tw for canon-typical discussion of the slave trade

Summary: Ketterdam is grey, when the Wraith docks in berth twenty-two of Fifth Harbour.

Or, Kaz and Inej take a walk in the snow, ft. reflections on magic and absolutely zero plot. 

Materialki: @cassecorrea (art here)

Etherealki: @swift-creates (fic here)

A/N: My fic for the Grishaverse Reverse Mini Bang @grishaversebigbang!

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

Ketterdam is grey, when the Wraith docks in berth twenty-two of Fifth Harbour. Captain Inej Ghafa stands on deck, her hands on her hips, and looks out at the city that has broken her, rebuilt her, shaped her.

On second thought, maybe it’s not quite grey. It’s more black and white, city and snow mixed together and piled on top of each other until the first impression is that it’s all one grey mass. A closer look shows dark rooftops peeking out from underneath the snow, dark streets paled by drifts piling up to either side. The still-falling snow creates a mist that makes the city seem gentler, softer. 

Inej’s feelings for Ketterdam are complicated. Despicable things are done here, just as they are done everywhere else she has been — Ravka’s oppression of the Suli and general imperialist bent; Fjerda’s demonization and genocide of Grisha; Ketterdam’s refusal to value anything more than money. 

And yet, as everywhere, it’s a mix. Ravka has a half-Suli queen. Whatever Nina’s doing in Fjerda, it’s slowly chipping away at the Fjerdan hatred of Grisha. And Ketterdam — well, Inej is doing her fair share to clear Ketterdam of the least savoury aspects of its business, and between Wylan’s influence with the Merchant Council and Kaz’s willingness to help her take down any other barrel boss engaging in the slave trade, the city’s got a chance at not being quite so atrocious as it has been. 

But atrocious or not, grey or black-and-white — Inej has missed this place, missed the rooftops she’s ran across countless times, missed this dirty, complicated, greedy city where she has learned who she is, who she wants to be. 

She has missed the people, too: Jesper, his grin and his guns and his ridiculous waistcoats; Wylan, clever and red-haired and far less innocent than he looks. 

And she has missed a boy with dark hair and sharp edges, with a painful past that’s left him with gloved hands and armour, with a clever mind and a rare smile. 

Inej could spend the next few hours arranging for a food and water resupply for the Wraith. If not, she could head out into Ketterdam and catch up on anything she’s missed — there’ve been some rumours of a buyer in the warehouse district that she could investigate. She could even stay on her ship and spend time with her crew. 

But she doesn’t need to do any of that, and Specht is a perfectly competent first mate who can safely be left in charge of a ship — arguably more competent than her, although she’s learnt a fair bit about handling a ship since first stepping foot on the Wraith. 

She climbs easily down the Wraith’s side — her skills as a spider might not apply to sailing a ship, but they at least work in her favour to allow her to get off and on — and disappears into the maze of the city. 

~

The first time that Kaz saw a snowfall in Ketterdam, it seemed like a magic trick — like the street performers who hid coins in their palms and up their sleeves, reality concealed behind obfuscation. Some of the city’s dirt vanished beneath the white, nature flicking a wrist to hide what she did not want people to see. Drawing attention to the glittering piles of white so that nobody saw the beggar in the corner, the starving child, the scars on the girls in the pleasure houses. A veil thrown over the world to soften its edges. Sleight of hand to replace poverty with beauty. 

But Kaz knew that all the dirt was still there underfoot. The magician’s trick was not quite good enough, or perhaps Kaz was too good for it, too good at seeing through the magic to the mechanism behind it. That first year, the snow brought cold, and cold meant death. The veneer of white concealed a fate to which Kaz refused to succumb. 

He begged and lied and cheated and stole, that first year. He survived that first year. He survived every year, clinging to life, to revenge, to reality, refusing to drift down into the cold white comfort promised by the cold white snow. 

Today’s snow is deeper than expected, and Kaz wonders how many children are wandering the streets as he once did. How many are dying. Dirtyhands wouldn’t care; Inej would. Kaz does not know what he thinks. 

A girl, perhaps twelve at most, decides that the doorway of the Slat would be a good place to beg from. Kaz tells himself that she is good at faking an injured leg to get more sympathy. He tells himself that she seems clever and resourceful. He tells himself that she could be a useful member of the Dregs, one day. When she subtly inserts herself into the Slat itself and settles herself in a corner, he pretends not to notice, and his Dregs follow his lead. He doesn’t know if Inej is rubbing off on him, or if instinct tells him she’ll be useful, or if there is another reason altogether for his actions — but he lets her stay.

She’s still there in the corner when he heads upstairs to his office. The snow has, of course, another effect — his leg aches more than usual, and it’s a relief when he reaches the top of the flight of stairs. Once seated at his desk, he stretches it out under the table, allowing him a moment to massage away the ache; he knows from experience that a long walk without too many stairs would probably be good for it, but he needs to deal with the paperwork that’s accumulated for him to sign. The Dregs have prospered since the Dime Lions’ fall, but the downside is that he has several more properties to worry about. 

He glances out at the cityscape once or twice — his office shows him a panorama of snow-capped rooftops, the familiar view transformed but still fundamentally the same. 

But he’s focusing intently on the accounts for the new gambling den he’s recently opened up when he becomes aware of her presence. 

Kaz looks up, and there she is, perched on the window ledge only feet away from him. Her old spot, and for a moment he wonders if he’s dreamed her up, but there is a sparkle in her eyes that Kaz does not think his subconscious brain could invent. 

Her hair is windblown, a few white flakes scattered amidst the black. She wears a grey tunic with a dark red scarf and gloves; she wears confidence about her shoulders like a cloak. Her cheeks are glowing, and she grins at him when he meets her eyes. 

Kaz smiles. “Welcome to Ketterdam, Captain Ghafa.”

~

Captain Ghafa. Inej has gone by many names, some she hated and some she liked, all of them placing expectations on her shoulders — the lynx, the spider, the Wraith. Captain Ghafa is one she has chosen for herself of her own free will, and she likes it best of all. 

Kaz smiles like he’s a boy again, like he’s only seventeen years old, like he’s not a barrel boss with a reputation to strike fear into the heart of anyone foolish enough to cross him. Inej hasn’t seen that smile often, but she’s as helpless as she’s ever been to prevent her own lips from ticking up in response. 

“Kaz,” she returns. She’s missed him with an unexpected ferocity, in all her months at sea — missed his cleverness, his talent for getting out of any tough situation; missed his scheming face and the quips he trades with her; missed his company most of all, with a deeper ache than she’s cared to admit to herself. 

There’s a moment of silence between them, comfortable silence that doesn’t need to be filled with words. Kaz breaks it first, setting down his pen and leaning back in his chair to look at her, still perched on the windowsill. “What have you been up to?”

Inej takes the invitation for what it is and shuts the window, blocking the cold air out. “Figuring out how to sail a ship. Figuring out how to fight a ship. Figuring out how to track down other ships.” She shrugs. “Killing slavers, which requires a bit less figuring out.” 

“Living the dream, then,” Kaz observes drily. He shifts his leg slightly, and she catches the movement, remembering two winters of watching him limp slightly more than in the summer. He hides it well, of course, but Inej has learnt to be observant from Kaz himself. 

A walk would help him stretch it out, and walking allows for conversation as much as sitting. “Acquired a fair bit of info on the buyers,” she tells him. “Your competitors. I’ll tell you about them, but I’d like to walk around Ketterdam a bit while we’re at it.” 

Kaz raises an eyebrow, and she knows he’s seen her glance down at his leg — he is perfectly aware of what she’s doing. But he doesn’t object. “Gladly,” he says instead, and pushes his chair back to stand up. He doesn’t hide the faint wince on his face, and Inej knows that is an honour she will cherish: to see past the walls he puts up around every weakness, the masks that hide his pain. Kaz lets her through, and it is a gift. 

They walk down the stairs together. Inej does not offer Kaz a hand; she has pushed him enough for today. Instead, she follows Kaz into the Slat proper. 

“Inej!” Anika calls, as soon as Inej comes in sight, and then she’s surrounded by a crowd of Dregs — laughing, asking her how she’s been, congratulating her on the growing reputation she’s gaining. She was worried that they might resent her for leaving, or might see her as a competitor, but they greet her with all the comradeship she built with them over those years in Ketterdam. She hadn’t quite realised how much she missed them until now. 

Kaz stands by, leaning on his cane and watching from the shadows. It’s achingly familiar: Kaz never joined in with the conversations or games or jokes tossed around the Slat, but he always watched, and Inej knew he was secretly pleased when they all got along — and only partially because a more tight-knit gang is a more efficient one. 

Eventually, Inej manages to extricate herself, and walks out the door with Kaz. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rotty open his mouth to wolf-whistle only to be elbowed in the side by Anika; he doubles over in soundless pain. 

Inej smiles, and steps out onto the street. 

~

The streets of Ketterdam are quiet, footsteps muffled by the fallen snow. The cold keeps most of the city in their houses. There are still a few hurrying about on errands, but nobody pays close attention to the two figures walking side-by-side down the street. Kaz is grateful; he isn’t in the mood to get into a fight if a rival gang recognises him. 

His knee still aches, but walking is helping, as he (and Inej) knew it would. His coat is warm enough to keep out the cold, especially with Inej walking at his side. He’s missed her in her absence, more so than his dignity would allow him to admit to anyone but her. Seeing her again is like a breath of fresh air after too long underwater. 

Inej tells him about which slavers she’s gotten rid of and which Barrel bosses she thinks have been buying from them, about the rumours of a buyer with a hideout in the warehouse district, about — in a quieter voice — catching the man who kidnapped her, two and a half years ago. 

Her feet come to a stop; she is not looking at anything around them. “The ship,” she says, quietly. “It was. The same one. That I was—” 

Kaz isn’t good at offering comfort, but Inej’s eyes look far away like she’s been pulled out of her skin, like she’s far away in a ship that brought her torment. “Inej,” he says, but she doesn’t seem to hear him; a shiver races across her skin. 

Touch, Kaz thinks, would help. To ground her. To draw her back to the snowy streets of Ketterdam, and away from where she is now. He doesn’t think he could touch bare skin right now — the cold has brought back memories of cold water and cold skin — but he’s wearing gloves, and so is she. 

“Inej,” Kaz says again, and brushes the back of his hand against hers. 

She shudders faintly, exhaling mist into the cold air, and grabs his hand properly. Her eyes flick over to him, present again in a way they weren’t before. “Kaz.” 

Kaz feels something in him relax at the sound of her voice. A small smile appears on her face; he feels his own lips tick faintly up in response. 

Talking about it, right now, in the open street, is not what she needs. So he returns to their earlier topic of conversation, offering his side of the puzzle that will show her where Captain Ghafa is needed most. 

Thanks to Inej, most of Ketterdam’s pleasure houses have closed down, and Kaz has been ensuring that no new ones open (quietly, because it feels like a crack in the armour that is Dirtyhands, but efficiently all the same). He’s also made a custom of keeping an ear to the ground, listening for rumours of anyone trading in people — whether that be regular indentured slaves, Grisha, or women — and finding out their veracity. 

Now, he tells her what he knows about the trader in the warehouse district, and they fall into planning out their next steps as they have a hundred times before. Except now, Inej isn’t the Wraith, indentured to Per Haskell, Kaz’s subordinate in the Dregs; she is free, and still choosing to walk beside Kaz with their hands still entwined. 

While plotting murder, naturally. But for them, that’s par for the course. 

~

Inej discovers that she’s missed plotting with Kaz. 

He has a tendency to make at least four layers of plans beyond what he actually tells her about, which can be a bit annoying, but she’s missed it nonetheless. Before the Ice Court, she’d bring him secrets and whispers from all over Ketterdam and he’d listen, and ask questions, and take her input on whatever plans he concocted. 

Now it’s — it’s not Kaz concocting plans and Inej bringing him the information he needs; it’s both of them sharing information, then building plans together. Plans that are actually the entire plan, not just the basics that Kaz sees fit to tell her; they are partners in this, equals, in a way that they weren’t before. 

Kaz trusts a very small number of people. Trust itself has been dimmed out of him by cruelty and plague and loss, and the Barrel is not exactly the best place to learn to trust again. Even with the Dregs, she knows that Kaz must always be on the lookout, always aware of the motivations of everyone around him in case those motivations should lead them to betray him. 

He trusts Jesper. Wylan, now, too, Inej thinks. Nina, perhaps; her allegiance to the Ravkan throne is an obstacle, but not an unsurmountable one. Rotty. 

And Inej. Even before the Ice Court, he trusted the information she brought, even relied on it — and today, he shares information with her in equal measure. He tells her what he’s planning, lets her see not only what but how he thinks. Kaz turns life into a series of magic tricks, performances, where he pulls the strings from behind the curtains. Now he’s letting her come backstage with him, and that is a gift. 

(It is also a gift that they’re still holding hands. Kaz hasn’t let go since he drew her from memories of a slave ship she’d rather forget, despite his aversion to touch. Their hands are gloved, yes, but he holds her hand like it’s nothing, like the demons of his past don’t haunt his skin like ghosts. She doesn’t know if they’re absent for once or simply being ignored, but either way, Kaz is choosing to keep holding hands of his own free will.) 

In this part of town — the wealthier, bourgeois district they’ve wandered into — they’re not going to be recognised as Dirtyhands and Captain Ghafa. They could be mistaken for any two sweethearts, wandering the streets despite the cold, speaking sweet nothings in low tones — and although they are not that couple and never could be, on this street, in the snow, they are — similar. 

They are two people broken by the cruelty of the world, two people who have pieced themselves back together into someone different, stronger, than they once were. Two people who have too many jagged edges to fit with anyone unbroken, unscarred; two people who, nevertheless, are walking down Ketterdam’s streets in the snow. 

Snowflakes are still falling, dusting Kaz’s hair with white, the outline of the city paled to something gentler than usual. Their breath ghosts in the air, and Inej is comfortable regardless of the cold, warmed from the inside out by her hand in Kaz’s and his smile when he looks at her. 

Gradually, the conversation shifts from planning to reminiscing, to storytelling. Inej talks about her crew — among them not a few former Dregs — and Kaz reciprocates with updates on how all the current Dregs are doing. 

Their words drift, like snowflakes, and Inej smiles and laughs and is at peace. 

~

Inej is telling a story, and Kaz watches her, drinking up the joy that emanates from her with such ease. She’s dusted with snow, and little curls of hair flutter around her face in the wind. She’s beautiful. 

She is, unquestionably, far too good for anyone so broken and crooked as Kaz. She deserves better than him, but she also deserves whatever she wants. And she has also been quite clear that she wants to spend this time with Kaz, so who is he to deny her?

If she deserves better than what he is now, then he’ll simply have to make himself into someone more worthy of her. 

So Kaz walks by her side and holds her hand and absorbs into himself all the goodness that she gives him freely. She’s brighter now than she ever was as part of the Dregs; this — fighting for what she believes in, fighting for everyone as powerless as she once was — is good for her. (Good for the world, too, most likely, but Kaz is more preoccupied with Inej.) Kaz doesn’t really believe that people have preordained destinies, paths they’re set to follow — but if he did, he’d say Inej is achieving her purpose. 

He doesn’t know what his own destiny might be, but he knows he wants his path to lie close to hers. 

Kaz is a cynical bastard, has been since he swam to shore using his brother’s corpse as a raft. He isn’t good at having faith, at hoping for the best outcome, at believing in a magic trick. 

But Inej laughs, and this is no sleight of hand — it’s more magic than trick, inexplicable and real all at once. There is no curtain to look behind, only truth. Only magic. 

It is fitting that Inej be crowned by snowflakes.

[dcbutinamrev]

You Said You Were Mine, I Thought You Were Mine

This just came to me so I figured I'd write it down before it disappears. But basically this is another Hamilton discovery about Manning and we stand a protective Lafayette-

(Some lines are from Duty and Inclination)

~~~

He's married... Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton hisses to himself with clenched teeth as he sits at the aide-de-camp office late one particular evening, a few days to be exact before his dear Laurens returns from the Southern Campaign. Hamilton blinks his opal, blue eyes rapidly breathing in slowly as he holds his breath. He grits his teeth behind his closed, petal pink lips and clutches onto the letter. Hard enough that it crinkles on the margines and his knuckles turn white, white as snow.

Hamilton shakes his head, reading the words that in her handwriting. Her. Her. He growls low, a low rumble of thunder coming from the back of his throat. His eyes are narrowed as they skim through the letter from her addressed to his dear Laurens. Hamilton's lips twist into a tight scowl and his throat burns as he reads her signature in elegant cursive handwriting:

Your dearest wife,

Martha Manning.

Hamilton is thankful none of the others are currently around him. He recalls Meade having an errand to run, Tilghman and the Marquis de Lafayette in the back of the house with General Washington, and Harrison upstairs in his room to work on his corrospondences in peace. Hamilton trembles, the parchment shaking in his clenched hands before tearing the letter to shreds. With a grunt and a snarl, he rips the parchment to pieces one by one.

Hamilton stares at the crumbled pieces of paper that are in a small pile in front of him, huffing and puffing as he tries to catch his breath. Hamilton lets out a choked sob, as he feels something wet trickle down his freckled cheeks before slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob in hopes it wouldn't cause anyone concern if they were nearby. He wouldn't want to have to explain his situation. He squeezes his eyes shut as he bites his lower, trembling lip and swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath before putting his face in his hands, his elbows digging onto the table. His back shudders with each sob he makes, a choked and strangled sound, a whimper.

He's married...Hamilton thinks again. Of course he would be. Why shouldn't I? God was I really that niave to believe he didn't...? Of course he would be fucking married. Of course! Every man wishes for a wife, I should have expected no less from him...

Hamilton sniffles, blinking his eyes as he lifts his head up from his hands. He remembers the morning the letter was accidentally thrusted into his arms. Was it really just this morning? Hamilton gulps down a few breaths of air, sniffling occasionally and glancing around him, reminding himself of who he is and where he is and his intentions. After he manges to calm himself down, Hamilton scoots back from the table, slumping against the chair as he tips his head back, closing his eyes. He thinks of the days before Laurens left, before he discovered about his wife, before his heart is filled with betrayal. He thinks of the stolen kisses during the night, grimacing at the thought of those same, rough lips and the scrape of the same stubble he loves so much, on that woman's own lips. He thinks of the times he and Laurens would have their romantic evenings: candles lit around their shared bed, Laurens on top of him, shirtless and bare, exposed, revealing those strong muscles Hamilton loved to drum his fingers against, whispering: "Alex...Alex...Alex..."

He remembers clearly Laurens teaching him how to dance after the others had gone to sleep, pushing trunks and chairs and tables back for an open space. Laurens a foot taller than him, rests his larger hand on his waist and with his other hand, intertwining his fingers through Hamilton's slightly smaller hand, stretching their linked hands out to the side while Hamilton rests his hand on Laurens's shoulders, glancing up at the man he thought he loved, at the man who thought loved him, bright blue eyes--blue as the sky on a early spring's morning.

Hamilton grimaces as the thought of that woman crossing his mind, thinking Laurens doing the same for her. Hamilton bites his lip again, shifting himself up into a straighter position in the chair in which he sits in, gripping the edges as he hunches forward. He swallows the lump down his throat, feeling his stomach twists in tight knots. He thinks he might be sick...

"Hamilton?" a voice says, interrupting Hamilton's negative thoughts.

Hamilton glances up to find Richard Kidder Meade finally back from his daily dispatch delieveries. Meade, a man with a strong frame, an inch taller than Hamilton himself, dark brunette wavy hair which is pulled back into a tight braid secured with a black ribbon, his rich chocolate brown eyes are wide, hooked nose, a slight angular, handsome face. Meade stands still at the entranceway, trying to make sense of his surroundings, gripping his black tricorn hat underneath his arm as he slips off his white gloves and tucking them into his buff blue coat pocket. He rushes forward instantly, dropping to his knees to Hamilton's level, shocked at the sight of his hurt friend.

"My God," Meade whispers, gripping Hamilton's shoulder tightly before glancing over his own at the pile of ripped papers before him before turning back towards Hamilton himself. Hamilton, feeling ashamed for some reason though he can't figure out why, ducks his head towards his chest, squeezing his eyes as he wills himself to stay calm. "Alexander...what happened?"

Hamilton shakes his head, refusing to speak. Meade's heart squeezes. He knows something happened, something bad and horrible. Tragic, perhaps? He knows how close Hamilton and Laurens are and perhaps Hamilton have recieved news of Laurens's... No...

"Is it Laurens?" Meade asks softly, calmly.

Hamilton nods shakily, slowly. He keeps his head down, staring at his lap.

Meade swallows. "Is he...?"

Hamilton shakes his head, still refusing to speak.

"He's not dead?" Meade asks.

Hamilton nods, still not meeting Meade's eyes and still refusing to speak.

If Laurens is not dead, Meade thinks, furrowing his brows together. Then what...?

"Why won't you speak to me, Alexander?" Meade whimpers. "Please, I am your dear friend and I care about you...Tell me...I'm worried for you, Alexander. If it's not Laurens...then..."

"It is...it is him..." Hamilton finally whimpers, his voice barely above whisper, tight and choked.

"What about him then? If he's not..."

"You wouldn't understand..." Hamilton sniffs, a stray tear rolling down his cheek.

"Then get me too. Get me to understand! If I can't then find who will," Meade insists, tucking a loose dark red curl behind Hamilton's ear affectionately. "You are like a brother to me, Alexander." At this, Hamilton glances back up at him with a blurried vision. Meade smiles softly. "And I love you as such. And to see you like this...it hurts me..."

Hamilton ducks his chin back towards his chest again, grimacing. Yet, Meade continues.

"It does," he says. "Help me understand, Alex. This isn't like you. I know something happened between you and Laurens. And if it's not because he's dead...then what?"

Hamilton hesiates. He wants to tell Meade about his relationship with Laurens, about his love for him, and about their first kiss, and about their first love together. But yet, Hamilton is frightened at the same time. He trusts Meade with all his heart, and Meade trusts him just the same. But due to society, he fears what Meade will think of him. He fears if Meade will still care for him if he tells him about he and Laurens, he fears Meade will abandon him just like the rest of his family.

"I..." Hamilton chokes, struggling to find the right words. "I can't..." He shakes his head. "I just...I just can't..."

"What was the letter then?" Meade insists. He nods his head, gesturing towards the ripped pieces of parchment piled on top of each other. "What was that about, Alex?"

Hamilton presses his lips together tightly, his deep blue eyes ticking towards the paper and then back to Meade and then back to the paper and then back to Meade again. Hamilton sighs heavily out his mouth, slumping against the chair, his head hanging low in shame.

"It's from his wife," Hamilton finally gives in.

"His wife?" Meade asks. Hamilton glances up at the surprise in Meade's tone of voice. Perhaps Meade hadn't known Laurens was married as well.

Hamilton nods, glancing back at the ripped paper. "Mhm."

"And you're upset about that?" Meade asks.

"Like I said," Hamilton says softly, swallowing the lump of tears that threaten to roll down his cheeks as he turns back to face Meade. "You wouldn't understand."

"It shouldn't be a surprise," Meade says. He gestures towards the papers. "That he has a wife. Shouldn't you be happy for friend's successful matrimony."

Hamilton swallows, licking his lips as he fiddles with the hem of his cuffs. "He hasn't told me..."

A pause.

"He hasn't told me that he's married," Hamilton growls, narrowing his eyes. "If he's married, he would have told me. Why wouldn't he tell me such important information, Kidder? Why?"

Meade just stares at him, unsure how to answer. After a few minutes have passed, Hamilton shakes his head, feeling his lips twist with hatred and betrayal. Meade blinks with wide eyes at the snarl upon Hamilton's face. Hamilton scoots back immediately from his chair, the legs of the chair scratching against the wooden floor. Meade stumbling backwards but luckily catches himself with the edge of the table.

Before Meade could utter a word, Hamilton spins around on his feet sharply and marches towards the stairwell, tears finally escaping down his freckled cheeks as he presses the back of his hand against his lips. Once he reaches out of Meade's line of vision, Hamilton slams his back agaisnt the wooden wall and slides down it.

And never gets back up.

~~~

Hamilton finds himself standing on the front porch the next day, awaiting his dear Laurens' arrival. He curls and uncurls his fists at his side, pressing his lips together tightly as he stares off into the distant woods across the field from him. He swallows hard, shaking his head as he does so, allowing himself a few moments to collect himself.

He straightens up as though he were a puppet and being pulled by a string, his arms stiff as he clasps them behind his back and he inclines his head slightly with his eyebrows high as he hears familiar hooves clopping against the grassy field. Hamilton blinks a couple more times, letting the very few tears that slip down his freckeld cheek just before Laurens comes into view.

Hamilton puffs out a breath of relief, forcing a small, tight smile to form on his face. He feels his eye twitch when he sees Laurens galloping towards him, bobbing up and down on the beautiful Carmillo white horse, gripping the reigns tightly and occassionally snapping them to urge the horse to go faster. As he nears the house, Laurens swings himself off the horse as its still galloping and hands the reigns to a nearby servant.

Laurens stands just at the bottom of the frosted white porch steps, gripping the rail. He smiles softly as he tips his head back to meet Hamilton's beautiful, breathtaking deep blue eyes and lowers the black tricorn hat from his head and tucking it underneath his arm. He slowly climbs himself up the steps.

"Hamilton..." Laurens says softly, his face relaxing instantly with releif at the sight of his dear boy still safe and out of harm's way.

They now stand chest to chest, nearly. It's now Hamilton's turn to tip his head back to meet Laurens's eyes as Laurens looks down at him.

"Laurens," Hamilton says as steadily as he can. Though, he cannot help but hear the low growl coming behind his clenched teeth. He blinks his eyes as he speaks.

"You look well," Laurens comments, scanning Hamilton up and down.

Hamilton swallows as he nods in return. "You as well."

Laurens gestures towards the house behind them. "Might you give me...a...a tour?"

Hamilton glances over his shoulder before back and Laurens, nodding once sternly.

"Right. Of course."

Hamilton turns swiftly, the flaps of his coat flapping behind him with a whoosh and smacking the back of his thighs. Laurens sighs, instantly knowing Hamilton's frustration.

"Here we have the parlor," Hamilton says, gesturing towards a settee and a fireplace on their left. "And our current office." He then gestures towards a large, rectangular wooden table in the middle of the dining room with seven chairs surrounding them, a few candles lit along with opened and closed ink pots and parchment sprawled out around the table. Laurens brows furrows when he notices a small pile of ripped pieces of parchment.

"Upstairs, we have our shared bedrooms and you will be--" Hamilton begins but Laurens cuts him off, catching his elbow before he could climb the steps.

"Alexander," Laurens says sharply. Hamilton tenses as he stills, his one foot on one step. "I know exactly what you ask of me."

Hamilton arches an eyebrow, his eye twitching. "Ask? Ask?" Hamilton whips his head sharply over his shoulder. "Why should I have the need to ask anything when I should have been told!"

"Hamilton, please..." Laurens whimpers.

Hamilton shakes his head, yanking his elbow away from Laurens' grasp and marching up the steps. Fuming.

"Alexander, I understand what you have learned in my absence."

"Yes," Hamilton hisses as he swings a bedroom door open. "I have learned the value of correspondence and how revealing or not it may be."

"You say so, but I believe that is just the crux of it," Laurens says as he fumbles over his own boots as he climbs his way up the stairs, trying to keep pace with Hamilton, hoping he could reach the hurt redheaded boy before the door slams on him. "I am convinced many of my letters to you were miscarried or obstructed and you may not have recieved the whole of my feelings while apart--"

"Oh?" Hamilton says, poking his head through the cracked open doorframe, one hand gripping the doorframe while the other presses against the wall. He arches both eyebrows high. "Did a letter never recieved contain a certain detailed explanation as to the truth of your matrimony?"

Silence.

Laurens clicks his half-opened mouth shut and swallows hard as he narrows his eyes down towards his dear boy.

"That's what I thought," Hamilton hisses. "Now, if you'd excuse me. It's beginning to get late and I am very exhausted so if you please."

Laurens goes to protest but Hamilton slams the door in front of his face before Laurens could utter a word.

"Ah, Monsiure Laurens!" a familiar French accented voice comes from behind Laurens, a voice he knows all too well.

Laurens tenses, looking frantic almost as he knows how close Hamilton and the Marquis de Lafayette are. They seem to be almost like actual siblings than rather just part of a military family.

"You are back!" Lafayette exclaims as he pulls Laurens into a tight embrace.

"Yes," Laurens huffs. "Yes, that I am. It is uh...it's very good to see you again Marquis."

"You as well," Lafayette says. He frowns and furrows his brows. "Where is Alexander? I'd figured he'd be out here to greet you and welcome you home."

Laurens grimaces and swallows, scratching the back of his neck as he shoves a hand into his coat pocket. "Um...he's uh...he's..."

Lafayette arches both eyebrows high.

"Uh...he's um..." Laurens swallows again and gestures his head towards the door. "He's in there. I um...I tried to get him out...but he won't...uh...come out so I thought maybe you could...knowing how close you two are..."

Lafayette nods slowly in understanding before gently twisting the silver doorknob and pushing the door open, poking his head through the sliver crack, a worried expression on his baby-ish face.

"Mon petit lion?" Lafayette says softly. "Are you in here? Do you mind if I come in?"

Lafayette's heart cracks instantly as he steps through after another moment of silence has passed. He sees Hamilton crouched by the fireplace on his knees, hunched over slightly with a stack of letters nearby. Hamilton's dark red hair loose from its tight braid, falling over his shoulders beautifully. Lafayette pinches his lips at the sight before him, seeing Hamilton only wearing his white, linen hunting shirt, the sleeves loose and baggy and his cuffs ruffled and a waistcoat and breeches. No stockings or boots or coat. Just that.

Lafayette has never seen Hamilton looking so broken.

He rushes towards the redheaded boy instantly, looping his arm around Hamilton tightly. "Mon ami...what...what happened?"

"Laurens happened..." Hamilton mumbles in a monotone voice, staring blankly at the fire crackling before him.

Laurens tenses at the entranceway to the room when he feels Lafayette's eyes on him. Lafayette shrugs it off momentarily before turning back towards his broken friend.

"What about him, mon ami?" Lafayette asks softly, stroking Hamilton's tangled dark red curls soothingly.

Hamilton lets out a shuddering breath. "He hurt me..."

Lafayette tenses, breathing in slowly through his nose. He grips Hamilton's shoulders tightly as he slowly cranes his neck over towards Laurens just as soon as Laurens takes several steps back.

"Oh?" Lafayette says.

Hamilton nods as he leans against Lafayette's chest, tossing a letter absentmindedly into the fire before him.

"How...how did he hurt you, Alexander?" Lafayette says.

Hamilton swallows. "He lied to me."

Lafayette raises both eyebrows higher than before as Laurens takes more steps back. Hamilton continues.

"Lied to me for...for...for..." Hamilton chokes. "For nearly a year..."

"Do not speak, mon ami," Lafayette shushes. "I know everything now."

"Gilbert...you do not understand..." Hamilton whimpers into the Marquis's chest. He sniffs and blinks his eyes as he lifts his head from his chest and his eyes lock with Laurens' bright blue ones. Hamilton snarls. "You said you were mine...I thought you were mine..."

"Alexander...you know...I am sorry..." Laurens tries. "I truly am...you know this...you know..." Laurens lets out a shuddering breath. "My heart only cares for you and you alone. I have no intentions towards her. I do not love her. She was a mistake."

"Was your daughter a mistake then?!" Hamilton hisses, tears staining his cheeks. His chin wobbles. "Was I a mistake?!"

Silence.

"If you love me, John, you would have told me you were married instead you lied to me. You lied to me for a fucking year. I had to learn of your matrimony due to a letter accidentally thrusted into my arms!"

"Alex..." Laurens whimpers.

"You and your...your destiny for glory...you and your words...obsessed with your duty."

Laurens tries to reach forword but Hamilton shuts him off. "Alex...please..."

"Don't take another step in my direction!" Hamilton snaps. "I can't be trusted around you! Don't think you can talk your way into my arms!"

Hamilton releases his grip on Lafayette and crawls over to the pile of letters Laurens had written him during their months apart and clutches onto one, holding it dangerously close to the bright orange and yellow flames. Laurens' eyes widen.

"I'm burning the letters you wrote me. You can stand over there if you want. I don't know who you are. I have so much to learn..." Hamilton whispers, tossing the letter into the fire. Hamilton lets out a final choked sob and a final glance towards Laurens before burying his face into Lafayette's chest, unable to hold it in for any longer.

"Get out," Lafayette growls, clutching Hamilton tightly.

Laurens, looking at the two pleadingly, opens his mouth to protest or to explain, Lafayette couldn't care less.

"I said 'Get. Out.'," Lafayette hisses.

Laurens clicks his mouth shut and nods once before the door clicks closed behind. Lafayette puffs out a breath of relief and rests his cheek on top of Hamilton's russet curls, soothing him.

"Laurens?" Lafayette calls suddenly as soon as Hamilton's sobs begin to die down into soft sniffles and he's dozing off.

Laurens opens the door immediately. "Yes?"

Lafayette snarls, a twisted scowl onto his face. Laurens gulps as Lafayette hisses:

"Congratulations."

[bloodtroth]

Not sure if Tumblr ate my ask just then - something funky happened with the page but I'm relatively new to the fandom and just wanted to say I'm a big fan of all your stuff! If you're still taking prompts, a role reversal AU where Ariana never dies, Gellert is the one to eventually realise they've gone too far and has to stop Albus?

Hello, anon, if you are still there since you left this ask for me like aeons ago. But thank you for the challenge, this was certainly interesting to write because while it's obviously an AU, I still wanted to stay somewhat true to my understanding of these characters, so 1) I had to make Gellert give a fuck about them going too far since IMO he's borderline if not fully sociopathic and only gives even a remote fuck about Albus and no one else 2) I had to make Albus be the one who goes too far while still retaining some of his core character which pretty much meant breaking him. Also, I don’t know if this fills the prompt 100% but hope you’ll like it anyway. I'm also terribly rusty, but alas. And that's how this fic came about:

1945

Gellert opened his eyes. It took him a moment to remember his name, blinking against the blinding pain that the sliver of light caused him. He was lying on the ground, a sharp pain throbbing at the crown of his skull. As he tried raising his head, the pain intensified. He closed his eyes, swallowing down the taste of sick at the back of his throat. Rising to his hands and knees, he took a moment just to breathe, willing the pain to settle. When he no longer felt as if he would vomit as soon as he moved, he opened his eyes again.

He could hardly see. The sky was full of ash, grey flakes of it raining down on him, like snow. He could feel it in his hair, taste it on his lips, which were dry and cracked. As he looked down, he could see his clothes were coated with it as well, the black velvet turned dirty grey. He could not see his wand.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what had happened. Aurors engaging them. Muggle war machines. Screaming. Screaming everywhere. Screams of hatred, of pain. Albus, brilliant, his greying hair flowing in the wind. His eyes- the rage in them. A whistle of a bomb being dropped. A brilliant flash. And nothing.

Albus. He needed to find Albus.

As he stood, his body was wracked with a cough and his head felt as if it would split in the middle. Swallowing, he breathed through the urge to vomit.

Finally upright, Gellert swept sweaty hair from his forehead. His hand came away sticky red. The pain hit him in waves. He could feel it starting at the top of his head, throbbing through his skull. A sharper pain just at his hairline. Searching with his fingers, he could feel a deep cut. Gathering his strength, he tried to heal it, but his head gave a sharp throb in protest like someone had stabbed it. He swallowed the urge to vomit again. Lowering his hand, he decided that he could deal with it later.

Taking a step forward, he tried to see through the falling ash.

Slowly, his surroundings took shape. He was still at the village square where the confrontation had taken place. The buildings were nearly gone. What remained were the bare bones of them, piles of wood and brick, where homes and shops had once stood. The ground was a mess as well, broken bricks, metal, an occasional mess of fabric, and pieces of wood sticking from the ground like the legs of some enormous insects. To Gellert’s relief, he spotted his wand among the chaos. It had flown from his hand and was now sticking out from beneath a concrete block a short distance away. With shaking feet, he made his way among the wreckage, wincing at the throbbing pain the movement caused in his head. Occasionally, he had to step over a body. He recognised some of them. Aurors, his acolytes. Some he did not.

When he got to his wand, he bend down to pick it up. As he did so, he saw a hand sticking out from beneath the block. Gellert would have thought nothing of it, except for the tattoo on the slender wrist. With a sudden burst of strength, he flung his hand, and the concrete lifted away and impacted against a wrecked house to his left with a thunderous crash. His head gave a punishing throb, but he ignored it, dropping down on his knees next to the body. Turning it, he was met with the face of a woman. Half of it had given in by the force of some impact. But one of the green eyes was still visible, the black hair, the elegant lips painted red. Vinda. A stab of regret filled him. She had been useful. Reliable. She had stayed with them for a long time now, decades.

Gently, gentler than he thought himself capable of, Gellert closed her eyes.

He rose again. If Vinda was here, Albus should also be somewhere nearby.

Gellert turned in a circle, seeing nothing. No-one. No one living that is. Corpses of muggle soldiers littered the ground between the debris. Aurors. Their followers. But nowhere did he see, to his relief, a body with auburn hair and purple flowing robes. But the dust still inhibited his vision. Albus could have been flung farther away by the force of whatever had impacted them.

"Albus!" Gellert called, his voice raspy from the smoke.

There was no answer.

Picking a random direction, Gellert started to track through the remains of the village. Some paths had been blocked completely by fallen debris. As he walked, he became aware of how quiet it was. There was no screaming. No sound of gunfire or muggle war machines, either in the sky or the ground. There were no shouted spells. No healers shouting instructions. No sound of dying men. The only sound was the crackling of a fire and the crunch of debris under Gellert's feet. It was unnerving. It was as if the whole world had ceased to exist but for him.

Once he finally got past the houses and came upon the field where the battle had raged, he could see that it was the same here as well. The only people he could see were corpses. What exactly had happened? Was this some new Muggle weapon? But why would they have dropped it on their own forces? And why would he be the only one seemingly alive? Beyond the village, the dust did not fall so heavily any longer. He could see properly again. The sun was coming down, casting the world in shades of orange. And there, beside a shallow hole dug into the ground, stood a man in flowing purple robes.

"Albus!" Gellert called, relief filling him. Not the only person then. Speeding his steps, Gellert soon reached him.

Albus had not turned around at the sound of his voice. Instead, he was staring at the grave, for Gellert could now see that that's what it was, with a distant expression. Gellert glanced down. Children, it would seem. He waited. Albus had always tended towards sentimentality when it came to children.

It felt as if a long time had passed when Albus finally opened his mouth, "I do not know how it still surprises me. The endless capacity for cruelty that exists within each living person," he said, his voice cool, as if was merely observing the weather. It was what he tended to do when he felt the need to distance himself from his emotions.

"The Muggles are barbarians. We know that. It's why they need our guidance," Gellert shrugged dismissively.

Albus shook his head. "I could not take it any longer."

It took a minute for Gellert to understand his meaning. Once he did, he felt a dizzy sort of awe. (And fear. He knew Albus was strong. Stronger perhaps than any wizard that had ever lived. But this- this went beyond even their wildest imaginations)

"You did this?" he asked, indicating the devastation around them.

"They are vermin," Albus said, his voice cold and angry, "Look at this. All this suffering. All this cruelty. How they hurt each other. Invent new ways to kill, to maim, to destroy. Poisoning the earth. The sky." Gellert went to nod his agreement, but Albus continued, "But wizards are no better. We like to think we are. But no. We aren't. Hypocrites and fools. Non-humans are bad. Love that does not meet the norm is bad. Men like us are bad!"

A new idea rose to his mind, a terrifying, staggering thought. Gellert thought of Vinda, the rest of their followers, lying in the rubble. The Aurors. The bones of the village. A silence where war had raged. He had thought that Albus might have lost control, done more damage than he intended in his anger. But perhaps-

"So you did this on purpose? " Gellert asked, soft as if Albus was an animal he did not wish to spook.

Albus did not answer, his eyes still trained towards the grave.

The fear Gellert pretended not to feel rose in him again. He thought of the wound on his head, still bleeding shallowly. "I assume our pact is the only reason I am still breathing."

Ignoring him, Albus said, still measured, still cold, "I feel as if we made a mistake when we assumed that we could subjugate them. It is not in the nature of humans to be subjugated, even Muggles’. Even if we did achieve it, there would still be wizards to deal with. There will always be resistance. And not just because of what we have done, but because of who we are. Wizards are men. And men are small-minded. It might have been Muggles that made Ariana as she was, but Wizards were the reason we hid her. Cruelty is innate to our nature. If we wish to stop it, for certain, all of them need to go, Gellert. All of them,” there was a heaviness to his words, and his shoulders slumped as if pressed down, finally, by the weight of the world he always carried. As long as he had known him, Albus had felt that all the ills of the world, all that was ugly, was for him to fix. Gellert could see the cracks now. How their quest must have been wearing him down, along with the war in all its ugly reality. He wasn’t certain how much of what Albus was saying he meant. Perhaps he had just finally cracked from all the weight he bore.

Gellert reached for him, wanting to keep him here, not drowning beneath sorrow that was not for him to bear. He wrapped his hand around Albus’ wrist. It felt warm under his touch. Alive. The only thing alive there was. The only thing that had ever mattered. He slid his fingers down, catching Albus’s own. Albus was still looking at the grave, but he tightened his fingers. Perhaps he felt the same; that he needed something to ground him before he would slip away.

Albus turned their hands, displaying the ring on his finger, its black stone prominent against the paleness of his skin. “Then it'll be just the two of us. Masters of death,” he murmured, gazing down at their intertwined fingers.

Gellert couldn't deny that the image tempted him. The two of them, more powerful than anyone could imagine, together without judgement. But his mind went back to his vision, one of the first he had ever had. A Muggle scientist, his eyes dead, uttering, Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. "All of them- certainly you don't mean all of our kind as well?"

Albus closed his eyes. For a moment, Gellert thought he would backtrack. "All of them, Gellert," he said, his voice no longer cold, but regretful, sad, "If we leave any, it will just start again. The endless cycle of suffering and violence. Think of it,” Albus said, and Gellert wondered which of them he was trying to convince, “No more hurting. No more cruelty. No more hatred. It will be mercy."

Gellert thought that this had gone on long enough, "But certainly, there are other options- our guidance- "

Albus shook his head, sharply.

"Albus- "

"Will you turn against me as well?” he said, but his words sounded tired, not accusing.

"I would never- "

"I loved my brother, but now he is dead at my hands,” he said, his voice cracking and the tears Gellert had sensed him holding in finally breaking free, “He would not stop resisting. He would not stop fighting us. He could not see what we were trying to achieve, how we were just trying to help. And I killed him. And now I cannot help but wonder if he was right. Do not tell me you could not hurt me. You could, and you will. Humans cannot love without hurting each other. Every happy moment will be accompanied by the knowledge that the pain will come again. And that hurt will always become greater. Always lead to more terrible acts.”

Albus paused, his breathing shallow and hard as if it hurt him. He looked down on his hands, their elegant fingers, and flexed them. "Aurelius too. And Ariana. They are dead as well. Dead because of our cause. Dead by our hands. Our hands, Gellert! I do not think the blood will ever come clean. I do not think this pain will ever end," he said, weeping openly.

Gellert took a step towards him and dragged him against his chest. He could not ever bear Albus' tears, even if others' were meaningless to him. Albus grasped at Gellert's coat with desperate hands, burying his head in Gellert's shoulder. Albus was holding his wand in his other hand, the hard length of it pressing against Gellert’s coat.

As he felt him weep, Gellert remembered him as he was when they had first met. Ambitious. Resentful. Angry. But kind. And gentle. Only necessary force, Gellert. What had happened to that boy? What had years made of him? What had Gellert made of him? His tears shook them both, so powerful his grief. It felt as if he was coming apart. Gellert's heart squeezed painfully.

"I want it to end. I want it all to end. No more suffering. No more," Albus whispered, his voice cracking and shaking. It was coming apart too.

Gellert caressed the back of his head, holding him close. He looked around him, at the destruction. The smell of iron and the burning of wood and flesh was strong. You would have expected to hear screams, sobs, a sign of life, however minuscule. But there was only Albus' cries, the crackling of the fire. The beat of their hearts. They were alone. Vinda's crushed head flashed through his mind again. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. And to his shock, for the first time in years, he could feel the burning sensation of tears in his eyes.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his face against Albus' hair.

"I know," he whispered. Gellert pressed a lingering kiss against Albus' hair, tasting the dust in it. "I know,” he whispered, tugging the wand in Albus' hand away.

[lovelivresse]

A non-exhaustive list of reasons why Baz needs therapy

those are only the examples I could think of when I wrote this, there are probably other things

That boy is suicidal or “I don’t have a death wish” my ass or RAINBOW PLS ADDRESS THIS 

“Stake through the heart?” he asked, falling back into the corner and resting an arm on a pile of skulls. “Beheading, perhaps? That only works if you keep my head separate from my body, and even then I could still walk; my body won’t stop until it finds my head.… Better go with fire, Snow, it’s the only solution.” (Carry On, Chapter 17) Baz… Baby… You know too much about how to kill a vampire. Also, talking about the boy he loves killing him, and genuinely believing that the boy he loves would kill him… not cool

“She would have killed me.

She would have faced me, what I am, and done what was right.” 

and “He will … Finish me.

Snow will do the right thing.” (Carry On, Chapter 40) He thinks of him dying as something that’s “right” TWICE, and also the whole being killed by loved ones thing… Baz you need a hug

[about the fire] “This is what I deserve” (Carry On, Chapter 60) NO IT’S NOT 

“I could hear him singing, even after I’d been walking for ten minutes. “Ashes, ashes—we all fall down.” (Carry On, Chapter 17) This one doesn’t really count, it just hurts my feelings that the part of the song Baz is singing that is highlighted is the one about ASHES. 

So in conclusion, after his LITERAL SUICIDE ATTEMPT it’s never addressed again that he has some serious suicidal tendencies. He says he doesn’t have a death wish and that’s all, it’s completely overlooked after that when CLEARLY, he HAS a death wish.

Fucked up things that seem to have impacted him the most or you think that Fiona is a better parental figure for Baz than Malcom but she isn’t really, Baz is just biased

“I know fuck-all about vampires. It’s not like I got an instruction pamphlet when I was bitten.” (Carry On, Chapter 30) A BIG part of who he is is completely unknown to him. As seen before, what he knows best about vampires is how to kill them. On top of that, even the things he thinks are true about vampires aren’t necessarily (Lamb can bite a human without killing or turning them) and he gets mixed signals (Nicodemus seems to age normally while Lamb is something like hundreds of years old and he still looks like he’s in his thirties)

“I don’t think my father ever would have mentioned it, even if he’d caught me draining the maid [...] Though he’d much prefer to catch me disrobing the maid.… (Definitely more disappointed in my queerness than my undeadness.)” (Carry On, Chapter 40) Malcolm’s complete lack of acknowledgement of Baz’s vampirism + Baz thinking that his sexuality is even a bigger deal to his father than his vampirism. He has those two things that are both parts of his identity that he didn’t choose and that are both considered to be something bad by his father, that CAN’T be easy and it definitely caused him a lot of shame and self-hatred. We have the point of view of 18-year-old Baz, I’m not sure he would be nearly as okay with his sexuality as he is if we were in the head of the Baz who just came out/thinks of coming out to his father

“My father never acknowledges that I’m a vampire—besides my flammability—and I know he’ll never send me away because of it.

But my mother?

She would have killed me.

She would have faced me, what I am, and done what was right.” (Carry On, Chapter 40) Once again, Malcolm’s complete lack of acknowledgement of Baz’s vampirism + the fact that Baz thinks his mother would have KILLED HIM if she knew he was a vampire. 

“He swings his wand and practically howls, spraying fire all around us. “This is what my mother would want for me, you idiot. [...] “My mother died killing vampires,” he says. “And when they bit her, she killed herself. It’s the last thing she did. If she knew what I am … She would never have let me live.” (Carry On, Chapter 60) Natasha wanting him dead because of his vampirism is something that’s mentioned again after chapter 40, here in chapter 60, which shows that 1) the opinion his mother would have of him really matters to him 2) he believes this opinion would have been VERY negative 3) he doesn’t even CONSIDER the option that his mother might have loved him enough to accept that he had been turned

“My father still isn’t ready to admit I have a boyfriend, and it would be too exhausting, living in a place where I have to pretend I’m not a vampire or hopelessly queer.” (Carry On, Epilogue) Malcolm please stop ignoring most of who your son is I’m begging you

I also wanted to say a few words about Fiona because I feel like in general we (as in, the fandom) really see Malcolm’s bad behavior towards Baz but not Fiona’s, while she’s also far from perfect. She saved him from the Numpties, that’s a good thing, that’s what we see, but look : “She berated me all the way home, and all the way back to Watford. She made me sit in the back seat of her MG. (A ’67. Glorious.) “The front seat is for people who’ve never been kidnapped by bloody numpties. Jesus Christ, Baz.” 

The front seat thing is a joke now but when you really think about it and when you focus on that whole paragraph and not just Fiona’s words, this is the situation that is presented : Baz just spent 6 WEEKS locked in a coffin, starved, not knowing what would happen to him, and instead of, I don’t know, TRYING TO COMFORT HIM, his aunt “berates” him, as if he was the one to blame in this situation. Jesus Christ, Fiona, give the boy a hug and ask him if he’s okay instead. 

And then there’s this : “Then the Coven made her a vampire hunter” (Carry On, Epilogue) That part would have fit better in the 3rd category but since I’m talking about Fiona let’s put it here. SHE LITERALLY KILLS VAMPIRES AS A JOB. I love Fiona but it makes me so angry whenever I think about it. I don’t know, I feel like a NORMAL PERSON wouldn’t become a VAMPIRE HUNTER when their nephew IS A VAMPIRE. That must fuck Baz up so bad that she does that, even if he doesn’t even realize it himself, and I hate that the impact of Fiona killing vampires for a living on Baz isn’t tackled at all.

So in conclusion, Baz thinks that is father is disappointed in him for existing, basically, he thinks that his mother would have wanted him dead AND KILLED HIM for what he is, and then there’s Fiona

Other fucked up things that are just barely mentioned or RAINBOW PLS ADDRESS THIS part 2

“He slipped a flask out of his jacket and took a swig. I didn’t know that he’d been drinking” (Carry On, Chapter 17) Baz was drinking. Was it a one time thing? Did Simon somehow catch him the ONE time he got drunk in the Catacombs? If it was not the first time he went there and got drunk, did he have a problem with alcohol in fifth year? I NEED ANSWERS 

“Of course I’ve read Anne Rice. I was a 15-year-old closet case whose parents pretended they didn’t notice when the family dog disappeared” (Wayward Son, Chapter 22) Once again, his family doing a poor job when it comes to handling his vampirism but we've been over this. INSTEAD CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT HE FED ON HIS DOG, AN ANIMAL THAT HE VERY PROBABLY LOVED, BUT THE BLOODTHIRST WAS JUST TOO STRONG TO RESIST???????? It must have been so difficult and traumatizing for him, and it’s just dropped like that in the story like it’s nothing while I’m over here crying about it

[twitchesandstitches]

Birth of a New City

(Commission for @alt-hammer of an AU we’ve worked on together, of a fantasy-themed Homestuck AU where the main characters are the descendants of noble families following a long and perpetual conflict. This comm concerns the establishing of a city by the Megidos as Kankri journeys to be with his lady-love Damara, prior to her accidentally getting ahold of an artifact that stuffs her with ghosts that make her super pregnant and her boobs absolutely massive!)

------

Into the furthest lands of the north, at the limits of the lands the trolls called home, there came a line of caravans bringing people. There wasn’t exactly a road for them to follow; they had to settle for a slightly deeper trail flattened beneath them, rolling onwards by the first arrivals, who had engineered a special tool to the rears of their own caravans, digging out the ground behind them so that in their wake, they left a trail to follow for the second wave of caravans.

These caravans were massive freight carriers, and designed for the environmental peculiarities of their destination. It was always cold in the north, and they had taken considerations for the weather. Up here, it was usually some variety of wet, and at best it made for a gloomy atmosphere. In the spring, it rained. In the summer, it rained more. Autumn and winter would come, and then it would snow. Now, it was snowing, despite it being summer, but unpredictable weather was unfortunately a consequence of heavy magical activity, and this land was drenched in it.

Snow spilled off the scalloped, upwards curved of the caravan’s tops, leaving little piles by the side of their road as they traveled onwards. And inside, the people who had come (mostly from the lakeside lands of the newborn Vantas dynasty, Inside, they were lined with thick blankets and massive furs donated from the hunting guilds of the Leijons to the eastern lands, so they were quite warm even as the threatening chill of this place made people very nervous.

It was a basic rule of exploring new lands; you got the hell where you were going before winter happened. That it should be snowing, even in summer, was making the experienced caravaneers edgy. Fortunately, they were simply following the steps that had been laid before them, bringing badly needed supplies to finish the job.

And at the front, in a caravan the same as any other, there was an opening to look out through. And peeking out of it was a troll. He was short for a troll, nearly human-sized (though not as much as his younger brother), swaddled in the pale greys that had once hidden their blood from prying eyes. Thick furs, pale white and spotted in random patterns, adorned most of his visible body beneath it: furs for the cold, and a cloak for the wind. It was how they would likely remain dressed here, for the foreseeable future.

And he had enough time to reflect. He thought that he looked very much like his father, wearing old grey robes and swaddled in the furs harvested by Leijon claws. It troubled him.

His name was Kankri Vantas. And as it turned out, he was not exactly small. He was not as large as an ordinary troll, who tended to be among the biggest of the known thinking species. He was… compressed, as if someone had taken a troll and squeezed him up, but maintained the usual proportions into a package that seemed to emanate a frenetic energy bottled up with great difficulty. His horns were short and nubby like the closed claws of the great crab guardians that protected the lakes of his homeland, and to trolls, this combined with his body shape to suggest someone who spent a lot of time in libraries. Really old libraries. Something of the dusty, academic dryness seemed to have settled in him.

Now he marked his spot on his book, put it down, and looked out onto the road. He gazed upon a landscape that would be someone’s home soon enough.

From here, as they crested a high hill crowned by a last outcropping of forests, Kankri could see the north spread out beyond them. Frosty mires bubbled faintly, kept warm by the mysterious organic processes of a bygone era still operating on automatic to make a somewhat unconventional hot spring, and there were about four or so of them visible from here. They made a warm mist, rising into the snowfall to make the snow melt just enough to fall as a strange rain into the snow.

As a consequence of that, they had been trudging through a kind of slush for the last few nights. Their caravan was designed for this sort of thing, and the weather had been anticipated even if things this far north were totally unknown to trollkind. Even humans, who had their reasons to try to live anywhere that didn’t instantly kill them, had avoided this landscape.

It was a place of death, old superstitions said. There were such places known to scholars of magical lore; Kankri had read their works well in preparation for his apparent task to observe the world and determine a way to repair the damage made by their forebears. He knew that any strong emotion or action could leave a mark in the world, influencing the flow of magic by shifting its aspect.

If a place saw a happy family, for many generations, that place would become kinder and happier; just look at the Hoard Keep of the Pyropes, that ancient fortress in the mountains. Their predecessors had always been brutal and vicious, but dragons were loyal to one another, and they cherished duty to their own above anything else. Serene feelings of safety and joy lived in the stone, and had a tendency to leak out everywhere else.

Kankri thought of the wars that had torn the land apart. Ages and ages of almost ceaseless conflict, and his fangs bared at the thought of such… stupid wastefulness. He amended the thought to ‘careless’ wastefulness. People dying, human and troll and other beings, over and over, and for what? The same ridiculous rhetoric; some purplebloods declaring themselves superior or declaring bloody war in the name of their capricious, serpentine gods. Or humans fighting back and becoming consumed with pride, hatred; declaring that this war of total destruction was justified by atrocities almost as bad as what they were going to do…

Blood had soaked the ground more thoroughly than the rain up here could possibly try to do. Troll, human, or something else: it didn’t matter. Blood was life energy, blood represented ties to other beings both positive and malicious, and blood shaped the world, as it shaped the bonds between others. Blood in every color of the troll rainbow and human red drenched the world, with its hate and sorrow and loss, and now, the land was scarred.

He wondered if this territory was one of those places. It didn’t feel like it had seen so much death and horror that it had become some sort of inverse holy place, sanctified to the worst in sapient life. He’d been to those places, and he didn’t like thinking about the things he’d seen even when he shut his eyes, his magical senses treacherously open to the horrors replaying themselves in the astral realms forever and ever.

Here, it just rained. The air was thick with magic, and it tasted of something… distinctive. It didn’t feel bad. It did not have any associations with the true cruelties that made their work so very difficult elsewhere, and it didn’t make him remember horrible memories that weren’t his own. (Being in tune with magic, and the living memories that shaped it, could really suck sometimes.)

It felt like death. That was the bit that Kankri was having some trouble figuring out, and apparently so were his companions.

“Figures Ara and her family decided to settle out there.” The voice had a curious buzzing quality, as if a multitude of voices were backing up the speaker’s words. Kankri turned aside and acknowledged the speaker.

“I hope you are not impugning the Megido family, Sollux,” Kankri said, rather stiffly.

The speaker snorted, hanging off a supporting rafter like some kind of morose spider; his limbs were long and gangly, and his claws were surprisingly suited to hanging onto things, given that they had apparently been carefully filed down to serve as pseudo-pens. Given that he did a lot of time inscribing things, that made some sense. The rest of his body was on the lean side, perhaps the powerful magic coursing in his body running him so hot that any excess mass just burned away into the aether.

This other troll replied, “The Megidos have never been pugned a day in their lives and you goddamn know it.”

The speaker was Sollux Captor, scion of an ancient house of mages who had endured the long ages in their hives to the west, and Kankri had read that the power of the goldbloods ran particularly vibrant in his family. He didn’t doubt it; Sollux had a nervous energy like his body was stuffed with lightning, constantly itching to find an avenue loose, and even his horns (two pairs of them; not uncommon in golds, but their length and size certainly was) radiated a faint glow.

Troll horns acted as a… release, as Kankri understood it. There were some machines that needed to continually vent off heat or magical energies to prevent breaking down or structural problems, and trolls were much the same. They generated magical energy in ways that humans or the other magical beings did not, and it fueled many of the instinctive abilities that came to them; the psionic powers of the hot-blooded lines, the immense physical power of the cooler-blooded, and the many variants thereof. Horns, Kankri supposed, bled off some of that excess energy.

Without him realizing it, Kankri self-consciously put a hand to his own stubby horns. He scratched at a velvety peel his last trip to the manicurist hadn't gotten. A faint crackle of magic moved, and though he honestly wasn't sure if the old power moved in him, he felt the presence of something familiar.

He looked out towards the trail again. His expression grew solemn. "We are almost there."

"Make it sound more ominous," Sollux grumbled. "You sound like a spooky assistant to a creepy necromancer dragging up victims to the master."

Kankri sniffed. “Pardon me, then. We are absolutely not any such thing.”

“It’s a joke, Kanker-sore.”

Kankri ignored the… insult? Nickname? Who even knew, with Sollux; he was notoriously abrasive, even by the standards of a species that regarded biting and clawing down to the bone as polite discourse. He simply continued speaking (which was just what Kankri always did, if you believed the people who disliked him personally). “We are spooky assistants who perform ethical tasks for our cinnamon-blood masterminds.”

There was a long pause as the caravans rattled across the land. Gradually, something new came into view upon the horizon; an irregularity, breaking apart from the distant view of mountains and ancient forests that dotted the land like the tombstones of randomized cemeteries. This new sight looked… made, though ancient all the same. It was too far for them to make it out clearly, but there was no doubt that the trail they followed was winding through the landscape directly to it.

Sollux recovered his faculties and said, partly disbelieving and partly in grudging admiration, “Did you just make a joke?”

“The important point,” Kankri said, with as much grave pomp and gravitas as he could manage, which was quite a lot, “Is that no matter who you tell, no one will ever believe you.”

“You total bastard,” Sollux said softly, the admiration a lot less grudging now. “Didn’t think you had a talent for… trolling.”

“Father may have passed on a few things.” Kankri shifted awkwardly. He didn’t actually talk much about his father. Their relationship was good, all things considered, but it was a terrible thing to live in the shadow of the Signless Sufferer, the paradox troll; a mutant with the powers of the color-line he originated from, a messiah of peace who had started the most bloody war in modern history, a kind man who had done terrible things to end coldblood supremacism, who had set the humans free by tearing his own people down.

Kankri was a pacifist. His father was not. There was more to their fundamental disagreements and conflicts than that, but the fact of it was that Kankri looked and acted so much like him, that it was like looking in a mirror at times. It bothered him, even as he readied himself to take his father’s position, should it prove necessary in future times, and when Kankri was bothered by something, the low-grade hostility radiated off him like heat from a rock someone left in a desert at high noon.

Sollux could take a hint. He could take a lot of hints, all of them couched in varying degrees of passive-aggressive sniping that served pretty much the same function as a friendly duel; swords were crossed, without any real intent to do injury. Kankri, on the other hand, was very honest. He said what he meant, when he understood how to say it properly, and where Sollux was from, this was something very hard to understand.

To the west of these lands, a relative stone’s throw if you didn’t account for the mountainous terrain, were the lands of the Captor Orders. The bitter cold of these death lands evened out towards the coast, growing… if not warmer, at least more hospitable, and in the past, many trolls and humans and other things had taken up residence there for the ample hunting, lumber; the massive animals living in the sea could feed many people for a long time, wood was useful for building homes and fueling the artistic interests of those inclined, and the magical bees native to the area proved amenable to being bred for being living engines to refine magic and calculate complex spell patterns or problems.

The ages had come and gone. The Captors had come early, and they had stayed ever since. They’d built their wizard’s towers and college-fortresses high, and left the other lands to their own devices; never conquering, not waging war, but ignoring it entirely. When coldblood supremacism had waged war across the land, the Captors stayed out of it; when slavers came searching for goldbloods to put to the yoke,the Captors usually sent them back to their employers as little more than a pile of ash.

Sometimes people came to learn, and the Captors taught them, and those people went home with power and influence. ‘Come to the lands of the Captors’, they said, ‘they will teach you the secret lore’.

The Captors did not recover or keep ancient lore; they made their own discoveries, over the ages. They made new things; new wonders, new understanding of the hidden rules of magic. This made them possibly unique on the continent, where the creations and knowledge of bygone civilizations were the foundation of entire regimes. Their lore was their own, and this same indifference to the past also applied to politics; they were barely aware of the influence and power they gathered, with magic so essential towards modern society, and the orders of mages the Captors had gathered all showing fealty to their teachers and colleges above all else.

As they came closer to their destination, Sollux reflected that his father would go down in history for sheer controversy; convincing the heads of the mystical orders and all the leaders of the colleges to engage in continental politics, and aiding the Pyropes in the war, wasn’t just a risky move. It was completely contrary to their established tradition of neutrality. Sollux supposed he’d either go down in history as an unconventional hero… or a heretic who kicked their traditions in the nook. One of those two. Hell, people were already calling him that, not that his dad seemed to care.

The moment of good humor had already passed. The caravan wagons moved upon the trail, and as it advanced them closer to what appeared to be a vast and ancient city (with many tents pitched around the front, and the distant impressions of what might have been scaffolding, cradling the old walls), Sollux and Kankri both reflected, in their own fashions, that they didn’t actually know each other.

Kankri glanced at Sollux. Sollux did the same in turn. They looked awkwardly away. The thought that they didn’t really have anything in common stuck with them, hanging there like a persistent thorn that hadn’t quite pierced the skin; it didn’t hurt, but it stuck there, so needling that the mind couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

It was, Kankri supposed, the sort of thing to be expected when building a better world than the one their parents had known. Dealing with people you normally would not. Making compromises, and so on.

‘This is weird,’ Sollux thought. ‘I’m friends with his brother. He’s friends with mine… I think. Are they lovers? Rivals? Got a mutual pining thing going on with Latula from when they were kids? No idea what happened there before she got hitched and he moved on. How the hell is it that we’ve never even really talked before today?’

Both of them tried to focus on the road. And it dawned on them that the only thing they really had in common was their mutual connection to the women of the Megido family.

The women they were… in all honesty, probably going to marry, in defiance of cultural norms but for different reasons. The only trolls who would actually like this cold land, soaked in death and forgotten memory.

That made them both feel better, funny enough. Thinking about the Megidos, that is.

Love, even for the terminally proper and persistently grouchy respectively, had a way of lightening moods. This lay on their minds, the tension beginning to evaporate as they drew closer.

Especially for Kankri. He visibly relaxed; not stiffening or trying to look impressive, but the tension that normally forced him into the uncomfortable posturing that he thought a lowblood mutant, raised to his position, had to look like, all drained away from him.

He felt her. Kankri had powers of his own, perhaps linked to his own magical studies, and there was a presence nearby, now, as they drew closer to their destination.

----------

Their destination was, in fact, a city. It was rather more than that, based on the ancient documents, translated journal entries, and map fragments they had pieced together from archives and collections from all over the kingdoms. It was a city of the dead, from an era before internment of the dead had become an alien notion for trollkind.

Jack Noir, a carapacian who had served as Karkat’s guardian for the complicated and dangerous years of their childhood, had suggested it held a major necropolis. Odd, Kankri considered, that the stab-happy bureaucrat should know a thing like that, but everyone knew weird things.

And of course, that said ‘Megido interests’ all over.

The walls were very tall, rising very high into the sky, and beyond the first one they saw was another set, even higher than that. The city was built on a steep incline, so the walls outlined the shape of the city beyond it. As they rode closer, Kankri could see pathways and high windows in regular intervals, and while the form was unfamiliar, the basic principles were similar to geomantic construction techniques common in the old troll empire, many ages ago.

The walls had not otherwise fared well through the ages. There were large gaps missing towards the tops, perhaps sheared off by siege weaponry; there were fewer signs of that near the bottom, which explained how they had remained stable enough to survive the ages. Nevertheless, there was still damage everywhere else. Ancient murals, enormously complex and surely the subject of much worthwhile study, were tragically heavily damaged; burned, half-melted, and worse. Perhaps the result of some ancient conflict that had seen this place becoming uninhabited to begin with.

Kankri approached them, as their group waited to be properly received. He was hardly an expert in the visual arts of a bygone era, but he did spend a lot of time reading. He was an expert in few fields, but reasonably knowledgeable in many of them. A deep fascination with history (or at least that which was recorded, and that which was worked out later, and he viewed both with polite suspicion) gave him a useful toolbox for this sort of thing.

Now he studied what could be seen of the murals, on this side of the outer wall. It was difficult to make any firm guesses on what they were meant to convey; the artistic style was consistent with the era prior to the collapse of the last known pan-continental troll civilization. Perhaps due to local preferences and cultures particular to this part of the continent (for the old empire was cosmopolitan, if only for trollkind), that style had shifted into something unique. It was chiseled into the stone, if the material was stone, but the style was something different.

Kankri ran a hand against the material, just to see what it was. His short claws, cut and dulled to minimize any possibility of injury to another, ran against something improbably smooth and cool. Even exposed to the elements for untold generations, left without any kind of maintenance in these winds and piercing snows, beneath deluge and mud, it was largely untouched.

It did not feel much like stone. It was cool; not as cold as one would assume, given the weather. Somehow, it was warming itself, and pulsed gently beneath his hands. It felt… wholesome, but it felt like something that made him nervous.

Magic has a resonance, in many different forms, from both the nature of it, the impact it had made, and from events going on around it. A sword might taste of craftsmanship and deliberation, but it was also soaked deep in the violence that defined a sword. And this, distantly, felt like endings.

Kankri kept his hand there, letting his magical senses journey far, and it felt colder still. There was an echo of many things ending, with a patient and steady pace, their memory marching backwards to him.

The murals beneath his claws, clear etching of a time so long removed that it had no real bearing on his sense of ancestry or country, were abstract. Squarish figures, all right angles and stylized depictions of that seemed to be trying to convey the very essence of a troll; each figure showed both horns but a face in profile, all limbs displayed at geometric angles. He didn’t know why, but it seemed relevant.

Other figures arrived, and they had no faces, and they had no horns. The firner was setting; the latter was horrifying. He rubbed his own horns, wincing at the idea of losing them. To many trolls, they were symbolic of identity, and most artistic work used them as such. Had the people of this land done something as cruel as removing the horns of criminals?!

He frowned, studying the mural longer. He supposed that if the faceless, shorn of horns, were supposed to be viewed negatively, they would look more gruesome. But they were chiseled the same as the others, but identified by their lack of horns and faces. And, as he followed the path of the mural onwards, he realized that the mural seemed focused around their progression.

First, they approached a city; it looked much like what he had seen in the distance, so perhaps it was this city, seen from afar in days when it had been in better condition. And then, they were laying down, in lines. This was a lot more complexly drawn, he had to admit, and it took him sometime to suggest that was what was meant.

He had to keep going, on and on, around one vast opening in the walls big enough for a group to have passed through, until he came to a particularly large mural. It was massive, nearly twice as tall as he was, and so wide that it could have formed a wall in some looter’s museum, if someone had simply torn it from the walls and stolen it. It displayed the faceless, the hornless, lying in many rows, lovingly chiseled in intricate detail.

The damage of ancient days lay strongly here; scorch marks had melted the stone in key areas, so it was hard to tell what it was supposed to show. He thought it showed many of the hornless laying down, and an unusual effect in the air above them, the stone apparently chipped away in very gradual sections and then glazed with some process he did not know, so that it shone in a way quite unlike the rest of the mural. The surface there shimmered, like the pulsing of particularly powerful magic.

Behind him, he heard footfalls against snow. Tarps were laid heavily over the walls in an attempt to keep it out, but they were not as efficient as whatever roofing had once crossed the sloping rise of the walls. He turned around, and standing behind him were several hooded figures, their cloaks of fine fur and bearing the marks of their homelands. The nearest of them drew near; behind them, one of the two taller figures behind them, exceedingly voluptuous even in form-obscuring cloak, tried to march ahead of them but were frantically waved off by one of the two in the front.

“No, no!” said one of the two at the front, and this speaker was taller than the other one. Both of them wore the gold-colored robes of the Captor Orders (though a bit frayed, now), and they had the distinctive multiplied horns of goldbloods. One of them, the speaker, crackled with even more raw magical energy than normal. “We gotta do this by the book! The book!”

A much taller woman, whom the goldblood spoke to, stamped a foot and crossed arms across what must have been a spectacular bustline, to press so outrageously against a fur cloak as thick as that. The horns extending out from her hood curled like a ram’s, smaller spikes rising along the curve, signifying her as one of the Megido family of necromancers. “I don’t see why!” She said archly. “We all know each other. We can be formal and boring when we actually have a settlement going!”

This speaker wore a cloak trimmed in dark red; the colors of a cinnamonblood. The eyes beneath the hood glowed a faint dark red; what had been called rust, by the purplebloods a few generations ago. Her cloak was buckled by a distinctive symbol, of a ram’s head with its horns locking the cloak together (and under some serious pressure, given the speaker’s apparent curves trying their best to force the cloak apart), a symbol marked on tombs all across the continent, on necropolises and places where the magic of death was studied, away from the sun in accordance to the magical principles surrounding such powers.

The necromancers of the Time Ram were infamous. None of them had as much authority, or as much magical power, as the Megido family.

Kankri stirred, paying more attention now, and less attention to a brief argument between the two. He looked about, for someone in particular. They liked to move together…

“Miss, we gotta have you introduced properly!” pleaded the cloaked goldblood.

“I mean, we don’t have to,” said his companion. She was shorter than him, and a lot wider. In some very select, specific places at least, in a fashion similar to the Megido who apparently didn’t want a formal introduction. Her cloak had a definite look, even with the thick fur making up most of it, of fabric stressed by the pushing of breasts nearly two and a half feet around, pushing out so much that her cloak hung off them in a big canopy downwards. Her buttocks were just as massive, so big she’d require at least two chairs per cheek to sit down normally, with a simply draping effect behind her. It was like she had a miniature tent around her body. “I mean, she’s the boss here. Right? So if she says no, that means we can’t do it.”

“But we have to!” he retorted, with an air of aghast horror. It was probably what you’d get with someone who had spent most of his short life idolizing the nobility and was outraged on principle that they didn’t want to be super fancy all the time.

“We really don’t,” said the other Megido, slightly taller than what had to be her sister. She had an attitude of stoicism that contrasted with the manic energy of the other, and she had the distinctive body shape; not exactly chubby, but certainly thickset, belly prominent, and breasts so big they had the same draping effect on her clothing as the short goldblood. Perhaps it was that she was tall, but her assets looked even more outrageously massive; each breast was over three feet across, their lower slopes dipping nearly to their waist, and slung nearly four feet out.

Her backside had a similar dramatic effect; perhaps as thick across as two of her standing back to back, taking up a sizable amount of her thighs and pushing out against the confines of her cloak.

Now, Kankri focused on her.

He knew her voice; heavily accented with the distinctive accent of someone who struggled with Purpleglot (the common language in most of the continent, for several hundred years now), thick with world-weary cynicism, ready to shift into a more hostile persona if required. Kankri began to approach, as the argument continued.

“We are NOT getting out the trumpets, or red carpet, or purple carpets!” The first Megido, whom Kankri determined was probably Aradia, said firmly. She had the same, hyper-curvaceous build as her sister, but since she was moving around so much, her sheer heft felt much more prominent. People tended to stand back from her, as if instinctively afraid she might ram them with her curves if they weren’t careful. “We don’t even have any of those!”

The first speaker gasped in horror. Kankri realized that this had to be one of the people that had come from Sollux’s land. He hadn’t familiarized himself with all of them, and so he’d overlooked the matter entirely. After a moment of thought, he recalled a brief encounter on the way up here, with a pair of wanderers on Sollux’s land that Sollux had taken a liking to on a whim, and had gotten to come along with them.

Kuprem; a powerful goldblood mage, though totally untutored, and his friend Folykl, the shortstacked goldblood whose tremendous figure was partially genetic but mostly the consequence of her unusual power to siphon away magical energies and absorb it into her own body (and store it as bigger curves). Kankri had noticed them get uncomfortably excited over being in the presence of genuine nobility, or at least Kuprum did, but he tended to put people into little folders marked ‘NOT OF INTEREST’ until they did something to get his attention, and he’d completely forgotten about them.

Even so, they were of very little interest now that he’d spotted the girl he had come across half a continent for.

Kankri strode onwards, towards the Megidos. “At least let me scream like a trumpet!” Kuprum begged, almost on his knees, teary-eyed.

“Okay, uh, wow!” Aradia said, giggling with a strange enthusiasm. “That sounds kind of fun. I don’t want any formality here, but maybe we could do a screaming contest!”

Folykl groaned, bowing her head. Four crooked horns, bending out forwards, jutted from her cloak like the jaws of some fierce beast, and thick hair spilled out onto her front. Her eyes, though, were the dead black of the outermost void, a reflection of her singular power; the air felt strange around her, energy slowly draining into her, feeding her own abilities or perhaps nourishing her. If one looked close, they would see her cloak slowly straining, filling out as her breasts very visibly grew at a slow, steady rate. Magic ebbed into her, and took physical form as a curvier form. “Please, don’t. Tired of screaming already!”

Kuprum, conversely, was a lot taller, so much so that Kankri had seen her riding on him like a scowling backpack. He was a pretty athletic guy, or so Kankri would assume; he was currently carrying a massive load of construction equipment on his back without any strain, despite the fact that when Sollux had picked him out, he and Folykl had apparently been living out in the wild, abandoned by any caretakers, half-starved and oblivious to current events. His horns, double-rowed and hooked upwards, were startlingly similar to the Captor horn style. Perhaps, Kankri had mused before, this was why Sollux had taken an interest besides the potent magical abilities the caravans had spotted at a distance. He might have been a scion of a lost branch of the Captors.

Now, though, Kankri didn’t have much interest in him, and he was an impediment. He walked past him, pushing him aside. Or he tried to. His hand pushed against Kuprum with some force, but his load made him far too heavy. Kankri just rebounded and plopped onto some stony stairs. “Ow.”

“Hey, don’t go pushing in line!” Kuprum said. “I’m supposed to announce them and stuff first!”

“Hey, none of that!” Aradia said firmly, putting her hands on her exceptionally bountiful hips, her arms making crooked shapes inside her cloak. If Folykl looked curvaceous, Aradia made her look slim; the front and back of her robes both stuck out a startling amount, given the slackness of the material, and it was a testament to just how ample she really was. She radiated a sort of maniacal, happy wildness, like a clock freewheeling it’s hands all over the place so hard the gears might bust loose at any second, and even turning about to face him, Aradia did it with so much energy that she did not step, but sprang from one foot to the other, flailing around so that she didn’t unbalance herself. There was a lot of bouncing. Kuprum averted his gaze and wailed that he did not deserve to witness the wiggle of the nobility. Folykl just went ‘ooh wow that’s a lot’.

The face peering at Kankri was smiling extremely widely, lips thick and dark red, and her hood framed that face in such a way that her expression was disconcertingly concentrated. Kankri felt the urge to shuffle back awkwardly, just having her look at him. She was… intense, to put it mildly. “Hello, Aradia,” he said meekly.

“Kankri!” Aradia came forward, and with a twist of her hand, generated a swell of force that pushed the snow back, in a great burst of magic that felt like a faint wind moving by, and could have smashed him to a pulp if she was so inclined. The power she held radiated from her, and Folykl hopped up and down excitedly, drinking down the magic that came her way. Aradia regarded this with deep interest, grinning and showing all her broad, heavy fangs. But she returned to Kankri again, as the other Megido started to impatiently stride forwards. “Where have you guys been!? Oh, Dam’s been waiting on knives and daggers for you!”

(Which was like ‘pins and needles, but adjusted for the subject’s decidedly morbid interests.)

“Have not,” said the other Megido, taller than Aradia. She was possibly not quite as overwhelmingly voluptuous as Aradia, but perhaps her cloak was just too big to really emphasize her figure; it draped over her like an ominous cloak of the sort that the really dedicated necromancers liked to wear.

“Have so.”

“Did not,” Damara Megido said, with an unspoken air of ‘keep this up and zombies will use your head as a kickball’. The scowling face under the hood tilted up slightly, with an expression that suggested that a smile would be in completely unfamiliar territory there. Dark red eyes, obscured very slightly by a few stray hairs falling from an obsessively prim hairstyle, flickered from the obstruction to Kankri.

For a moment, the stern expression softened. Thick lips, several shades notably darker than Kankri’s own mutant blood, shifted like breaking stone into something that would have been a smile if she hadn’t suddenly remembered she had a reputation to uphold.

Kankri sat up. Damara stepped forward. She stood nearly a head taller than her sister, her shoulders around roughly the same level as Aradia’s distinctive curling horns, just like a ram’s. Damara’s were much the same, but polished to a shine, and capped with bone and rings curling around it, all etched with symbols Kankri assumed were magical. Damara walked with a wide, swinging strut, her hips so massive that it was the easiest way for her enormous thighs to move. And yes, her thighs were huge, easily as wide across as Kankri’s body, and her cloak swayed magnificently as she advanced towards him. Soon, a bustline advanced over his personal horizon, so that he couldn’t see her face. It was a shame; anything obscuring Damara’s face was, in his opinion, a travesty.

(He’d told her that, once. Her face had gone very burgundy and she had to cover her face in a pillow and she’d wailed a little bit. It took about five minutes of his frantic apologizing for upsetting her before someone had to come along and tactfully inform him that she was blushing.)

Now, Damara gestured, as if to summon him to come to her side, and Kankri felt a gentle and very firm grip around his entire body. The air shimmered with a faint darkness, and that same power pulsed around Damara, her native powers calling upon the death energies in the region and focusing through her. Up Kankri went, lifted into the air by the telekinetic spell, and then he was gently let down. The pressure of Damara’s mind did not abate until he was firmly standing on his own two feet again.

It was no easy feet to pick up a full grown troll, nor to apply the strength required to do so evenly across his entire body, and certainly not to pick him up and then down at a respectable speed, and definitely not to do all that as casually as someone picking up a letter.

Kolykl was practically drooling. “Oh, wow, she is really strong… your magical energies are delicious.”

Damara tilted her head. “Thank you. I suppose? Never heard that before.”

Folykl only grinned ghoulishly. Kuprum gasped, in horror, and rushed over to her. “Please!” He cried. “Do not smite my beloved for her impudence, my lady!”

“I… wasn’t?” She said, looking bemused. “And we don’t use that term of address here.”

Kuprum looked vaguely disappointed that he wasn’t going to have to genuflect himself into the dirt for the sake of Folykl. He tried again. “Your highness?”

“No. No monarchy here.”

Once again, he tried, “Your most doomy slaughter-monster?”

“Like that. But no. Try again.”

He slumped over, his extremely vague archive of noble address exhausted. “What do I call you!?”

Damara shrugged, an interesting motion that affixed Kankri’s attention. He moved by her side, which was a natural place for him to be in most circumstances. “Whatever you like.”

Kuprem scowled. “That is a terrible precedent for royalty!”

“We’re not royal.”

“We’re the nobility of necromancers!” Aradia said cheerfully. “There’s a difference! We do spooky stuff! That our ancestors did not necessarily do.”

Folkyl raised a hand. “Um. Miss spooky lady? What DO necromancers do?”

Sensing that Damara and Kankri probably would have liked a moment alone, Aradia seized the moment, and swooped ahead, telekinetically picking up both of the goldbloods. “I’m SO glad you asked! Let’s go find Sollux and we can tell you ALL the little details about the spooky, icky things necromancers do! First warning, it involves ghosts! And dead things! Sometimes ghosts IN dead things! Or ghosts in BREAD things!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kuprum said as Aradia bounced away, taking the goldbloods with her.

“Pastry minions are a thing!” Aradia said cheerfully. “Flatbread constructs straight from the Pyrope lands!” She continued on, turning a corner and going out the walls, into the complex of tents that was marginally warmer and certainly where Sollux would be orchestrating his fellow mages to working on the walls and making long term habitation a bit more sustainable.

Damara and Kankri watched her go.

They looked at each other, and they did what many young lovers, who were still somewhat unaccustomed to such powerful feelings and keenly aware that their respective training to continue their own family’s work into the future did not cover this particular topic, were wont to do:

They froze up and looked at the ground awkwardly.

Tension sang out between them. Not a harsh tension. Not something uncomfortable; it was the tension of a string plucked and about to sing, or of a wheel rolling steadily down a hillside. They saw the inevitable conclusion, had been building up to it for some time, and these were the first hesitant steps towards something… real, and lasting.

It scared them. Kankri dealt with fear by pretending it wasn’t a problem, and Damara dealt with it by snarling at it, but for both of them, the usual way they handled fear was not an option.

So, Damara tried not to look directly at him, or his handsome face, or the vibrant, unique scarlet of his eyes. No, instead she studied the same walls she had, pretending they held an unbearable fascination for her. Her gaze now slid across them as Kankri’s presence grew more accustomed to being with her again, and then it moved upwards. Towards the tarp-laced borders between the walls, and the remnants of the glass-like material that had once bordered the inner and outer walls. Snow fell from the gaps between them, and she stared at that spot there for a while, as if distracted by something. A shy glance her way from Kankri caught her eyes staring upwards.

“Is there something up there?” He asked, mostly to fill the silence.

And then, he regretted asking it. Because there might have actually been something there.

Kankri saw only empty space.

Damara did not.

She stared there for a while, her head tilted very slightly beneath her cloak. She began to speak, and perhaps it was going to be a comforting lie, and then she thought better of it. Instead, she said, “Are you certain you want that answered?”

He saw the look on her face and shuddered. “Perhaps not.” he muttered, giving the area above them a brief look. He could sense many things, but there were things that he could not sense.

The dead were not his domain. But it was Damara’s.

She patted his hand. “Come here,” she said, holding her own hand out, palm up, offering it. Kankri calmly took her hand, and their fingers laced warmly together. She began to walk, and Kankri came with her.

They began to walk aimlessly. Damara didn’t have a destination in mind, and her feet carried her to a completely random direction, and Kankri allowed her to carry him with her. Her hand was warm, no, it was hot, a pulsing heat nearly as warm as his own blood, and he half-thought that it was a wonder that her heat did not make the snow drifting on down instantly become steam upon her cloak.

There was a wind, curling down from the sky overhead, and it rustled her cloak. For a moment, both their furs smacked together. They adjusted their stance on pure automatic, awkwardly shuffling together so that their cloaks laid over one another, and their arms lay flat against the other. Their hands met near their hips, and swayed gently as they walked.

And as they walked, Kankri could feel the massive sway of Damara’s… endowments, wobbling up and down as she pressed onwards, moving against her cloak. That made a distinctive noise, and he couldn’t help but feel his heart beat faster at the awareness of her. Damara, in all her amplitude, here and now.

Goodness. It had been months since he’d held her hand like this, for the first time.

He swallowed, thinking of a few scattered moments in his homelands before the Megidos had journeyed north, to found their own homeland up here; a reward from the ruling council of the nobles of the unified kingdoms, and personally administered by his father and Redglare herself.

It had all been so sudden. They hadn’t even announced their intentions to court, to their families.

Kankri swallowed again. He tried to think of something besides the heart-wrenching goodbyes for even a few weeks, and his dread that the Megido’s journey to end their diaspora and reclaim what had been their old homelands would end with nothing. Just dead silence, and them vanishing forever into the north, lost and gone as so many others who had journeyed there.

But then, the Megidos walked with the dead. Perhaps the whispers and advice of those long gone had given them some help.

He blinked back tears. Damara stopped in front of the wall, the same one he had studied earlier, and moved slightly. A hand came up to his face, and gently wiped away the hot wetness on his cheek. “Is something wrong?” She asked, quietly.

“No,” Kankri said, wiping his face with his cloak. The cold stung his face, but it seemed less so with her there. And also, that it was warmer here than it ought to have been. Uncomfortable, yes, but as if in a warm home with the door open during winter. “I was… worried. All this time. For you and Aradia and those that came with you.”

She regarded him with the stoic detachment he was used to from her, and then her face softened. “You didn’t have to worry,” she said, calmly. “We knew what we were getting into.”

“I know. But I worry anyway.”

“I suppose someone must.” Damara shrugged. Now she turned to the wall. “I see you were looking at this earlier too?”

He rolled his thumb against her hand in an unthinking, instinctive way. “Yes.” something she said struck him. “‘Too’? You were studying this as well?”

“Yes.” With her free hand, she gestured at the murals, and she began to speak at length; not in Purpleglot, but in the language of her own people, and though Kankri was not the most fluent in it, he was versed enough to follow what she said. And he was pleased to see that his own assumptions were on broadly the right track, though Damara went into further detail then him, which was only fitting. The study of the cultures of the past, and the things they left behind, was something of an abiding interest for her.

(Damara did not tell Kankri of the whispers in the wind. Of words spoken in ancient tongues so old and its speakers so abruptly torn away from their earthly vessels that there were few connections to modern language.)

“You see here?” Damara said, gesturing at the wall and the large hole there, with the few remaining fragments suggesting a large crowd of the hornless laying down, attended by other trolls. “I believe this suggests burial rites.”

“You think so?” Kankri said.

Damara glanced up, just for a moment, before she replied.

(She would not tell Kankri what was roiling about them. She didn’t want to keep looking at the roiling masses of limbs and blurred horns and yowling, serpentine forms totally unfamiliar to her, and she didn’t want to admit to Kankri they were there. Some secrets ought to remain quiet.

But she could relay what few things she understood from them.)

“Yes,” Damara said, politely declining to remark that it was the best she had gleaned from the… entities around her.

She didn’t see a sky, or even a ceiling. They clustered too thickly to see such a thing.

She indicated, instead, the mural once more. “I believe the people of this town used geomantic magic. Architecture that shapes local magic, rearranges the flow of it for a specific purpose, yes?” Kankri nodded slowly. “And things that happen in a place can shape that magic, too. I think this wall is a big part of that magic, and the carvings aren’t decoration.”

“Oh?”

“I think they were… encoding? Runes that direct it? They’re part of the magical working.”

“Ah!” Kankri brightened. “So the depictions here are not merely artistic effects! And much of this damage looks like the wall was being targeted, despite there being no signs of there having been a gateway; this place was not meant to be defended, I would think. So whatever happened to make this city fall started with this wall?”

“Perhaps to disrupt whatever magic the city was producing. Though I don’t think it is a city, as such. I believe it was a place where dead were laid to rest, interred, and cared for as they neared the ends of their lives. A necropolis, yes.”

“What makes you say that?”

Damara did not look upwards at what she supposed had to be a mass of ghosts, so many of them and in such intensity that they were a silent cloud. “Observation.”

She gestured at the wall. “In the era this mural appears to have been made in, horns and faces often had a very specific meaning. Horns equated to identity, in the sense of being people, in the artwork of the time.”

Kankri’s face grew dark. “I have heard troubling things about the way humans and other such beings were treated. It was very akin to the way lowbloods and mutants were treated until the Pyropes attacked.”

Damara waved off the knowledge of injustice as though it were rain falling down on them; important, yes, but not strictly relevant to her point. “Yes, I know, but hornlessness in artwork was often used to indicate death.” She pointed at one part of the mural. “Look at these figures. They have horns and distinctive faces. Look at them continue onwards, until they lie down.” There, at a point where the mural’s unnatural shininess was on full display, and even pulsed faintly, new shapes appeared: wispy figures rose from the things who were now hornless and faceless, but the figures rising from them had those same horns and faces.

“I think this symbolizes those dying, and their souls departing, or perhaps stamping their identity onto magic to create death spirits,” Damara said. Again, she definitely made an effort to not look at the very obvious evidence of this, presently wheeling overhead.

Those spirits, from what she, Aradia and the other necromancers that had come with them had worked out, had been here for a very, very long time. So long that they had no real means to communicate with them. The best they could do was listen to their frantic whispers, begging to be understood, and try to find something that was just close enough to a language family still spoken in the modern day. They had learned a few things, but so terribly little.

“The horns, and the faces,” Kankri said. “If those symbolize identity, then these might mean the identity moving onwards? That DOES sound like the way another culture might have viewed death. Are you certain enough to call it a theory?”

“Yes; I suppose it will be disputed, but if anyone has alternatives, I will be happy to tell them they are objectively fools and are obviously wrong.”

Now she pointed at the center of the mural; overlooking it all, as if a beneficent giver of goods, there was something coiled far overhead. She wanted to say that it was a serpent, with a head very superficially similar to a skull. The shimmering quality of the mural, which she supposed was meant to convey magical energy, did not extend around it, and perhaps that meant that it was not strictly related to the workings of the mural.

The serpent, though, was important. She just didn’t know why it was given a position right at the top.

“I am still trying to work out what that implies there,” she said.

Kankri pointed to something above it. “And what of that?”

Damara gave it a long look. It looked something like a large gemstone, suspending like a crown above the serpent. The mural had been shaped around it, so that something like bright rays were descending from it, pointing right at what she had theorized to be spirits, who were rising towards it.

“It looks like a beacon,” Kankri said thoughtfully. “I don’t know what it could actually mean, though that is what it looks like to me. Have you any ideas?”

“Actually, I have thought the same.” Damara stared up at it, and she glanced back at a stairway leading further into the city, for some reason.

Her hand squeezed him tighter. Any obvious indication of emotion from Damara was extremely startling, and so Kankri glanced up, looking alarmed. He turned to her, and her expression was strange; a grimace of sorts, caught between delight and… some kind of worry.

“Are you… hungry or tired?” She asked. “We could go find one of the makeshift homes and rest for a while…?”

The question surprised him; she didn’t seem certain, and Damara always felt so adamantly, indignantly certain about everything, even the things she knew she was objectively wrong about. Kankri felt unsettled, as though the ground beneath him was about to give way, with the distinctive panic that implied. “Is something wrong? You don’t sound like yourself!”

Damara shook her head, stray lengths of hair flashing over her eyes. “Listen! Some time ago, I found… something. In a chamber, not far from here. Blocked off by rubble, and I think it’s very important, but…” She tensed. “You came at an opportune time. I’d hoped that you would be the first to study it with me. And there’s no one else I trust to be responsible with it.”

She took both his hands, propriety (never exactly a priority with Damara to begin with) forgotten in favor of the wonders of study and exploration. “Please, let me show you!”

Kankri took her hands, but he felt he had to make at least one reasonable objection. “You haven’t shown Aradia?”

Damara’s expression flickered, and she hesitated before she spoke. “I would not say anything about my sister, but she is… perhaps not the most cautious when it comes to research and investigation. And believe me, this requires delicacy.”

“And Aradia likes to do digging by throwing big rocks at things.” Kankri grimaced. “I see your point.” Then, he smiled. “And I’d much rather examine the wonders of bygone ages as soon as possible. I am with you, Damara!”

She smiled again and, tugging on one of his hands, walked them both up the stairway. Kankri observed that not only was it abnormally wide, but in the middle of it was a ramp, smooth and worn.

They traveled further into the city, past several additional walls also covered in murals (alas, most apparently too damaged to read legibly at this point) and this reinforced the theory that the walls were not meant as defense, but as part of a larger magical working. There were large gateways in them, without doors or a sign that there had ever been doorways. These were here to dictate the flow of power throughout the land, not bar entry, and Kankri (again, quite able to sense the flow of magical power around him) felt a heavy pressure as he moved through them.

It was not unpleasant. But it did taste of death, and old death at that. The weight of centuries was heavy here, and it was certainly unsettling.

The moment passed as they advanced further into the city, moving upwards: the stairway sloped upwards, and he thought for a moment that it felt like they were climbing into an old volcano caldera: they had walked up the outside of it, the considerable distance of the walls from one another outlining first the base of it and than a midpoint to it, and now they were approaching the top. And beyond, would be the inner part of the caldera.

He mentioned this theory to Damara, who nodded approvingly. “It’s not a caldera or a volcano of any kind,” she said, and went on to name a number of geographic curiosities that would be particular to such a place, and were not present here in any form. “The people who dwelled here were originally diggers, I think. They simply dug down into a hill and kept going as they needed more space.”

“A traditional thing for our people to do,” Kankri noted. “Though not so common in recent ages.”

Damara’s expression went strange, then. “I don’t think the people who built this city were trolls.”

Kankri frowned. “Really? Why not?”

Damara thought of old ghosts, their winged shapes so totally unlike any troll… or human. “Some of the things I’ve seen are inconsistent with the builders being trolls.” And he accepted that, at least.

By then, they reached the top of the staircase; it did not open out into another wall. As Damara had surmised, the walls were not fortifications, and further ones wouldn’t serve the purposes of the original city-builders. They stepped upwards onto a broad flatness, of quarried stone cut into shape, leading directly into the broad ramp at the very center of the stairs. It continued onwards, forming a ring around the entire lip of the hillside (broken and smashed in a few places, but reasonably intact), looking inwards towards the city itself below them.

Damara and Kankri admired it for a moment, their gaze following down the trail; below the stars and ramp going down, and there the sight of the stairs was lost, as buildings rose up in a complex weave below them. All the horizon in front of them was the city itself, all the way to the distant other sides of the ring far from them. Winding towers rose up beyond them, triangular points sticking up far, and even from here it was plain that the construction was much more varied than the stony construction elsewhere seen here. Wooden structures, treated to endure the climate, still endured, though in terrible disrepair, and as they began to descend, Kankri saw that there was further variety; stone, metal-shod walls, even the remnants of what must have been the quasi-organic substances some trolls literally grew into being, though the bodies of those homes had long since decayed so that only their skeletons remained.

Undead walked here; zombies carefully treated to hold off decay, skeletons held together with leather straps and metal bolts, and they were wandering mechanically from one building to another, patching up gaps in the buildings or towing bedding here and there. The Megidos, and those who shared their teachings, were well known for their use of undead servants, and Kankri supposed these had been brought with them.

It was a long way to go, past the bulk of zombie minions. The stairs descended downwards, and from here Kankri saw the inward curve of the city. Yes; he saw well-organized districts, incredibly complex and adhering to principles of architecture that seemed very alien to him, tilting slightly down as their foundations followed the curve of the hillside.

He and Damara followed them, and as they did, his view of it became clearer. He also saw that, where there had been totally destroyed buildings or empty spaces, Damara’s group had begun to build new buildings, doing their best to match the geomancy of the area and not disrupt it. They were far from complete, ragged foundations covered with high-mounted fabrics to shield themselves from the wind, but they were sufficient as temporary shelter, and at least this was not destructive and harmful to the old city.

As they passed a few other people, tending to their work or simply minding their own business, Kankri saw the very base of the city. He couldn’t make it out very clearly; it was quite distant from them, and it would be a long time to walk there on foot. He suspected the original inhabitants had not; he could see the long, narrow pathways of what could have been ancient trains, rigged to slide down by the pull of gravity and pulled up by powerful counterweights, to convey passengers straight to the center.

He made out some vaguely triangular shapes, or perhaps pyramids. Old homes and what might have been businesses, all the buildings strangely crooked and tending towards curving shapes quite unusual to his eyes, the product of architectural sensibilities totally foriegn to him, bore so much damage they were hollowed out husks. Whatever had damaged the city had made a beeline to the center of the city from here. “Are we headed there?” He asked.

“Yes,” Damara said solemnly. “To the center of the city; the necropolis proper. The thing I found is there.”

He tried not to look terribly enthusiastic about going to an ancient ritual graveyard. “It is a bit of a walk,” he said vaguely.

She squeezed his hand. “I can carry us both there.”

He tried not to flush at the notion of being lifted aloft by her. “Oh, if you must.”

“I must, indeed.” Her fingers wrapped firmly on his palm, blunt claws tapped on his wrist, and then she suddenly swung him up, catching him in a carry with her other arm, his legs fitting snugly into the crook of her elbow and forearm, sliding him against her monstrously huge breasts so suddenly that he let out a cry that was meant to be a protest but just came out as a mortified squeak, compounded by the rush of heat of being pressed so firmly against her incredibly heated body, and the cold suddenly seemed very distant.

Damara floated upwards, carrying Kanki with her. She flew high, over the highest of the buildings around them, so that the city stretched away beneath them. Kankri’s nerve gave out and he clutched into Damara’s front, face buried in hot softness. The sheer inappropriateness of it didn’t matter as much as his stomach dropping out into a pit and his head swimming at so much distance beneath them, and he thought with a sudden certainty that he absolutely could not look down. Not at all.

His stomach felt that it was plummeting again as they descended downwards. Damara judged them in the right spot, and their cloaks flapping together, she came down right in the center.

Eventually, they dropped down. For Kankri, it was an interminable time, suspended between Damara’s astonishingly big bustline (and the temptation to snuggle; oh, that was a cruel thing indeed), her strong arms, and nothing between falling hundreds of feet except more Damara.

There was a sound as Damara’s feet touched down, eventually. She remained holding him in a bridal carry, though, a faint smirk on her lips.

“Please let me go,” Kankri said, still clinging to her.

She let him down, and he honestly expected her to say something just a little sardonic. She didn’t need to; she radiated smugness at seeing him so vulnerable.

Kankri needed a long moment to recover, and when he did, he was again overwhelmed; not by fear of falling far and fast, but wonder. He had thought he had seen pyramids from afar, and so there were.

High and angled surfaces rose far, pocked and burned with the injuries of ancient years, but they still gleamed, in the same way as the walls outside did. Power coursed through them: weakened, faint, but it was magical power all the same, an ancient circuit of magical energy still moving. It took him a moment to realize that they were indeed pyramids after all, and he stood in the center of a podium between them. Four of them, a narrow crossroads between them just wide enough for perhaps four average-sized trolls to walk, side by side, rolling their mysterious burdens along.

“I’ll thank you for being less needlessly terrifying in the future,” Kankri said. “But what are these wonders? Burial grounds?”

“No, those would be below us,” Damara said. “These are not pyramids in the sense of being sites for beings that are buried. That is, we did find beings interred within them, but the pyramids were not built for them. There were many rooms, filled with tools; scalpels, old funerary kits, containers that were probably filled with fluids used to speed decomposition of bodies after burial, alters for religious rites… I think these pyramids were most likely used to prepare bodies for burial, and a lot of them at once.”

“So perhaps a site where many people were interred? Or a city built specifically for that purpose?” Kankri halted, and he realized that Damara was avoiding talking about something. “You said ‘beings’. Not trolls?”

“No,” Damara said, and despite her fascination, she still sounded troubled. “They were… strange. I don’t know what they were. No one had ever seen anything like them before.”

Kankri frowned. “Can you describe them for me?”

“They were skeletons; still preserved, so I suspect that was important somehow. Not trolls, or humans. Humanoid from the waist up, much larger than trolls. Skulls.. I would say they resemble a snake’s, but with broader jaws, larger eyes. Wings, I think, extending from the back. And below the waist, they don’t seem to have legs, but a large flexible trunk. Like a snake’s body, some of my people thought.”

Kankri racked his mind, and found nothing that sounded familiar. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“Nor has anyone else.”

Kankri stared up at the pyramid. “I would like to study them later, if that is permitted,” he said. Damara glanced at the roiling storm of ghosts, always a present sight even this far down. They were thicker around here, as if something around the pyramids made them stronger, gave them greater substance than they would have otherwise. And four strange ghosts, so totally unlike anything she’d ever seen, were studying him with interest.

They gave a sense of, if not exactly approval, at least a lack of antagonism. “I think that would be acceptable,” she said carefully.

Kankr peerd outwards into the darkness; it was quite dim down here, as Damara’s people were unwilling to keep it too brightly lit. “Do we go down there?” He asked, pointing at a stairwell. He sounded uncomfortable.

“No,” she said, and he visibly brightened. “That leads downwards into the necropolis proper, I think; we found many catacombs down there.”

“How far down do they go?”

Damara recalled a staircase that had just… kept going, on and on, its design suited for both bipeds and someone that might slither, and in her mind the image had formed of a spike’s outline, made by the staircase. “We sent people down there. They followed it for days. It just kept going.”

Kankri’s eyebrows rose. “Ah.”

“Suppose the people who built this necropolis just kept digging downwards and building more catacombs as they needed,” Damara said. “They just keep going on… like spider webs, or canals.” She moved to the very center of the area between the four pyramids. The ground was absolutely torn up by damage, very little of the original stonework still intact at all. She went to a large pile of rubble and made a gesture; the whole pile moved up and floated away, piled up to disguise a large hole right at the center. “What we’re going to look at is down there.”

Kankri felt something pulse up from there. “At the very center of the entire city?”

“Going up, and down,” Damara said, with something distressingly close to cheerful. She offered her hand to Kankri’s again. He took it, and they floated into the air, and down into the hole.

They descended down into a chamber that was not, relatively, all that big. It was not brightly lit, but it didn’t need to be; trolls had very good nocturnal vision, though not to the degree of being able to see in the dark like many humans believed, but there was sufficient light to see clearly enough. It was not long before they stepped down, and for some reason that seemed vaguely disappointing. He expected a longer fall; perhaps some kind of interminably long drop, as fit Damara’s description of how far down the necropolis went.

He looked around into a chamber that was, surprisingly, reasonably well lit. Illumination radiated from… lines of a sort, set into the walls, though they were so badly damaged that he initially thought they were dots and circles. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw the walls, rising up to meet the floor above them in a gradually widening circle, and those walls were in ruins.

Scorch marks did not dot the walls, but engulfed it. The marks of devastation, a terrible impact blow and hints of some massive blast had rendered the walls all but unrecognizable. Perhaps something had smashed the entire chamber open, flooding it with the destructive output of some ancient weapon, or a dragon had descended down here.

There had been murals on the walls. Tragically, there was very little left of them. Some part of him cursed the moment he recognized the damage; it was hard to tell that there even was decoration on the walls, with so much of it having been smashing away, or lying in pieces on the floor. So densely covered was the floor, that there was hardly a space to stand upon. He felt a great sense of loss, and tragedy; what had been here? What ancient secrets had been ruined, in some ancient conflict?

The lines he had seen were clearly magical in nature, still powered by some ambient force just barely present. He thought perhaps they were magical conduction lines; a geomantic pattern of conducting energies from one place to another, or from a power source. They were still operational, if perhaps not to fuel whatever spell they had once managed, but enough to give them light.

They connected to a podium, in the center of the chamber. The very heart of it; perhaps the heart of the entire city. Once, it must have been a grand thing; a marvel of magical engineering, every inch honed to precise mathematical precision, and here and there he saw the fragments of curving shapes that once would have cradled the podium like the petals of a large flower. The conduits connected to it in a spiraling shape, like a spirograph, flickering steadily even in front of his eyes.

However, his gaze was ultimately drawn not to the podium, intriguing as it was, beautiful as it might have been. Rather, pulled in much the same manner as iron was tugged by a magnet, his attention came to something laying behind the rubble, near the podium. From the rubble and its position, it might have been once set atop that podium before being knocked away.

It was a crystal; a little taller than he was, nearly three times wider than it was tall. It shimmered a dull red, brighter shades periodically flashing as the magical forces it embodied moved within. It didn’t appear shaped; large bulbous swellings defined its shape into something that looked surprisingly like a humanoid figure sitting down in a calm position, but these were so smooth and rounded that Kankri rather suspected that it had been grown, not carved into shape.

It was not just a crystal, though.

It radiated age, even more than the city above and below them. It felt old, and Kankri felt a sudden and terrible awareness of how many generations of trolls could have lived and died before this object. And it radiated power, so fiercely that it was nearly a physical pressure weighing against him.

He’d felt power like this; in the halls of the mighty, in the presence of weapons whose mere existence threatened the world, in places where artifacts had been shaped into entire structures. He’d felt it shaped into forms radiating such magical might that their substances alone were transmuted into something otherworldly, their very touch dangerous to many.

Kankri’s breath caught in his throat. His senses, so tuned to the magical and the invisible ties of emotion and feeling, blazed at the sight of this, and the immense power dormant within it. It did not blaze with power, as such. Blaze implied activity, and this felt quiet, passive; asleep.

But to look directly at it with magical senses alone might have wounded him. It shone like a quiet star, with so much power that he was honestly shaken. How had it stayed here without anyone even noticing? How could anyone not feel it; how had he not felt it as they approached?

“I know the feeling,” Damara said, reading his mood, sympathetically. “It’s a bit.. Intense, isn’t it?”

Kankri breathed in. “Damara. Is that what I think it is?”

She stared at it for a long time, her expression distant, and then she swallowed loudly. She played well at being calm, but Kankri read the excitement, and the fear, in her voice when she spoke. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know exactly what it might be but…” he hesitated to say it. It sounded foolish. “It’s old. And powerful. It’s something like… I don’t know if I want to really say this.”

“Then you thought the same thing as me, I suppose.”

“It’s like the castle of the Pyropes. Or the ships of the Amporas. This is something from the old era, isn’t it? That’s an artifact of power; one of those relics that entire kingdoms fought and died over.”

Damara looked nervous, even as she nodded. “Now the city’s layout makes even more sense, doesn’t it? An entire city, built around this artifact, conveying its power.”

“Power to do… what, exactly?” Kankri bent low. He felt extremely nervous in its presence, but also excited. This wasn’t just something for the history books, this would define the Megido sorcerers! They’d found an artifact, an actual artifact of the ancient world!

“I’m not sure.” Damara leaned down, not quite daring to touch it. “It reminds me of the magical power batteries people make by condensing magic into something that can be stored and tapped, but this is far stronger than any of that.” She reflected, once more, upon the vast storm of ghosts lurking around here. Still here, even after so long, with nothing tying them to the world. And perhaps, sustained by something. “It could be naturally occuring, but I think it’s more likely that this artifact once powered this city.”

“Perhaps this was made after eons of this city’s spells discharging excess into something?”

“Or it predates even the city, and they designed those spells after harnessing its power,” Damara countered. “To be honest, I was hoping you might have some insight.”

Kankri crouched down as well. Being in the presence of so much power made him feel intensely uncomfortable, and he would have liked nothing better than to be away from it, but the excitement of the moment was more potent by far. He winced in the fast of so much spiritual power pulsing from it, and he recalled something. “Do you remember the mural?”

“Yes! The crystal it showed; do you think it is the same thing?”

“Well, it would be a strange coincidence, yes?”

Damara, impulsively, clasped his hand. He clasped back, smiling widely, his eyes shining with wonder.

Without thinking, Kankri’s iron self control slackened. It was her influence on him; just as he made Damara feel gentler, let her guard down for once, she made him calm, and so the magical power he possessed, with its ties to emotion and feeling, came loose.

Normally, it wouldn’t have meant much. Perhaps people sensing his feelings and thoughts, or spells materializing to suit his feelings.

But this was not a normal situation.

(For so long, the spirits had called, and cried out for form again. And it could not answer.

The city lay dead and forgotten, and it could not fuel it.

It’s people were gone. The last priest of death and endings had died long ago, the sacred rites lost and with them, the knowledge to maintain it.

It’s power pulsed out, the need of the restless dead and enduring memories pulling at it. The two lives around it pulled it to greater function, and here, HERE was an ideal priestess.

From the other came a pulse of magic, colored in love and affection, and it was a gateway. A road, to giving the spirits peace once more.

It flowed to its new container.)

The crystal pulsed, so brightly that both Kankri and Damara had to shield their eyes, and power radiated from it so furiously at the magical conduits around them ignited in actintic brilliance.

Kankri shouted aloud, and power jumped to him, and his mind ached beneath the strain as unimaginable forces coursed through him, and into Damara, using himself as a living conduit. It only lasted a moment, but it burned so furiously he nearly passed out on the spot. He heard her shout, and he forced himself to stay conscious. He took hold of himself and demanded, No! Stay awake!’

“What?” Damara said, voice steady even with a faint waver.

The light faded, just enough for Kankri to see. “What is it!?” KAnkri yelled. “What’s it doing?”

“I, I don’t know…” Damara’s voice was faint, uncertain. “Yes? Hello?”

“Damara! Who are you talking to!?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was too long; power coursed out, twisting and churning around them, and it felt so alive, and moving with the moment, time itself flowing into its depths and somehow melded with it. It was terrible to behold, it was awful. And this was meant in the old definitions of those words; it was full of awe. It was terrifying, but also somehow a good thing.

And she felt a question directed towards her.

Somehow, she understood what it actually meant.

The weight of ages, of countless generations piling up long before her ancestors had ever walked the continent, loomed before her. She felt as though she were paddling before a tidal wave ready to crash down on her, and the wave had noticed her. And asked something.

She felt sorrow, all the countless and soul-rending sorrows of thousands of souls, trapped in torment for so terribly long. The need to alleviate their pain, to give them form and to find a way to move on, and regain what had been lost, and here, the last remnant of the city that had once tended to their needs lay before her.

“Yes,” she said softly to it.

The crystal flashed, even more brightly than before… and then, it faded. And then it was Damara who glowed with radiant light.

-----

And above, the churning mass of spirits paused.

And then, they slowly descended downwards to the very center of the city, with something like wild relief.

-----

In the chamber below the city, power flashed out, like a fist blindly striking around.

Kankri tumbled as Damara shone so brightly she became impossible to look at directly, flashing a brighter red than his own blood, and so much magic made a physical force that knocked him away. He saw her begin to float upwards, suspended by the power that was funneling into her, merging with her and infusing her living body with its limitless energies.

“Damara!” he wailed. “Let me… hold on!” He tried to crawl, and the pressure shoved him face first against the ground. Even so, he kept crawling, claws against the dirt and pulling him onwards.

And he looked up as the ghosts appeared.

It was the first time he had seen them properly, and he realized what Damara had been coyly hinting at all that time; that this was a place of the unquiet dead, and it was from them she had learned so much of it. HE had little time to dwell on this, though, as the first of them descended upon her.

He stopped, horror halting him completely still, as Damara tilted her head upwards with enough presence of self that his fears faded a little. She flung her arms open wide, as if a mother greeting long lost children, and it was not entirely Damara there, for a moment; there was another presence meshed into her, staring out through her eyes. Not overriding her, but channeled through her.

The ghost, a troll so old that its features were almost totally nothing but faint memory, flew into Damara. And then it was gone, flashing red and sucked up into her. Her belly grew slightly larger, as if it had entered her womb in some strange inversion of sacred birth.

And then another ghost came down, shyly fluttering down. This one landed right across her heart, and vanished into her two. Another did the same, and another, and then another; and with each one, her belly began to swell more than before. Her cloak fluttered, and the robes she wore beneath them swelled outwards, as her body began to take on a more excessively curvaceous shape: magic flowed through her, and her body responded to it by converting it into size and attractive mass.

Four serpentine shapes descended downwards. Kankri stared in awe and a little bit of horror as they hovered downwards, a tornado of spiritual force pulling like a vacuum around Damara’s willing body. The four creatures looking nothing like anything he had ever seen; there were long trailing tails like the bodies of serpents, muscular and powerful forms even more massive than that of the most mighty troll, body-dwarfing bustlines equal to the most magically powerful of mages, and enshrouding Damara now were spectral wings, feathered and gently cradling her.

There were few other details. They were old. They were so old. So many countless ages must have scrubbed away their memories of themselves, perhaps their very identities, until nothing was left but this vague suggestion of what they had once looked like, and an overriding imperative. He felt it, as keenly as he felt any other emotion and mind, and though the minds he touched were so profoundly alien that it scared him, the desperation and hope from them felt familiar indeed.

One of them leaned forward. As far as he could tell, it was presumably a woman, and the only hint of color left was spiral-shaped eyes shining a lime green. The same color as his own blood would be, were he not a mutant. It stared into Damara’s face, making its own mysterious judgements, and then nodded it’s fearsome face once at her.

All four vanished, into her. Damara’s belly billowed out, writhing beneath the surface and flickering with magical force. Kankri stared at this, shocked and bewildered, and then he turned his face away in embarrassment as her top swelled out; her breasts expanded nearly as much as her belly, and even her backside seemed to swell outwards. She radiated an image of fertility, and it was a little mortifying to watch.

He looked back, compelled to do so. It felt wrong to look away. He felt, suddenly, that he was witnessing something sacred; holy.

Damara’s belly expanded outwards even more, the shimmering ghosts stabilizing, becoming part of her and growing docile within her. Her body sustained them, endowed them with serene energies that soothed the torment of their condition, and they fed her back, infusing her with magical energies that made her keep growing even bigger than she already was.

And, above them, the air changed, and the magic from Damara gave shaped to the storm of ghosts descending pleadingly towards her.

There were thousands of them. More. So many of them that he couldn’t possibly keep count, flying with such ferocity that they packed together, spectral forms blending into each other; Damara’s magic gave them greater substance, and he saw their faceless features resolve into more identifiable features, and he felt their minds suddenly bloom again, resolving into being after eons of unraveling and suffering. Complexity flowed from her, giving them not life… but perhaps a form of peace.

How many had died here? How many had been here, all this time, trapped and in such awful torment?

They were all here. All the ghosts of this place, drawn to Damara.

She opened her arms and embraced them, drawing them into herself as they filled her up, and he could not look directly at her as the necromancer’s light shone forth.

(Her power flowed into the ancient conduits, the veins running across the city; into ancient buildings of law and good order. Into the places where food had once been stored, the foundries where the sacred tools had been fashioned, and into the homes where it must be warm and comfortable; for those who lived there, and for those who came there to pass away.

This was largely a moot point, now. But the new residents, the people who had come with Damara, saw portions of the wall suddenly turn on, and the dark city was suddenly illuminated.

Machines turned on, and then off again as they were not needed, scaring the hell out of several humans who’d been investigating the area.

Glyphs, once serving as person-to-person communications, lit up, forming a physical shape; there was no one to speak through them now, so they simply turned off. And unfortunately, Aradia had been sitting there, mistaking it for a chair, and its activation had toppled her right off onto her face. Or onto Kuprum, who had wailed that he was not fit for nobility to boob-slam him. Folykl simply observed that he didn’t seem to be bothered when she did it to him, and realized that ‘bothered’ was not the feeling there.

The walls were damaged, broken. But there was still enough of them to maintain the most basic of the spells, and warmth swelled up, sizzling away the snow. Blessed heat pulsed through the city, filling its streets with a pleasant warmth. Those now looking to give this place life again felt a great sense of relief, before they felt bewildered; what was going on?

And those who used magic, or could at least perceive it, felt the massive surge of magic shooting straight up and drawing restless spirits to it, and they felt the old power of it, enough to make them alarmed. This was the power of ancient workings, lost to modern wonder-workers, and they dreaded to know what it might mean.)

And below the city, in the chamber that had once housed the heart of the city, the roar of such immense power slowly petered away, the weight of it fading so that Kankri was able to get up, and he heard a sound as something very heavy landed on the ground.

He looked up; all the ghosts were gone. He looked to his side, and there was the crystal artifact. It was still there, reasonably intact, though it had been severely drained. It’s surface was translucent, apparently hollowed out, the vast bulk of the power it carried now somewhere else. Or in someone else.

He looked up. His ability to sense magical energies almost quailed before the sheer quantity of it in front of him, nearly as much as the crystal had done before, and there was Damara.

Well. Certainly, it was Damara. A lot more of Damara than he’d imagined ever seeing.

Damara rocked back and forth on her feet, groaning faintly, with a faint hint of satisfaction. She was bigger, her cloak not destroyed but pushed back by the expanding force of her enlarged body, hanging back like a too-small cape. Her body was broader; her hips more than four and a half feet across, her arms wider across than before, and her thighs noticeably bigger than they had been, and that was saying quite a lot.

But her stomach had grown impossibly huge, even by the generous standards that magically-fueled expansion could change for a body. Damara leaned upon it; an enormous mass slung out in front of her, so big that it was longer across than she was tall, and rose up nearly as high as she was taller. Some part of him thought that it was even bigger still than he was, or at least looked that way; there was just so much mass, so much gray-red flesh swelling out. The sheer volume of it was a physical weight, drawing both magical focus towards it, and the eye.

She rocked forwards, standing on her tip-toes into her stomach. Two enormous swells, barely contained by a robe top that had generously grown to keep them within a minimum of modesty, wobbled on the steady shifting of her belly’s firm surface. It took Kankri a moment to realize those were her breasts, grown by the same process that had made her stomach so big. They were huge; as big as a massive chunk of her own body, at least five feet out and easily over ten feet across each, sprawling over the top and sides of her stomach in much the same way that Damara herself liked to lounge on couches.

For that matter, her stomach was increasingly beginning to resemble a couch, at least in terms of size.

Kankri began to draw close, so worried that he couldn’t stay back. Damara groaned, her eyes fluttered. There was a red glow there, which faded; whatever alien presence had spoken to her, or merged with her, faded away. The crystal on the ground pulsed more brightly, almost like a living thing.

She was changed, even so. Even apart from having breasts so massive Kankri could have slept comfortably on them, or a stomach as big as she was. He glanced nervously from the firm and distinctive shape that suggested pregnancy to him, and he almost jumped at the movement from within, of serpentine shapes and many horned shapes brushing against it, briefly.

Damara blinked again, and now she looked directly at him.

“Oh,” she said, voice soft and low. “That feels… nice.”

She gave him another look. Instincts more central to her character took hold. She smirked. “What’s with that look?”

Kankri became vaguely aware that he was blushing horrendously.

“I think you need to cover up,” he said, looking away and covering his eyes.

Damara looked at herself, and took stock of the situation. As in so many other things, she took refuge in audaciousness and teasing him:

“Perhaps you could spraw upon me, and warm me up that way?”

“Damara, we are in the north, romantic cuddling will not help and anyway I don’t think you’re appreciating the gravity of the situation!”

“Firstly, it’s… surprisingly warm, now. Secondly, don’t you mean… gravid-ity?”

“Puns don’t count as helping!

-------

Less than a week went by, after that momentous day.

This was not much time, from an objective view of things. It was little enough time for life to be established or for the memory of it to fade from the world. Certainly it wasn’t enough time for the trolls, humans and carapacians who had traveled across from their lands to do more than simply settle into the city, and make it a little more comfortable for them.

It definitely was not long enough for Damara to really adjust to her new body. Or for that matter, for everyone else to adjust to her.

“You’re looking more like your mother every day,” Sollux observed, sitting on a table they’d set up in a fairly large building close to the entrance of the city as a whole. From the outside, Damara had seen as they’d struggled to get her in there, it loomed over the neighborhood around it, topped by a fancy dome; an upper level had been converted into a bedroom for herself via the addition of many plush bag-seats that piled together to form a makeshift mattress suitable for her body.

Kankri had his own apartments in another improvised dwelling not far from there, but in practice he stayed at her place every night, pouring over plans with her: devising new schemes for infrastructure, working out the logistics of supply caravans due to be called for within a few months, working out nearby eras to start establishing crops (rice, for example, making use of the swampy region to make paddies), and on and on, until the nights grew long and they both grew weary, and they fell into each other’s arms.

Well. Rather, he fell between her breasts and on top of her stomach, the spirits within her writhing invisibly as he came down. Her arms weren’t quite enough to hold him for a proper embrace, but the rest of her body could manage it fine.

The doors of this building were exceptionally wide, and high; it threw off the sociological assumptions many of them had come with, given that it was far too wide to make sense for a normal troll sensibility, and perhaps suitable for industrial-grade carts to be rolled in. The ramped stairway and a smooth floor, suitable for slithering, suggested it had been made for an entirely different kind of body, far larger than a troll.

It also meant that Damara was able to get into this home without too much difficulty, which had been a major consideration in choosing it as her temporary residence until the city was restored enough to find more permanent lodgings. ‘Too much’ was not the same as saying ‘none at all’ though; Sollux had said this while glancing wryly at the doorway, which was presently a massive lump of belly flesh squeezing out around the doorframe, from the ceiling to about halfway up it, softness pushing out so thickly against the doorframe that it made a faint noise as she tried to force her way through.

“I promise you, Captor,” Damara said through gritted fangs, clicking them in a grimace with each word, “I will get in here and I will find a way to hit you!”

“Just don’t drop your big-ass belly on me,” he said, tonelessly. “That’s what’ll ruin my day.”

Damara’s belly inched slightly through  Roughly over a hundred pounds of solid cinnamonblood gut was pushing through and the dark grey tinting into genuine shades of dark red where she was exerting herself, or even pulsing with the thick essence of raw magic currently fused into her physical body.

Aradia was floating in the air, for reasons she had declined to volunteer to anyone. She was watching Damara’s progress with great interest, and a lot of envy. “How’s it feel having all those ghosts inside you like that?” She asked, grinning a little too wide to be entirely approachable.

Damara grunted. She pushed forward with one leg, shoving herself with telekinetic might, so much that she managed to get a few feet of stomach through the wall. She shivered as her stomach now touched the cool floor, but the outslung mass of her apparently pregnant belly had a lot more to go. “You’ve asked me this before, Aradia! Kankri, I need you to push hard - now!”

“As you ask!” Kankri shoved against her back, pushing with all his surprisingly considerable might. They moved together as a single unit, sliding her at a reasonably consistent, but insufferably just steady pace.

Aradia watched them slide in. “Oh, hey, your boobs made it in now.”

“I noticed!” Damara retorted. Now that her stomach was about halfway through, her massive mammary mounds wobbled at a slight incline, the rise of her firm belly pushing between them. Combined with her disinterest in supportive undergarments and her fondness for loose fabric, her breasts sloped gently downwards.

And that, in turn, combined with her stomach being very bouncy and rippling at the slightest touch. The ground slapped up from below her, the doorframe pinched so hard her stomach wobbled even more fiercely from the force redirected throughout the whole thing, and it rose into her breasts, and they were almost constantly wobbling and shifting.

And very sensitive, as it transpired. Damara was having a hard time pretending to be stoic and contain the erogenous pleasure of so much movement, so she channeled it into sounding angry all the time.

“Push, now!” Damara ordered.

Kankri did so, wearing a cloak low over his head to cover his face and his extremely intense blush. There was just so much… Damara now, and everywhere his unrefined hands fell, it just sank in. He was having to be very careful where his hands went; her butt was so massive now that just putting his arm on her waist could risk an inappropriate patting, if he wasn’t careful.

(Granted, she didn’t actually seem to care, but he thought he ought to. It was gentlemanly.)

“Somewhere besides the small of my back,” Damara said tensely. Kankri was pushing, but it wasn’t going with the rest of her attempts to keep moving, and now she was being pushed upwards onto her own gut, her boobs rising up and pinched by the door overhead, and now they hung directly above her as her powers misfired, and lifted them upwards. “Move with me!”

Kankri obliged by ramming into her with his shoulder, making alarming noises when his hip slid between her robed butt.

“Close enough,” Damara said, both of them sliding through the door.

Over the noise of something that sounded distinctly like enough sloshing to contain a couple troll-sized communal pools, Damara and Kankri’s struggles to get her through continued. There was a crude kitchen set up in the room beyond; a table that was probably meant for many people but in practice worked fine for Sollux, Aradia, Kankri, a couple attendants, and Damara in all her vast scope. At the other side of the room, there were several makeshift stoves, attended by the frenetic figure of Kuprum and the more reserved movement of Folykl.

To be specific, Kuprum was doing all the work. Folykl sat back, periodically running like a quadruped (her massive butt stuck in the air like the tail of a beat, wobbling so much that it was amazing it didn’t affect her movement) to steal some food when Kuprum wasn’t looking, and sometimes when he was, and otherwise she sat back to do whatever errands her superiors demanded of her. Or dared her to do, as Aradia had spent the week discovering to her delight.

“Eat that bug, I dare you!” Aradia said, growing briefly bored with the sight of Damara’s growth hampering her daily life.

“Okay,” Folykl said. She pounced, and there was the distinctive noise of a very large bustline smacking into the ground. A small bug was caught between her cleavage, that Folykl swiftly extracted and promptly gulped down.

Aradia clapped. “What did I ever do without you!?”

Folykl tilted her head. “Be super bored, I guess.”

Sollux made a face. “That’s disgusting. ...Do it again.”

Folykl went to chase more bugs, pausing to glance adoringly at Damara’s… bigness, slowly making its way through the doorway. There was a look in her black eyes, light playing against the pitch-dark coloration from corner to corner, that suggested she dearly wanted something like that to herself. Or to lay in those boobs. Or both.

In the meantime, Sollux went to Kuprum. “So, some good news, bud.”

Kuprum saluted with one hand, and continued flipping a monstrously huge collection of pancakes, each with its own pan, all at the same time. “You’ve made a motion to fuse me and Folykl into a horrible monster to serve as a minion?”

Sollux paused. “You want that?”

“No sir! It sounds existentially terrifying, sir!”

“No, we absolutely are not doing that. Why are you so excited about it?”

“I’m just happy to be of service, sir!”

“We have GOT to get you a backbone.”

“Understood! Where do you want me to have it installed?”

Sollux groaned. “I’ve got the paperwork finished, so you and your little buddy there,” he indicated Folykl, currently scratching her hair with her hindfoot, as Aradia mimicked her in mid-air. “Are now officially employed as Damara’s attendants, given her…” he sought for proper words. “Condition.” He showed the paperwork to Kuprum, who being barely literate, stared at the legal fine print and complex wording with polite terror. “...That’s a good thing. Means you get paid and crap. And given that service for a noble gets attention from the magical orders, that’s practical a shoo-in for being accepted into the Captor universities of your choice.”

Kuprum nodded gratefully. “Thank you, sir! So very much, sir! What’s a university?”

Sollux paused. “What’s your level of schooling, again?”

“Is that something you eat? Is it poisoned? Should i be a food taster?”

“No, no. Guess we should, uh, find some schooling for you before we set all that up, too.”

“That’s good! I think?”

Sollux cuffed him on the back of the head, in a friendly way. “It is, yeah.”

Kuprum shrieked in delight. “My head has felt the impact of a noble! I may never wash it again!”

Aradia shouted, from above, “Wash your head as soon as you can, mister! That’s just nasty!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Kuprum said loyally, though with obvious disappointment.

“And go help Damara and Kankri!”

Folykl and Kuprum both saluted. Or at least, Kuprum did. Folykl, being rather newer at the whole concept, just smacked herself in the face. But at least it was respectful. They hurried over to Damara’s emerging body, like cleaner birds flocking around a whale trying to beach itself. (And hopefully grow legs or something, because you didn’t want whales actually beaching themselves.)

“Hey, what’s that there!?” Damara said sharply as she felt a telekinetic power grip the sides of her stomach and the bottom.

“Ha ha, wow, this is really heavy!” Kuprum said cheerfully from the other side, his magical power manifesting as telekinesis, and Damara’s stomach began to float under his power, and inch through as he pulled.

“Who’s there!?”

Folykl began to climb up the front of Damara’s stomach. “Oh my shit this is so damn squishy I love it.” Beneath her, Damara’s newfound power gave shape and substance to the spirits housed within her, and several of them moved against her, so that her skin surged with horns and handprints at Folykl’s passing. “That looks DISGUSTING, your booby-ness. I dig it.”

“What’s climbing on me!?” Damara said, genuinely alarmed.

“Just push please, your booby-ness!” Kuprum shouted from the outside, readying for a massive pull.

“Fine, whatever!” Damara said. “And stop calling me that! Kankri, push! On the count of one… two…”

She counted to three, and she, and Kankri, pushed with their respective capacity for might.

Kankri was very strong now. Kuprum pulled her, and Folykl jumped up and down with so much enthusiasm that it squashed her belly up and down, the rippling motion making her stomach slide through easier.

But Damara’s power echoed out, as a wave of force that blasted clear to the skies above; in its wake, ghosts and spirits that had been drawn to the reawakened power of the city took on a physical form for an alarming few seconds, and then more alien shapes appeared above: her power called to thoughts and memories, to stray ideas, to even the basic resonance left in the old stone and that growing anew as people accumulated new memories and life in the city, and she was so strong that even this little exertion of power gave all that form, for a few miraculous moments.

The sky above twisted with eldritch forms, which faded.

The exertion also shoved Damara and Kankri into the house, right on top of Kuprum and Folykl, which did not fade.

After the shaking stopped, Damara groaned.  “Is anyone dead?” She said grumpily.

Kuprum and Folykl made noises beneath her, indicating they were okay.

“Fine. Good.” Damara leaned up, her stomach firmly propping her into the air by a good eight feet, at the very least. Her breasts flopped down, barely robed, nearly to the ground. This kind of dress might have been a very bad idea, given the weather, but the magical awakening of the city she had caused had also made the climate within the city significantly warmer, so she felt free to dress as she pleased.

She leaned up, squinting. It was far too early in the morning for all this, and she was sorely regretting ever leaving for a bit of managing the construction outside the city. “Kankri! Where are you!?”

“I promise you I did not mean to do this, I am not doing any inappropriate touching!” Kankri said desperately from behind her, and also atop her, his arms firmly plastered to his sides, but the rest of him sinking into her backside. His face was pressed firmly against the small of his back.

“Actually, that’s quite pleasant,” Damara replied, a sly tone in her words. “You may stay.”

“Damara, that’s indecent!”

Her breasts wiggled. Eventually, Folykl’s horns and then her face poked up between them, her compact body brimming with energies as she leeched off the ambient magical energies gushing off Damara. “Can I stay!?”

“...Sure. Why not.”

“You are gracious and crap, your booby-ness.”

“But not if you keep calling me that.”

Sollux watched the whole thing with a faint frown. “Will you move already!? You might have crushed your new attendant!”

Damara tilted her head. “My what now?”

Kuprum wiggled out, head eventually appearing from under her belly. “I have been crushed by the firm iron belly of authority!” He said, obscenely delighted. “It’s everything I ever wanted out of life! I LOVE this job!”

Damara blinked. “Oh.” She glanced back again. “Why do I need attendants?”

“You did just spend fifteen minutes wiggling your way through a door until they helped,” Aradia said delicately. “I’d say that’s why.”

“Ah.”

Damara rocked up, so Kuprum could extricate himself, and she allowed her new attendants to get down and push her belly, so she rocked back up to a standing position. And everywhere, she felt herself bouncing, and Kankri sliding (absolutely mortified, which was a plus) onto his own feet again.

She felt a keen sense of her own body, and how massive it was. The spirits within herself as well, feeding her power as she fed them back with a sort of mystical complexity that made them more active, more aware, thinking and feeling more. Perhaps soon, they would be able to move onto whatever awaited them, or for the ones that were just memories imprinted, to fade away or express a desire to be shaped into useful objects.

The idea of it, and feeling them inside her, making her so big (inconvenient as it might sometimes be) genuinely felt very good.

The power coursing through her, making her an equal to any country-killing weapon hoarded from the old days, though, was something she was actively trying not to think about.

But that would be a matter for another day.

[skyrim-drabbles-n-stuff]

Miraak x Ldb: Baby (dragon) Fever

(Baby dragon this time)

Winter was not a forgiving season in your homeland. Everyone knows that even through the summer Skyrim was known for its delightful flurries. So to say that it was cold would be one hell of an understatement. However despite the atrocity of the elements, you were capable of making your proud homestead comfortable. A humble fire ignited by a mere mumble of “yol” and a bottle of spiced wine in your hand.

The only thing troubling you at this point was the fact that Miraak was due back home from foraging a little over an hour ago. Sure, he was definitely able to take care of himself. Gods he was anything but defenseless. Perhaps the source of your anxiety stemmed not from what could happen to him, but what would happen to something if it messed with him.

Thankfully before your mind could wonder too far your focus was snapped back to reality by the sound of a door opening, howling winds accompanying it before an abrupt stop. Eyes still gazing into the fire you grinned, you knew who it was. Even if you didn’t at first, you knew the pattern of footfalls and clinking of golden chains by heart, quickly giving away who it belonged to.

“I was just wondering where you were..” Was your breaking of the silence, a happiness you didn’t realize was missing taking over.

However when he didn’t answer, his large form languidly retreating to your shared quarters, the smile dropped rather quickly. He was grumpy naturally but it was unlike him to ignore you. If anything he’d annoy you to no end before ignoring you.

What could he possibly be mad about? Surely he heard you.

With an agitated huff you pursued him. Frustration growing with each step closer. Once you passed the doorway you were practically fuming. It was pitiful he could invoke such strong emotions so easily, but hey, you loved the bastard so if anyone was aloud to do this to you it should be him. Needless to say, you were still pissed.

If looks could kill, he’d likely have daggers sticking out his now bare back. His robes were full of rapidly melting snow and were now lying in a messy pile next to his boots. How’d he get undressed so quickly? It didn’t matter.

Crossing your arms over your chest you cleared your throat. “I was worried.” You gruffly sneered, brow furrowing.

When he didn’t answer again, only looking over to give you emerald hued side eye, you were about to blow up. How dare he stand at the foot of your bed, bare save for his pants, infuriating you beyond belief?

As though sensing your impending fury, he sighed, opening his mouth to speak. Before any words could form, a distinct “squeak” stopped him. Instantly his eyes were saucer sized, now perfectly fixated on you.

“What the hell?” You muttered, arms uncrossing before you took a few hurried steps to his side.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for what was previously hidden. Did you gasp? Yelp? You didn’t even know. For what reaction would be appropriate when there was a minuscule creature lying on your bed? What was one supposed to do when there was a...a..dragon?

Being Dragonborn didn’t mean you knew what to do in the presence of another dov. Kill was definitely a first instinct but...not now. Time itself seemed to heed as you took in the details of the creature before you.

It was..beautiful? Scales glimmering in the candlelight a shiny golden-cream color. It’s wide, curious eyes a kind amber hue. It was no bigger than a wolf pup, yet it stood as proudly as its tiny wings and legs would allow.

Whenever it’s eyes met yours is when they really lit up. From the tiny form erupted a strangely cute hissing chirp as it inspected you, it’s head tilting side to side.

“I think the little dovah likes you.” Finally, your lover’s deep accented voice spoke, a gentle expression on his face.

With no hesitation, one of his burly arms wrapped around your waist. His gaze however was still transfixed on the little creature, clearly amused as it approached you.

“Um..yeah, wait no. Miraak, where..?” “It’s no matter, this little one didn’t have a home. She wouldn’t survive on her own.” He mused, his free hand reaching towards the golden dragon to lovingly let the top of her little head. “It wouldn’t have been right to leave her, sahrohtaar practically forbade it.”

Maybe you’ve gone insane. That was plausible. You knew he was compassionate but you were sure that it was limited to you and yourself alone. Never in a million years would you have expected this. Besides..when did dragons mate? You were almost certain they were all male. Okay yeah, logically speaking that couldn’t have been so but you’ve never seen a female dragon. Save for yourself of course..but that didn’t really count right?

Following his arm up to his face you were even more so shocked. The look of love in his eyes was astonishing. It wasn’t the love he shown when he looked at you, but you could tell it was easily as significant, just not the same type. For a man who proclaimed hatred for dragons, this was earth shaking.

“I don’t know what to say...” you drawled, slowly grinning once again. You were terrified, weirded out and disturbed but..if it meant you could continue to see that gentle look in his eyes, all of it was worth it. “Does..does she have a name?” You asked, melting as his loving eyes met your own- the kindness in his smile enough to make you forget about the frozen fury raging outside the safety of your home.

He hummed tentatively at your question. A habit of his that let you know when he put great thought into something. “Yes..I was thinking, Briiviinhind.” He was proud and it was obvious.

“Brii..Beautiful..shine..hope? Not really a scary dragon name, but still proper. Three words of power.” Oh gods, you were slowly falling in love with the little thing. Maybe this was Akatosh’s punishment for your coupling with the First Dragonborn.

“It doesn’t have to be threatening love.” He playfully chided, practically purring whenever you fully embraced his side. It amazes you how he managed to stay so warm, it had to be the Atmoran blood. “Just has to be fitting and..her new mother has to approve of course.”

“Mother...?” Your eyes were now wide as well, lips apart as you processed. Maybe you were dragon enough after all, as much as he was at least. “So are you the father now?” The question came out oddly playful considering you were still feeling from shock.

“Well of course I am. Besides...” He paused, his smile widening to the point of exposing his scruff covered dimples as the baby dragon began its trek up his body in search for additional warmth. “Besides, i’ll need all the practice I can get.”

“Hmm..practice for what?” Now your interest was completely piqued.

“For when I end up putting a nestling of our own in your belly.” “WHAT??” To this he laughed, a lovely pink blush on the tip of his nose and a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as he winked.

Divines preserve you.

[luci-four]

Hey four can I get some of that sweet sweet soulmate au with solomon perhaps 👀

A/N: No, solely because you asked ��(｀⌒´メ)ノ im joking im joking........ unless???? Nah im kidding here you go shelby uwu (if anyone is curious and isnt familiar with tarot, the Tower card, in this story, is in the upright position with the idea of “massive change/chaos/destruction”)

Amare. {Solomon x Reader/MC}

The night was warm. Summer Solstice. The moon was full; rare, beautiful, powerful. The trees around them held centuries of wisdom and the magic in the air was genuine and electric; the leaves slightly danced above their heads as the wind spirit herself whispered words of love to the faeries that danced among the branches. Magic roamed the Earth, free, happy, and within all that graced it.

He could see nothing but them. The way the light caressed their skin and illuminated their eyes, the way their smile was just as airy as the spirits that pranced around them, how the gentlest of flowers they held in their hand seemed to intermingle with their own skin. Summer Solstice is a time to slow down; the day is meant for self-reflection and charging of magic. For doing less and being more.  

Solomon had always been less so that he may give his love more.  

Summer Solstice is the longest day of the year, a day charged with playful magic to taunt those who don’t fully appreciate the sentimental features of the day. Solomon spent it with the first love of his life; young and restless, their souls just recently finding their place on this plane. He was happy, strong, in love. He knew nothing of sorrow or fear, for the spirits, the magic, the runes and the cards never warned him as such. His soul was free to love theirs, roam the Earth together, to exist simply among the magic that coursed through his veins and pumped through the very heart that only had a beat for the love who stood in front of him now. No fear. No pain.

The night was perfect, and so were they. With forest creatures as their witnesses, they spoke of love and marriage, the idea of being together for all of eternity. Their skin was soft as he held their face in his hands, his knees straining to keep themselves up as the look in their eyes knocked the wind out of him.  

They both leaned in, hoping to tie their bodies together as they have their spirits. Closer, closer, their breath fanning across one another’s face, smiles just barely grazing against each other.

Solomon had pulled the Tower card.

It was cold this time. Solomon opened his eyes when he felt the warmth of another stand beside him. It was a familiar presence, and laying his eyes on them caused the wave of realization to wrap him in warmth as though he were bundled in a blanket. He held out a hand, asking if they’d like to join him; their eyes remembered him as well, their souls both still in their youth and mighty playful.  

They danced among the snow-covered ground, the wet soaking into their poor, thin shoes. Their laughter was warm, his smile was bright; neither of them paid any mind to Jack Frost’s painful bite. Winter Solstice. The longest night of the year. Yule is a time to welcome back the return of the sun—where life begins once more. Here, in front of him now as several years have passed, he’s able to welcome his sun back home, in his soul, where they were meant to be.

Watching their step and prancing around to keep their bodies warm, they roamed what used to be a thriving village that fell at the hands of Pestilence as neither of their magic could save those who suffered. Broken homes, unfortunate souls who couldn’t seem to understand what had happened, and piles of those lost to the clammy hands of The Black Death. The spirits of those who lingered decided to play in their game of tag and brought along the bitter wind that caused them to shiver; Solomon held them close.

Standing there, simply allowing themselves to mend the broken bridge between their souls as their bodies had become strangers. They looked up and stuck their tongue out, smiling as a snowflake just as uniquely beautiful landed on their tongue—Solomon wished he could commit such an intricate shape to his memory. He looked down at them as they looked up, smile begging for him to lean down and share in his warmth.

Faces close, breath warm between them so that the winter’s frozen fractals could no longer show themselves, they leaned further and further, electricity between one another’s magic jolting through every inch of their skin--

Solomon had seen a crumbling Tower in the distance.

He gasped as he came back to Earth from travelling through the clouds.

Metal upon metal clanked loudly around him; he could hardly think. Screams of pain, of anger, of fear rattled through his ears and echoed throughout the headgear he had donned on his head. Shiny, heavy, the light off of those who wore things similar blinded him whenever he got a solid chance to see around him. The aura was dark, angry, nasty; it blanketed his heart and made his soul feel so lonely.

Violence was futile. He didn’t want this—weapons were useless and senseless killing hurt his empathy. Where had the love of magic gone? Where had love gone?

Through the crumbled tower his footsteps caused the rock beneath them fall away. It was dangerous, he was aware, but he wanted to hide away regardless. At the top of the stairwell, he found a struggle as both of them toppled over one another in an attempt to keep dominance, and their life. On his back, attempting to push himself up, the tip of a sword tapped against the dip between his collarbones and warned him to stop. With a fluid motion, his helmet had been knocked off of his head and he held his breath, waiting for the moment where it all went cold.

His dark eyes opened to meet those wet with tears, oh so familiar. Their weapon had been tossed aside and they carefully, cautiously, knelt down to become level with him. A face full of confusion and soul burning with recognition, they gently reached out for him; as the cold metal caressed his face, all other senses grew dull to the chaos around the two of them. As Set rose in the distance, Solomon could only focus on the curve of their face in front of him, the width of their smile, the darkness those beautiful eyes have seen this lifetime.

Without so much as a whisper or ghost of a word, the two leaned in, ready for whatever the fate of knights had to bear so long as their souls suffered it together.  

With the ghost of a kiss just before his lips, he felt the Tower beneath him crumble to pieces.

Startled, he woke up with a start. He found himself beneath a tree whose leaves had been freshly turned green and the soft petals had only recently welcomed the suns warmth. It was quiet here, peaceful, welcoming to the changes. The book in his lap was heavy—a grimoire or spell book of sorts—Solomon couldn’t remember which one he had picked up. It hadn’t mattered, anyway, as he idly flipped through the pages to keep himself busy. Young love blossomed like the flowers, and Solomon had been waiting for his turn.

A pair of hands covered his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile. Guessing wrong a few times just to get a laugh from them before he was able to pull them into his lap, his book now discarded. They were pink, like the flowers they loved to go see in the forest, a hue that always graced his eyes. They sat together, against the tree that felt like home to one another, and simply existed. They ushered in a new beginning, beautiful change, something happy within the dark times the world played around them.  

Their souls were at peace once more, the magic in between them fading only for a moment to allow them to realize just how important the feeling was. They were together, they were happy. They were spring and sweet and Solomon couldn’t help but find himself sleepy as he held them in his arms, as their warmth and feel of home made him feel the safest he’d been in centuries.  

He closed his eyes, feeling the darkness that accompanied sleep welcome him with a hug as hands cupped his face once more, a different feeling closing in near his face that he couldn’t help but smile at as lips brushed against his own. He smiled, half asleep, his physical begging them for their lips to fully meet his own, but his unconscious dragging him down the abyss.  

Solomon dreamt of falling from a tower.

He fell for so long, and awoke bound—he didn’t like that. His feet no longer touched the ground; he could feel the magic within his heart grow angry, dark, full of absolute hatred far before he opened his eyes.  

Tied to a stake as crowds around him screamed of the Devil’s Magic, cried of demons and evil, when they were the ones whose hearts had been dipped in darkness. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. How could he end up in a place like this when the magic he used had never been for ill intent?  

Eyes darting around, he looked. His soul knew what he had been looking for—would he not find it this time? His mind did not know, but the core of him did. His eyes found nothing.  

Desperately, secretly, he felt another pair of hands brush against the pair tied behind him. On impact, they made every inch of his body tinkle; warmth. Familiarity. Home. He turned his head, desperate to lay his eyes on them when in the softest of voices, they asked him not to look. They didn’t want his soul to suffer any more than it had been. As much as possible, they intertwined their fingers with his, allowing what little time they had left to connect their souls once more. He didn’t want to leave yet—he asked them their name this time, smiling when he mentioned it suited them.  

They were scared, he could feel it. He didn’t wish to let them know he was too. Silently, his eyes started to tear up, and he let himself cry as flames started to tickle at both of their feet. He smiled when they sent him off with a goodbye, their fingers never letting go until the very end.  

It all grew dark and far too warm for his liking. Solomon had been too warm for too long.

He sighed and opened his eyes—why was the café he found himself in so damn hot? The leaves outside had changed to such gorgeous hues and the cold breeze was starting to chase those who ventured outdoors. Perhaps it was only so warm because he had come in from such weather? He sat at a small table in the corner and flipped through another book.  

People came and went, chatter hit highs and lows and the bell above the door started to have a sweet sound to it. Someone had come by to ask if he needed anything, and he could hardly remember what he ordered. A different voice greeted him this time, gifting him with a warm drink and a complimentary sweet that he could immediately smell the cinnamon baked into.

Solomon put his book down and smiled, thanking them and accepting the drink with obvious gratitude. All it took was a brush of the hand once again to cause his eyes to widen and meet theirs as though it were a mirror. The bustle of the small place melted away in an instant, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time shooting through his body as several things he thought had been lost awakened within him. He could see them awaken too, though they had been much more confused than he was.

He cupped their face not as gently as he would have liked as he was desperate; desperate to hold, to kiss, to love them once more as his simple life found what it had been missing once again. Their eyes grew misty, and a smile graced their features as he pulled their face down to his quickly, passionately, like the movies they’d been playing about love the past handful of years. Something cliché, but lovely, as their lips grew ever closer to his.

The radio station playing softly on the speakers played a song by some niche band called Tower.

He felt tapping on his nose and begrudgingly opened his eyes. The angelic blue eyes in front of him taunted him, he pushed his friend’s hand away.  

Solomon had fallen asleep—it wasn’t normal for him to sleep in class—much less in a school such as this one. Being among one of the new students was odd, but it wasn’t as if a place like this wasn’t... familiar to him. He’d been around people, creatures, beings like this before—long ago—he’d lie if he said it didn’t remind him of a home he could no longer remember.  

Magic here was strong—he was strong—and he liked that. It never seemed to fix this deep gash inside of him that never seemed to want to heal, but it was a nice change of pace. Or, so he thought. He wasn’t sure what it was a change from—but the cards constantly told him it was a good one. What secrets were the cards hiding from him this time?  

Another one was supposed to join the class today—another human, they said—making them a pair in a demon-dominating population. He wondered what they’d be like, after all, talk had already gotten around with everyone’s assumptions. His feet were heavy as he walked through the hallway—he just hoped they’d be able to survive.  

Footsteps came up the empty stairs, and he watched for whoever owned them. An audible gasp passed by his lips as the light from the window above shone onto their hair and illuminated the pair of eyes that locked with his.

Old, familiar, home, love. Such deep emotions hit Solomon all at once, to the point he couldn’t help but let his eyes start to tear up. A smile curved onto their lips, and one donned on his own as he moved closer to them, reaching out to touch them once again; such a beautiful smile spoke such rich words.

“You must be Solomon.”

[a-libra-writes]

11 from the kiss prompt list with mance 🥺🥺

also i’m so glad you’re doing better and writing again!

thank you thank you!! Kiss Prompt 11: ““I almost lost you” kiss”

The wind whipped at her angrily, cutting coldly into her cheeks and making her eyes burn. She was used to freezes as a girl, but it had only been getting colder since the Others began to rise. She stood tall in front of her men, glad the tears the wind was forcing were going to freeze on her cheeks. It was a rare day when she cried. The North bred cold, hard people, like the ones she led.

They waited with her. Her best spearwoman was at her side, as was Tormund, who was trying not to sway on his feet with impatience. Val absently brushed at her eyes, and Y/N knew she was feeling that same sting, both from the wind and from her heart.

It was a sad thing, this Castle Black. The parts that were burned in their little invasion still smelled of charcoal, and they’d yet to fully repair the device and the stairs that took them up to the top of the wall. It doesn’t look so different on the other side, Y/N thought. But there’s a world of difference when it’s no longer in your way.

Finally, the crows emerged. They were in a huddled group, like when ravens fed on carrion, just waiting to be chased away. She picked out their Lord Snow well enough, and that tall, solemn one they called a “king”, and the cursed red woman beside him. Y/N’s tightened her jaw as she looked at all the faces, peering into their eyes with her own. 

“Well? Where is he?” Tormund barked. “Is there a scrap of honor in your little band after all?”

She didn’t chastise him, thinking the same herself. Finally, the group parted enough to show what she wanted. Two large crows were holding Mance, and her breath caught in her throat. Her love looked tired, so very tired, and paler than she recalled, but he was alive. There was bruising at his neck where they had once tied a rope; she didn’t miss it. Her sharp eyes met Lord Snow’s.

“He is unharmed, like I promised,” The boy said. That’s what he was, a boy, and a crow, and a turncloak and a bastard, so many things. Y/N felt that when a man was so many things at once, he’d eventually lose what he was. Sometimes she pitied him, but only sometimes.

“If that is what you mean by unharmed,” Y/N replied coldly. She nodded to her spearwoman and Tormund, who made quick work of taking Mance away from the two crows. His legs were not bound, but he walked unsteadily as if they were. Tormund quickly untied the bindings at his wrists.

That was unneeded, he’s already so weak, Y/N felt contempt all over again. Her heart was pounding, but she had to keep herself in check. She turned her angry glare to the king and his red witch. “We have come to an agreement, then?”

“We have,” Their southern king said. “Your people will fight for my crown, and I will grant you the lands beyond the wall.”

As if they were your’s to give, King Without a Throne. You southerners know nothing. Y/N kept her tongue. She dared to meet Mance’s eyes, and felt her resolve rapidly falling. She wanted to take him into her arms right there, but they both knew it was not the time. She could feel the animosity of their people around her, their disdain for this agreement. 

“Not just us, but our people who pass beyond the wall, as well. Many more will flee, and when the time comes -”

“Aye, I will fight your Others. Like I said.” The King nodded brusquely. The red witch beside him said nothing for once, but she had a queer expression. 

Is that disappointment? Y/N thought. Did you want a burning so badly, you godless witch?

They would not have this one. Let her burn the rest of them, as long as her and Mance’s people were safe. Damn the southern lords and these little games they played. 

“I will hold you to that, your grace,” Y/N only thinly veiled her contempt. Val, Tormund, her spearwoman, all the rest shared in it, even if they said nothing. That was it, then. They could leave to the New Gift, for now, until they were called. Y/N had no doubt she would have deserters, but … That’s for another time.

It would not be so perilous as going over the Wall, but Mance was weakened. Y/N would send men ahead to scout, then they’d all move together. Tormund helped her carry Mance to the temporary tent she’d set up outside the perimeter of Castle Black. She refused to sit in those ruined stony walls, enduring the mockery of the King’s men and the hatred of crows. 

“I can do it myself,” She heard Mance mutter as he stepped aside from Tormund and uneasily sat himself on a pile of furs. His clothing was only little more than rags, and he had a roughspun old black cloak about his shoulders. It was not the old red and black one she made him so long ago. 

Tormund didn’t need to be asked to give them time. She was grateful, knowing he was burning with questions. “See to the rest, make sure they’re ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Heh, we’ve been more than ready to leave.” Tormund nodded to the two of them, then took his leave.

She wrapped her arms around Mance’s torso so quickly, the man flinched, but settled into it quickly. Y/N worried she must have hurt him, touched a wound, or worse, a bruised rib. She tried to pull away, but Mance put his arms around her too, drawing her close.

He smelled of mud and mildew, but stronger than that, smoke and charcoal. Tears sprang to her eyes and once, and these would not freeze on her cheeks. 

“None of that, now,” Mance said gently, but it was too late. 

“Did they try it?” Y/N demanded, the tears falling freely. “Did they think I would not notice? Let me see your feet.”

“My love -”

“Let me see!”

Mance sighed. He pulled up the dirty trousers they gave him, and pulled off the worn, old boots. They were not the ones he normally wore, they were too big. His feet were blistered and burned.

“The Others take them!” Y/N said. “Let them freeze this castle first, then take the rest of their greenlands! All of it!”

“Love,” Mance said again. He could still stand to speak so quietly, so gently, even like this. He held her face in his hands and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “It did not happen. I’m here now. ‘Twas our little crow that stopped them.”

She didn’t care what the lord Snow did. If he hadn’t turned against them, if the King hadn’t come here with that red woman … if only the Others hadn’t …

“You are here,” Y/N said. She held close to him again, and kissed him. She was cold, and so was he, and so was the howling wind outside the tent, but nothing was so warm and comforting as this little action. His hands ran along her hair, and down her back, resting there. He is doing more to reassure me, and he was the one that was nearly cooked.

“I’m proud of you, my queen,” Mance said against her brow. “You did this, as much as Snow. You held strong, and now we have a home.”

There was no home as long as the Others were at their backs, and there was no telling the intentions of the southerners, but she let herself nod and rest against his chest. At least they were safe tonight, and tomorrow, and for many years she barely had that. It was a strange thing, to hope for a future, to plan it. She never did such things before she met Mance. The cold and snow had a way of taking what you loved and freezing it in your palms. 

And this time, fire nearly took it, too. She shuddered at the thought. Assuming she was cold, Mance covered her in one of the many furs around the tent. It was daylight out, but she was tired, all the tension released from her body at once. She felt like an arrow released from a bow, ready to hit a target, until it lost speed and fell uselessly into the dirt.

She bid him to rest for a few hours, so she could fetch proper food and he could regain his strength. Y/N didn’t want to leave him, worried by some magic he’d be whisked away and burned after all. She was walking back to the tent when the sun was setting, and caught a figure of black in the distance.

The crow lord, or Snow commander, or whatever he wished to be, watched her. His expression brought her back months ago, when he was first brought to their camp. Those big eyes lost, that boy’s posture trying to be a man’s. 

He is more man now, I’ll grant him that. But he is still lost. He raised his hand to her, in some sort of greeting, some sort of entreatment. Y/N only inclined her head, and returned to the tent.

[chaoticevilbean]

Flames of the Moon

Chapter One : Storms and Spirits

The South Pole has always been dangerous. Between wild animals, polar nights, and the constant ice and snow and freezing weather, life has always been rather difficult. The Tribe that lived there often found themselves struggling to get by. When there were many waterbenders, the Tribe thrived. They could use their environment to their advantage. Life was far easier, or as easy as it could be in the South Pole.

When the raiding began, life once again became a struggle every year.

By the time Sokka and Katara were born, there were no more waterbenders. When Katara showed the first of her bending abilities, the village was both thrilled and terrified. Their burdens might be lightened with Katara's powers, but there was already a chance that they would be raided. Her abilities would only draw more attention if they weren't careful enough.

One of their worst years was when Sokka was six and Katara was five. The midnight sun went well, but they weren't nearly as prepared for the polar night as they should've been. Low on supplies from the start, the men were constantly out on hunting and gathering trips, trying to stock up on food and fuel. Within two months, the tribe was in only a few of their tents, the fires constantly going to fight off the cold. Fuel was being used too fast to help and food wasn't going to last much longer.

Near the end of that second month, a blizzard hit their village. The men were out hunting, and the elders, women and children could only hope they would return safely. They all crowded into one tent, though it wasn't nearly as much struggle as it would've been many years ago. The wind and snow was barely kept out, and they all knew the supplies wouldn't last through the storm. When there was barely two hours worth of fuel left, Gran-Gran suggested they pray to the Spirits. Every elder, woman and child bowed and closed their eyes and did just that. They asked for the blizzard to end. For the temperature to rise. For the fuel to last longer, for the men to get back sooner, for so many things.

But Sokka didn't ask for any of the things that the others did. He had always been of a practical mindset. He knew that changing the temperature or getting rid of such a big storm might cause some change in the world's balance. The fuel would logically not last long enough even if it was stretched as far as possible, and there was no way that the men would make it safely through such a blizzard. Someone would get hurt or lost or something. So Sokka asked for what the Spirits could do. He asked for the Spirits to give him the strength to save his tribe, or to give someone else the strength, or all of them, or none of them. Whatever they could do to make sure that every villager survived this disaster.

The Spirits heard him. Their attention was caught by this little mortal boy who didn't ask any more of them than they were willing and able to give. But more important than what he asked for was who he asked. Which is to say, he asked all of them. While his fellow mortals mostly called upon Tui and La and other snow spirits, he simply asked the Spirits in general to help.

So help him they did. Most did not give much, but they did give. Koh gave Sokka immunity to his powers of face-stealing. Wan Shi Tong gave him a compass that always lead him to the Library should the mortal ever enter the Si Wong Desert.

The more powerful Spirits gave Sokka more powerful gifts. In particular, Agni, La and Tui gave him some of the greatest things they could've.

Agni bestowed upon him the gift of firebending, and since it was coming directly from the source of all firebending, the fire burned brighter and hotter than any others' inner flame.

Tui knew that Sokka would not survive as a firebender in the South Pole, given that the polar night gave no contact to the Sun. Therefore, she gave Sokka the ability to also draw power from her. He would not die on her watch.

La gave Sokka protection from his treacherous waters, and by extension, from the piercing cold of the pole. Snow and ice would not touch him like it did the others. His fire would not flicker because of the harsh winds that constantly seemed to be blowing.

All of these gifts together were mighty indeed. And so many were there that despite the speediness of Spirits with a quick purpose, he sat bowed and unseeing for many minutes after the others had opened their eyes. Katara was the one to point out Sokka's unchanging position. A half of an hour passed before he so much as twitched, and by then, the entire tent was trying to focus on him instead of the cold and despair that ate away at them. The elders found this easier, for if one so young and energetic was so still for so long, surely he was experiencing something they weren't.

Sokka's eyes opened slowly, as if he was waking up from a trance. Then, as though some other force was guiding his limbs, and it probably was, the toddler's hands cupped in front of him. A single deep breath in and out, and the first of his flames appeared.

None dared move. There was no way the boy was born a firebender, for the pregnancy had been far enough between raids to be certain, and the boy had never shown any flames before. The heat from the fire in his hands was real, the blue flames steady and controlled. Those closest to him, his mother and sister, another mother and her child, and Kanna, all felt the heat radiate from his body, strong and comforting. Kanna was the first to speak.

"It seems the Spirits have answered one of us and bestowed a great gift." The soft words were barely audible over the raging blizzard, but still heard by all.

"Gifts, Gran-Gran," Sokka whispered, confused but pleased at what had happened.

"What?"

"They gave me more than one."

That moment was etched into everyone's minds who were present for the rest of their lives. The fire was no longer needed because one of their children was of the Sun. None of the hunters were told when they finally returned, for the raids still occurred and Sokka was young and blessed, but anger and hatred is blinding. The elders taught Sokka all they could when they could, without arousing suspicion from their fellow tribe members. Sokka watched the benders that came to raid, hiding behind ice piles his sister made to memorize the forms. He found himself using a more smooth version of their movements, more fluid like water or air. It made it easier to use fire on the ice, though Sokka still practiced the 'true' forms.

He almost stopped bending when Kya died. Fire had been her death and it had brought so much harm. But Kanna told him not to. The Spirits gave him fire because the flames were life. He knew this. Fire kept them alive on the ice, bringing heat and light. So Sokka kept going.

He found that the flames were different colors, and he found their meanings. Red, yellow, and orange were meant for small things. Common things. They were fueled by anger, fear, and worry. Though Sokka instead called it all necessity. The need for light, or for protection from injustice. Green was fueled by wonder and mysticism and joy. The green flames came when Sokka was staring at a polar bear pup or at the biannual sunset. They didn't burn, but tickled and danced. They spread fast, but disappeared as the wonder wore off. Where they touched, plants grew better, and Sokka felt happier and full of energy. Blue flames were hot. Hotter than necessity. They were a greater form of necessity, but also controlled. They were protection and light and heat on a grander scale, and they never strayed from where they were told to go. Purple was healing. It closed wounds easily, though the experience could be rather unpleasant or painful. Pinks and indigos were much like the blues of green fire. The same but stronger. They were harder to maintain, but they made the bushes bear fruit in under five minutes.

White fire was the strangest. It was cold. When Sokka first made it, he was curious. He was looking at the different colors and the white came suddenly, naturally. When held against the puddle of water he had melted, it refroze it like Katara sometimes did with her bending. Not as fast and not as strong, but like an ice pack.

When Sokka's dad left, he was the only man. He had to be a man now, because he was Acting Chief. He quickly realized that every resource had to be utilized. So he moved as fast as green fire. He taught the women the basics of fighting that he remembered and how to gather and hunt. He used his fire to keep the pits going, and held the kids close on especially cold nights were his body heat was almost tangible. He had the kids play games to build strength and balance and agility and all the other qualities they needed without losing their attention. He had Katara build up their walls and structures with her bending. He did all he could, learning the ways of the home that usually were only taught to females, and had the boys below him start learning alongside their female companions.

When him and Katara got caught on a current while fishing, he wasn't worried about himself. His panic had turned off the logic that said he couldn't die in the Sea thanks to La, but he was more worried about what would happen to his tribe. His people. When Katara cracked that iceberg open like a nut (thanks to Sokka refusing to use his firebending to melt the floes and save their canoe, which, hey, he was panicking and he had hid it from a lot of the tribe for years, it's instinct), Sokka didn't see the Avatar and bison. He saw more mouths to feed, and one was a growing boy and the other a giant animal. He could barely keep people fed well as everything was.

So, yeah, he was more prickly than he should've been, and definitely didn't take the best approach, but logic and a filter do not come together.

"What was that?" he shouted as his sister and the newcomer, Aang, a flipping airbender and probable Avatar, ran into the village at top speed. "Did you set off a flare?" His sister fired off some excuse about proving the war and an accident and Aang said there was a trap, but the teenage Chief was more focused on the black snow that was falling. He turned sharply, effectively cutting off the two troublemakers, firing off orders like an archer fires arrows. The villagers gathered in the center, Aang hiding in one of the tents. The children remained behind a solid line of women, while Sokka stood in the front, war paint on and spear at the ready.

Metal ship met ice wall, breaking the barrier with little difficulty. It wasn't meant to keep out warships though. A gangplank slid out, and several soldiers followed a young looking captain with an awful haircut down the steel. Sokka moved forward into a defensive stance, prepared to charge. When the captain reached the snow, he stopped.

"Where is the Avatar? We know he's here!" Sokka's mind worked overdrive, adrenaline pumping. Aang was likely the Avatar, having been frozen for a hundred years and therefore presumed dead. Aang may be another mouth to feed, but he was also twelve and kind and made sure to help fix whatever he broke. This captain referred to all of the soldiers. We, not I. That suggested he saw them as a group, an unusual trait among the Fire Nation. Sokka came to the conclusions quicker than wind, and charged before the man had finished his last sentence.

The captain attempted to disarm and kick Sokka away, but he ducked, grabbed his spear back and swept the leg in a single consecutive moment. The captain was caught by his soldiers, the unhindered ones moving forward to fight. Sokka relaxed his stance just enough to show he wasn't going to attack further, before leaning in ever so slightly to speak.

"We don't have much left. Your people have taken lives and supplies alike. Even if we have the Avatar, they would be one of us, and I'm not about to let you take a member of my tribe." The captain stared at Sokka, standing properly once more. He seemed to understand something, and signaled his soldiers to stand down, which they did so hesitantly.

"I am Crown Prince Zuko, banished prince of the Fire Nation. I have come to retrieve the Avatar by order of Firelord Ozai." Sokka slammed his spear's end into the plank, just enough to produce a good thud.

"Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe and sole Warrior of Tradition." Warrior of Tradition was what Katara had called him because he was technically the only male warrior left. "If the Avatar is among us, it is their choice. I will not allow you to take them by force should they exist as one of the tribe." Sokka knew he was laying it on thick, but he wasn't ever given proper formality training so it was the best he could do. It seemed to work.

"Can you find if the Avatar is with you? He'd be the age of her." Zuko pointed at Gran-Gran, at which Sokka couldn't help but snort. Upon the looks he got, he quietly explained.

"Don't let Elder Kanna hear you. She'll claim you as her grandchild and insist you call her Gran-Gran. It's her punishment for any person who calls her old." Leaving promptly, the teenager he hurried down the gangplank and towards where Aang was hiding, Katara and the elders following, though only Katara truly entered with him.

"Well?" was the first thing Aang said as they came in. Sokka sighed at the boy, turning so he was facing both him and his sister.

"If you decide to come willingly, they'll leave us alone. This captain is honorable. Not many would include their crew in statements but he did. He won't come back so long as he gets the Avatar."

"But I'm not the Avatar," Aang hurriedly said, causing Sokka to turn fully to the boy and hold him by the shoulders.

"Aang, the Avatar was thought to be dead for a hundred years. There was never a Water Avatar, so the whole world thought the cycle had been broken. But you were frozen for a hundred years. You're an airbender. It's kinda obvious you're the Avatar." Aang looked down sadly, caught in his lie.

"But, Aang, look at me." The boy's head slowly raised. "We don't care. Right now, you are a member of our tribe. Right now, we need to talk about if you don't go."

"What are you talking about, Sokka? Of course he's not going. There isn't an 'if'." Katara pushed her way into the conversation, hands on her hips and taking the new knowledge she apparently didn't have with stride.

"If Aang doesn't go with them, they'll attack. That captain is honorable, more so than most, but he's still Fire Nation. The Firelord wants the Avatar, and his soldiers will stop at nothing until they get you. There's not much we can do to fight them off, so we need to lay our options out."

"I could go with them."

"We're not letting you go with them. We could fight and you leave. If Appa can fly, they'll see him and start following you, and you'll have an easier time evading them."

"But if they all attack at once, the village will be destroyed in matter of minutes," Sokka pointed out. They all went silent in thought, before Katara clapped her hands together.

"You said the captain was honorable, right?" Sokka nodded, confused. "So if you remind him that you're the only warrior, which is technically true because you're the only one who was raised to fight, he might fight you alone! That way you can hold him off until Aang can fly over!"

"Are you guys sure?" Aang asked, looking between the siblings apprehensively. The two nodded, trying to reassure the hundred-twelve-year-old.

With their plan, Katara quickly instructed Aang on how to leave the village discreetly while Sokka went out to speak with the elders waiting. When both siblings were done, they walked together back to the main group, leading the elders behind them. Sokka continued walking, though only halfway to the soldiers this time.

"What have you decided?" Prince Zuko called out. He looked like he already knew the verdict.

"The Avatar will not go with you. We have accounted for your need to follow orders, so I was simply told to remind you that I am the only Warrior of Tradition left." Zuko nodded, turning and speaking quietly to his soldiers. Judging by their faces, they either didn't like or didn't understand what was being said.

The captain stepped forward, assuming a basic fighting stance. Sokka did the same, spear ready. No one moved, every person present holding their breath in anticipation.

Zuko made the first move, sending two fistfuls of flames towards the Water Tribe warrior, who dodged and charged forward. More fire kept Sokka away, and the two began a pattern. Zuko used fire to keep Sokka at bay, but the prince couldn't get a single hit in.

Sokka switched it up by sliding under the next wave of flames, ducking underneath the prince's arms and ramming into his chest. In return, the firebender grabbed his spear and broke it as he was pushed back. Sokka took his club out, holding the weapon at the ready. The next few moves from his opponent were startling.

The firebender switched to a hand-to-hand combat, surprising Sokka enough that he was able to be disarmed and tossed back. Sokka threw his boomerang at Zuko, who watched it 'miss' him with confusion. He sealed his fate by turning his back on the weapon, which quickly made its way back to its owner, hitting Prince Zuko on the back of the head and knocking his helmet off.

A few low gasps could be heard from the rest of the tribe as the helmet hit the snow. Sokka, to his credit, was only slightly stunned to find that the 'young' royal was actually a teenager. A teenager with a nasty scar covering the entire left side of his face, putting his eye in a permanent glare.

Prince Zuko gave no more time for his foe to gather his bearings, sending a wave of fire straight towards him. Sokka dropped underneath them, realizing a second too late that the flames would reach his tribemates. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, there was no need to worry. An orange blur came speeding past the villagers, and suddenly Aang was dispersing the fire with his glider staff.

"Stop!" Aang commanded, his voice strong and sharp. If Sokka had not earlier that day seen the same boy crash into a tower of snow and get buried just to make some kids laugh, he would have been shocked into complete silence.

As it was, he instead rolled his eyes.

"Glad you could join us, Aang," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. "I guess Appa was too boring."

A look from Katara told him the sarcasm wasn't appreciated, and a look from Aang said that the Appa comment was uncalled for.

"Is this the Avatar?" Prince Zuko spoke up, ignoring Sokka in favor of glaring down Aang.

"Yep! I'm Aang!" Apparently, talking to a stranger from an enemy nation who wanted to capture him and maybe even kill him wasn't enough reason for the boy to drop his bubbly demeanor.

"You're just a kid!"

"Well, you're just a teenager," Aang replied, and Sokka could barely stop the snort that threatened to come. Zuko shook off the surprise of seeing a twelve-year-old boy instead of a hundred-twelve-year-old man, and slid easily into his beginning stance once more. Aang looked worried, and glanced behind him, at Katara and the others, and then over at Sokka. Despite only knowing the boy for a day, there was no doubt in Sokka's mind what Aang was considering.

"If I go with you, do you promise to leave the village alone?" Aang asked. There was no preamble, no accusing tone, just worry and a bit of curiosity. Zuko stood tall again, taking the question as easily as one could in the situation.

"You have my word, Avatar. If you come with me, the village will be left alone." Aang nodded once, firmly, before turning back to Katara and pulling her into a hug. Something was whispered in her ear, Sokka just knew, and when Aang broke the embrace and moved towards him, he knew it was his turn. Sure enough, as the small boy held onto Sokka, he whispered in the lowered ear.

"Take Appa, yip yip." The hug was over then, and Aang waved goodbye to the village, striding over to the Fire Nation soldiers. Zuko took his staff from him, pulling the boy up the gangplank by the shoulder.

A few minutes later, the ship pulled back from the ice, leaving a broken wall behind.

"Alright, Katara, kids, get to work fixing that wall, we need it done ASAP. Gran-Gran, ladies, I'm gonna need supplies for Katara, Aang and myself that will last until we can get to a market or some wildland. Make sure we have a sewing kit and stuff. I don't think we'll be back soon. Anyone not doing that, come with me. I need to go over some plans for while we're gone." Everyone sprung into action, two of the women and the oldest kid besides Sokka and Katara following their chief. Those three sat around him in their central tent, awaiting the instructions.

"Alright, we don't got much time," Sokka began. "Aang is the Avatar, but he only knows airbending. That kid is gonna need some serious help to get where he needs to be, and Katara is gonna save him no matter what. I might as well tag along and make sure they don't die but that means that there isn't gonna be a chief here anymore."

"Since we need a chief, I'm going to appoint Gran-Gran Chieftess in Absence because she's the eldest. Shiyan, I'm going to need you to start filling in the gaps. Wherever you can, especially hunting and fishing. Fang, you're going to have to take over as leader of our warriors. I know you're still training yourself, but you need to take charge. Caiji, you're all gonna need a lot more firewood since I'm leaving. Get started right away. I know we have a lot stocked up but it's better to have a large stock than to use everything up and find that there's not enough time or there's bad weather."

"SOKKA!" Katara's voice broke past the tent's walls, and her brother quickly stood, hugging each of the three.

"Keep things going. Everyone needs to work together." They all nodded their assent. Sokka rushed outside and began hugging those out there. He wasn't ashamed to say a few tears fell, because he knew that the loss of the tribe's firebender and waterbender would cause more struggle for those remaining. When goodbyes were done, Sokka attached a new spear to his back and stood in front of his people.

"While Katara and I are gone, I'm appointing Gran-Gran Chieftess in Absence. Keep strong and keep united. Life is going to be harder, so you'll have to be stronger. Tui and La bless you." With that, Katara led the way to the giant fluffy snot monster they had met earlier. Appa the apparent-flying bison. The two teens climbed aboard him, Sokka on his head, and told him to follow Aang. Only, he didn't move.

"C'mon, Appa!" Katara called from the saddle.

"Didn't Aang say something to get him to move?" Sokka asked, thinking back to the day before. Until he remembered Aang's whisper. "Yip yip?"

A yelp escaped both of the Water Tribe kids as the bison took to the air, indeed flying. Sokka nearly fell off, but managed to hold on and direct the creature towards the path of the warship.

"Katara, he's flying! Look, Katara!"

"Sokka, I know, turn around!" Sokka did just that, and found his sister sitting in the saddle with green fire dancing around her, a smug look on her face at her brother's obvious delight despite having previously discrediting the bison. Sokka schooled his face into one of indifference as quickly as possible.

"I mean, big deal, he's just flying." The statement, however unimpressed it sounded, was made null by the continuance of the green fire. Katara laughed at his attempts to pull the green back in, but flames have life on their own.

Sokka turned back to face the direction of the warship. Don't worry, Aang. We're coming for you.

[undeadimmortality]

Unexpected

This was supposed to be a short story but after getting lost in my writing all day, I guess it will be a multi chapter! 

Castiel x Reade 

I was always a Crowley girl, but for some reason this past run through of Supernatural took me by surprise and Castiel caught my attention! He has successfully taken over my life. He can grip me tight and raise me from perdition any day!

Wanrings: Violence, Fluff, Idk, Smut maybe (I love to read smut, I'm very bad at writing it) Maybe other warnings, read with discretion. 

The night air was calm and crisp, your breathing visible as you walked back to your room at the run-down motel you were hiding in. You gripped your coat tighter, piled your snacks in one arm, and reached in your pocket for the room key. As you jammed the key into the lock and swung the door open, you froze. The room was now dark, and you were sure you left the nightstand lamp on. The smell of sulfur filled your nostrils. It took two seconds for you to react as you dropped your snacks, and turned heel to bolt, but the hand that now gripped your elbow was faster and about to pull in back into the room. This was not the first time you were found by the demons, and you’d been fighting to survive your whole life. Reacting swiftly, you grabbed your knife that was attached to your hip and swung it up and straight through the demon’s throat with all the strength you could muster. Turning heel, you made a break for your car, and successfully peeled out on to the highway before seeing three more demons run out into the road watching as you sped off. That was a close one, you thought, you must either be getting sloppy, or Lucifer is recruiting more than his little demon squad to hunt you down. You’ve been dodging the devil for months now, so he must be getting desperate, which meant you needed to get smarter about hiding. You huffed in annoyance as your stomach grumbled, realizing that dinner would have to be put on the back burner for the night. And now your hands and clothes were soaked in blood and getting all over your car! Just fucking great, you thought, as you sped off through the night.

Castiel POV

“Cain has a child, Cas, your kidding! Why are we finding out about this ‘bastard child’ now?” Sam whined, in his normal sulky tone.

“The child is on heavens radar now, I never knew of him until Heaven gained intel that Lucifer has been searching for the child for months, and we need to find him before Lucifer does. This is our top priority as of now. If Lucifer gets his hands on the child of Cain, it could mean second Armageddon. Lucifer is seeking the child’s power, and this child is not an ordinary demon spawn, their power could rival that of any Archangel’s. Lucifer would be undefeatable.” Castiel explains.

“Alright then, let’s gank the kid, where do we start?” Dean says, his famous cockiness shining through.

“Whoah, let’s think about this for a second. Why haven’t we picked up on his powers yet if the kid’s so dangerous? We’re just going to off an kid without any knowledge of who they are?” Sam asks

“Yes, that part remains unknown, I’m guessing his powers haven’t manifested yet, but the child is far from innocent, and we can’t risk their powers manifesting and Lucifer getting ahold of said powers. The child dying before anything can be set into action is the only option.” Castiel explains further.

YOUR POV

A few weeks went by, and Lucifer’s search was getting harder to hide from. Another pack of demons had caught up to you in some rural town in North Dakota, forcing you to flee South. With the demons hot on your tail you stupidly missed the group of three boys that had caught up to you in a town you stopped at for the night; and little did you know you’re life what about to change.

It was mid-November, you’re favorite time of year. The air was crisp and cold. The snow laid a blanket of beauty over the dead trees. Even in times like this, it was hard to not stop and appreciate the beauty of nature. It’d been about three days of non-stop travel and sleeping in the back seat of your car, so stopping for a day or so was necessary. You had figured the demons couldn’t catch up in a day, so stopping in a small town for some R&R was far too appealing. After picking a hotel, and some dinner at a local dinner, you headed back to your room for a much-needed shower and some rest. You washed up and you hopped in to bed about to flick on the TV, but froze when you heard a knock come from the door. Not just a knock, more like an impolite pound. You groaned in annoyance and started stuffing your bag with your belongings. A day was all you needed, just a god damned day! At least you had gotten a shower in before the stupid demons decided to show up and ruin your night, you thought. As quickly and quietly as you could, you slipped out of the bathroom window, jumping to the ground, and turning to make a run for it.

But before you could react, you let out a gasp as you collided with man’s chest and backed away to get a good look at him. The feeling of terror ran through your spine before the man had placed two fingers on your forhead and darkness took over your thoughts. You didn’t see black eyes staring back at you, this time they were blue. The angels had found you.

 Castiel POV

Normally Castiel was quick to react, but when the small girl climbed out through the window, unaware of Castiel’s presence, he was surprise to say the least. On their hunt for Cain’s child, they didn’t know who to expect, but a 20 something girl who looked the furthest thing from evil, was not who they expected to find. If it weren’t for the faint birth mark on her right forearm, he would have thought they caught the wrong person.

 YOUR POV

“Ughhhh” you groaned, a bright light blurring your vision as your eye’s fluttered open. You lifted your arm to shield your eyes, only to have they stop from the shackles on your wrist. Panic took over and your breathing shallowed. You lifted you head, and frantically took in your surroundings. Your body was painfully shackled to a chair. The room was windowless, and empty aside form a few pieces of furniture, you, and three men muttering to themselves by the entrance. The angel was the first to notice you stir and got the others attention. When you got a good look at the boys, you recognized them almost immediately. The Winchester name was not new to you, and you had actually seen them in person a few times when they caught up to demons that were after you. You were lucky to stay under their and their stupid angels pet’s radar for years now until now.

“You got to joking!” You groaned, wrenching on your chains.

“Oh, far from it sweetheart! You’ve been dodging us for weeks now, it was only a matter of time before we caught you.” Dean started.

“Don’t falter yourself, sweatheart.” You sneered. “I was dodging-someone else.” You finished, not wanting to give up to much info, god knows what these buffoons already knew.

“You know who we are?” Sam asked, cautious and curious, but not rude like his stupid brother.

“Of course, I know who the famous Winchester brothers are! And they’re pet angel” You sneered. “You boys have actually done me quite a few favors by getting rid of some of those demons that have been on my tail in the past. I’d say thanks, but…” You smiled, putting as much sass in your words as possible.

“Enough of this!” Castiel lunged forward, bringing an angel blade up to your throat, his face inches from yours causing your breath to hitch.

With him this close you got a good look at the angel, not the vessel, but that shiny blue grace in his irises. He knew it too. “I see you, angel” you sneered. “Holding up your reputation well I see, shoot first and ask questions later! Just DO IT!” You spat. His only reaction was to push the angel blade harder on your skin causing skin to break and blood to trickle down your chest. You winced at the pain but held eye contact. No way were you going to show weakness, and certainly not to this self-righteous dick. You noticed a small crack in the angel’s exterior for a split second and you swear you caught a glimpse of confusion, remorse maybe?

“Cass..” Sam said, putting a hand on the shoulder.

Cass pulled back, and the three mean exited the room, locking it up behind you. You scoffed. Stupid Winchesters, you thought. If they weren’t going to kill you, you were a sitting duck in here for Lucifer to happily collect. Not to mention completely chained down. The chains hurt, and the slice on your neck burned.

Castiel POV

“I was all for ganking the bitch, but I don’t know Cass, I’m with Sammy on this one. That girl doesn’t seem dangerous. Could you sense her powers at all? Dean said.

“She’s got a big attitude, but she seems harmless, plus who knows how many times we’ve actually come close to finding her out in the past with what she said. If that holds true why hasn’t she tried to kill us?” Sam put in.

“Yes, she isn’t what I expected to find…” Castiel paced back and forth in deep thought.

“A hot chick!” Dean gave Sammy a wink and clicked his tongue. Both Sam and Castiel glared back, not amused.

“I can sense her powers, but it’s like they’re lying dormant. Like they’re deeply buried almost asleep. She-“ He started, pausing to look at the brothers. “She seemed scared. It was small, but I saw the fear in her eyes when she thought I was going to kill her. Not like killing a monster sort of fear. Her fear was innocent.” He started to pace again. “You’re right Sam, this feels wrong. We’ll need more information before her blood is on our hands. We need to keep this a secret for now. If the angels find out we caught the Child of Cain, it would mean her imminent death.” Castiel continued to pace.

“I can see why she’s blended in so well for years, with no powers, she seems like a normal girl” Sam finished.

Trying to sleep while chained to a hard chair only made your sour mood towards your captures turn to borderline hatred. Without any windows you couldn’t tell what time it was, but it had to be close to morning. Your whole body was achy and stiff, and your skin started to break under the cuffs.

You wiggled and wrenched, trying to get some semblance of comfort only to cause your joints more pain.

“Hello!!!” You yelled, your temper getting the best of you. “Hello!!! I have to pee and I’m starving!!” you wiggled around some more, getting more pissed by the second. It only took three more times of screaming as loud as possible, before you heard the lock unlatch and Castiel come in to view.

“Not very gentlemanly to keep a lady locked up all night now is it?” You scoffed. Before you could react the cuffs magically replaced the chairs wrist chains; and Castiel grabbed your arm and started dragging you towards the door.

Your feet hadn’t caught up to the movement and were about to fall face first into the ground before the angel caught you and stood you up straight.

“What’s your problem?” You groaned towards the angels back, who continued to drag you out of the bunker and only stopping when he reached a bathroom. After shutting the door behind the both of you, both eyes on each other.

“You get off on watching or what?” You said.

Apparently, he got the hint and turned around. You don’t know why you expected him to stay outside, but-well you didn’t know what to expect.

After you washed you washed up, finally able to wash some of the blood off your neck, the angel wasted no time to return you your cell.

“Why are you doing this?” You pleaded, panic starting to rise. Being locked up for another day was already painful to think about.

“You know why.” Castiel started walking towards the door after chaining you back up.

“This isn’t fair. If you’re going to kill me, just do it! I’m a sitting duck in here for Lucifer and you know it! Why even keep me locked up if you gonna ki-“ You started to ramble, but the Angel had heard enough, and the door shut, leaving you alone.

“Please, you can’t leave me here! I’m innocent! Castiel!!” You screamed to the empty room. You weren’t the type for begging, but at this point you were starving, your body was ached, and you hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. Getting desperate wasn’t beneath you in this stage.

It’d been well over 24 hours before you saw the 3 boys again. With nothing to do but sit in the darkness, you started to think you might actually go insane. The panic attacks would come, you’d fight and wrench on the chains, then cry, and then calm down, only to do it over and over again. On the third day, it was Sam this time, he’d taken you to the bathroom, letting you enter alone, thank god. He even brought you a sandwich and some water. The 4th day it was Dean this time, same routine, except he didn’t bring you any food. What a prick, you thought. If they wanted to starve you to death, they were succeeding. It went on this way for another couple weeks, and after the first, you’d manage to find a position where you could get some semblance of sleep at times.

You were startled awake by the door opening, and sat up to see Sam walk over to you. Sam held a glass of water up to your lips, but you whipped your head to the side, full on planning to give him the silent treatment. Being chained up for a month was starting to take it’s toll. You were weak and in a lot of pain. You were done playing their games.

“Please drink. I know for a fact Dean forgot to bring you food again yesterday.” Sam pleaded.

You didn’t say anything, but you couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill over.

“My name” You croaked.

“What” Sam asked, confused.

“None of you even bothered to ask my name, do you know what it is? Or do you sadists prefer “Bastard Child of Cain?” You sneered, anger rising up your throat.

“No-Now that you mention it, no I don’t know your name.” Sam confessed.

“Get out.” You said, you’d had enough, either they kill you or you starve, you’d made your decision.

“What is your-“ Sam started.

“GET OUT!!!” You screamed, tears successfully spilling over, causing Sam to immediately vacate the dungeon. Okay I’ve officially gone insane, you thought.

A few more days went by, but you had officially gone off the rails. The skin under the chains held permanent open wounds, but the pain didn’t hurt as much anymore. It was more of a reminder that you were still the Winchesters prisoner. The boys, even Castiel attempted to get you to eat, but only succeeding with some sips of water, which you cursed your self for drinking. You’d been on a no food or drink streak for a couple days, but your dehydration got the better of you.

To your surprise, you watched Castiel walk into the room.

“Ahh! Finally grew some big boy balls to actually kill me, did you?” You croaked, cursing your dry throat for sounding weak!

To your surprise he released the chains and helped you stand. He led you out by your arm, but not as hostile as he’d been before. This time, he led you down a different hallway, walking with you rather than dragging you. As you slowly limped along, your back permanently ached from being chained up for a month. He stopped at a different bathroom, this one with a shower, and on the counter was your backpack, along with a towel.

Bringing you attention back to Castiel, he unlocked the cuffs, and placed his hand over your chest. You winced as a sharp pain rippled through you and then nothing. Looking down you saw your wrists were healed, and your body felt normal. Wiggling your legs, you couldn’t help the smile that crept along your lips.

“Why?” You asked, looking back up to the angel. Guilt was plastered all over his face, which only furthered your confusion. As far as you knew he wanted to end your life the day they caught you, but you assumed the Winchesters had more devious plans and they were who kept you alive.

“Take as long as you need, I’ll be waiting.”

The shower was literally heaven. Even with you healed, the hot water helped soothe your achey muscles. Along with fresh clothes, and bring able to brush your hair and teeth!? You felt like a new person! When you walked out, Castiel was waiting like he said he’d be, but your hope was short-lived when you heard the click of a lock and felt the familiar cold steal against your wrists. Glancing at the cuffs and back at Castiel, he saw hope leave your eyes.

“It’s just a pre-caution.” He said, motioning for you to walk forward. The hallway led into the kitchen, and then lead in to a library/dining room area where both Winchesters sat at a table. When they heard you enter, they stood up, and Sam pulled out a chair at the end of table and gestured for you to take a seat, which you cautiously took, and Castiel took the seat between you and Dean.

“What is this?” You asked, eyeing up both boys.

“We havn’t actually been introduced.” Sam started. “I’m Sam, this is my brother Dean, and this is Castiel.” He paused looking to you to answer.

Being the snarky person you were, you scoffed and gave him an “are you serious?” look.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Same ran to the kitchen, and brought back a glass of water, and a to-go box of what looked to be pancakes, eggs, and bacon. You mouth watered since you were on technically still on strike.

Immediately reaching for the fork he placed down, the handcuffs broke the silence as they dragged against the edge of the table.

“These too” You stated, holding up your wrists.

“No way in hell” Dean started, but without argument Castiel snapped his fingers and the handcuffs disappeared. You smiled in glee and wiggled in your seat at the new found pleasure of not being chained up. Placing the first bite of pancake n your mouth, you moaned as the sweet syrupy bread lit up your taste buds. Even if the food was a little cold, it tasted amazing compared to their half-ass put together sandwiches they’ve been feeding you. A couple more bites, and a whole glass of water later, you were content enough to play along.

“(y/n)” You said through a mouthful of eggs.

“(y/n).” Sam smiled.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this newfound hospitality after being chained up for over a month, but why?” You threw your hands in the air. Looking around and getting a good observation of your surroundings. You knew exactly where you were, or were guessing at least. Looking at the research that covered youe table and the others, you knew this had something to do with those bone headed Men of Letters you’d heard about through the monster grape vine.

All three men started a different explanation at once, when l a light bulb went off!

“Ah!” Your eyebrows raise looking between them. “There’s no lore on the “Bastard child of Cain” is there?! So, you butter me up and expect me to spill all my deepest darkest secrets??” You laugh and stuff another piece of pancake in your mouth.

“Well, she’s quick, I’ll give her that.” Dean says, taking a swig of beer.

“Listen (y/n), we want to prove that we’re not the bad guys here and you weren’t exactly what we-. “Sam started.

“Hah” You scoff, throwing your fork on the table. “You know, I spend my entire life running and hiding from a world where everything wants me dead. And I get caught by the “good guys”, who chain me up for a month.”

“(y/n) we’r- Sam tried to cut in.  

“Stop.” You start, staring Sam down. “Truth is, your cowards.” The anger tasted like bile in you throat, but you stopped there, seeing the guilt written all over Sams face was payment enough and you didn’t want to piss them off to the point where they lock you up again.

“You’re right” Castiel broke the silence “About everything. We are cowards. When the rumors spread, I knew my mission was to find you before Lucifer did and extinguish your power. Even after meeting you, I was willing to kill you if it meant we got an upper hand in this fight. I am truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, and realize now that if your only sin was being born then you deserve to live and we’re on your side, but we need to know we can trust you and right now, aside from rumors we have no idea what or who you are.”

Sighing, you leaned back in your chair, and bit down on your bottom lip in contemplation. “Alight.” You say. “What do you want to know, but I get one of those.” You stated, pointing towards Dean’s beer.

Dean started to argue, but unwillingly grabbed you a fresh beer after some glares from the other men. He grumbled something of the sort about being demanding and having an attitude as he brough back your beer.

Sam jumped at the offer, getting a notebook out and started the interrogation. Apparently, the Men of Letters were thorough, and questions were getting personal.

“It’s rude to ask a girl her weight! What’s next my bra size?” You sassed back to Sam.

“I mean yeah, couldn’t hurt right, it’s research!” Dean piped up, earning a round of scoffs from the table.

You chuckled. “I don’t know Sam, I didn’t have time to by a scale and weigh myself while on the run from the Devil. But, for another beer, I’ll step on one if you got it here.” Giving Dean a sly smile.

Little did you know that second beer was a huge mistake because after getting on the scale, Sam and his stupid puppy dog eyes convinced you to also give up a blood sample, and other personal exams that you would have knocked someone out for asking, but you figured if you played by their rules, they wouldn’t lock you up again.

After a few more hours of poking and prodding, the boys were hitting the hey, and Castiel led you back to the cell. The feeling of dread hit your core, until you walked in and saw that at some point a bed had been placed in the cell, along with a few others things, and some books.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you, but-“Castiel started.

It’s fine Castiel, honestly anything better than being chained to a chair.” The buzz of the beers was wearing off, and sleepiness was creeping through.

“If you need anything I’ll be right outside. Goodnight (y/n)” And with that Castiel left and the lock to the door was the last sound you heard.

The weeks went by pretty fast after that. Castiel guarding your every move, the boys asking questions, and trying to gain more intel not only on you, but on your power and how to keep you alive while defeating Lucifer. They let you eat with them, research, and drink. You had learned that the bunker was warded up and down, and even though you were technically a prisoner, being here was the safest place in the world for you, and honestly it felt great to let your guard down a bit and relax. You too had questions, about yourself, about your father. The boys were helping you gain some answers, so you were content for the time being. The boys were being won over by cooking and cleaning that kept you busy when you weren’t researching. Takeout was getting old so you forced Sam to make grocery runs, and happily cooked some decent meals for the three of you. Not to mention the dirty laundry and surfaces that seemed to never stay clean, no matter how much you tried. You were even winning the Angel over after a while and were surprised to hear him pipe up when you fought for an actual room, rather than the dungeon.

“Why not??” You whined, stomping your foot a bit to prove your agitation.

“Is she seriously asking this? Dean turned to Sam, then turned to you. “Are you seriously asking this??

“What am I gonna do try to escape?? Kill you in your sleep?? You mocked In the best Dean voice you could muster. “Cass guards the cell, why can’t he guard a bedroom? This is unfair! I can’t gain your trust if you don’t give me more opportunities!” You yelled back, placing your hands on you hips for good measure.

Cass had defended you and deemed you his personal responsibility, and the boys finally agreed. So, with a squeal you launched your arms over the angels shoulder, earning a pleasantly surprised grunt from Cass, and ran off to gather your things.

“Stay out of my room!” Dean yelled after you. “She’s gonna be the death of us.” He grunted and Sam chuckled as you yelled back that you found the room you wanted and were in the process of throwing Deans underwear in the hall.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Christmas, Missions, Snowed In, Oh My! {Steve Rogers One-Shot}***

Steve Rogers x Avengers Reader

Warning: Heavy Cursing, Smut, NSFW, Blood

Words: 4.9k

Summary: Everyone on the Avengers and in your circle knows you CANNOT stand Steve Rogers. Steve isn’t losing any sleep over it because he can’t stand you either. Everyone completely understands this and makes sure the two of you are rarely on missions together. Unfortunately, a mission during Christmas leaves only the two of you to handle it. This does not help matters at all!

Note: Next up on Christmas With Lee is this amazing request from @sonjashuterbugjohnson I hope you enjoy this!

***Loosely Edited/proofread***

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“Unfuckinbelievable!”

 Your shout echoed around you, bouncing off the snow-covered trees and the mountains behind you. The anger you felt was indescribable. This was not the way you wanted to spend Christmas. You wanted to be inside, with several bottles of whiskey and a fire, music, and food from your favorite restaurant. You did not want to be here wherever the hell you were with no whiskey, not even an ounce of alcohol, no fire, or music or food at all.

 You’d been walking four hours and still, everything looked the same. All you could see was white snow, snow that was more than three feet high. Snow that was cold, wet and getting into places it should not be. You kicked the snow pile in front of you sending frost and flakes in the air for it blow right back at you in your face.

 Behind you, there was a stifled snort. You felt big enough to take down a polar bear. Turning around there he was with the most annoying smirk on his face. it was a smirk he tried to hide but he did a shit job of it. the wind blew again and knocked you over into the several feet of snow. You sank into it screamed. Instead of getting up you just laid there. Then you heard it again, this time he had the balls to laugh. You’d had it. pulling yourself up you glared at him.

“What the fuck is so funny Steve!?” He raised his hands and shook his head as he approached you with his hand held out offering it to you.

 You couldn’t believe this, you were in this shitstorm, well snowstorm because of him and he had the nerve to laugh and offer you help. You slapped his hands repeatedly then scuffled around the snow nearly drowning yourself in the process. Finally, when you stood up you were covered in snow.

 “That was unnecessary,” Steve retorted with little to no emotion in his voice. Typical, you thought.

 “Unnecessary? You’re unnecessary! Your whole existence is unnecessary! What is the point of you!?” Your anger was bubbling to the top. Everyone knew when you were angry it was not a pretty sight. You had a bad temper.

 “Well, I am Captain America. I was created to be the beacon of hope and goodness in a time where it all was fleeting,” he responded. Your lips rose in a disgusted scowl. You wanted to throw a snowball in his hairy face, then sweep his legs out from under him so he could get another face full of the stuff. Shrieking out you turned your back and continued trekking through the endless snow.

 “You’re ridiculous! This is all your fault!”

 “I’ve apologized Y/N. What more do you want?”

 “You to have been severely disfigured in that crash would have been nice!”

 You heard his huff but ignored it.

 “I mean if you knew you couldn’t have taken over for five minutes why did you say you could? I should have listened to my gut and just put on autopilot. I don’t know why I even allowed you to take over.”

 “Maybe because you don’t allow me to do anything. I’m not your solider, we’re on this team together.”

 A groan escaped you. You hated being on the same team as him. You hated him!

 “I wanted to help.”

 “I didn’t need your help; I could have done it myself. If I had we wouldn’t have crashed in the middle of god knows where in this fucking snowstorm! God, why are you even here!”

 He didn’t respond. It was a good thing. If he would have said anything else you probably would have turned around and decked Captain America in his supposedly perfect super solider face. you continued walking and stewing in your anger. It was enough to keep you warm for now, but you knew you’d be frozen soon, or bleed out.

 Another hour or two passed with you walking aimlessly. You used the device that mapped the terrain before you and calculated which route was best and most plausible to take you to civilization. You were almost sure it had been damaged in the crash but right now it was the only thing you had.

 “Y/N.”

 Ignoring him you continued forward.

 “Y/N.”

 Rolling your eyes, you focused on the device in your hands.

 “Y/N! Stop now!”

 Oh, hell no, you thought as you reared around with the only bitch look.

 “Who the fuck do you think—”

 “Shut up. Look!” You looked down but saw nothing. You lifted your foot and saw the clear sheen of ice.

 “Shit.”

 “Exactly. I can hear the rush of the water. Come,” Steve ordered.

 Your defiance was in prime form right now, but you also had common sense. Slowly you walked back toward him but on your third step, you heard the loud crack which forced you to pause. Steve’s eyes were wide as he scanned around you. After a few moments, his eyes returned to yours.

 “It’s going to break. From the sound of the water I’m guessing, for the most part, it’s not controlled by a current, but you will drift.”

 “Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is your fucking fault!”

 As soon as the words left your mouth the ice underneath you broke, and you plummeted into the below freezing water. Thankfully you’d been able to catch a mouthful of air before your fall. You tried to grab onto anything you could but there was nothing but water around you and ice above.

 You reached your hands up hoping to break through the ice, but it was solid above you. you began to panic sensing your imminent death. You had maybe a minute of breath left. Your limbs began cramping up from the coldness of the water, your movements and attempts to push through the water to counteract the chaos was futile. Just as you were beginning to blackout a pair of strong arms yanked you up out of the water and onto your back. You coughed trying to rid your lungs of water and take in air at the same time.

 “You’re okay. I got you.”

 Your choughs continued until your chest hurt and throat burned. When they quieted and you got some semblance of calm in your body you realized you were lying back between his legs with him behind you. Rolling from him to a nearby tree you leaned against it and glared at him.

 “It’s my fault, I know.”

 “Damn right it is!” He nodded, stood and approached you with his damn hand held out again.

 “Take it.”

 Before you even thought about it you heard a growl and saw a wolf pounce onto Steve taking him to the ground. You sat there completely dazed as to what was happening. Steve groaned and rolled around with the wild wolf wrestling it in the snow. For a few moments, you lost them in the mountains of snow. Slowly you stood. Most of you was frozen.

 “Stay—back!”

 Steve grunted and shouted loudly. His shout echoed around you. It was so loud some of the snow fell from the treetops to the ground around you. The growling was so loud you were almost certain Steve was a goner. After a few seconds, you heard a yelp, then a loud snap and then silence as the growls stopped. All was quiet and still; you didn’t know what to expect. Steve crashed through the snow with blood on him. His blonde hair was a mess and he was panting. He looked like he’d fought a wild wolf and won. For a second you forgot your hatred for him and just marveled at him standing there like a triumphant Olympian. You didn’t recognize the feeling in the pit of your stomach, so you ignored it which allowed your anger to return.

 “This is your fucking fault!”

 “Jesus Christ Y/N!” His shout was loud, and you could have sworn you saw anger behind his steely eyes.

 “Let’s keep moving, where there is one wolf the pack is close by.” He walked to you his intent clear to help. You pushed off the tree and walked ahead before he got a chance to get too close.

 Another hour passed and your movements were tortuously slow, as was the ache by your torso. You’d refused Steve’s last twenty suggestions to walk with him so he could help keep you warm. You refused to let him touch you, refused to go anywhere near him. Part of you knew it was stupidity, survival skills said hate and anger would get you killed, emotion was the enemy in life or death situations. You were clinging hard to your hate and anger.

 It was the reason why you collapsed into the snow before you. Steve was beside you in seconds.

 “You’re so stubborn!” Without explanation, he began lifting you into his arms.

 “Let me go. I can—walk.”

 “You can’t even stand.” He attempted to lift you again, you groaned out in pain. He caught it and scanned you.

 “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He began checking your body for injuries beginning at your head, then arms, skipping your torso to look at your legs. When he didn’t see anything, he unzipped your suit then saw the bloodstain soaked into your undershirt.

 “Y/N.” His voice was soft but filled with worry. Steve put his fingers to your pulse point and waited a few moments.

 “You’ve been bleeding out this entire time!”

 He zipped you back up, stood and pulled you into his arms. Then he took off running through the snow. You felt the first few meters but after a few minutes, you stopped feeling the jerk of your body in his arms. The heat of his body wrapped around you began penetrating through your suit. Being a serum enhanced super solider really had its perks.

 “Stay awake, Y/N. Stay awake.”

 His voice sounded far away but you heard it. Soon you heard the breaking of wood and the sounds of footsteps on wood. He was still speaking but you didn’t hear anything he said. You felt taps on your cheek and your eyes fluttered open. He was blurry but he was there.

 “Stay with me. Don’t give up on me. You hear me!”

 As you drifted in and out of consciousness small details registered. The smell of alcohol, the sound of wood breaking or being ripped apart, the warm glow of fire dancing across a ceiling, the softness of something that felt like an animal, a hard piece of wood being put into your mouth then excruciating pain that went on for far too long. Every time you came to the pain was still present, so you passed out again. This process felt endless and you had no idea how long it went on for.

 “Don’t leave me. Stay here beautiful. Stay and bother me.” The voice was echoed, slurred even but it was the last thing you heard.

 When you opened your eyes the tightness and pain in your abdomen had you groaning loudly. 

“Fuck me!” The scuffle of feet echoed around you then there he was. Steve Fucking Rogers. He looked different, a lot more rugged, and worried.

 “Y/N.” His face focused and you groaned again.

 “Oh my god. What happened?” You tried to sit up, but Steve stopped you.

 “Stay down. You’re going to pop the stitches.” Your eyes bugged and you really tried to sit up then. Sensing you were not going to stop Steve helped bring you to a slouched position. You looked back realizing you were leaned against a wooden headboard. For the first time, you realized you were in some sort of cabin.

 “Where the hell are we?”

 “Some cabin. After you collapsed about forty minutes later I found it. I was able to get a fire started, melted some snow for water, found a pretty archaic first aid kit and coupled it with the basic one in the suit and stitched you up. You’ve lost a lot of blood. I wasn’t sure you’d make it. I had to give you a transfusion.”

 Again, your eyes bugged. “A transfusion?”

 He looked sheepish. “You’d lost too much blood Y/N. I had to give you some of mine.”

 You looked to your arm and saw the makeshift transfusion needle and cord, but it was no longer hooked to him. a slew of things ran through your mind, but you couldn’t speak any of them. You were in shock. You knew it.

 Fifteen minutes passed without a word. You remained still looking around, taking in everything you saw. The mess of medical supplies, the firewood, the top of Steve’s suit on the floor, plenty of bloodied clothes and bandages, the fur on the bed that you were laying in and your clothes on the floor. When you realized that you looked over your body. Your top half was bare, as was your bottom half.

 “What the actual fuck Steve!” His eyes snapped back to yours then he stood and held his hands high in surrender. He knew what you’d just noticed.

 “Why am I naked!?”

 “I didn’t look. I had to get you out the wet clothes, you were hypothermic. I had to get you warm and get to the wound. I swear I didn’t see anything.” You hugged the fur blanket to your body as you glared at him. The annoying thing was that you believed him. He was that self-righteous, that good and pure that he wouldn’t dare sneak a peak or cop a feel while you were unconscious and incapacitated. It made you want to vomit then kick him in the balls.

 “I would never dare compromise you like that Y/N.” You closed your eyes and shivered.

 “You’re still hypothermic.” He approached and you gave him an evil look.

 “Stay away from me. This is all your fucking fault. It’s your fault we’re even here!”

 “For fuck’s sake Y/N. I know, I know, I know! I know it’s my fucking fault. I know I should have spoken up and said I couldn’t take over. Kill me for wanting to impress you, show you that I am not some incompetent fool or whatever you think of me to make you hate me so much. I’ve taken every horrible thing you’ve said to me for hours, years, I’ve taken it, gritted, bared it, I listened to your complaining this entire time, I withstood your stubbornness. I ignored all of it but fuck Y/N!”

 You were shocked. Not only had he just expressed some sort of emotion that wasn’t chivalry, or politeness but he’d cussed. Steve “watch your language” Rogers just cursed, three times. As you looked at him you were filled with something strange. You couldn’t put your finger on what it was but again the pit of your belly responded. He looked angry, what more he looked emotional and flustered.

 “What more do I have to do? I’m trying to save your life!”

 You held your head high refusing to fall for it, refusing to feel bad for him. Rolling your eyes, you turned your back to him and laid down while breathing through the pain you felt. You gritted your teeth as your body shook with the deep chill you still felt. You would not cave. You lost consciousness again.

 When you opened your eyes again the cabin was still glowing warm with the fire. You could hear the crackling of the wood as it burned and smelled the smoke it gave off, it smelled like pine and it gave the cabin a Christmas like scent. You also noticed the hard body that was behind you. It made you stiffen. Slowly you turned and saw Steve behind you with his arms wrapped around you. The heat from his body was delicious and with the fire, it worked to take all the cold from you. You could feel your feet and other body parts. As you were going to pull away you stopped. His smell took over. He smelled like the pine of the wood, but also like whiskey and the outdoors. It wasn’t a bad scent; in fact, the smell made your belly flutter.

 Slowly you turned to face him. he was asleep. He looked peaceful as if he hadn’t slept in days and now that he was, he had no cares. You could tell he was still clothed which spoke volumes. He was still being the perfect gentleman. you trailed your eyes over his face then looked away when you felt your edge fading. Rolling back to your back you took several breaths. The stitch job on your abdomen was still tight, every move you made almost made you blackout. You could feel your strength returning though which made you feel so relief.

 “Why do you hate me so much?”

 “You’re just a hatable guy.”

 He didn’t respond but you heard the sharp intake of breath. Closing your eyes, you shook your head.

 “In the real world people cuss, they throw tantrums, they have uncontrollable rage, they get shit-faced drunk, they lose control and have premarital sex sometimes with more than one person at a time, they are not perfect, they are not little robotic super soldiers. You live in this completely unrealistic world in your head. In the five years I’ve known you I’ve never seen you throw a tantrum, never seen any uncontrolled rage, or even seen you get shit-faced drunk, I’ve never seen you lose control or god forbid have premarital sex. I have only seen this perfect, self-righteous, polite, happy to serve, whatever it takes, I can do this all day, put my life on the line guy. Until this trip, I’d never even heard you curse.”

 “Some would call that being the best of humanity,” Steve filled in. you scoffed.

 “I would call it pure and utter bullshit. You are not real Steve. You are—a test tube. It is impossible to work with you or live up to you because you’re a false ideal made in a lab. Would it kill you to say shit once in a while? Get so fuming angry that you punch a hole in a wall, and not just knock a punching bag off its hook? What about have a drink, of four, have a hangover, or try for one even if you can’t get drunk because of that medical cocktail in your veins that is now in my veins? Would it be so bad to not be so perfect, show some humanity or even god forbid fuck someone? Jesus just fuck up!”

 You were not standing and close to the fireplace holding on to things to not topple over. He was still in the bed. He looked as if he were thinking, looked as if he didn’t know what to say.

 “So, you’re saying you want me to fuck up and hate me because I’m not reckless, or irrational, or emotional?”

 “Do you feel emotions, Steve? No one knows. Bucky was missing, your best friend it didn’t look like it phased you except as a nuisance. You woke up after a hundred years, everyone you knew was dead or dying, you didn’t react, you just suit up and went fighting again. Do you feel anything?”

 He was up with the quickness and walking to you. backed to the fireplace not thinking about the fire there. Steve pulled you to him. “Do I feel Y/N? You’re kidding me, right? Of course, I feel. I feel everything, I’ve always felt everything, but I do not have the luxury of throwing tantrums of refusing to help save the world because guess what, that is what I was made for.”

 “Fuck what you’re made for. Be human. Have a human emotion, do a human action. You’re over a hundred years old and you’re just some glorified lapdog of SHEILD and the government that fucked you over!”

 Before the words were out his lips crashed to yours. You were stunned and unable to move as his lips moved across yours. It didn’t take long for your body to react to him and kiss him right back. Through your anger and annoyance, something else shined through, something else that Steve soaked up. You felt his tongue delve into your mouth and you moaned. Steve’s arm wrapped around you pulling your closer holding you right where your tailbone ended.

 Neither of you slowed or paused the kiss continued and became even more frenzied. The hand that was holding the fur blanket to your body moved allowing it to fall to the floor. You dug your hands into his hair groaning when you felt the pain the stretching produced. Steve was there to hold you up. You lifted your leg against him, and his free hand gripped up and lifted it and you higher into his arms. You wrapped your legs around him and kissed him more passionately. Steve moaned and turned back toward the bed. Once there he laid you onto the mattress and hovered over your body. He broke the kiss and kissed your neck then your shoulder and back to your neck to suck your flesh into his mouth.

 You moaned and slightly arched, not enough to cause yourself pain though. Steve went lower to your breasts then ran the flat of his tongue across an already pert nipple. You moaned and hugged his head to your body. It didn’t take you long to get lost in the pleasure he gave with his mouth. He went lower over your stomach carefully avoiding the fresh wound there. When he got to your pelvis he placed soft kisses along your skin as he spread your legs. The first feel of his lips between your legs had you gasping loudly in the tiny cabin.

 “Oh my god.”

 Steve kissed, licked, and sucked your sensitive bud as he set a dizzying pattern. It was a pattern that your body could never get used to, a pattern that kept you guessing, a pattern that made goosebumps prick your skin. When your hands rested at the top of his head Steve moaned on your sex and slurped onto you. The new sensation made you whimper and drop your thighs back to meet the bed. Again, Steve moaned on you which set you off even more. It felt so good. You didn’t know how much stress you’d been under the last few years let alone since the crash. Steve was at the root of it all, right now he was at the root of your pleasure.

 Steve sucked your clit into his mouth, and it was the straw the broke the dam on your desire. Suddenly an orgasm tore through your body sending your thighs clamping around his head holding him in place. Steve moaned and sucked more forcefully. Your high-pitched moans echoed in the cabin. When Steve pried your thighs apart he looked up at you and traveled back up your body with kisses. When he made it back to you, you claimed his lips in a searing kiss and moaned when his tongue fought for dominance over yours. You lifted the shirt he wore and pulled it off then trailed your hands down his smooth skin.

 The man was like a baby’s ass, smooth and soft. You sat up and kissed his neck and down his chest across each perfect pectoral muscle and down each and every single one of his abs. He was the perfect male specimen. He was made with perfection in mind. Steve stood at the foot of the bed giving you complete access to his body. You pulled the rest of his suit down his body until his manhood flopped free. You almost gasped. He was packing and you shouldn’t have been surprised. Wasn’t it a side effect of the serum, didn’t it make everything bigger? You bit your bottom lip as you admired his length. Steve didn’t move a muscle. Closing your mouth around his need. Steve groaned every inch you slipped into your mouth he shivered. When he was mostly into your mouth he groaned loudly and gripped the top of your head.

 “Mmmm.” Pulling your head back you slowly brought your lips to the tip of his cock then sucked on it.

 “Shit!” You smiled on him and dipped your mouth lower taking him in again. This time you were able to accept his full-length something you could tell brought him deep pleasure from the way he held your head onto his hardness.

 “Mmmm, Y/N!”

 Getting tired of the slow pace you sped up and fully enjoyed every moan, shiver, groan, grunt and whimper you drew from him. after less than five minutes Steve was thrusting himself into your mouth and down your throat. Every connection with the walls of your throat had him fist your hair until he pulled back from you letting his spit slick need bob between you. Steve kissed you again, but you pushed him to his back then climbed on top of him. When you rose onto your knees you locked eyes with him. He looked vulnerable and drunk off of desire and need. You’d never seen him like this before and you really liked it. this was not the Steve you’d known all these years. As you slowly slid onto his need his mouth dropped open, his head arched back, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

 “Fuck! It was a loud shout, it vibrated off the walls and you heard some of the snow fall outside. It turned you on immensely, so much that you intend to slowly guide him into your body, but you were now unable to go slow. As his wide girth stretched you his superior length filled you. soon you were rotating your hips on him and groaning every time his cock nudged your g-spot.

 “Mmm, fuck!” Your pants did not stop or slow down and when your hips picked up the pace to bouncing on his need, Steve’s hands were there to squeeze onto your hips. The force of it made you groan. Steve suddenly pumped his hips up into you sending a new set of pleasure waves.

 “Steve, yes!” Once the words escaped you were on your back with Steve taking control to snap his hip forward. His repetitive actions built a steady friction that you knew would bubble over any minute.

 “Shit, yes, yes, yes, right there Rogers. Right fucking there!”

 “Mmmm Y/N, you feel so good. So good!” The pitch in his voice was high. Forgetting the wound on your abdomen you pulled him to you and kissed him. His body collided with yours knocking the wind out of you, but you didn’t care, with he was doing to you felt too good.

 Steve went to your ear and kissed it. “Of course, I feel Y/N, I feel what you’re doing to me right now, what you’ve always done to me. Do you feel this?” He slammed his hips forward feeding you all of him. You grunted and clenched around him which made him grunt as well.

 “Fuck!” You smiled again and nodded, you couldn’t lie, you felt everything right now.

 “Mmm, fuck yes, yes,” was all you could muster, you felt your release building.

 “You make me want to lose control which makes me hold on harder to it. You bring out these human emotions I’ve buried for those hundred years.” Steve’s thrusts were getting sloppy and you knew he was close. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. The sweat rolling down his body made him look like a God and it turned you on even more.

 “Fuck Steve yes, make me come, I’m gonna come!”

 Your moans merged together creating a symphony of their own. You dug your nails into his back when you felt your release wash over you like a wave of fire. You shrieked out and clenched around him. Steve grunted and groaned and bucked his hips as he released everything he had. 

 “Fuuuuck!” Steve collapsed next to you and the two of you panted.

“Oh my god, that was incredible—you were incredible,” Steve rambled. You smirked, pinched your lips and looked at him.

 “You’re not so bad yourself Cap, once you let go.”

 There were three knocks, the two of you stilled.

 “Eh-em, Cap, Y/N—um, rescue is here.”

 “Do you still need that rescue? From the sounds coming from in there sounds like you’re good,” Tony chided.

 Your eyes were closed. This was never going to be forgotten. You would be teased about your hot hate fuck with Captain America in some abandoned cabin forever.

 “Y/N is injured. She needs real medicine,” he announced.

 “Ready when you are. By the way congrats on your first time,” Tony added. Your head snapped to Steve.

 “This is your—I was your—. You looked away and tried not to focus on any of it.

 Ten minutes later you were dressed and hobbling to the quinjet with Steve following close behind with a hand at your back. Once aboard Nat and Wanda helped you to a seat where Vision was waiting to assess you. Once you laid back and Vision took a look at your wound Steve approached.

 “How’s she doing?”

 “Pretty good form you have here Cap,” Vision said.

 “Thanks, it was hard as shit to do. I was sure I fucked it up.”

 All eyes swarmed to him in pure shock. You just smiled.

 “Language!” They all shouted in unison.

 He smiled and looked to you before he winked. 

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas Y/N.” You felt all heated and flustered. You had no idea what you’d just pulled out of Pandora’s Box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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